Looking at T’Other: Robert Thornton’s Yorkshire Oryent, c.1400-1473 Jennifer Bartlett, B.A. (hons.) (Dunelm), M.A., PGCert. PhD University of York Centre for Medieval Studies October 2015 2 ABSTRACT This thesis examines the place of the “Oryent” in the socio-cultural milieu of Robert Thornton, a member of the North Riding gentry, circa 1400-1473. Using the figure of Thornton, and his two manuscripts, Lincoln, Lincoln Cathedral Library MS 91 and London, British Library MS Additional 31042, as a way of entering into this cultural landscape, it situates them in their historical and geographical contexts in order to explore the representations, reception of, and attitudes towards the people and material culture of the “Oryent” (employing Thornton’s own orthography and usage to define this region) as found in Thornton’s socio-cultural sphere. By then exploring both the cultural landscape, and the ideas presented by the manuscripts themselves, this thesis argues that, counter to much current critical thinking, those of Thornton’s circle possessed a sophisticated and nuanced understanding of the “Oryent,” and its people, the Jews and so-called “Saracens.” Firstly it examines the real contemporary presence and usages of “Oryental” foodstuffs, fabrics and animals throughout Yorkshire. It then explores the remembered presence of the Jews, the evoked presence of the Holy Land in the city of York, and how these cultural memories influenced the experience of reading the alliterative romance Siege of Jerusalem. Finally it investigates the imagined literary figure of the Saracen, as located in Thornton’s manuscripts, how this figure was informed by scholastic ideas, and how these ideas impacted upon thoughts concerning Saracen conversion to Christianity. The thesis concludes that the Yorkshire literati enjoyed a sustained, informed and positive interaction with “Oryental” material culture that contrasted strongly with their hostile —yet still deeply considered—attitude towards the Jews, whilst their attitude towards the Saracens was more nuanced and, again, had been thought through thoroughly. 3 CONTENTS Abstract 2 Contents 3 Acknowledgements 4 Author’s Declaration 5 Introduction: The Matter of Robert Thornton 6 Thesis Aims and Methodology 9 Putting Thornton in his Place 18 Chapter One: The Matter of the Oryent 37 Sugar and Spice and All Things Nice 37 Silks and Stuffs 57 Lions and Tigers and Bears, Oh My! 73 Conclusion: The Yorkshire Oryent 91 Chapter Two: Laying Siege to the Jews: Thornton, York and Siege of Jerusalem 94 The Corpus Christi Plays: Introducing York as ... Jerusalem 94 The Matter of the Jews 108 Reading Siege of Jerusalem in Thornton’s York 121 The Jewish Second Generation 136 Conclusion: Crusading Through Literature 146 Chapter Three: A Fine Body of Men: The Matter of Thornton’s Saracens 152 Surveying the Saracen Body 152 The Body Saracen 168 Keeping Body and Soul Together 178 Body Parts and Being Part of the Body 191 Conclusion: “Take a Saraȝyne, Ȝonge and Fatt” 196 Conclusion: From Heartburn to Hellfire: A Reader Digests 203 Appendices 209 Appendix One: The Contents of the Thornton Manuscripts 209 Appendix Two: Map of York in the Fifteenth Century 214 Appendix Three: Inventory of Thomas Gryssop’s Shop 215 Abbreviations 225 Bibliography 226 4 ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS This research was generously funded by the Arts and Humanities Research Council. Similarly I am grateful to the Elizabeth Salter Fund, James Jarvis Fund, Harry F. Guggenheim Foundation, London Medieval Society, Trinity College, Dublin, and the Humbolt Institute for their financial assistance. I owe much to my supervisors, Professor W. Mark Ormrod and Dr Nicola McDonald, who have somehow dragged me kicking and screaming through this degree and who would be the first to acknowledge that it has not been an easy task. It has been a great privilege to be a part of the England’s Immigrants 1330-1550 project, and to work with two such fearsomely erudite tours de force. Thanks are likewise due to Dr Jonathan Mackman and Dr Craig Taylor for their patience and generosity towards a wayward literature student with no knowledge of medieval history (and even less idea how to study it). I wish to thank the many friends who have put up with the camel-based rantings, generally with exceptional grace and good humour, for far too long. Chief amongst these stalwarts is Chris Linsley, purveyor of bad jokes and all-round awesomeness. Sharing a desk with me for three years is no joke, and I would like to apologise for the relentless pun and games to which he has been subjected. Dr Hollie Morgan and Jenny Tomlinson also deserve an honourable mention. For some reason, Dr Vicki Blud and Dr Laura Crombie have consistently kept the academic faith so I would like to thank them for all their advice and, when that didn’t work, for supplying me with wine. Outside of York’s medieval bubble Danielle Barkley, Scott Bartlett, Beth Cochrane, Diana Denissen, and David Wade have been particularly amazing sources of tea, humour, sanity, and gin, usually in equal measure (and typically in that order). However, by far and away my greatest debt, both academic as well as personal, is owed to Dr Chris Bartlett and Dr Sheena Bartlett. They have mercilessly encouraged my grammatical neuroses, enabled my acute dependency on tea, and supported me regardless of the madness I have continually thrown at them. Cheers, guys. I am also extremely grateful to Nick Smith, without whom this thesis would probably have been twice as long, twice as good, and finished in half the time. Finally, I would like to thank Chris Terry for taking me to see the elephant. No infinitives were split during the writing of this thesis. 5 AUTHOR’S DECLARATION I declare that this thesis is entirely the result of my own work and I am the sole author. This work has not been submitted for any other degree at the University of York or any other institution. All sources are explicitly acknowledged and referenced as such. 6 INTRODUCTION: THE MATTER OF ROBERT THORNTON The trout undoubtedly reeked. Under his breath he cursed the sudden rain shower that had forced him to take shelter, and his own ill luck that the nearest cover had been provided by a stall in the fish market. As each gust of wind gathered pace, flustering the flames of the lamps and shuddering the timber frames of the stalls under which he sheltered, the sour note of rotting trout rose above the thick smell of the fish market and caught the back of his throat. He wrinkled his nose fastidiously and unconsciously wiped his fingers on the black fur trim of his robe, as if to erase the taint of the market along with the scent of the blood and scales. Still, at least the rain looked to be easing. As he looked up, just catching the bells of the Minster marking the hour over the noise and bustle of the market, the windows of the Mercers’ Guild hall glowed bright against the darkening gloom. The porters and servants were already gathering beyond the bridge and the market edge, up in Fossgate with the final crates and barrels, laughing and joking despite the long night of labour that awaited them and the even longer stretch of clearing and cleaning that would come with the dawn. For those who served at table the Mercers’ feasts were not leisurely occasions. The preparations had been going on all week now, the barrows heading down from Thursday Market piled high with tantalisingly fragrant and lumpy sacks; the butchers’ apprentices staggering down from their stalls in the Shambles, skinny shoulders bowed under the weight of the meat-laden trestles. In a couple of years they’d have filled out and become strapping great lads, made bulky and brawny by the work but for now they were scrawny imps, swamped by the pigs and peacocks they bore. His mouth watered slightly, in spite of the fishy stench, at the thought of the dishes that would be placed before him later that evening, and the conversations that would flow as freely as the wine. They could chew over the latest scandal from the Micklegate crowd; someone might have a new romance from the stationers to share. Soon the Mercers and the rest of their guests would come, picking their way over the cobbles so that their robes wouldn’t get smirched by the foulness littering the city streets, their wives chattering away, squealing over the threat to their silks and spangles from the puddles left by the now-vanished rain. Perhaps even the mayor himself would come, strolling down from the High Jewry, through the crowds packed into the market square and then past the big stone houses on Jewbretgate—not that the Jews were there any more, God be thanked. 7 Over towards the west the last rays of the dying sun struggling through the clouds caught the white brooding outline of the castle and prison, stark against the sky, and he shivered in spite of himself. It was inevitable really; in a city this big, heaving and teeming with life, with people coming from far and near, and folks from half a dozen other nations beyond the seas, then you were bound to get some disagreements, but even so, he avoided looking at the building that testified to the city’s darker hours and its residents’ blacker moments. He shivered again, the wind growing more insistent and bitter now, and he turned, a small and elegant silhouette heading into the warmth and society of the guild hall, one more figure in this bustling whorl of activity: a frenetic and multicultural world of education and violence, of fashion and piety, of learning, culture, and crime.