times for bloodletting. Epidemics were attributed to unfortunate configurations
of the stars. Now and then a quack was unmasked; in London one Roger Clerk, who had pretended to cure ailments with spurious
charms, was sentenced to ride through the city with urinals hanging from his neck. But others, equally bogus, lived out their
lives unchallenged.
Scholars as eminent as Erasmus and Sir Thomas More accepted the existence of witchcraft. Conspicuous fakes excepted, the Church
encouraged superstitions, recommended trust in faith healers, and spread tales of satyrs, incubi, sirens, cyclops, tritons,
and giants, explaining that all were manifestations of Satan. The Prince of Darkness, it taught, was as real as the Holy Trinity.
Certainly belief in him was useful; prelates agreed that when it came to keeping the masses on the straight and narrow, fear
of the devil was a stronger force than the love of God. Great shows were made of exorcisms. The story spread across the continent
of how the fiend entered a man’s body and croaked blasphemy through his mouth until a priest, following a magic rite, recited
an incantation. The devil, foiled, screamed horribly and fled.
The ecclesiastical hierarchy, through its priests and monks, repeatedly affirmed the legitimacy of specific miracles. Unshriven
sinners were not the only pilgrims on Europe’s roads. In fact, they were a minority. The majority were simple people, identifiable
by their brown wool robes, heavy staffs, and sacks slung from their belts. Their motivation was simple devotion, often concern
for a recently departed relative now in purgatory. Although filthy and untidy, they were rarely abused; few wanted to lose
the scriptural blessing reserved for those who, having shown kindness to a stranger, had “entertained angels unawares.”
Pilgrims headed for over a thousand shrines whose miracles had been recognized by Rome. There was Our Lady of Chartres, Our
Lady of the Rose at Lucca, Our Guardian Lady in Genoa, and other Our Ladies at Le Puy, Auray, Grenoble, Valenciennes, Liesse,
Rocamadour, Ossier. … It went on and on. One popular destination was the tomb of Pierre de Luxembourg, a cardinal who had
died, aged eighteen, of anorexia; within fifteen months of his death 1,964 miracles were credited to the magic he had left
in his bones. Some saints were regarded as medical specialists; victims of cholera headed for a chapel of Saint Vitus, who
was believed to be particularly efficacious for that disease.
But nothing could compete with the two star attractions: scenes actually visited by the savior himself and spectacular phenomena
confirmed by the Vatican. At Santa Maria Maggiore, people were told, they could see the actual manger where Christ was born,
or, at St. John Lateran, the holy steps Jesus ascended while wearing his crown of thorns, or, at St. Peter in Montorio, the
place where Peter was martyred by Nero. Englishmen believed that the venerable abbot of St. Germer need only bless a fountain
and lo! its waters would heal the sick, restore sight to the blind, and make the dumb speak. Once, according to pilgrims,
the abbot had visited a village parched for lack of water. He led the peasants into the church, and, as they watched, smote
a stone with his staff. Behold! Water gushed forth, not only to slake thirsts but also possessing miraculous powers to cure
all pain and illness.
T RAVEL WAS slow, expensive, uncomfortable—and perilous. It was slowest for those who rode in coaches, faster for walkers, and fastest
for horsemen, who were few because of the need to change and stable steeds. The expenses chiefly arose from the countless
tolls, the discomfort from a score of irritants. Bridges spanning rivers were shaky (priests recommended that before crossing
them travelers commend themselves to God); other streams had to be forded; the roads were deplorable—mostly trails and muddy
ruts, impassable, except in summer, by two-wheeled
of the stars. Now and then a quack was unmasked; in London one Roger Clerk, who had pretended to cure ailments with spurious
charms, was sentenced to ride through the city with urinals hanging from his neck. But others, equally bogus, lived out their
lives unchallenged.
Scholars as eminent as Erasmus and Sir Thomas More accepted the existence of witchcraft. Conspicuous fakes excepted, the Church
encouraged superstitions, recommended trust in faith healers, and spread tales of satyrs, incubi, sirens, cyclops, tritons,
and giants, explaining that all were manifestations of Satan. The Prince of Darkness, it taught, was as real as the Holy Trinity.
Certainly belief in him was useful; prelates agreed that when it came to keeping the masses on the straight and narrow, fear
of the devil was a stronger force than the love of God. Great shows were made of exorcisms. The story spread across the continent
of how the fiend entered a man’s body and croaked blasphemy through his mouth until a priest, following a magic rite, recited
an incantation. The devil, foiled, screamed horribly and fled.
The ecclesiastical hierarchy, through its priests and monks, repeatedly affirmed the legitimacy of specific miracles. Unshriven
sinners were not the only pilgrims on Europe’s roads. In fact, they were a minority. The majority were simple people, identifiable
by their brown wool robes, heavy staffs, and sacks slung from their belts. Their motivation was simple devotion, often concern
for a recently departed relative now in purgatory. Although filthy and untidy, they were rarely abused; few wanted to lose
the scriptural blessing reserved for those who, having shown kindness to a stranger, had “entertained angels unawares.”
Pilgrims headed for over a thousand shrines whose miracles had been recognized by Rome. There was Our Lady of Chartres, Our
Lady of the Rose at Lucca, Our Guardian Lady in Genoa, and other Our Ladies at Le Puy, Auray, Grenoble, Valenciennes, Liesse,
Rocamadour, Ossier. … It went on and on. One popular destination was the tomb of Pierre de Luxembourg, a cardinal who had
died, aged eighteen, of anorexia; within fifteen months of his death 1,964 miracles were credited to the magic he had left
in his bones. Some saints were regarded as medical specialists; victims of cholera headed for a chapel of Saint Vitus, who
was believed to be particularly efficacious for that disease.
But nothing could compete with the two star attractions: scenes actually visited by the savior himself and spectacular phenomena
confirmed by the Vatican. At Santa Maria Maggiore, people were told, they could see the actual manger where Christ was born,
or, at St. John Lateran, the holy steps Jesus ascended while wearing his crown of thorns, or, at St. Peter in Montorio, the
place where Peter was martyred by Nero. Englishmen believed that the venerable abbot of St. Germer need only bless a fountain
and lo! its waters would heal the sick, restore sight to the blind, and make the dumb speak. Once, according to pilgrims,
the abbot had visited a village parched for lack of water. He led the peasants into the church, and, as they watched, smote
a stone with his staff. Behold! Water gushed forth, not only to slake thirsts but also possessing miraculous powers to cure
all pain and illness.
T RAVEL WAS slow, expensive, uncomfortable—and perilous. It was slowest for those who rode in coaches, faster for walkers, and fastest
for horsemen, who were few because of the need to change and stable steeds. The expenses chiefly arose from the countless
tolls, the discomfort from a score of irritants. Bridges spanning rivers were shaky (priests recommended that before crossing
them travelers commend themselves to God); other streams had to be forded; the roads were deplorable—mostly trails and muddy
ruts, impassable, except in summer, by two-wheeled
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