Last year we finished a lengthy trundle through Aquitanian history which began as a spin-off from one sentence in my post-doc grant and has turned into a lengthy chapter subsection and an article idea. Unlike the liturgy series which ran roughly alongside, this one was definitely useful for me. But, alas, all good things come to an end and now it’s time to summarise. We’ll certainly return to Aquitaine – in fact, I’ve planned a different section on the viscounts of the Limousin and the lords of La Marche in the same chapter, so either that’ll work and I’ll have things to report or it won’t and I’ll be able to complain about how nuts the whole area is – but our journey here stops. What have we learned? Actually, don’t answer that (I have the unnerving feeling that for large chunks of my audience the take-home point will be ‘Fraser needs an editor’…). What have I learned?
Look upon my prose ye readers and despair!
Mostly, it’s a question of nuance. The basic argument I came up with for my thesis was about the increasing importance of local ideological communities in the post-Carolingian world, and a large chunk of what I’ve been doing since has been finding out what the right kinds of nuance are to stick on top of that. So on one hand, we’ve definitely got ourselves some local ideological communities in the Auvergne. Stephen of Clermont and his successors are using languages of legitimacy which build on their own local and/or regional traditions which aren’t terrifically portable. They are still mostly built out of the toolbox of elements available to the late-Carolingian world, but putting them together in such a way that it’s particular to their local environment. Even in terms of something as simple as ‘bishop + assembly + abstract concept the Carolingians like’, Stephen and his successors in western Aquitaine look very different to the kind of diocesan synods that his contemporaries are holding in Langres (and the abstract concept is different as well, being ‘peace’ rather than ‘improvement’). These strategies are different rather than alien, but they do need translating for a wider audience. (And indeed, when the Peace of God becomes the ‘Peace of God capital-P’ in the 1020s, this seems to be what happens. There’s actually a gap of a decade plus between meetings fading out in Aquitaine and starting up under royal patronage which no-one has satisfactorily explained yet…)
On the other hand, the Aquitanian business has highlighted two important points. The first is the difference between ‘continuity’ and ‘stasis’. Really in-depth reading helps with this, because looking at William the Pious in the 910s and William the Great in the 1010s, they can look quite different. Maybe my readers find this easier than I do, but identifying continuity, by which I mean gradual and incremental change rather than the dramatic or catastrophic variety, is hard. Nonetheless, this exercise has helped with working out which aspects of Aquitanian ideology are dropping out, which are switching up, and which are actually novel.
Which is the second major point, I think. Stephen II does actually do some novel things. The proto-Peace of God does genuinely look like personal quirk. Look, I would love – I think most people would love – to find some kind of immediate precedent for what happens with councils in Auvergne in the mid-tenth century, but I can’t find one and to the best of my knowledge neither has anyone else (caveat: convincingly). Nonetheless, it clearly struck a chord and got incorporated into the regional sheaf of potential legitimising devises. Maybe you have to be the biggest cheese on the smorgasbord to change the nature of the buffet, but you can do it…
And with that, we bid goodbye to Aquitaine. It’s been fun. But, evidently, now I should go and have some lunch…
A two-for-one special today, folks, as once again we pick apart the tangled relationship between Charles the Simple and Zwentibald of Lotharingia. Let’s start with the recipient of both these diplomas: the priory of Salonnes, in Lotharingia. Salonnes was a priory of Saint-Denis, originally given to that abbey by Abbot Fulrad in the time of Charlemagne centuries earlier. One particular winter’s day, a group of Sandionysian monks, accompanied by the magnates Reginar Longneck and Odoacer of Bliesgau, petitioned Zwentibald to restore to the Parisian abbey the cell of Salonnes, which had apparently been lost to Saint-Denis in the mid-ninth century.
What’s going on here? Ultimately, this is all part of the fallout from the failed seige of Laon we mentioned last week. Having originally agreed to help Charles the Simple, Zwentibald managed to alienate Charles’ camp, who sent peace envoys to Odo. Zwentibald himself made a truce with Bishop Dido of Laon and withdrew back to Lotharingia. And then he issued this diploma:
In the name of the holy and indivisible Trinity. Zwentibald, by the procuration of divine clemency king.
It is therefore meet for Us, who enjoy royal power, to above all place the fear of God before all mortal business, and to love and build up the places which Our ancestors built in honour of God before other worldly things, because, as We believe, for this reason God, for love of Whom We do this, be more pleased with Us, as well as his saints, whose service We worthily venerate.
Wherefore let it come to the notice of the whole Church trusting in God that the congregation of the blessed martyr Dionysius and his companions sent one of their brothers to make a claim for the goods which are sited in Our realm, which Our ancestors and religious men had given to the aforesaid martyrs for their salvation to be used for the lighting and for the advantage of the brothers and to take care of the poor and for the honour of that place.
We, hearing their claim, because of the intervention of Our followers Odoacer [of Bliesgau] and Reginar [Long-Neck], restore to them a certain little abbey sited in the district of Saulnois, named Salonnes, for the abovesaid uses with all its appendages. Concerning this little abbey, they asked Us to concede two estates specially for the lighting and the care of the poor, that is, Suisse and Baronville, with all their appendages. We consented to this for the salvation of Our soul and Our ancestors, and We decreed it be done, and also We conceded all the demesne of the tithes of that little abbey, as is done throughout the abbey of Saint-Denis, for the use of the paupers and the poor pensioners who serve Saint Privatus each day and offer offerings daily, at their request, for common advantage; and let no-one ever come as a dominator who might dare to infringe this.
If anyone should begin to violently infringe this alms, first let them incur the wrath of God and His saints, to whose places We decreed this concession be made and – that I might shortly conclude – let them remain bound by the chains of anathema now and forever unless they come to their senses, and let the present edict endure firm and stable. And that it might be more credible to everyone who sees it, in God’s name, We confirmed it with Our own hand and We commanded it be signed with the impression of Our signet.
Sign of lord Zwentibald, most glorious of kings.
Waldger the notary witnessed on behalf of Archbishop and High Chancellor Ratbod.
Given on the 11th kalends of February (22nd January), in the year of the Incarnation of the Lord 896, in the 14th indiction, in the first year of the reign of lord Zwentibald.
Zwentibald’s diploma, from the Marburg Lichtbildarchiv älterer Originalurkunden linked above.
This diploma represents a sign of peace between Odo and Zwentibald. The petitioners, Reginar and Odoacer, are Zwentibald’s “western specialists”, particularly involved with West Frankish affairs, and their role in petitioning for the diploma probably is a symbol that the relevant parts of Zwentibald’s court are behind the deal. Odo and Zwentibald never seem to have been what you’d call ‘friendly’, but Zwentibald’s active engagement outside his own kingdom was over.
896 was a rather more turbulent year for Charles. His supporters tried hard to make peace with Odo, but their efforts were thwarted by Baldwin the Bald, count of Flanders, who disrupted the assemblies at which Odo was trying to make peace. One by one, Charles’ supporters abandoned him and went over to Odo, probably to get protection from Baldwin. Charles’ supporters had spent the winter of 895/896 ravaging Baldwin’s land, and Baldwin was out for revenge – later (we’re not quite sure when), he had one of them, Heribert I of Vermandois, murdered. Given that, as we are told at several points, Odo had taken all of Charles’ supporters lands and fortresses, going back over, in the absence of a peace treaty, was probably a necessity.
This left Charles in a pickle. As more and more of his men defected, his cause began to look weaker and weaker, and so more and more of his men defected. Eventually, even Archbishop Fulk of Rheims left Charles’ side, and Charles withdrew to Lotharingia. There he issued this diploma:
In the name of the holy and indivisible Trinity. Charles, by God’s mercy king.
Certainly, if We lend the ears of Our Piety to the petitions of Our followers of Our Highness and especially those soldiering for God, We do not doubt that whatever We bestow on that which is given over to divine worship (*) will benefit Us in every way, and through this We believe God on High will establish and ennoble the garland of Our realm.
Wherefore, We wish it to be known to all of those faithful to the holy Church of God and Us, to wit, present and future, that, for the increase of Our reward and for the remedy of Our soul and Our relatives, and through the appeal of Our venerable and dearest mother Adelaide on behalf of the brothers of the monastery of Salonnes, for veneration and love of the most holy martyrs resting therein, that is, the nourishing Privatus, Frodoald and Iddo, and Dionysius, most blessed of martyrs, Our lord and patron, to whom as well the same place is subject, because the same brothers are seen to be afflicted with the poverty of want, and their prebends are known to have been completely destroyed and taken away, it pleased Us and seemed just to honour the same holy place and the brothers strenuously serving God therein through a precept of Our authority concerning the goods of the abbey, so that they might hold them more freely and firmly, and so that they might more fully delight in exhorting the Lord for the peace and stability of the realm.
These goods, then, are in the district of Chaumontois, to wit, the estate of Loromontzey with a church in honour of Saint Martin on the river Loro, with the small estates nearby, as follows: Vicherey, Morelmaison, Maconcourt and Gironcourt-sur-Vraine; and in the district of Charmois, in the place which is called Montenoy, 1 manse with a vineyard beholden to it, and in Pompey 1 vineyard of 10 pecks, and next to the aforesaid monastery, in the estate named Courcelles [since destroyed], 2 manses with a vineyard of 40 pecks, [{interpolated:} and in Ancy-sur-Moselle, 12 manses with a vineyard of 100 pecks, and in Bey-sur-Seille, 7 manses, 1 church].
We commanded this precept of Our Highness concerning these to be made and given to the same brothers, through which We order and command and in God and because of God witness that no king, no abbot or anyone endowed with any dignity should dare to steal, alienate or by any trick purloin the aforesaid goods from the aforesaid holy place or the brothers assiduously serving God there. Rather, let the same brothers without any contradiction have, hold and possess the same goods with everything pertaining to them, with bondsmen of both sexes dwelling therein or justly and legally pertaining to the same, with lands cultivated and uncultivated, meadows, woods, vineyards, pastures, waters and watercourses, roads out and in, and with all legitimate borders as prebends or for their necessary uses, and let them have free and very firm power in everything, by canonical authority, to do whatever henceforth they might elect to do.
And that this largess of Our authority might endure stable and undisturbed through times to come, We confirmed it below with Our own hand and We commanded it be signed with the impression of Our signet.
Sign of Charles, most glorious of kings.
Robert the notary, at the request of King Charles, wrote and subscribed this.
Given in the year of the Lord’s Incarnation 896, in the 15th indiction, and in the 4th year of the reign of King Charles, on the 8th kalends of August [25th July].
[Adelaide and Rothildis [daughter of Charles the Bald] appealed for this.]
Enacted at Gondreville. Happily in the name of God, amen.
(*) There’s no way around the fact that the opening lines of this diploma don’t actually make grammatical sense, so I’ve done the best I can.
Charles’ diploma, from the Diplomata Karolinorum linked above.
I admit, if I were in Charles’ shoes here, I’d be a bit worried. If all my supporters had abandoned me, and I were stuck at Gondreville, I might get to wondering about the fate of the bastard son of Lothar II, Hugh, who had tried to become king in the 880s and who had been arrested and imprisoned at Gondreville. This diploma is, it’s fair to say, issued at a low ebb. Note that there isn’t even an archchancellor here…
In relation to the last one, this diploma has caused confusion. Is it expressing alliance with Zwentibald or rivalry? Well, first of all, I don’t believe for a second Charles is living off Gondreville without at least Zwentibald’s tacit approval. More relevantly, I don’t actually think it’s primarily related to the Lotharingian king at all. Koziol has looked at this diploma as Charles’ way of connecting himself to Saint Dionysius without actually controlling Saint-Denis, and I’m sure that’s part of it; but Koziol’s analysis assumes as its base that Charles is trying to rival Odo here. Certainly the king and the anti-king are not best buds, but by this point attempts at compromise and peace-making have been ongoing for a year. What I think Charles is actually doing here, therefore, is trying to appeal to Odo. He might have no supporters, but he’s still a king, he’s still got a connection to one of the premier royal saints, and if you can negotiate with Zwentibald, why not with him? This diploma, slightly weirdly-redacted as it is, is a message to Odo saying Charles is still a legitimate king and can’t be ignored.
Do you know it’s been over a year since the first of these came out? This isn’t the last post – there’ll be a wrap-up to follow – but it is the last with actual content. We’ve gone to some unexpected places over the course of this story, and not least is the Peace of God. Today, we finish the story by returning, once again, to the counts of Poitou – or, as we can now reasonably call them, the dukes of Aquitaine.
Since we last saw them in the 950s and 960s, it’s been a fairly quiet few decades for William Fierabras, count of Poitou and son of William Towhead(*). The big innovation is that he has begun to fairly consistently take on the title of ‘duke of Aquitaine’ in a way which none of his predecessors managed, but his rule is still basically limited to the greater Poitou region and perhaps Limousin, although Poitevin control there looks to have been rather tenuous. This all changes in a big way in 989, when all of a sudden William’s entourage blows up. In that year, a council was held at Charroux featuring all the Aquitanian bishops; if we are to take a twelfth-century Chronicon from the abbey of Maillezais at all seriously, William was closely involved in organising this. At the beginning of the year, William appears in a charter for the abbey of Saint-Hilaire with Count William of Angoulême, Viscount Guy of Limoges, and Bishop Hildegar of Limoges – not too far-flung, but wider than is typical. But this is just the start of an expansion of Poitevin power which is clear from the charter evidence extending from this point well into the reign of William the Great.
What’s going on? The short answer is that I’m still not sure. Historians consistently take the Council of Charroux as being self-evident – as in, ‘what else are bishops going to do?’ – but as we’ve talked about before, it really isn’t. I’ve since found evidence to push the last provincial council presided over by an archbishop of Bordeaux to the seventh rather than the third century, but this is not typical behaviour. I have speculations about what’s going on, none terribly convincing. What I would like to emphasise for you is that this is not a Peace of God council. For one thing, the Peace of God doesn’t exist yet. Even otherwise, the Council of Charroux doesn’t mention peace, and there’s no mention of oath-swearing either. If you just had the text of the decrees without names or dates (or hindsight), this looks basically like any other Church council.
What is interesting to me is the point where developments in Greater Poitou overlap with those in east-central Aquitaine, which seems to be at the Council of Limoges in 994. Getting a handle on what happened here is tricky, because there are lots of sources but they’re all later and many of them are written by one man, Adhemar of Chabannes, famous for being a liar and possibly a lunatic. What we can say is that it was a) big, b) convoked without overt ducal influence and c) saw the bishops of Clermont and Le Puy present. These two are interesting. They were not regular figures in the councils of ducal Aquitaine, and their presence here is unusual for that reason. It also provides a conduit for the bringing of a discourse of ‘Peace’ into conciliar developments in western Aquitaine.
Why take it up, though? Here we turn back to the high politics. In the third quarter of the 990s there was a big brouhaha involving a bunch of people in northern Aquitaine, most notably for our purposes William the Great and Boso II of La Marche. We don’t need to go into the details – if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that Greater Poitevin politics in this period is insanely complicated – because what matters to us is the outcome: a peace agreement between the two men which involved William marrying Boso’s widowed sister-in-law Adalmodis. Why does this matter? Because of who Adalmodis is. Remember Adelaide-Blanche of Anjou, quondam queen of Aquitaine, sister of Guy of Le Puy and mother of Count Pontius of Gévaudan who helped Guy overawe his subjects at Saint-Germain-Laprade? Well, she’s also Adalmodis’ mother. The marriage took place in around 997/998, and shortly thereafter, around 1000, we find another council being summoned at Poitiers. This one looks much more like those held by Guy of Le Puy and before him by Stephen of Clermont, and not least because the council’s surviving acts start with a big ol’ declaration that ‘splendid is the name of peace’. The language of peace has taken over the conciliar tendency of western Aquitaine.
At the same time, William’s entourage begins to display evidence of a push to the east not seen since the 950s. Specifically, his brother-in-law Count Pontius of Gévaudan witnesses several ducal charters in the 1000s and 1010s. At the same time, we have also got precious evidence from an unpublished charter of William’s in favour of the abbey of Saint-Léger d’Ébreuil in Auvergne itself – the first evidence of ducal patronage in the Auvergne since the 930s. Equally, William’s reach extended north to Berry, where he wangled Odo of Châteauroux into his following. Bourges was the metropolitan of Clermont and Le Puy and the archbishop had taken part in Limoges in 994 and approved of Saint-Paulien a little before that, so the peace-councils discourse might have had purchase there as well.
The ‘Aquitanian Peace of God’ movement, as it developed in the early eleventh century, has therefore a place not just as the precursor to the Peace of God proper which would spread across Europe from the 1020s and 1030s, but as part of the history of attempts to control Auvergne. Assimilated into a Poitevin tradition, the ‘Peace of God’ movement reaches back to Stephen II of Clermont, and is part of an attempt to harness his legacy and replicate his influence in east-central Aquitaine.
(*) OK, that’s not true, but trust me, you don’t want to know the details, which are detailed.
“Why so?” I hear you ask. Well, reader, there is at least a case to be made that if you trace back the intellectual genealogy of these things, you end up with long-time friend of the blog Bishop Stephen II of Clermont. But before I get there, we need to make it clear that you’ve got to be careful when talking about the Peace of God, because it’s not a term from the time, it’s a modern technical term. This might be less important when we’re dealing with the ‘second wave’ of councils around the 1020s, where the influence of one council on another is often very explicit, but in the late tenth century it’s not clear where to draw the line.
Take the 989 Council of Charroux, for instance, often claimed as one of the earliest Peace councils. Absolutely nothing about it cannot be paralleled from earlier tradition. The council claims that there has been a long delay in holding a council and that terrible things have arisen in the land because of it. The 909 Council of Trosly is a fairly direct comparison for this. (That said, one might note that Charroux claims that the council has been delayed and therefore evils have arisen whilst Trosly says that the council has been delayed because evils have arisen, which may indicate an actual strengthening of the power of the conciliar idea by 989; but really I don’t think the difference is particularly important.) Otherwise much of its rhetoric can be compared closely and in some cases verbatim with Carolingian legislation. Notably, the word ‘peace’ does not show up once.
In the year of the Lord’s Incarnation 958, in the first indiction, it happened in that year that the princes of the Auvergne rebelled against each other in turn. But, with God’s help and in the reign of Bishop Stephen of Auvergne, peace, which passeth everything, currently reigns within our borders.
Meanwhile, it happened that one of our princes, that is, Calixtus, had invaded some of the goods of another: he obtained, that is, the allod of one of the canons, named Amblard, not justly but unjustly.
For this reason, because of what he was holding unjustly, the aforesaid Calixtus and his wife Oda and their children, that is, Peter and Hugh and Stephen, came into the city of Clermont, where Stephen, bishop of that see, shines. Present there were Viscount Robert and Abbot Stephen and Abbot Robert and other lay and clerical lords and monks, and there the said Calixtus recognised that he had held that allod in Gergovie unjustly, and in the presence of that crowd he gave it up and commanded this notice of surrender be made, and he confirmed it with his own hand and had it confirmed by his children and his knights and by everyone.
Sign of Calixtus. Sign of Hugh. Sign of Stephen. Sign of Bishop Stephen. Sign of Viscount Robert. Sign of Abbot Robert. Sign of Abbot Stephen.
Done in the month of September, on Thursday, in the 4th year of the reign of King Lothar.
Theodoric subscribed.
Told you it was short. Anyway, this is the first use I can find of the combination of a meeting, the word ‘peace’, and the settlement of disputes in a context of violence to show up together in Aquitaine. These are all things that will be develop into the Peace of God, and I think it’s reasonable to see this as a fairly close ancestor, not least because the early ‘Peace of God’ is probably best seen as just one flavour of central Aquitanian discourse which happens to become unusually successful.
Question is, can we push it further back? What I’ve been looking at in the last couple of days is that reference to peace, pax omnia superat. This is a clear reference to Philippians 4:7, ‘the peace of God which passeth all understanding’ (pax Dei quae exsuperat omnem sensem, in the Vulgate – superat is a variant found in some versions of the Old Latin Bible).
Problem is, I’ve been coming up mostly empty. I tried looking in various places for liturgical parallels, and didn’t really find any, although one manuscript of conciliar ordines suggests using it in an assembly for dealing with quarrels, which would be absolutely ideal except that this is only found in a marginal annotation from Mainz. Otherwise, it is also quoted in a section of the 829 Council of Paris about how the council is going to settle civil discord, which given what we now know to bethat council’s normative value would also be very useful, except that I can’t find that there’s a manuscript of the council itself in Clermont. I asked some real liturgical specialists, who actually know what they’re doing (thanks, Arthur!) and was told that Philippians is used for readings in Advent, but as this is a summer or early autumn document, I’m not sure there’s direct causation there…
So I wonder if this might not be, in some sense, where the ball starts rolling for this particular strand of political language. It’s not like ‘the New Testament’ is an implausible place for a medieval cleric to be looking for ideas, after all…
Back in March, we covered the endemic conflict which started up in Auvergne in the late 950s; now, it’s time to see how it ended. The main players, if you remember, were King Lothar, Bishop Stephen II of Clermont, and Count William Towhead of Poitou. When we left off, Stephen, his carefully-cultivated closeness to the king under severe pressure thanks to William’s belligerence, was off to Rome. But life in Aquitaine went on without him. In 960, the knights of Nevers cathedral were attacked, seemingly unsuccessfully, by a guy named Airard. Airard is not, at this time, such a common name; and it is striking that the only man with that name I know of in the 950s and 960s is a follower of William Towhead – it looks awfully like William’s side making an unsuccessful attack on Nevers.
Important men, however, were gearing up to make peace, and there’s a Provence connection here. The archbishop of Lyon, at the time, was a man named Amblard, who actually came from Auvergne – much of what we know about him comes from his donation of the little abbey of Ris, north-east of Clermont, to Cluny.
And here it is, looking very rural-French. (source)
We know from other evidence that bishops in the West Frankish royal circle are getting together with Amblard of Lyon throughout this period – they sent round letters condemning a man named Isuard for stealing Church property, but this can’t have been the only thing they were talking about. We also know that in 960, Lothar confirmed some land just west of Charlieu, on the border between Burgundy and Aquitaine, to the monastery of Savigny, one of the most important in Amblard’s diocese; and we also know that in 960, Amblard made a deal with Bishop Ebalus of Limoges, William Towhead’s brother and a major prop of his regime, regarding some property claimed by the church of Lyon in the Limousin.
This last one is really quite important – Amblard is the only figure we know of with connections both to the Poitevins, and to the Auvergne, and to the West Frankish king. If he wasn’t trying to mediate a settlement in the Auvergne, I’ll eat my hat.
The problem is that, if the attack of Nevers is anything to go by, William wasn’t buying into the need to make a deal. Lothar had to apply a stick: he granted the pagus of Poitou to his cousin, Hugh the Great’s son Hugh Capet. Hugh the Great had, in 955, tried to capture Poitiers himself, although nothing had come of it. Nothing was to come of this grant either, and I think it is much more readily explicable as Lothar trying to use Hugh to intimidate William Towhead than as a serious grant of title.
If it was, it worked. In 961, Lothar met the Aquitanians , probably in Pouilly where his father Louis IV had met them in 954. The following year, Lothar granted a diploma to William Towhead, who very shortly thereafter retired into a monastery where he quickly died. At the same time, Stephen of Clermont issued his second charter, which we’ve talked about before. As I said then, Stephen is clearly renewing his local authority by re-emphasising his closeness to the king; but at the same time, it looks like William was given an honourable avenue into retirement, meaning that Stephen should be able to reclaim his hegemony in Auvergne. The bishop is back, baby!
Of course, it wasn’t that easy; and after this date, neither is researching this topic. I’m plugging on with it, but this is where my actual narrative stops for the moment. So you may be waiting a little while for the next of these…
Postponed but not forgotten! (The last in the coronation ordines series is still on at some point as well; it just turns out I have nothing much to say about Philip I…) Last time in this occasional series about the career of Bishop Stephen II of Auvergne, Count William Towhead had tried to proclaim himself as ruler of the Auvergne, and come to some kind of agreement with the bishop. This agreement didn’t hold up very long, because of the death of Hugh the Great, that inescapable figure of tenth-century history.
We have discussed this before in relationto Neustria, but it had repercussions in Aquitaine as well, although they’re quite obscure. What appears to have happened is that Stephen (and perhaps William Towhead, if his authority was anything other than nominal) lost control over some of Auvergnat nobles. It’s hard to say when this process began – in 956 and 957, our extant sources are focussed on Burgundy – but it came to a head in 958. That year, according to one charter, ‘the princes of the Auvergne rebelled against each other in turn’. Around the same time, there was an Auvergnat attack on southern Burgundy defeated at Chalmoux by Count Lambert of Chalon.* Neither of these documents give the Auvergnats a leader, so I don’t think we’re dealing with anything as grandiose as a civil war. Rather, it looks a lot more like the eruption of a couple of years of endemic banditry. If I had to point to a cause, I’d ascribe it to the shift in leadership the region was undergoing: Stephen’s lord, King Louis IV, had recently died, as had his metropolitan, Archbishop Launo of Bourges, and Hugh the Great, who I am increasingly inclined to see as a peacemaker. Moreover, William Towhead’s – I think the word is fair – usurpation of authority in Auvergne, which may or may not have done him any good, looks likely to have weakened Stephen’s position. The violence of the time around 958, then, appears to be the result of local nobles looking to take advantage of the suddenly-shaky Stephanic regime to settle feuds and grab the upper hand in local disputes.
One thing Stephen did that I’m not going to talk about was to commission a statue of the Virgin in Majesty, which now only survives as this drawing. Image taken from M. Goulet & D. Iogna-Prat, ‘Vierge en Majeste’, in Marie. Le culte de la Vierge, ed. D. Iogna-Prat et. al., p. 405.
Stephen claimed to have restored peace in the region by September 958, although frankly I think this is dubious. Not the least reason for this is that on top of the localised violence, it seems clear that there was ongoing fighting between King Lothar, Hugh the Great’s sons (who were Lothar’s cousins), and William Towhead, with the first two joining forces against the latter whilst at the same time also quarrelling amongst themselves. Thus, in November 958, at Martinmas (possibly in response to the Auvergnat invasion of southern Burgundy?) Lothar and his cousins went to Marzy, a western suburb of Nevers on the river Loire, for a placitum against William Towhead. This is a slightly obscure phrase, and I’m not sure whether it means that there was a hostile meeting or something outright violent. Remember, Nevers was right where the old Guillelmid and Burgundian spheres of influence clashed, and it had passed back and forth between the two several times.
In 959, Nevers castle was captured and a new bishop, Natrand, formerly from the region of Sens, was imposed. This is far from certain, but I think that this is Lothar capturing the fortifications from William. Perhaps in response, but in any case a dramatic assertion of his authority over the region, William is attested for the first time entitled as count not simply of Poitou, but of ‘all Aquitaine’. At the same time, Stephen of Clermont put his affairs in order for a trip to Rome. This is an odd time to make a pilgrimage, you might think; but actually it does make a certain degree of sense. First, Stephen’s position depends on his links to royalty, links which are now jeopardised by William Towhead’s role in the Auvergne. So going to Rome gets him out of the way and means he can avoid any blame for that. Second, going to Rome gives Stephen ties with the papacy to brandish back home to further shore up his legitimacy (and in fact a few years later on we can see this happening).
As the 960s dawned, then, Stephen’s position did not look all that good. But peace (which, as his 958 charter said, rules all) was just on the horizon, and as this post is getting long enough, I’ll deal with that next time.
*Fair warning, this story is coming out of a lot of hypothesising and a strange melange of sources. If you’re interested how I got here, let me know; but this has taken me so long that I’m just going to tell the story.
The Historian's Sketchpad 
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