By: Jessica Sims

Key words: childbirth, obstetrics, Old English, magic, medieval, Middle Ages, medieval childbirth, Old English magic

Charms for a safe child birth: the role of magic in two Old English metrical charms from The Lacnunga.

The evidence for Anglo-Saxon medicine is abundant, albeit fragmentary. Charms and remedies for a wide range of ailments and bodily afflictions are often found in manuscripts together, even if they do not seem to have any correlation. The frameworks which scholars such as Nöth use to categorize these remedies are a helpful yet modern imposition: one example, noted by Nöth, sorts Anglo-Saxon medical records into three separate criterions based on the presence, or lack thereof, of magical features (1). Conversely, Edward Pettit sorts remedies based on their accessibility; whilst some Anglo-Saxon remedies require a competent physician, others, such as charms, fall under the category of self-recitation and therefore responsibility lies with the patient (2). The Lacnunga, also known as Harley 585, is a collection of anonymous charms and remedies that fall under several of the categories from both frameworks. Dated to around the late-tenth/mid eleventh century A.D., Lacnunga possesses remedies for minor ailments, such as headaches, through to more serious medical issues, such as the inability of a woman to carry a child to full term.

Obstetrics are present in the Lacnunga in three separate charms: ‘CLXI’, ‘CLXII’ and ‘CLXIII’, although the three are usually grouped together due to their related content. However, this paper is not concerned with problems such as a woman’s inability to breastfeed. Rather, this paper is concerned with infant mortality in Anglo-Saxon England and how the mothers dealt with the loss of their infants. Thus, the focus shall remain on entries ‘CLXI’ and ‘CLXII’, which fall within Pettit’s category of self-administration. As there are no complex medical instructions present in either entry ‘CLXI’ or ‘CLXII’, the duty of care lies with the afflicted woman. This alone is significant for reasons I shall address later, but remedies that lack the necessity for a physician’s presence are usually deemed to possess magical elements. Cameron asserts that ‘magical elements were most commonly prescribed to conditions which were intractable to rational treatments’, or where rational remedies had failed (3). It is this failure of the rational which forms the basis for this paper’s discussion, and the question I pose is threefold. Firstly, I shall address the causes of miscarriages in Anglo-Saxon England. I shall then conduct an analysis of both ‘CLXI’ and’ CLXII’ in order to understand what these charms may have meant to the women that performed them, before concluding with a brief comment on the benefits of including magical remedies in the branch of Anglo-Saxon obstetric medicine.

Cameron acknowledges that not much gynecological medicine survives from Anglo-Saxon England. Frustratingly, it was Bald’s Leechbook that contained the most comprehensive collection of remedies regarding women’s complaints, which have since been lost (4). However, the evidence that remains shows that the Anglo-Saxons were acutely aware of the various factors that could negatively affect pregnant women. Bald’s manuscript, for example, contains an intricate list of things pregnant women ought to avoid during pregnancy:

‘Georne is to wyrnanne bearnecnum wife þæt hio aht sealtes ete oððe swetes oþþe beor drince; ne swines flæsc ete ne naht fætes; ne drunken gedrince, ne on weg ne fere; ne on horse to swiðe ride þy læs þæt bearn of hire sie ær riht tide’ (5).

A pregnant woman ought to be fully warned against eating anything too salty, or too sweet, and against drinking strong alcohol; also, against pork and fatty foods; also against drinking to the point of drunkenness, also against travelling, also against too much riding on horseback, lest the child is born before the right time.

Much of this advice is still circulated today, both through midwifes and old wives’ tales. There is a clear emphasis on diet and the importance of limiting the consumption of certain foods, which demonstrates an understanding of the negative affects some can have on the body.

Yet despite the Anglo-Saxons’ awareness of the role diet played in healthy pregnancies, statistical analysis of Anglo-Saxon cemeteries show that the diet was particularly short of iron (6). Iron deficiency can cause a range of different ailments in men and women alike; for example, anemia. However, iron deficiency is particularly problematic for women, as it subjects the body to great stress, particularly during pregnancy.

Whilst iron deficiency was likely a problem most Anglo-Saxons faced, it ought to be acknowledged that ‘the daily life of any woman in Anglo-Saxon England would largely be dictated by the class of society into which she was born’ (7). Women of a higher class would have almost certainly benefitted from a more wide-ranging and inclusive diet; it is also true that they would not have been subjected to hard labour like lay women were. Referring back to the findings from Anglo-Saxon cemeteries, it seems that these women, as well as working men, lived in harsh environments where hard labour was undertaken in early life (8). If a pregnant woman were to perform laborious tasks, it would contribute heavily to the existing stress on her body. However, as there is little evidence that tells of the treatment of pregnant women and their roles in Anglo-Saxon communities, it should be noted that the above assumption that they would continue to work is speculative on my part.

Whether these women worked throughout their pregnancies or not, Bald also acknowledges a difference in the capabilities of different bodies: Micel gedal is on wæpnedes and wifes and cildes lichoman, ‘there is a great difference between the bodies of man, woman and child’ (9). Complications in childbirth, such as hemorrhaging, are exclusively female complaints which subject the affected woman to tremendous amounts of stress. De Generatione Hominis gives a comprehensive account of the varying complications that can arise during pregnancy, and at the end ‘a deadly disorder’ is cited as one that may occur at the end of the final trimester (10). If this ‘deadly disorder’ is taken to be death from the birthing process itself, then hemorrhaging must be considered another danger associated with pregnancy in Anglo-Saxon England.

Given the severity of the issues that could affect the healthy deliverance of a child, it is perhaps unsurprising that remedies for women’s complaints contain what modern readers would consider ‘magical’ elements. However, it is important to acknowledge that modern ideas surrounding magic would not have been prevalent in Anglo-Saxon communities (11). Thus, caution ought to be applied when using the term ‘magic’ in reference to the charms mentioned below.

Entry ‘CLXI’ of The Lacnunga is the lengthier charm of the two to be discussed and has adopted the title ‘for delayed childbirth’ in modern scholarship. A metrical charm, it focuses almost exclusively on the power of the oral, and there is no mention of herbal aids being required. It opens with a brief description of the charm’s purpose, before giving careful instructions as to what will aid delayed birth in women:

Se wifman se hire cild afedan ne mæg: gange to gewitenes mannes birgenne 7

stæppe þon(ne) þriwa ofer a byrgenne, 7 cweþe þon(ne) þriwa þas word:

‘þis mē tō bōte þǣre lāþan lætbyrde;

þis mē to bōte þǣre swǣran swærtbyrde;

þis mē to bōte þǣre laðan lambyrde’ (12).

For the woman that cannot rear her child: go to a deceased man’s grave and step over his resting place three times whilst repeating these words thrice: ‘this is my remedy for hateful, slow birth; this is my remedy for heavy, dismal birth; this is my remedy for loathsome, imperfect birth’.

Here, the significance of stepping over the grave of a dead man indicates a belief in the separate realms of the living and the dead. As the afflicted woman hops over the grave, she passes from the realm of the living, where she resides, into the realm of the dead, where she hopes to leave her misfortunes. Marie Nelson notes that the first act is a form spiritual intervention: by saying the formulas out loud, the woman performs an act of defiance, a naming and exorcism of “the three great threats to the life of her unborn child” (13). Nelson’s use of the term ‘exorcism’ seems appropriate considering that the charm contains an overt reference to the Christian faith in the final set of instructions, yet there are more covert references to the church in the structure of the charm itself. These references shall be revisited in due course, but I should first like to address the second set of instructions within the charm:

7 þon(ne) þ(æt) wif seo mid bearne 7 heo to hyre hlaforde on reste ga, þon(ne) cweþe heo:

‘Ūp ic gonge, ofer þe stæppe

mid cwican cilde, nālǣs mid cwe[l]endum,

mid fulborenum, nālǣs mid fǣgan’ (14).

Then the woman carrying the child is to repeat the same action over her resting master (husband), saying these words: ‘up I go, step over thee with living child, in no way with a dead one, with one full-born, in no way with a fated one.’

Referring back to the two realms of the living and the dead, here the woman crosses firmly back into the realm of the living by repeating the same action over her husband’s resting body. There is a clear emphasis during the woman’s speech of what has been left in the realm of the dead, the ‘exorcised’ threats to her unborn, and what has been carried forth into the realm of the living, a ‘living, full-born’ child. This riddance and replacement is of course symbolic; I am not proposing that the women who performed these charms believed they had physically passed between worlds. However, symbolic actions are an intrinsic part of magical phenomenon, which is partly why this charm rests in the category of ‘magical’ remedy.

The final third of the charm reveals the Christian element of the remedy. Once the previous two sets of instructions have been completed, the woman may go forth and visit the church to confirm its success:

7 þon(ne) seo modor gefele þ(æt) þ(æt) bearn si cwic, ga þon(ne) to cyrican, 7 þon(ne) heo toforan þan weofude cume cweþe þon(ne):

‘Crīste, ic sǣde, þis gecȳþed’ (15).

When the mother feels that the child she bears is living, she must then go to the church and speak these words: ‘by Christ, I say it is revealed’.

This represents the end of the charm and the final solution to the woman’s problem: her faith. However, the reoccurrence of the number three within the charm should also be considered an acknowledgement of the church and its powers. Revisiting the covert references I briefly mentioned earlier, the holy trinity is also a tripartite structure, thus it seems sensible to deduce that the charm asks for the aid of God both through mirroring the trinity in a structural sense, and vocal invocation.

The second charm, ‘CLXII’, is much shorter and addresses what a woman ought to do if the first charm fails, or if she loses her child during infancy.

Se wifmon se hyre bearn afedan ne mæge: genime heo sylf hyre agenes cildes gebyrgenne dæl, [w]ry æfter þon(ne) on blace wulle 7 bebicge to cepemannu(m) 7 cweþe þon(ne) /:

‘Ic hit bebicge, gē hit bebicgan,

þās sweartan wulle 7 þysse sorge corn’ (16).

For the woman that cannot nourish her child: take for herself some of the dirt from the child’s grave and wrap it afterwards in black wool. Sell it to a merchant and speak these words: ‘I give it, you take it, this black wool that holds the seed sorrow.’

Much like in ‘CLXI’, the burial site is highlighted as a place of healing. However, the healing process here is exclusively for the mother, unlike in ‘CLXI’ where the healing is for both mother and child. Whilst there is no mention of bodily harm, it seems clear from the content of the remedy that it intends to provide emotional healing rather than physical aid.

Whilst there is nothing profound to be said about the symbolic act of taking dirt from the grave, the concealing of it in wool is important when gender is considered. Weston asserts that the wool represents the magical implications of spinning and weaving (17). An example she cites in which this connection is made is Orkneyinga Saga, when Earl Sigurd’s sorceress mother embroiders him a banner which brings victory to her son, but death to his standard bearers (18). Whilst it is true that women were deemed to possess a more personal connection to the spiritual world, Weston avoids commenting on the importance of weaving as a predominantly female trade (19). In Women in Anglo-Saxon England, Fell notes that even the vocabulary of the Anglo-Saxons separated the two genders based on their societal roles:

‘Boys and girls are sometimes distinguished as wæpnedbearn or wifcild, and wills and charters occasionally specify whether property is to go to the male or female line of the family distinguishing between wæpnedhand, sperehand, wæpnedhealf or sperehealf, and wifhand, wifhealf or spinelhealf. Whether the element wif links with ‘weaving’ or not, spinel certainly links with spinning, and these terms suggest that in the early stages of their culture Anglo-Saxons distinguished male and female roles as those of the warrior or hunter and of the cloth-maker’ (20).

Fell goes on to suggest that the presence of thread-boxes, spindle-whorls and weaving-batons in female graves indicates a strong cultural link between women and weaving (21).

Consequently, there are symbolic parallels that can be drawn between women’s trade and the formation of a child: both require intricate care and attention for success, and as both lie predominantly in the hands of women, the raw wool may be considered a ‘failure’ on the woman’s part to create anything more with the materials provided. Much like the child, the creation amounts to nothing, and the significance of the colour black as a colour representative of death and mourning elevates this failure further.

The second part of the remedy requires a transaction between woman and merchant. The dirt is sold on to rid the woman of past failures, and the speech action reaffirms this. By giving the ‘seed’ of sorrow away, she passes it forth from her hands and in turn, her responsibility. If ‘sale’ is taken to mean that financial gains were made on the woman’s part, then this may also signify new beginnings and the exchange of loss for gain.

Now that the two entries have been analysed in terms of their symbolic content, their wider purpose becomes clearer. Firstly, both charms highlight the responsibility that women harboured towards failed births. Weston notes that on the whole, Lacnunga ‘encodes a male textual tradition’ by assuming a male normative voice (22). However, in charms ‘CLXI’ and ‘CLXII’, it is the woman who assumes direct power over the situation she finds herself in, both through actions and speech. This regaining of power on the woman’s part is critical to understanding the purpose of the remedies: whilst the afflicted woman may be unable to affect change in her physical circumstances, she can regain control over her emotional response.

Cameron also acknowledges the emotional benefits of the charms. Whilst the medieval practitioner proved useless in the field of Anglo-Saxon obstetrics, the magical realm ‘gave some relief to the minds of fearful, putative mothers’ (23). Where physicians failed, expectant mothers took control through whatever means they deemed to be necessary. Furthermore, the use of such charms would have undoubtedly encouraged an outward expression of mourning, thus resulting in many mental benefits for the patient.

However, despite their obvious benefits, charms such as these may have attracted a certain level of contempt from the church. The penitential of Psuedo-Egbert, for example, states that women who use witchcraft or magic to ‘encourage’ children, or induce childbirth, ought to do 40 days penance on bread and water (24). Yet despite these ethical objections, there was little to no alternative that the church could offer. The realm of science, as I have mentioned previously, failed expectant mothers despite the best intentions of the physicians, and the church itself was also unable to provide a practical solution to women’s complaints. Whether the charms appear nonsensical or not, the magical sphere to which they belong offered what science and religion alone could not: a self-governing healing process that gave Anglo-Saxon women back their autonomy.

Endnotes

1. Nöth, W., ‘Semiotics of the Old English charm’, Semiotica 19 (1977), 66.

2. Pettit, E., Anglo-Saxon remedies, charms, and prayers from British Library MS Harley 585: The Lacnunga. Volume 1: introduction, text, translation and appendices (volume 6a in the continuing series of Mellen critical editions and translations) (Lampeter: The Edwin Mellen Press, 2001), pp.51-52.

3. Cameron, M.L., Anglo-Saxon medicine (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), p.130.

4. Cameron, p.172.

5. Fell, C., Women in Anglo-Saxon England and the impact of 1066 (London: British Museum Publications Ltd, 1984), p.51.

6. Fell, 54.

7. Fell, 39.

8. Fell, 54.

9. Fell, 54.

10. Cockayne, O., (ed.) Leechdoms, wortcunning and Starcraft of Early England: a collection of documents, for the most part never before printed, illustrating the history of science in this country before the Norman Conquest (London: Longmans, Green, Reader and Dyer, 1866), pp.146-147.

11. Cameron, p.138.

12. Pettit, pp.112-113. Translations provided are my own.

13. Nelson, M., ‘a woman’s charm’ in Studia Neophilologica 57 (1985), 3-8, p.3.

14. Pettit, pp.112-113.

15. Pettit, pp.112-113.

16. Pettit, pp.112-113.

17. Weston, L.M.C., ‘Women’s medicine, women’s magic: The Old English Metrical Childbirth charms’ in Modern Philology, 92:3 (1995), 279-293, p.290.

18. Orkneyinga Saga, ed. and translated by Hermann Pálsson and Paul Edwards (London: Penguin Books, 1981), p.36.

19. Griffiths, Bill, Aspects of Anglo-Saxon magic (Norfolk: Anglo-Saxon Books, 1996), p.108.

20. Fell, p.40.

21. Fell, p.40.

22. Weston, pp.280-281.

23. Cameron, p.182.

24. Griffiths, p.103.