How Medieval Women Ruled the Home and Defied the Law

The medieval world, a time of chivalry, castles, and, unfortunately for women, a whole lot of theological and juridical head-scratching. In this era of quills and parchment, the minds of ecclesiastics and legal eagles alike seemed to be in a perpetual twist when it came to figuring out the role of women in society.

Let's dive into the holy waters first, where the theologians found themselves doing the medieval equivalent of acrobatics to reconcile conflicting beliefs. The Gospel texts preached equality like it was going out of style, declaring, “there is neither male nor female, for you are all one in Christ.” Hooray for equality, right? But St. Paul, the ecclesiastical scriptwriter extraordinaire, flips the script when it comes to everyday life, suggesting that man is the image and glory of God, while woman is the glory of man. Talk about a divine gender hierarchy.

St. Augustine, the heavyweight of medieval thought, danced to the same inconsistent tune. While acknowledging the renewal of man and woman by divine grace, he couldn't resist throwing in the medieval equivalent of a “but.” According to Augustine, the natural order demanded that women serve men because, you know, it's only fair for the weaker to serve the stronger. Talk about divine muscle flexing.

Moving on to St. Isidore of Seville, whose works were the talk of the town in the Middle Ages. He had some interesting etymological insights, linking the name “Eve” to “calamity” and explaining that “mulier” (woman) derived from “mollities” (sweetness). But don't be fooled by the sugar-coated words; the underlying message was clear – women were sweet, but they were also the origin of calamity. Tough luck, ladies!

As we progress through the medieval timeline, the theological tangles get knottier. The combined wisdom of St. Paul, St. Augustine, and friends, including St. Jerome and St. Ambrose, painted a picture of a woman who, despite being equal before God, was meant to play second fiddle to man. The twelfth-century canonists even got in on the act, declaring that women, due to their “state of servitude,” had zero juridical capacity. Ouch.

By the thirteenth century, Thomas Aquinas, the medieval philosopher with a penchant for Aristotle, dropped the bomb – women were basically failed males, born of and for men, inferior in reason, and therefore, destined to be subjects. If that wasn't enough, Guido de Baysio in the 14th century had the audacity to claim that sacred orders were strictly for perfect members of the Church, and, spoiler alert, women didn't make the cut.

If only medieval women had a time-traveling feminist on speed dial – they might have had a few choice words for St. Paul and his theological acrobatics.

Medieval Women's Changing Fortunes

In the medieval history, the position of women was often painted with strokes of prejudice and theological bias. Theologians and canonists, those wise scribes of yore, found themselves justifying the supposed inferiority of women in societies ranging from Jewish to late Roman and medieval. If you're thinking that this sounds like a gloomy chapter of history for women, well, you're not entirely wrong. But for amidst the misogynistic murmurings of monks and clerics, a peculiar journey unfolds.

It's the tenth century, and Abbot Odon of Cluny drops a bombshell on his co-religionists, proclaiming, “Physical beauty does not go beyond the skin. If men could see what lies beneath the skin, the mere sight of women would lift their stomachs.” Well, that's one way to dampen the medieval dating scene. Odon’s vivid imagery might have left you pondering medieval Tinder profiles and whether 'sack of excrement' featured prominently in their bios.

But hold on – the plot thickens. As the Middle Ages waltzed towards their conclusion, the fear of Satan infiltrated every nook and cranny of society. Enter the mendicant preachers, who, with the flair of medieval marketing gurus, painted women as agents of the Devil. Apparently, everyone had Satan on speed dial, lurking right in their homes. Who knew your neighbor's cat lady was essentially a dark arts practitioner?

However, the Church's script wasn't set in stone. Just when you thought medieval misogyny was reaching its peak, a surprising twist emerged in the form of concern for women. The twelfth and thirteenth centuries heralded the rise of women-centric narratives, starting with the dazzling promotion of the Virgin Mary herself. It seems medieval marketing took a turn for the better, with an emphasis on empowering narratives, probably to counteract the effects of previous 'sack of excrement' PR campaigns.

In a society where concubinage and repudiation were as common as medieval ale, the institution of marriage suddenly became the knight in shining armor. Georges Duby, the historical troubadour, sang tales of marital consent, putting an end to the wild escapades of concubines and more danico wives. The Church, too, had a change of heart. No longer content with sanctifying only consecrated virgins, it started canonizing and beatifying a more diverse cast of characters.

The medieval saints' lineup now included not just nuns and abbesses but also married women like St. Margaret of Scotland and St. Elizabeth of Hungary. Even laywomen like St. Catherine of Siena and followers of the new-age poverty demands like St. Clare of Assisi earned their heavenly stripes. The Church, it seemed, was expanding its celestial portfolio.

But hold on – the transformation didn't stop there. No longer relegated to mere footnotes, women started receiving personalized sermons. Enter Humbert of Romans, the Dominican wordsmith, addressing noble women, wealthy bourgeois ladies, young girls, servants, and even those who were, ahem, “bad with their bodies.” It's like a medieval TED Talk series, but with more fire and brimstone.

While Humbert was busy sermonizing, the Franciscan Guiberto de Tornay preferred sticking to tradition. His sermons were tailor-made for married women, widows, and virgins – a more conservative playlist for those who preferred a medieval musical throwback.

Medieval Women Beyond the Legal Labels

The medieval woman – a creature as elusive as a unicorn, as ubiquitous as a lice-laden doublet. History tells us she was a delicate flower, a fragile maiden, a chattel to be bartered and bred. But was that all there was to her? In the dusty scrolls of law and the musty tomes of theology, we find a different story – one of contradictions, of legal loopholes and everyday realities that defied the pronouncements of pointy-hatted men.

Sure, the jurists droned on about women's “lightness of mind” and “inferior sex,” peppering their pronouncements with Latin phrases like sprinkle cheese on a pizza. But Roman law, the rediscovered darling of the 11th century, wasn't as hostile as it could have been. It didn't exactly hand women the keys to the castle, but it didn't lock them in the pantry either.

Then came the Church, dragging its canon law like a moldy carpetbag. Women, according to these pious pronouncements, were inferior, incapable, basically bad news wrapped in a pretty dress. This, of course, trickled down to the legal texts – a veritable library of “Don'ts” for the fairer sex. From the “Decree of Gratian” to the “Fueros de Navarra,” it was a parade of restrictions, relegating women to the domestic sphere – the realm of pots, pans, and pesky children.

But here's the rub – the legal texts differed. Alfonso X of Castile, the king with a penchant for grand pronouncements, declared that the law applied to everyone, from “women as well as men” to “wise and ignorant.” Yet, when women did pop up in these legal tomes, it was usually in the context of domestic squabbles – dowry disputes, inheritance woes, and the occasional spat over who got to use the village oven.

The public sphere, that testosterone-fueled arena of battles and brothels, was largely off-limits to women. But not entirely. Adultery, abduction, and rape – these were public transgressions, and women, often the victims, found themselves thrust into the legal spotlight. Even prostitution, that murky corner of medieval society, received a nod from the authorities, with laws aimed at protecting both the client and the, well, “worker.”

So, what does this legal hodgepodge tell us about the lives of medieval women? It's a messy picture, a tapestry woven with threads of legal pronouncements, religious dogma, and the rough-and-tumble of everyday life. The law, unlike our modern rule-of-law systems, wasn't a uniform code dictating every cough and sneeze. It was a patchwork of privileges, customs, and contradictions, frequently as dusty and cobwebbed as the attics where these legal texts were stashed.

The reality of medieval women, then, was likely far more diverse than the pronouncements of jurists and clergymen. They were queens and peasants, merchants and midwives, saints and sinners. They navigated the legal labyrinth, not just as passive victims, but as agents, using loopholes and local customs to carve out their own spaces in a world dominated by men.

After all, even in the Middle Ages, a woman's life was more than just a footnote in a dusty legal tome. It was a story waiting to be told, a story of resilience, resourcefulness, and maybe even a bit of rebellion, all woven into the fabric of a time when cats were canonized and laundry was a communal affair.

In-Text Citation: Rucquoi, Adeline. La mujer medieval. Madrid Información e Historia D.L. 1995.