Historia regum Britanniae is a pseudohistorical account of British history, written in the dusty light of 1136 by the great British cleric Geoffrey of Monmouth. Competition was a little thin back in 1136, this being a long time before Jeffrey Archer, and despite being published in Latin the book was popular. Librarians today though, will tell you that it is fanciful and imaginative; poorly referenced and contains little reliable information. But then librarians have always been a tough crowd to please: much less Labrador, much more cat. Ovaltine and Tupperware lunch boxes all round. Anyhow, irrespective of its accuracy, a great deal of the book’s content found its way into the Matter of Britain, the great body of Medieval literature that celebrated the heroes of the age; especially the nation’s favourite knight – King Arthur. Yes, him. He of the round table, mead pitcher and “yum, yum: who’s the new wench?” fame.
King Arthur was a legend, who lead the defence of Britain against the marauding, wet-lipped Saxon invaders of the late fifth and early sixth centuries. That most of Arthur’s great adventures and tales of derring-do are the stuff of folklore and late-night literary invention, has not dimmed the view that were he alive today he would have had the editors of Hello! all over him like a cheap suit; badgering his lackeys for a ‘King Arthur: At Home in the Cotswolds’ centrefold pull-out. No fake tan in sight. Core to the appeal of Arthur, and indeed knights in general, was their adherence to the chivalric code, an informal code of conduct for those who rode around the country on a horse, with a sword and a taste for an idle Saxon soldier on a ciggy-break.
The code of chivalry, whilst fine-tuned in Medieval Europe, has its roots in the Holy Roman Empire and the idealisation of soft palmed cavalryman by those peasants who had little escape from the hum-drum task of tilling the land and mucking out the ox. The term comes from the French – possibly the only thing they bring to any chivalrous get together – and is derived from the word chevalier, which essentially means: a man of aristocratic blood who can rustle up a horse and a sword at short notice. The fundamental roots of chivalry were then squeezed out of three Medieval pieces of work: one anonymous poem, telling the tale of how the brass-balled Hugh II of Saint Omer, was captured and released on condition he showed Saladin – yes, he, the very first Sultan of Egypt – the basic ins and outs of Christian knighthood; the second, was the Libre del ordre de cayayleria written by the excited Majorcan philosopher Ramon Llull, which was basically all about knighthood; and lastly the Livre de Chevalerie penned by the French knight and all round man of steel, Geoffroi de Charny, who set out what it meant to be a knight, specifically focusing on a knight’s masculine prowess.
So, what’s chivalry all about? How, you ask, does one become chivalrous without overstepping the mark and intruding on the safe space of a souped up millennial stung by the real word’s cruel edges and sharp tongue. Where else to turn but to Leon Gautier, the grumpy stoat who ran the historical section of the French National Archives at the tail end of the nineteenth century. Who else you mutter? Indeed. Anyway, Gautier set it out in plain French: Believe in the Church, defend the Church at all costs and love your country. Stick it to the enemy – loosely read as the infidel – whenever possible and do so without mercy. Look after your staff, don’t lie, and get your round in. Early. And finally, he suggested: “thou shalt be everywhere and always the champion of the Right of Good against injustice and evil.” Job done for most of us, perhaps a bit more of a test for the likes of Kim Jong, Bahsar al-Assad and assorted African generals who masquerade as democratically elected leaders.
Pore through the dusty archives yourself though, and the notion of chivalry is a concept that appears to be forever found in the past, however far back you go. It is a construct that is somewhat ill-defined; mythical, an invention that is perhaps, better expressed through the medium of poetry. Or mime? Jean Charles Leonard de Sismondi – known to his neighbours as just plain Simonde – wrote that chivalry “is the ideal world, such as it existed in the imaginations of the Romance writers. Its essential character is devotion to woman and to honour.” Nice for them, but the writers of the Romantic age never commuted on Southern Rail. Had they, and their notion of a chivalric code might have frayed a bit and turned out to be a little bit sharper around the elbow.
Now whilst chivalry in the various real or imagined forms had been around since as far back as the Middle Ages, it was really in France in the mid-12th century where it adopted a formal structure. It was a time when knights, all polished suits of armour and clipped beards, had principles. Lives were spared. Opponents who dropped to the ground bloodied and beaten, and found a sword pressed tight against their carotid artery, would often open their eyes to see a knight gazing back. The knight would then, pause, maybe mutter something profound, before nodding to towards the bushes: “now f*** off”.
It was a time of stiff military ethics, of honour and proper standards; and whilst the concept of chivalry came to be understood as a moral and religious code of conduct, it stretched further into the idealisation of a life of manners, sit down suppers and honest living. Dig a little deeper mind, and whilst the construct of chivalry was perhaps formalised in Europe, it appears that many a swarthy poet from Andalusia, is quick to suggest that the literature of chivalry, of bravery and figurative expression, happened to make its way into European consciousness through Arabic literature. Cue the best-selling Spanish author Vicente Blasco: “Europe did not know chivalry, or its adopted literature or sense of honour before the arrival of Arabs in Andalusia and the wide presence of their knights and heroes in the countries of the south.”
The dynamic nature and loose moorings of the chivalric code meant that it was always liable to fade. Which it did. Whilst some knights, even as late as the War of the Roses, still tried to fight for honour and the wider good, to protect women and the poor, battlefields were becoming increasingly professional. Infantrymen with missing teeth and bad breath wasted little time in knifing the opposition from behind and making off with their signet rings. Some point to the decline of the Ottoman Empire as the start of it, as the military threat from the infidel slowly abated. Later wars were more intra-Christian and less about the defense of religious principles, more about ego and empire. Nationalism then took hold. Very soon, the ideals of chivalry ran aground, out of step and unviable in the increasingly technological warfare of the 20th Century. The dress sword – long seen as a visible attribute of the free man – was dropped from a gentleman’s wardrobe. Soon men were no longer opening doors for ladies. Too scared lest they cause offence. Play acting footballers later added further to the sense of incessant moral decay. It is not hard to imagine King Arthur’s reaction to the sight of another Luis Suarez tumble in the box. Calibrating society’s progress remains a challenging business.
So, that’s chivalry: a moral system that stewed together military principles, knightly piety and courtly manners; all of which conspired to establish a notion of honour and nobility.
Something, perhaps, to think about the next time you find yourself pulling on some chainmail.
Hepburnsays 