Medieval Ghost Stories

by Andrew Joynes

  The Dark Hunters of Peterborough

  An. MCXXVII

  Then Henry of Poitou thought that, if he could be established in England, he might have everything he wanted. He went to the king [Henry I] and said to him that, because he was old and helpless, he could not endure the great injustice and dissension in the land [France]. In his own name and that of all his friends, of whom he provided a list, he beseeched the king to give him the abbacy of Peterborough. The king granted it to him, both because he was his own relation, and because he had been of use as a sworn witness when the marriage of the son of the Duke of Normandy to the daughter of the Count of Anjou was ended on account of their consanguinity. In this disgraceful manner the abbacy was disposed of at London between Christmas and Candlemas. And so the new abbot went with the king as far as Winchester, and afterwards arrived at Peterborough. There he lived like a drone in a beehive: all that the bees in the hive are able to gather in, the drones devour and draw from them. So did he: all that he could take, within the abbey and outside it, from the clergy and the laity, he sent overseas. He did no good there, and he left no good there.

  Let everyone who hears this believe, and let them regard this testimony as true (for it soon became common knowledge throughout the country) that, as soon as he arrived there, which was on the Sunday when they sing ‘Exurge Quare O Domine’ [Sexagesima Sunday: 6 February 1127] then immediately afterwards a great number of people saw and heard many hunters hunting. The hunters were dark and huge and ugly and all their hounds dark and broad-eyed and ugly; and they rode on dark horses and dark stags. This was seen in the deerfold in the town of Peterborough itself, and in all the woods that lead from the same town to Stamford. The monks heard the sound of the horns that they blew in the night. Trustworthy men who were on watch that night said that, as far as they could judge, there were about twenty or thirty horn-blowers. This was seen and heard from the time that Abbot Henry came there, throughout Lententide to Easter. This was his entrance; of his exit we cannot yet say anything …

  An. MCXXVIII

  And in this year, the same Abbot Henry went home to his own monastery of Poitou, by the king’s leave. He had originally given the king to understand that he would entirely leave that monastery and that land, and stay with him there in England, in the monastery of Peterborough. But nevertheless it was not so: he did it because, full of guile as he was, he wanted to spend twelve months or so [in Poitou] before coming back to Peterborough. May God Almighty have mercy over that wretched place …

  Source: Adapted from Anglo-Saxon Chronicle II, ed. and trans. B. Thorpe, Rolls Series, London 1861, pp. 224–5. An edition of The Peterborough Chronicle, 1070–1154, ed. and trans. C. Clark, was published by the Clarendon Press, Oxford, in 1970.

  The ‘Deeds of the English Kings’ of William of Malmesbury

  The monk William of Malmesbury (c.1090–1143) was both an historian in the tradition of Bede and a recounter of Mirabilia in the manner of later court writers. His De Gestis Regum Anglorum was begun in about the year 1125, and is largely a chronicle of the history of Britain from its earliest times. Among the historical references there are a number of anecdotal accounts of supernatural events in Britain and elsewhere, which William presents as being no less true than the achievements of the kings whose deeds he is chronicling. In the first of the extracts that follow, the spirit of a woman who has led an evil life is claimed by the same hellish emissaries who led her astray in her lifetime. The story that I have called ‘The Jealous Venus’ is a variation on ancient tales of statues which come to life; in William’s description of the bizarre procession observed by the young man there are strong overtones of the Hellequin’s Hunt motif. The final story presents a warning about the dangers of pacts with the dead and attempts to forestall divine judgment. Indeed, the common theme running through all three stories is William of Malmesbury’s disapproval of any activity which might involve the conjuration of spirits. The Witch of Berkeley is punished for sins which included the practices of augury and soothsaying; the Roman magician Palumbus who helps the young man regain conjugal bliss eventually dies a shameful death, punished for his necromancy; and the speculative philosophy in which the Two Clerks of Nantes indulge during their lifetime leads them to make an agreement which will eventually involve the raising of the dead.

  The Witch of Berkeley

  Book II, Sec. 204

  It this time an event occurred in England which was not a celestial miracle, but an infernal wonder. I am sure none of my listeners will doubt the story, although they might in fact wonder at it. I heard of these events from a distinguished man who swore he had seen them for himself, and I would be ashamed not to believe him …

  … In Berkeley there was a woman who, so it was later said, was accustomed to wickedness and to the practice of ancient methods of augury and soothsaying. She was a creature of immodesty, who indulged her appetites. She had taken no heed of scandal throughout her life, but she was beginning to grow old and fearful of the battering footsteps of death. One day, as she was dining, a little crow which she kept as a pet uttered a cry that sounded like human speech. This startled her so much that she dropped her knife. Groaning sorrowfully, her face suddenly grown pale, she said: ‘Today my plough has turned its final furrow. I am about to hear and undergo great sorrow.’ At that moment, a messenger arrived, and hesitantly gave her the news of the death of her son, and the catastrophic annihilation of all her family’s hopes.

  Wounded to the very heart, the woman took to her bed and, pained by a deadly sickness, summoned her remaining children, a monk and a nun. In a gasping voice, she said: ‘My children, I have enslaved myself to the artifice of the devil and have been the mistress of forbidden things. But despite my evil doings, I have always been accustomed to hope that my miserable soul might be eased in the end by the comforts of your religion. In my desperate straits, I always thought of you both as my champions against the demons, and my guardians against a most savage enemy. Now, as I end my life, I am likely to face the prospect of being tortured and punished by those very beings who used to be my advisers in sin. I implore you, therefore – I who brought you into the world and suckled you – to do all that you can from faith and pity to alleviate my coming torment. I do not expect that you can deflect the true judgment from my soul, but perhaps you can help me by attending to my body in the following way. Sew me up in the hide of a deer, and then place me face upwards in a stone sarcophagus, the lid sealed with lead and iron. Bind the stone with three heavy iron chains, and let there be fifty psalms sung each night, and masses said each day to lessen the ferocious attacks of my enemies. When I have lain secure in this way for three nights, bury me on the fourth day – although, so grave are my sins, I fear the earth itself might refuse to receive me to its warming bosom.’

  All was done as she directed, her children attending to the matter with great zeal and affection. But such had been her wickedness that no amount of piety and prayer availed against the violence of the devil. On the first and second night of the vigil, when choirs of clerics had gathered to sing melodious psalms around her bier, demons pulled apart the outer edges of the door of the church, which had been bolted with an iron bar (although the central part of the door, which was of more elaborate construction, held fast). On the third night, around cock-crow, the enemy arrived making the most terrible noise, and all of the monastery was shaken to its foundations. One demonic creature, larger and more terrible than the others, threw down the entrance door, which was shattered into fragments. The priests stood rigid with dread, ‘hair on end and voices stopped in their throats’ [Aeneid, III, 48] as the creature approached the sarcophagus with an arrogant swagger. The creature called the woman by name and ordered her to rise up, to which the reply came that she was unable to do so because of the chains that bound the sarcophagus. ‘By the power of your sins you will be unbound,’ said the demon, and at once pulled apart the iron chain as though it were no more than a cord of flax. The coffin lid was thrown off,
and the woman was seized and dragged out of the church before the horrified gaze of the observers. Outside the portals of the church a fierce black horse stood neighing, with iron barbs protruding along the length of its back. Onto these hooks the woman was placed, and the entire demonic retinue quickly disappeared from sight, although their cries of triumph and the woman’s pleas for mercy could be heard up to four miles away.

  These events will not be thought incredible by anyone who has read the Dialogues of the blessed Pope Gregory, who tells of a wicked man who was buried in a church and who was then cast out of it by demons [Dialogues IV, Chap. 53]. Among the French also the story is often told of Charles Martel, a man of such great prowess during his life that he forced the Saracens to retreat to Spain after their invasion of Gaul. Ending his days, he was buried in the church of Saint-Denis, but, because he had plundered the estates of almost all the monasteries of Gaul to pay his soldiers, his body was snatched from his tomb, and has never been seen since. This was later revealed by the bishop of Orleans, and the story has become widely known …

  The Jealous Venus

  Book II, Sec. 205

  In Rome a wealthy young man who came from a good family decided to take a wife. Summoning his friends, he prepared a lavish banquet to celebrate his marriage and after they had drained the wine-cups of the very last of his hospitality, they all went cheerfully out into the public square to ease their aching stomachs by running, jumping, casting javelins and other forms of exercise. The young man himself led the way and, as king of the revels, proposed a game of football. In the meantime he placed his wedding ring on the finger of the outstretched hand of a golden statue which stood nearby. But as soon as they had started playing and had all become heated and out of breath, he was the first to withdraw from the game.

  Returning to fetch the ring, he found the finger of the statue curved back into its palm as though to clutch the ring, and so he stood there wondering what to do. Eventually, wishing neither to lose the ring nor to damage the statue, he went quietly away keeping the matter secret from his companions, since he feared they might laugh at his predicament or even attempt to make off with the ring itself. Later he came back at dead of night with his slaves, but was astonished to see the finger of the statue extended once more and the ring itself gone. He concealed the loss and returned to the loving arms of his young wife. But when they had retired to bed, and he made as if to embrace her, he sensed that some kind of indefinable presence, which it was possible to feel but not to see, had insinuated itself between the bodies of his wife and himself, preventing him from embracing her. At the same time, he heard a voice say: ‘Make love to me, because today you promised yourself to me. I am Venus, and it was on my finger that you placed the ring. I have it and shall never return it.’

  Terrified by this extraordinary occurrence, the young man dared not reply, and lay awake all that night wondering what he should do. Time went on, and the same thing kept happening. However much he might wish to make love to his wife, he was prevented from doing so, although in all other respects his health was good. Finally his wife’s complaints forced him to refer the matter to their parents, and on their advice he took the matter to a certain priest of the town called Palumbus. This man was well-versed in the arts of necromancy, being able to summon spirits and demons by magic rites and send them forth on errands whenever he wished. The price of his help having been agreed upon, and in the knowledge that if he succeeded in uniting the newly-weds, his purse would become heavy with gold, Palumbus gave thought to his secret arts and gave the young man a letter which he had composed.

  ‘Tonight,’ he told him, ‘you must go to the crossroads where four paths meet, and wait there as a procession passes. There will be all kinds of figures, men and women of all ages and rank and social condition. Some will be riding, others walking. Some will be sad, their countenance dejected; others will be cheerful and even arrogant. Whatever their mood, you will know it by their face and gesture. Following behind this crowd, and towering above them, there will be the corpulent figure of an idol placed in a chariot, and to this you must quietly hand over the letter I have given you. Everything that you wish for will follow immediately upon this, but make sure you keep your wits about you. Hurry off now and do as I say …’ The young man set out as directed, and that night he stood beneath the idol and saw that everything was as Palumbus had predicted. Among those passing in the procession he saw a woman mounted on a mule and dressed in lavish garments which were not at all suitable for riding. Her long hair, bound with gold braid, flowed onto her shoulders, and she controlled her mount with a staff of gold. She seemed almost naked, so delicate was her clothing. What more need be said about the immodesty of her behaviour …?

  As the young man presented himself before the idol in its lofty chariot decorated with emeralds and pearls, it turned a terrible gaze upon him and asked why he was there. Silently he proffered the letter, and the idol, taking note of Palumbus’s seal on the letter, did not dare refuse it. Reading the letter, it raised its arms to the sky and roared: ‘Almighty God, how long will you overlook the misdeeds of the priest Palumbus?’ At once it sent its attendants over to recover the ring from Venus, and it was finally handed over with great show of difficulty and reluctance.

  And so the young man was able to fulfil his wedding vows and embrace his wife at last. But when Palumbus heard of the demonic complaint that had been made to God about him, he realised that his end was about to come. And in fact he was shortly afterwards put to death, dying with mutilated body and in repentance of his sins, making a full confession of his scandalous crimes to the pope and to the Roman people …

  The Two Clerks of Nantes

  Book III, Sec. 237

  There were in the town of Nantes two young clerks, not yet old enough to be priests, who expected to attain that office more by lobbying the local bishop than by leading a good and virtuous life; and at last the miserable fate of one of them taught the other that they had both been in danger of falling into the infernal pit. From the first stages of life, they were both friends and rivals and, in the words of the poet, ‘struggling with hands and feet, they would even have undergone death for each other …’ [Terence, Andria IV, I]

  As the years passed they became more learned and wealthy; their minds were stretched, but they were still unsatisfied, and they became more intent upon the paths of error than of rectitude. Among other matters, they speculated about the approach of that dreadful day which would inextricably sever the bonds of friendship; and they agreed therefore on an oath, which would bind them when they were alive, that after the death of the first their friendship should continue. They swore that the first of them to die should appear to the survivor, whether he was asleep or awake, within thirty days without fail. Thus they might learn whether, as the Platonists teach, death does not extinguish the spirit, but sends it to God in a new beginning, as though it were released from prison; or whether, as the Epicureans believe, the soul dissolves from the body to be dissipated in the air and carried away on the wind. Having sworn the oath, they often renewed the pact in their daily debates.

  Not long afterwards, death itself came crawling and snatched the last breath from one of the two friends. The one who remained alive thought gravely about the joint oath they had sworn, and waited somewhat apprehensively for the next thirty days. When the time had elapsed, and he had despaired of any contact from the other, he had retired to bed when suddenly the other appeared, with his face pale and his countenance that of one on his deathbed. ‘Do you recognise me?’ he asked his speechless companion. ‘I do,’ came the reply, ‘and as well as being astonished at your appearance I wonder why you have taken so long to return.’ The dead man apologised for his tardy arrival, and said: ‘I have come at last, having freed myself from all that was holding me back, but although my appearance will be useful to you, it is altogether unhelpful to me. For, by judgment pronounced and ratified, I am given over to eternal punishment.’

  The living m
an protested that, to help his dead friend, he would spend all that he had on donations to monasteries and the poor, and that he would persist day and night in fasting and prayer, but the spirit interrupted him: ‘All has been decided. By the judgment of God, and without remission, I am sunk in the sulphurous abyss of hell. There I revolve endlessly, while the stars turn on their axes and the sea beats on the shore, because of my crimes. The rigour of the inflexible sentence remains, intermingling eternal and innumerable forms of punishment, so that throughout the entire universe there is no health or remedy for me.’ In order that his friend might learn from his countless torments, he held out a hand dripping with ulcerated sores and said: ‘See here, does this seem insubstantial to you?’ When his friend replied that the hand did indeed seem light and lacking in substance, the other bent his fingers and flicked three drops of pus onto him. Two of them struck his friend on the temple, and the other on the forehead, so that they pierced his skin and flesh like cauterising fire and made a hole the size of a walnut. When the living man gave a great shout of pain, his dead companion said: ‘This will mark you for as long as you live. It will serve as a proof of my suffering and, unless you ignore it, a special reminder of the need to look to your own future health. For this reason, while it is still possible … change your way of life and your spirit and become a monk at the shrine of Saint Malo at Rennes.’ When the living man remained silent, his companion fixed him with a piercing gaze: ‘If you are in doubt about whether I am indeed transformed, miserable wretch, read these letters,’ and at the same time he opened his hand to show a horrible inscription, in which Satan and his cohorts sent their thanks from the depths of Hell to the entire congregation of the church for its lack of pastoral care, which was allowing more souls to descend into hell than in any previous age.