Medieval Ghost Stories

by Andrew Joynes

  The account of Pedro d’Englebert begins: ‘As for what you ask of me, I did not hear this from others, but actually saw all of this with my own eyes. At the time when King Alfonso of Aragon inherited the crown of the Spanish kingdoms on the death of King Alfonso the Old, he raised an army against those who resisted him in the region of Castile, and ordered that each part of his kingdom must send him either footsoldiers or knights. Compelled by this decree, I sent to the army one of my liegemen, called Sancho. A few days afterwards, when all of those who had taken part in the expedition had returned, he also came back to my house, but a short time afterwards, he was taken ill and died almost immediately.

  ‘About four months after his death, I was lying awake in bed one winter’s night near the fire in my house at Estella, when suddenly Sancho appeared to me. He was seated next to the fire, turning over the coals as though to poke the fire into flame or to shed some better light, and gradually his appearance became more and more clear to me. He was naked, without any clothing, except for a scanty piece of rag which covered his loins.

  ‘When I saw him, I asked: ‘‘Who are you?’’ To which he replied in a low voice: ‘‘I am Sancho, your servant.’’ And when I asked him what he was doing there, he replied: ‘‘I am going to Castile, and a great army is travelling along the same road as me so that we might be free of the punishment incurred by our sins, in the very place where we committed them.’’ When I asked him why he had stopped at my house, he said: ‘‘It is in hope of pardon. If you are prepared to have pity on me, you would help me gain solace more rapidly. For when I took part in that expedition that you sent me on, I attacked a church with several others and sacked it, even carrying away some of the sacred vestments. I have been particularly punished for this crime, and have been forced to undergo cruel tortures, and so I implore your help, as my former master, with all the prayers I can utter. It would be of great help to me, if you were to come to my aid with good works. I pray you also to implore my lady your wife not to delay in handing over the eight sous which she owed me for wages. In this way, the sum which she would have paid for the sustenance of my body while I was alive might be given for the benefit of my soul, which has still greater need of it, and the money distributed to the poor.’’

  ‘As for myself, I was greatly moved by this conversation, and asked what had become of our countryman Pedro de Jaca, who had died recently. The reply came: ‘‘The good works which he frequently carried out for the benefit of the poor, and in particular his charity during the time of famine, have earned for him a blessed rest and enabled him to share in the life eternal.’’ Hearing this reply so promptly and easily given, I asked Sancho whether he knew what had become of Bernier, another of our countrymen who had just died. ‘‘As for him, he is consigned to Hell, since at the time when he was in charge of settling the legal disputes in this town, he delivered many false judgments in return for gifts and inducements. On one occasion, he did not hesitate to impound a pig belonging to a poor widow, who depended on it as her sole means of sustenance.’’

  ‘I was so excited, and my spirits were so elated, at this opportunity to enquire about such important matters, that I went on to ask: ‘‘What about King Alfonso [Alfonso VI, who had died some years before], have you been able to find out what has become of him?’’ To this question another voice, which seemed to come from the casement of the window just above my head, replied: ‘‘Do not ask him what he does not know, for he has arrived so recently among us that he has not yet had time to find out. As for myself, a stay of five years in the company of the spirits has taught me far more than he yet knows. I have some knowledge of what you ask about this king.’’

  ‘I was struck with amazement a second time at hearing this new voice, and, curious to know who was speaking, I turned my eyes towards the window. Aided by the light of the moon, which shone throughout the room, I saw a man, dressed in the same costume as the other apparition, seated on the inner frame of the window. I asked him who he was, and he replied that he was a companion of Sancho, and that with him and with numerous others he was journeying to Castile. ‘‘And did you say you knew what had become of King Alfonso?,’’ I asked.

  ‘‘I used to know where he was, but have no idea where he is now. For indeed he was being cruelly punished with other sinners, until he was removed from that place of torment by the help given him by the monks of Cluny. I have no idea what became of him after that.’’ Then, turning to his companion apparition who was still seated by the fire, he said: ‘‘Come, we have begun our journey, and we must see it through to the end. The army of our fellows which was following us is on all the roads around the town, and they are now so far ahead of us that we must hurry to follow them.’’ Whereupon Sancho stood up and piteously repeated his request: ‘‘I beg you, master, do not forget me, and please ask my lady your wife to give to my unhappy soul what she owed when I was alive.’’ And with these words, both men disappeared.

  ‘I cried out to my wife, who was asleep at my side, and before I even told her what I had heard and seen, I asked her whether she still owed any wages to our communal servant Sancho. She replied that, if he had not died, she would still owe him eight sous. Hearing this, I could not doubt the veracity of all that the deceased spirits had told me. The next morning, taking my wife’s eight sous and adding a suitable sum of my own, I gave them to the poor for the salvation of the deceased servant’s soul, and had a priest say a number of holy masses for the complete remission of his sins.’

  Peter the Venerable resumes: I have faithfully set down this significant and memorable account word for word for the edification of the faithful and for the benefit of present and future generations, since it shows clearly, in the very words of the dead, what prudence is required of men while they are still alive. In particular, the remarks of the deceased about the fate of King Alfonso, delivered from the torments afflicting his fellow sinners by the monks of Cluny, bear out the truth of the vision. Indeed, it is well known throughout Spain and France that this king was a great friend and benefactor of Cluny. Apart from his innumerable gifts to this monastery, for the love of Christ this illustrious and powerful monarch committed himself and his kingdom to helping the monks in their work for the poor. Each year he rendered to the church of Cluny the cense of 240 ounces of gold which had been established by his father King Fernando I. More than that, he refurbished two Spanish monasteries from his own purse, permitted others to be built and helped with their construction, and placed Cluniac monks there so that they might serve God according to the disciplines of their order, endowing them from his royal largesse. He rekindled in Spain the almost vanished flame of monastic religion, and his fervent zeal acquired for him, when he no longer possessed a temporal kingdom, another realm – a kingdom in eternity, we may be sure …

  The Ghostly Chapter Meeting

  Book II, Chap. XXVII

  This story about a ghostly visitation to a novice monk could be said to demonstrate Peter the Venerable’s ‘internal’ concern, as a reforming abbot of Cluny, to generate a sense of the incumbency of monastic tradition upon Cluny’s monks. The young monk observes, at the spiritual assembly to which he is taken, proceedings which convey a clear sense of order, continuity and hierarchy. Significantly, perhaps, there is a lineage theme deriving from the fact that the ghostly visitor is the spirit of the dead boy’s uncle.

  Although it is common for more elaborate stories to be told about apparitions of the dead, let me tell you about something which happened recently, in the very year in which I am writing. On the night of the vigil of Our Lord’s birth, the night when ‘Sanctificamini Hodie’ is chanted, a young novice monk was lying awake, restless and unable to sleep, in the friars’ dormitory at Carumlocum [Charlieu]. Towards dawn, he suddenly saw an elderly friar coming up the steps of the dormitory towards him. He recognised him as Achardus, a former prior of the monastery who had died some years before, and who was in fact his own uncle: the novice was the son of Prior Achardus’s brother.
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  The old man came straight towards him, and sat down on a bench beside the boy’s bed. With him there was another former prior, the much-loved Guillelmus, who was himself dead. Although the novice had never seen either of these men before, he recognised them without question from descriptions given to him by those who had known them when they were alive. They stayed talking, the boy listening to their amiable conversation, until the worthy Guillelmus suddenly disappeared, leaving only brother Achardus sitting beside the bed. Turning to the boy, he asked whether he wished to see something marvellous. If so, he was to get up and come with him to the friars’ cemetery. Fearfully, speaking in a whisper, the novice replied that he was supposed to remain within bounds, and that if anyone saw him going outside the confines of the dormitory, he was likely to be severely beaten. His uncle told him there was nothing to be afraid of, and to trust him, since he could foresee that nothing would happen to the boy and that he would be taken out and brought back safe and unharmed.

  Reassured, the boy got up, put on his habit and followed his uncle. They went through the main abbey cloister, past the infirmary, and through the open gates of the cemetery. The boy noticed that a large number of seats had been placed close together around the walls of the cemetery, and that on these seats were the phantom forms of men dressed in monastic habit. As he tells it, his uncle had said to him that a seat had been prepared for him among the others and he was to sit down immediately upon arrival. His uncle had also indicated that a complaint was likely to be made about their late arrival, and Achardus himself was likely to be summoned by the presiding dignitaries. Indeed, as soon as Brother Achardus and the boy entered the assembly and sat down, a clamour arose and one of those sitting near them complained about their late arrival. Immediately Achardus got up and went to the middle of the assembly and did penance, in accordance with monastic custom; the boy remaining quietly and humbly in his place as instructed.

  Now as it happens there is a raised stone platform in the middle of the cemetery, surmounted by an area large enough to bear a quantity of torches and lanterns, illuminating that sacred place as evidence of the faith that endures there. There is also a flight of steps leading up to a dais sufficient to accommodate two or three men sitting or standing. On this was placed an enormous throne, in which a great judge of venerable appearance was seated; the boy saw his uncle Achardus prostrate himself before him as if to ask for pardon. He could not hear what words were exchanged, but was able to see everything that was going on because of a powerful and unearthly light that shone throughout the cemetery without the aid of any human agency. After a while, Achardus returned to his seat and the boy made way for him, giving up his seat and placing himself at his uncle’s feet. Shortly after that, the entire assembly got up to leave, not by the entrance through which he and his uncle had arrived, but by another gate on the other side of the cemetery. On the threshold of this gate a great fire was burning, and as they took their departure the members of the assembly passed through it, some quickly, others lingering in the fire itself. He watched until all had gone and only he and his uncle were left in the cemetery. Then, as promised, his uncle led him safely back the way they had come, suddenly disappearing when they had reached the boy’s bed in the friars’ dormitory.

  I first heard about this vision from others, and afterwards from the boy himself. I judge him to be thoroughly trustworthy and incapable of deceit, and have set down his remarkable story so that it might be of benefit to all my readers …

  Source: Re-told from the Latin De Miraculis Petri Venerabilis Abbatis Cluniacensis, in Patrologiae Cursus Completus, Series Latina, ed. J.-P. Migne, CLXXXIX, cols. 874–5, 903–8, 941–3. An edition of the De Miraculis was published in French as Le Livre des Merveilles de Dieu de Pierre le Vénérable, ed. and trans. J.-P. Torrell and D. Bouthillier, Paris (Éditions du Cerf) 1992.

  The ‘Dialogue on Miracles’ of Caesarius of Heisterbach

  Caesarius of Heisterbach (c.1180–c.1240) was a Cistercian monk who, after his education at the cathedral school of Cologne, spent the rest of his life at the convent of Heisterbach. He wrote extensively, upholding the preaching tradition of the Cistercians with a collection of sermons, collating a series of saints’ lives, and drawing together a history of the archbishopric of Cologne. His best-known work, however, was the Dialogus Miraculorum, a carefully selected collection of stories which had the function of illustrating points of Christian doctrine and morality. In the eleventh and twelfth books of this work there are numerous accounts of apparitions of the dead, but almost every one of the accounts is carefully crafted as an exemplum, a short essay of edification, whose purpose is to illustrate the dangers of sin during the mortal life leading to inevitable punishment in the hereafter; each story is presented in the Dialogue as being told by a senior monk to a novice as a preface to a brief conversation which emphasises the theological point being illustrated. Thus, with the exception of the first two of the following stories (which draw upon a long-established belief that apparitions herald the imminent death of those who witness them), all the other stories about the punishment undergone by ghosts and spirits relate their torments specifically and didactically to the sin being cautioned against. Thus, for instance, the load of earth with which Frederic of Kelle is encumbered symbolises the land he stole; and the brimstone potion which the knight Rudinger carries around in his goblet is a punishment for his drunkenness. It could be argued therefore that, in the writings of Caesarius, the medieval ghost story reaches its maximum point of ‘control’ by the church. Any sense of wonder, mystery or fear which might have been evoked by earlier monastic accounts of apparitions of the dead is almost entirely dispelled by the neat construction of many of these stories as devices for moral edification.

  The White Lady of Stamheim

  Book XI, Chap. LXIII

  In the manor of Stamheim in the diocese of Cologne, there were two knights, Gunther and Hugo. One night when Gunther was away from his home, a maid took his sons, whom she was about to put to bed, into the courtyard to satisfy the needs of nature. As she stood with them, they saw a woman in a white dress with a pale face looking straight at them from beyond the enclosure. This alarming shape said nothing, but inspired fear in the maid because of her appearance. Then the creature went over to Hugo’s land, which lay next door, looked over the fence in the same way and then went back to the graveyard from which it had come. A few days later, Gunther’s elder child fell sick and said: ‘In seven days I shall be dead, and seven days after that my sister will die and then a week later my younger sister will be dead also.’ And this is how it turned out. Moreover, after the deaths of the children, the mother and the maid both died, while at the same time Hugo the knight and his son perished also. These facts were witnessed by our prior Gerlac …

  The Spectral Warning

  Book XI, Chap. LXIV

  The same kind of thing happened in the churchyard at Bonn. After vespers had been sung one evening, the scholars were playing in the twilight in the cloisters when they saw a human shape leave one of the graves where the canons used to be buried. After walking about the churchyard, and crossing some of the graves, it descended into another tomb. A short while later a canon died in that church and was put into the very grave which the creature had entered. This vision was witnessed by one of our monks, Christian of Bonn. Through visions of this kind the future can sometimes be predicted …

  The Load of Earth

  Book XII, Chap. XIV

  Erkinbert, the father of our monk John, was a citizen of Andernach who went out early one morning and came upon a figure on a coal-black steed which breathed fire and smoke from its nostrils. At first the figure was on the main highway, but after a while it left the road and cantered off over the fields in a different direction. At first Erkinbert was terribly afraid, because he had no idea what manner of creature it was and because he could not escape the encounter. But he steeled himself and, making the sign of the cross against the Devil, he took his sword in his righ
t hand. As he approached, he saw that it was a famous knight named Frederic, from the manor of Kelle, who had just died. He appeared to be clothed in sheepskins and carried a great weight of muddy earth on his back. Erkinbert asked: ‘Are you the noble Frederic? Where have you come from and what does all this mean?’

  The figure replied: ‘I suffer deeply. These sheep-skins were stolen by me from a widow and now they burn red-hot upon me. I also made an unjust demand for a portion of land, and now I am crushed under its weight. If my sons were to give back this property, they would lessen my suffering.’ And so the figure disappeared. But when Erkinbert told the sons the next day what their father had said, they preferred that he should remain forever in torment than themselves give up what had been left to them …

  The Incestuous Ghost

  Book XII, Chap. XV

  In the diocese of Treves, where the former vision occurred, there was another knight named Henry Nodus. Now he was deeply mired in wickedness and sin, and regarded rapine, adultery, incest, perjury and other such crimes as deeds of virtue. When he died in the province of Menevelt, he appeared to many in a sheep-skin and kept frequenting the house of his daughter, as he had been wont to do when alive. Whether admonished by the sign of a cross or threatened with a drawn sword, he would not be driven away. Indeed, his spectre was often struck with a sword but could not be wounded, giving out the kind of sound that a soft bed makes when it is struck. His friends consulted John, the lord bishop of Treves, and he advised them to pour water on a nail which was a relic of the crucifixion and to use it to sprinkle the water around the house and on his daughter and on the man himself, if he was present. This was done, and he never appeared again. Although he was legally married, he had fathered the daughter on his maidservant, and, wretch that he was, he had debauched the daughter when she grew up. It is not long since these things happened …