Moved to the marrow

On 6 April 1299 the king of France, Philip the Fair, wrote to Robert de Bruce and John Comyn in their role as joint Guardians of Scotland. Philip declared that he was 'moved to his very marrow by the evils brought on their country through hostile malignity' i.e. the invasion of Edward I. He also said that he admired 'their constancy to their king and their shining valour in defence of their native land against injustice'. 

In light of his own antics in Flanders and Gascony, Philip was a fine one to talk of 'hostile malignity'. The destruction of the Knights Templar, his most notorious deed, still lay in the future. Already, however, Philip had started to debase the French currency to pay for his wars.

The French king's words must have chilled Bruce to his own marrow. The very last thing Bruce wanted was the return of King John Balliol at the head of a French army. Yet this was what Philip was implying: although he did not promise immediate aid, he told the Scots that he was 'carefully ponderings ways and means of helping them'.

Though Philip never sent material aid to Scotland, he did apply diplomatic pressure to have John Balliol transferred from English to papal custody. Balliol's imprisonment was quite comfortable: he was allowed his own clerks and servants, and permitted to hunt in the royal forests outside London. Edward I may have toyed with the idea of reinstating Balliol as an earl in England, but all that was scotched (pun intended) by the Scottish revolt in 1297.

Philip's efforts paid off in dramatic style. In July 1299 the pope sent a letter to Edward, demanding the release of Balliol and any Scottish clerics in custody. Then Philip weighed in and insisted that Balliol should be released as part of the Anglo-French peace treaty. 

Since the treaty offered Edward's best hope of peace with France, and recovering his lost lands of Gascony and Ponthieu, he had little option but to accept. On 18 July Balliol was duly released into the custody of the bishop of Vicenza, acting for the pope. 

There was one final drama. Before he could embark, Balliol was caught at Dover trying to smuggle out the gold crown and Great Seal of Scotland, which he was apparently carrying on his person. This is very odd: Balliol had been in English custody for the past year, and yet had somehow managed to hide these precious items from his captors. Perhaps he had very large pockets. 

(Attached is an image of the Great Seal of King John Balliol) 

A Bruce in perplexity

After the battle of Falkirk in 1298, Robert de Bruce did something remarkable. Somehow - and we don't know how he did it - he managed to become Guardian of Scotland by the end of the year. This was immediately after the downfall of William Wallace, whose position as Guardian had rested entirely on military success.

Bruce's circumstances were deeply unpromising. His father was a lackey of Edward I, up to his eyeballs in debt to the English crown. His family had spent over a decade embroiled in a vicious feud with the Comyns, the most powerful family in Scotland. Bruce himself had not exactly covered himself with glory, surrendering at Irvine and fleeing into the Ayrshire hills when Edward came looking for him. To cap all, his own father's knights had rejected him and joined the English army.   

And yet, despite all this, Bruce emerged as Guardian. This was the first real hint of the sheer bravado and self-confidence that would eventually carry him all the way to the Scottish throne. Not, however, that he had won the argument entirely. Bruce was obliged to share power with John Comyn of Badenoch, nephew of the exiled King John Balliol. 

There was just one tiny snag. The two young men, equally ambitious and able, utterly despised each other. Their mutual hostility was in part due to the ongoing feud between their families, and partly due to personal antagonism. In short, they were too much alike.

Bruce's first recorded act as co-Guardian was to confirm certain lands to one Alexander Scrymgeour, which had previously been granted by Wallace, the former Guardian. However, nowhere did this document mention King John, in whose name Wallace had claimed to be acting in the original. For Bruce, the exiled king was a tremendous nuisance: he wanted the crown for himself, and could not afford to acknowledge Balliol's kingship. Equally, to refight the civil war over the Scottish crown risked fatally undermining the struggle against Edward I.

The general's last dance

 

In autumn 944, at the height of his career, John Curcuas was suddenly dismissed from his post. 

He owed his downfall to the two sons of the emperor Romanos Lekapanos, Stephen and Constantine. They were jealous of Curcuas for his popularity and success, and alarmed by their father's plans to marry his grandson, the future Romanos II, to Curcuas's daughter Euphrosyne. 

The brothers had previously tried to undermine Curcuas's position at court, but without success. This time they persuaded the emperor, now old and in poor health, to remove the greatest military commander the Empire had produced for generations. 

Soon afterwards. Romanos himself was deposed by his scheming sons, and quietly packed off into exile. The brothers, who meant to rule as co-emperors, now only had one last obstacle to remove. This was Constantine Porphryogentius ('born in the purple', so-called because he was born in the Purple Chamber of the imperial palace), son of the late emperor Leo VI and his fourth wife, Zoe. 

Constantine was said to be a delicate child, interested in painting and music. Romanos, to his credit, had allowed the boy to live unmolested, and grow up in the palace. The Lekapeni must have thought he was easy meat, but Constantine turned out to be made of sterner stuff. Before they could move against him, Constantine had both men arrested at dinner and sent off to distant monasteries, where they were forced to become monks. The young man then ruled in his own right as Constantine VII. 

Although he had hated his father-in-law, Romanos, Constantine bore no grudge against the old general, John Curcuas. One of his first acts was to reinstate Curcuas to the office of Magister and order the repair of his palace in Constantinople, which had been damaged by the Lekapeni. Curcuas was not, however, restored to his old military command. Perhaps he was considered too old, and the emperor preferred to appoint younger generals, such as John Tzimiskes.

Two years later, in 946, he performed one last service for the Empire. He and his fellow Magister, Kosmas, were sent to negotiate an important prisoner exchange with the Arabs. The two sides met on the banks of the river Lamos (now Limonlu in Mersin province, Turkey). Curcuas, described as 'wise and very experienced', successfully negotiated the return of Roman prisoners, captured in the recent wars. Afterwards. he and Kosmas returned to the emperor, who received them 'with great affection'.

Constantine certainly admired the general. In his work, De Administrando Imperio (On the Governance of the Empire), the emperor refers to Curcuas as 'of blessed memory'. This would imply Curcuas was dead by the time of writing. Since Constantine is thought to have written De Administrando between 948-952, it seems Curcuas died within a few years of his last mission. 

There is nothing to suggest that the faithful old soldier died anything other than a natural death, probably at his palace in Constantinople. Like Belisarius before him, he quietly faded out of the picture, full of years and honours. 

(Attached is an image of Constantine VII on his deathbed, from the Madrid Skylitzes)

Special guest post by Simon Forder

One of the most difficult things to deal with when providing a balanced account of politically charged events in medieval times is contemporary bias as felt by those chroniclers of the day. Whilst court records and legal documents are by their very nature largely unbiased, chronicles show bias in various areas, including the bias caused by the nationality of the chronicler, their (usually) monastic view of the world, and more often than not, whether they were on the receiving end of hostile activity in one form or another. The war fought between Scots and English that started in 1296 did not end for many, many years. 

The first phase supposedly ended with the truce signed between the minority government of Edward II and Robert Bruce in 1328, but Bruce’s death in 1329 and the accession of Edward III who viewed it as “shameful” meant it was only a matter of time before war broke out again, and the second phase lasted from 1332 to 1357, when Edward III decided that he would rather concentrate on France. Clearly any and all chronicles and annals written between 1296 and 1357 will show evidence of bias. Most of those which were compiled closest to the action suffered from attack and destruction on a scale which most had not really experienced before, and there is a tendency to sensationalise, and there appears to be little difference between their depiction of marauding Scots (or English) and the accounts of Viking attacks several centuries earlier. And as those accounts are drawn in part from descriptions of war in the Bible, particularly with reference to atrocities, it is to more balanced and dry sources like accounts, charters, and archaeology that we are best advised to turn to. 

However, our source material relating to the Scots themselves, particularly Robert Bruce, James Douglas and William Wallace, we are actually drawing most often from non-contemporary source material written during the reigns of Robert II and Robert III, the first of the Stewart kings, who ruled from 1371-1390 and 1390-1406, James I, who spent the first eighteen years of his reign in captivity in England, returning in 1424/5 and was assassinated in 1437, James II, who was accidentally killed by an exploding cannon in 1460, and James III, who was killed in a battle against an army led by his own eldest son. The writing of John of Fordun (d1384), Walter Bower (d1449) and Blind Hary (d1492) are therefore written in an entirely different political environment, and were also written with a specific purpose in mind, that of promoting a Scottish national history in which the Scots are portrayed as an entirely separate people to the English – which was not actually the case in the closing years of the 13th century. After 70 years of peace with England, the upper ranks of society in both countries was much intermarried, and held lands in both countries. 

To understand the political history of the period, I will attempt to summarise. A couple of years after Robert Bruce died, his five year old son David was sent to France for his safety along with Queen Joan, sister of Edward III. They remained in France until 1341, living at Chateau Gaillard in Normandy. In 1346 he was captured in battle near Durham, and remained in captivity in England until 1357, when he was released in return for a heft ransom. In his absence, his uncle, Robert Steward was able to secure a substantial rival power base to the king. As Robert was also David’s heir, this did not sit well with the king, who embarked upon a cold war with Robert when he returned, at one point even negotiating for Lionel of Clarence, a son of Edward III, to be made his heir. However, when he died suddenly in 1371, he still had no children, and Robert succeeded him. 

King Robert II was 55 when he came to the throne. He is portrayed as a weak king, with his sons dominating national politics and foreign policy. Whether this is fair or not is questionable, but it is certain that he was removed from power in 1384 by his eldest son, John of Carrick, who acted as his regent. Carrick was dominant in southern Scotland until the defeat at Otterburn in 1388, whilst Alexander of Buchan was dominant in the north until 1390, when his destruction of Elgin Cathedral proved a step too far in asserting his authority. 

It was Robert of Fife who proved the most politically astute of Robert’s sons, replacing Carrick as dominant in the south with the support of the Earl of Douglas, and countering Buchan in the north. It was Fife who was acting regent when his father died in April 1390. King Robert III is also portrayed as weak, with Fife continuing to rule until 1393, when Carrick (now Robert III) was returned to power in conjunction with his 15 year old heir David. In 1399 David was styled sole lieutenant, but subject to the authority of Fife and his council. In 1402, David was starved to death in his uncle’s castle at Falkland, and it was decided to send his younger brother James to exile in France for his safety from his uncle. The vessel was captured by the English and James became the prisoner of Henry IV in 1406, his father dying soon afterwards. 

Fife continued to rule Scotland until his death in 1420, and then Fife’s son Murdoch for four years after this. Neither seems to have made much effort to release King James I. When he did return to Scotland, James ruthlessly exterminated all opposition, starting with Murdoch, his sons, and their ally the earl of Lennox. James was effectively brought to the throne by a faction of nobles led by the earl of Douglas, and by the cash-strapped council of the young Henry VI, and has a reputation as being “acquisitive” due to his desire to elevate the Stewart monarchy to a more impressive state, and the financial needs of doing so. This involved forfeiting the earldoms of Mar, Strathearn and Dunbar – the latter Douglas’ prime rival in the south. When he was assassinated, it was by another faction of nobles led by his uncle Walter of Atholl, who was starting to feel threatened, and which was able to take advantage of the king’s failure to take Roxburgh. 

The reign of James II, who was only six at his coronation, was cut short by his accidental death, and is primarily known for his civil war with the Douglas family, the most powerful in the realm. He did not take personal control until 1449, and it took from 1451 to 1455 to overthrow them. Like his father, he had opposition to his methods, and may have also had a shortened reign if he had not been killed in 1460, but it is hard to think who might have led such an endeavour. His nine-year old son James III, whose personal rule began in 1469, was unpopular – and had three uncles as well as two younger brothers who were to cause him problems throughout his reign as sources of opposition, not least as the king was determined on peace with England, and there were a lot of the nobles who did not agree. So, it is against this political background that we must consider the works of Fordun, Bower, and Hary. It is these writers who have coloured the reign of Robert II and III as weak, ineffective kings, James I and II as tyrannous, and James III as another weak king. David II, king for over 40 years, barely gets a mention! 

It is these writers who emphasise the treacherous nature of the Scots nobility in the Bruce period, and their desire for land and profit. It is these writers who portray Bruce and Wallace as heroes – turning anyone opposed to them as traitors – and James Douglas as well. We have to ask, who benefits here? The answer is the Stewart monarchy, who are able to emphasise their descent from Bruce and the support of the Douglases. They can point fingers at double dealing, their audience seeing the reference to the Fife family, and greed. They can emphasise a “hawkish” national position with regard to war with England that has more to do with a later era than the late 13th century. And they can emphasise a national movement that came to its peak in 1513, when James IV was able to lead a massive and united national army to Flodden, where it suffered catastrophic defeat. 

War is ugly. There is no getting away from it. Medieval politics to a large extent revolved around land ownership and disputes which often escalated into war. Which makes medieval politics ugly. Medieval politics was also messy. The wars in Scotland from 1296 to 1488 were largely civil wars. It just so happened that in Edward I and Edward III there were two English kings who had the resources, determination and sheer bloody-mindedness to involve themselves as power brokers and a third – often compelling – option to this civil war. It was not until Henry VIII that another monarch elected to involve themselves to the same degree. 

It is simplistic to assess any ruler as “weak”, “strong”, “good” or “bad”. It is also simplistic to attempt to rehabilitate medieval monarchs who have suffered damage to their reputation for one reason or another. However, with the Kings of Scotland from Robert Bruce to James IV, all today are largely portrayed as one-dimensional clichés. Hero-king, doomed chivalric knight, elderly fool, hermit-king, violent money-grabber, crusher of the over-mighty subject, lover of favourites, doomed hero. In this, the power of the stories woven by Fordun, Bower and Hary can clearly be seen. But they are products of their time – and as was the case with Shakespeare, whose portrayals of MacBeth, Henry V and Richard III have such power today, but wrote as an Elizabethan Englishman. Reader beware…. 

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A Bruce in flight

For much of the year 1298, Robert de Bruce dips out of sight. His father, Robert senior, was being kept on a tight leash by Edward I, and made to serve in the English army that came north in the summer.

Bruce junior had surrendered to the English at Irvine the previous July, and agreed to give up his daughter Marjory as a hostage. The girl was never handed over, and it appears Bruce had nailed his colours to the Scottish mast. However, he kept Wallace and the Comyns at arm's length: Bruce certainly took no part in the disaster at Falkirk on 22 July 1298.

After the battle, Edward I split his army. While one mounted division, led by the king, went to Stirling to recapture the vital castle on the Forth, another band of men-at-arms went off to pillage Perth and St Andrews. After the surrender of Stirling in early August, Edward turned about and headed south for Berwick.

Suddenly the king changed his plans and dashed west, towards Ayr. He arrived to find that Bruce had fired the castle and town and retreated into the hills, a strategy that would stand him in good stead in the future. Edward had obviously been alerted to Bruce's presence and wanted to kill or capture the young man.

The king wished to press on into Galloway, but was hampered by a lack of supplies. After fifteen days of severe famine, the army turned back through Annandale and captured the Bruce castle at Lochmaben. 

En route through the south-west, Edward also paid a visit to Tibbers, north-west of Dumfries. Here the king inspected a stone house being constructed by Sir Richard Siward, the Scottish knight who had betrayed the Balliol Scots at the battle of Dunbar. Siward had since done time in the Tower, was released to fight in Flanders, and was now at liberty again. 

Edward was sufficiently impressed to involve Siward in the new stone works at Lochmaben the following year. When Bruce emerged from hiding to try and retake Lochmaben, Siward was employed by the king to strengthen the pele tower.

Blossoms in the orchard

My previous post looked at the alleged treachery of Sir John Comyn of Badenoch, the so-called 'Red Comyn', at the battle of Falkirk in 1298. This one will focus on the equally controversial behaviour of the Welsh troops in Edward I's army. 

Most English chroniclers agree the Welsh were troublesome on this campaign, although the precise causes are uncertain. Walter of Guisborough wrote that the Welsh infantry rioted after Edward unwisely served them wine instead of water, and had to be dispersed by the king's household knights. The problem with Guisborough's account is that the inventory for the English supply ships has survived, and shows the vessels carried no wine.  

A more straightforward account is supplied by William of Rishanger. He wrote that, on the day of battle (22 July 1298), King Edward ordered the Welsh to attack the Scottish army, drawn up into four battalions or 'schiltrons': a classic Scottish hedgelog-like formation, each man holding his spear out and up, standing shoulder to shoulder with his comrades.

However, the Welsh refused. This, Rishanger claimed, was because of the long-standing hatred they bore towards Edward I. That is entirely believable, given that Edward had brutally conquered Wales in three punitive campaigns. The Welsh also (allegedly) believed that the Scots would have the victory, because they were much more numerous than the English.

Rishanger strikes a false note here. It is impossible to believe that William Wallace's army outnumbered that of Edward I: the king had raised almost 30,000 men for the Falkirk campaign, probably the largest army ever seen in the British Isles. Admittedly, we don't have such figures for the Scottish army, but ten thousand at most would be the limit.

Nevertheless, the reluctance of the Welsh to fight at Falkirk is a consistent theme in English chronicle accounts. It should be said they had shown no such reluctance in Flanders, only a few months previously, when Welsh troops butchered the French garrison at Damme and brawled with the Flemings, who were supposed to be their allies. Nor had they shown any fellow feeling for the Scots in 1296, when Welsh and Irish soldiers pillaged the Scottish Lowlands without mercy.

It may be the Welsh were simply fed up: Edward had summoned them to fight over and over again, without much reward. True, Welsh lords such as Gruffudd ap Rhys and Morgan ap Maredudd were well-paid for their services, but the infantry were clearly regarded as cheap and expendable. They generally received lower pay than their English counterparts (one penny a day instead of two) and were sometimes paid in bacon or flour, or whatever they could steal. 

There was a limit to Welsh defiance of the king. When it became clear the Scots were losing (wrote Rishanger) the Welsh suddenly rediscovered their warlike spirit and fell upon Wallace's men, slaughtering them until their bodies were strewn across the bloody battlefield, 'like blossoms in an orchard when the fruit has ripened'. 

Even so, Edward had learned his lesson. For the next Scottish campaign in 1300, the Welsh were excused 'on account of the great services they have done for us in the past'. Possibly this was the king's dry notion of a joke.  

Red Comyn at Falkirk

 

As mentioned in previous posts, John Comyn of Badenoch (the 'Red Comyn') is regarded by many as a traitor to Scotland, because he allegedly abandoned William Wallace at the battle of Falkirk in 1298. So let's take a closer look at this. The tale of Comyn's treachery comes from John Fordun, a Scottish chronicler writing in the late fourteenth century, many years after the battle. Fordun wrote:

'For on account of the ill-will, begotten of the spring of envy, which the Comyns had conceived towards the said William [Wallace], they, with their accomplices, forsook the field, and escaped unhurt'.

Fordun also states that the Scots were defeated thanks to Robert de Bruce, the later victor of Bannockburn, who led the English cavalry to attack Wallace's men in the rear. Therefore, if we are to credit Fordun, then Comyn AND Bruce must be regarded as traitors. You cannot pick and choose. Many are willing to condemn Comyn, but only a brave soul dares to attack the indestructible legend of the hero-king, Robert de Bruce.

Fordun was writing utter nonsense. To start with, there is no evidence whatever that John Comyn was even present at the battle of Falkirk. The only detailed contemporary account of the battle comes from Walter of Guisborough. Of the behaviour of the Scottish nobles, Guisborough wrote:

'As soon as our men [the English] approached, the Scots cavalry fled without striking a blow, a few only remaining to give orders to the footsoldiers...”

Notice that Guisborough doesn't even mention Comyn. He also states that a few of the nobles stayed to help the infantry. If Comyn was present, he might have been among those who chose to stay. We have absolutely no idea, and it is unjust to convict any man on no evidence.

As for Bruce, we know that he was far to the west at the time of the battle, on his lands at Ayr.

In summary: both men acquitted, m'lud. Enough of this nonsense. ENOUGH.

A drop of wine

 

In mid-July 1298 the English army was camped at Kirkliston, west of Edinburgh. They were waiting for much-needed supply ships to arrive from Berwick. When the ships finally came, according to Walter of Guisborough, they were carrying 200 barrels of wine. Edward I had the booze distributed to the Welsh, who got drunk and rioted. The king sent in his household knights to restore order, killing eighty Welshmen and some priests who had tried to mediate.

A dramatic tale, but (as so often with Guisborough) it doesn't jive with the facts. Edward I had indeed summoned seventeen ships from Berwick. Of these, only five arrived in time to supply the army before the battle of Falkirk. The inventory for these ships happens to have survived. It shows they were carrying 63 quarters of malt, 7 meat carcasses, 250 quarters of oats and 725 quarters of wheat. None of the ships carried a single drop of wine.

The surviving muster rolls for the army are of little help. These show the number of Welsh infantry increased from 10, 260 to 10, 584 while the army was at Kirkliston. However, six contingents lost a total of 195 men over the same period. Whether these men were killed, or had deserted, or simply been turned loose, is impossible to say.

Knotted tails

The army mustered by Edward I in summer 1298 was huge by medieval standards, numbering some 3000 heavy horse and over 25,00 footsoldiers. It was probably the largest seen to date in the British Isles, although the 22,000 raised to suppress the revolt of Rhys ap Maredudd in 1287 ran close.

Edward was accompanied by a number of Scots, including Robert de Bruce senior and Sir Simon Fraser, who had earned the king's commendation for distinguished service in Flanders. However, Sir John Comyn of Badenoch had deserted the army at Aardenburg (near the border of Zeeland) and made his way back to join his compatriots in Scotland. 

Thanks to later Bruce propagandists, Comyn of Badenoch is still regarded by many as a traitor to the Scottish cause. The fifteenth century chronicler, Walter Bower, claimed that Comyn was involved in a plot against Sir William Wallace, who had been made Guardian of Scotland after Stirling Bridge. Bower wrote of a 'secret plot against the Guardian under the guise of expressions of virgin-innocence but with their tails tied together'.

In reality there is no evidence of such a plot, knotted tails or otherwise. Apart from lauding Bruce, Scottish chroniclers such as Bower had to find some way to rationalise Wallace's catastrophic defeat at Falkirk. Another writer, John Fordun, even went so far as to say that the Scots never lost to the English except through treachery. Some folks just can't stand getting beat.

Not that Wallace's plan was a bad one. As Edward's enormous military machine rumbled into south-east Scotland, the Scots evaded battle and withdrew, burning the land as they went. Wallace knew that the English army marched on its stomach, and intended to starve Edward into admitting defeat. This was the kind of strategy Bruce junior would use so effectively in the future.

At first it worked well, as the English host trudged through a desolate, fire-blackened wilderness. The crops were all burnt, animals driven away, and there was not a single Scotsman in sight. Edward probably expected these scorched earth tactics - he was an experienced enough soldier - and had done all he could to ensure the army was supplied on its march. 

Yet there were no guarantees, especially if the weather turned nasty. Most of Edward's naval supplies failed to reach him thanks to contrary winds, and after weeks of marching there was still no sign of Wallace. In mid-July, as the army lay encamped at Kirkliston, west of Edinburgh, Edward was forced to reconsider. He sent out spies to discover if the Scots intended to attack northern England. At the same time he contemplated falling back to Edinburgh, in the hope that supplies would finally arrive.

What of Bruce junior? Contrary to Braveheart, in which he fights for Longshanks at Falkirk, Bruce was nowhere near the battlefield. Instead he was holed up at Ayr, far to the west, possibly waiting on the outcome. 

 

The face of Christ

In early 942, after helping to exterminate the Russian fleet, John Curcuas rushed back to the East. To his relief, he arrived to find the Roman defences intact. His great enemy, Sayf al-Dawla, was still distracted by the crumbling Caliphate in Baghdad. While the Arabs fought each other, now was the time for Curcuas to resume his offensive. 

This was the moment he had spent over twenty years waiting and planning for. Curcuas ranks high among the pantheon of Roman generals, and was described as the equal to Trajan and Belisarius. Yet, unlike his famous predecessors, he fought no great battles, won no flashy victories. His great virtues as a commander were patience and consistency. Instead of charging into battle, trumpets blaring, he slowly reconquered lost territory, one step at a time. 

Finally, in 942, all was ready. In January he swept down into the province of Aleppo, stormed Hamus and captured (according to Arab sources) ten to fifteen thousand prisoners. The Arabs countered with a raid into Tarsus, while Curcuas returned to imperial territory to rest his troops, rearm and resupply. 

Then, in the autumn, he set off on a huge clockwise loop that took the army past Lake Van and westward to the great fortress-city of Amida on the banks of the Tigris. Now known as Diyarbakir, the city even today retains its tremendous medieval walls, including spectacular Islamic reliefs above the Harput gate that date from 910. These were in place when John Curcuas came storming into town.

The army drove onward through the winter months, into the very heart of Mesopotamia. Curcuas swung south-east to capture Nisibin (Nusaybin in Mardin province, Turkey) and thence west to direct his main attack against the city of Edessa. Though a Muslim city, Edessa was famed for possessing two precious Christian relics: the letter which the ailing King Agbar I had received from Jesus Christ in reply to an invitation to come and cure him, and the Saviour's own portrait, miraculously imprinted on a cloth. This image was known as the 'Mandylion'. In fact both objects were thought to be spurious - the letter had been declared a fake by Pope Gelasius in 494, while the portrait is not heard of before the fifth century. 

Curcuas, however, was determined to have the Mandylion. Although a military man, he had been raised and educated by a bishop, and probably had no doubts that the relic was genuine. He sent word to the inhabitants of Edessa, offering peace and the return of his prisoners in exchange for the Mandylion. 

Yet the portrait was just as important to the Edessans. In the eyes of Islam Jesus was one of those 'close to God', and his image a sacred trust. They pleaded with Curcuas to give them time to ask advice of the Caliph at Baghdad. He agreed, and spent the next year ravaging Mesopotamia and capturing more cities, including Dara and Ras al-Ain. 

In spring 944 the Edessans received an answer. Since the Caliph was unable to break the siege of Edessa, the citizens had his permission to surrender the Mandylion. With much ceremony it was carried from the city and placed in the hands of Curcuas, who immediately sent it to Constantinople. There it was formally received by the emperor, Romanos I, and his three young co-Emperors. These were his two surviving sons and his son-in-law, the Porphyrogenitus (born in the purple), Constantine. 

The reception was marred by two embarrassing incidents. First, Romanus's drunken sons had a good look at the Mandylion and declared they couldn't see the imprint of Christ's features. It was just a bit of cloth. Then, a joker (or a madman) in the crowd suddenly shouted: 

“Constantinople, accept the glory and the blessing; and you, Constantine, accept your throne!” 

Even so, the capture of the Mandylion made John Curcuas the hero of the hour. In late summer he crossed the Euphrates and ended his triumphant campaign at Marash, one of the great road centres of the frontier. Under his leadership the Empire had reconquered vast swathes of territory and reached cities where no Roman had set foot since the days of Heraclius. 

Roman chroniclers hailed Curcuas as the man who brought the frontier to the Euphrates, but they were (for once) guilty of under-praising. He had, in fact, brought it to the edges of the Tigris, and laid the groundwork for the next generation of even more talented Roman commanders. 

(The image shows the surrender of the Mandylion by the Edessans, from the Madrid Skylitzes)

Meanwhile in Wales...

 

In 1298, while all hell broke loose in Scotland, Gascony and Flanders, Wales was at peace. Or, at any rate, as peaceful as it got. Three years previously much of the country had been in revolt against Edward I. Now it was becalmed, possibly because the king had taken so many fighting men out of Wales to serve in Scotland and Flanders. 

One Welsh family was moving up in the world. The roll of household expenses for the Bishop of Kington record that, on 27 May 1298, His Grace was entertained by Philip ap Hywel to dinner at Hergest (now Hergest Court, pictured). Philip was the eldest son of Hywel ap Meurig, a crown loyalist who had bitterly opposed the late Prince Llywelyn. 

After his father's death in 1281, Philip emerged as a prominent royal official. In 1290 he took custody of the lands and castles of the rebel Rhys ap Maredudd, for an entire year for a fee of £200. In the following years he served as the steward and tax officer of Humphrey Bohun, earl of Hereford. In 1297, Philip foiled an attempt by the king's agent, Morgan ap Maredudd, to undermine Bohun's power in Brecon. Somehow Philip remained in royal favour and was commissioned to raise men in West Wales and the March for Flanders. In 1299 he was appointed constable of Builth castle for five years. He must have been one smooth-tongued operator. 

During the reign of Edward II, Philip was made directly responsible for the defence of Wales against the threat of invasion from the Bruces. If Edward Bruce had tried to land in Wales from Ireland, he would have been confronted by a royal army led by Philip ap Hywel and his brother Rhys. As it was, Bruce lost his head at Faughart, and the crisis passed.

General John (VIII)

In June 941, while campaigning in the east, John Curcuas received dire news from the emperor, Romanos I. Constantinople was under threat, this time from an utterly unexpected quarter. A mighty Russian fleet, perhaps as many as fifteen thousand ships, was bearing down on the capital. 

The invasion fleet had been dispatched by Igor, Grand Prince of Kiev. This was not the first time the Rus had attacked the Empire; they had briefly raided Constantinople eighty-one years previously, during the reign of Leo VI. In 941, however, the Rus launched a full-scale invasion.  

To make things worse, the Roman forces were scattered. The army was away on the eastern frontier, the navy divided between the Mediterranean and the Black Sea. Until they returned - if they returned in time - the city's only defense was fifteen ancient hulks, long since condemned to the scrapyard.

While Curcuas rushed back from the east, Romanos ordered his shipwrights to work round the clock to repair the hulks. They were armed with the terrible secret weapon known as Greek Fire, and placed under the command of Theophanes, the protovestiarius or high court official. 

Greek Fire was well-known to the empire's Saracen enemies, but to the Rus it came as a total surprise. As the first of their ships went up in flames, the remainder swung aside from the Bosphorus to raid up and down the Black Sea coast. For weeks their warriors terrorised the coastal towns and villages - especially on the Roman clergy, some of whom were used as target practice, while others had iron skewers driven through their skulls.

The local military governor, Bardas Phocas, kept the invaders occupied until Curcuas came rushing back with the main army. Together they managed to drive back the Rus. Meanwhile the navy was also on its way, each squadron sent straight into action as soon as it arrived.

By early September the Russian fleet was trapped. When they tried to slip through the blockade, Theophanes set the whole sea aflame with 'winged fire'. The Russian ships went up like tinder, and hundreds of Rus warriors burnt alive when they jumped into the oil-covered water. Only a handful escaped the slaughter and returned to tell their master, Igor, of his catastrophic defeat.

Theophanes was given a hero's welcome in Constantinople. The emperor Romanos, usually a merciful man, had all the Rus prisoners executed in front of the Russian ambassador. 

As for John Curcuas, there was no rest or respite. As soon as the Rus threat was dealt with, he turned about and marched straight back to the East. He had unfinished business to attend to. 

General John (VII)

After his conquest of Melitene (Malatya) in 934, John Curcuas relaxed his efforts. No serious Roman-Arab fighting is reported for several years, although an Arab invasion of Armenia was repulsed (by the Armenians, without Roman help) in 936.

In 938 the Romans started to negotiate peace with the Caliphate at Baghdad. This was due to several reasons. The Romans wanted to make the conquest of Melitene permanent, so it could be converted into a new theme, or military & administrative district. Constantinople and Baghdad also had a common desire to deal with the rising power of the Hamdanid dynasty of Mosul.

This family now controlled all the Muslim frontier provinces from Mosul to Aleppo, and were led by an energetic young warlord, Sayf al-Dawla, called 'The Sword of the Dynasty'. 

To seal the agreement with Baghdad, Emperor Romanos I sent a letter to the Caliph - the Greek text in gold, the Arabic in silver - suggesting an exchange of prisoners. The exchange took place on the Lamus river in October, but there was an excess of 800 Muslim prisoners. To balance this, the Caliph spent six months looking for an equivalent number of Romans in Arab custody. At the same time Romanus sent an embassy to the governor of Egypt, requesting alliance. 

Eager to fight the Romans, Sayf did not consider himself bound by any of these truces. He boldly attacked the army of John Curcuas, numbering 100,000 men, in the region of Samasota. After a month of skirmishing, Sayf ambushed the vanguard of the Roman army and inflicted a heavy defeat on it, capturing seventy of Curcuas's officers and carrying away the Domestic's 'throne' or personal chair. 

The emperor, Romanos, held his hand. Constantinople and Baghdad were at peace, and he was reluctant to endanger the truce. Sayf, however, chose to press his advantage. 

(Attached is an image of Sayf al-Dawla and his court) 



 

Lord of the Passes (1)

Melias (in Greek) or Mleh (Mleh-Mec, 'Mleh the Great', in Armenian sources) was a famous Armenian prince who fought alongside the Romans against the Arab caliphates in the early tenth century. He seems to have become a folk-hero, and may have inspired the character of Melementzes in the epic poem, Diogenes Akrites. This is one of the tiny handful of 'acritic' epics, celebrating the exploits of border lords in Anatolia, to have survived into the modern era.

The historical Melias appears frequently in Roman and Arab sources. He came from an Armenian noble family, and was probably the grandson of Mliah, prince of Varazhnunik, killed by the Arabs in 853. Melias himself first appears as a vassal of Ashot the Long-Armed, an Armenian prince, who entered Roman service in 890. 

Melias first saw action at the disastrous battle of Bulgarophygon in 896, where the Bulgars destroyed the Roman army. His master, Ashot, was killed, along with most of the Armenian contingent. Melias was one of the few who managed to escape. 

He returned to imperial service in the East, and led a troop of Armenian border fighters, the famous Akritai, against the Arabs of Tarsus. Between fighting the Arabs, he led the life of a robber baron, stealing cattle from pastures and horses from the Roman army. He might be compared to 'Border Reiver' chieftains on the Anglo-Scottish border, centuries later. 

Despite his crimes, Melias was too useful to be punished. Emperor Leo the Wise made him tourmarches or governor of a mountainous frontier zone near the Tarsus mountains. The idea was that Melias and two other Armenian chiefs would hold the line against the Arabs, enabling the main army to operate elsewhere.

Melias did far more than that. Of these new border-guardians, he was the only one to survive and prosper. While his comrades were killed in battle, or accused of treason, he pushed further into the mountains and captured the old fortress of Lykandos. The Arabs failed to dislodge him, and referred to Melias as sahib al-Durab (Lord of the Passes).

In recognition of his success, Melias was made strategos of Lykandos, along with the rank of patrician and magistrate. In 917 he was sent to take part in another campaign against the Bulgars, in which the Romans fell to another heavy defeat. According to Leo the Deacon, writing 75 years later, the bones of slaughtered Roman soldiers could still be seen:

"...And even now there could be seen piles of bones at Anchialus, where the fleeing army of the Romans was disgracefully slain..."

The bones of Melias, however, were not among them. Once again he escaped the bloody field, and went back to the East. The most glorious part of his career lay ahead.