The Good, the Bad and the Unready (2 page)

Some people, however, have clearly deserved their moral cognomen. Few would rush to the defence of Wenceslas of Bohemia for being dubbed ‘Worthless’, and Peter of Castile’s soubriquet of ‘Cruel’ was by all accounts entirely justified.

The Animalistic

A small but select group, which divides on gender lines. Those few men who come within its remit, such as Louis the Universal Spider, have nicknames that generally portray them in a neutral if not positive light. Noblewomen, on the other hand, from the queen consort to Charles the Silly (‘Isabella the Great Sow’), to one of Bluff King Hal’s wives (‘Anne the Mare of Flanders’), are referred to as other members of the animal kingdom in less than complimentary terms.

The Military

‘Victorious’, ‘Fierce’, ‘Slayer of the Bulgars’… many nicknames understandably refer to the military prowess (real or otherwise) of history’s fighting nobility. Some are accurate, such as ‘Mehmed the Conqueror’, while others are way off the mark, as in the case of ‘John the Fearless’.

The Great

Dozens of people down the centuries have been dubbed ‘the Great’. Only some seventeen have earned their place in these pages for having an interesting story to support – or undermine – their epithet.
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With such a collection, one cannot help but be tempted to judge who exactly was the greatest. Catherine and Peter of Russia, Charlemagne and Henry of France must surely be in everyone’s top ten, if for nothing but sheer entertainment value.

The Occupational

From ‘Caulker’ to Astrologer’, ‘Baker’ to ‘Wizard’, occupations, often incidental to the main line of work of many nobles, have proved a rich mine for nicknames. Some, like ‘Troubadour’ and ‘Farmer’, hint at those professions that the rulers of nations would
have preferred had history not demanded otherwise. Others, such as ‘Steward’, are marvellously misapplied.

The Behavioural

Into this category fall those nicknamees who are known by the content of their character rather than any specific deed or occupation. ‘Fulk the Surly’, ‘Erik the Meek’, ‘Louis the Indolent’… their potted biographies suggest whether they are deserved or not.

The Gem

Just occasionally there is a gem of a nickname that refuses to fall into any category, for example the enigmatic ‘Christopher the King of Bark’ and ‘Athelfleda the White Duck’.

This collection reflects the bias of history in that the percentage of female entries is miserably low. Those women who do appear do so not merely because of their bloodline but, as with their male counterparts, because of their military courage (e.g. ‘Black Agnes’) or beauty (‘the Fair Rosamund’) or cruelty (‘Elizabeth the Blood Countess’). That so many women have received dismissive nicknames – not least ‘Isabella the Great Sow’ and ‘Mary the Queen of Tears’ –reflects how much the nicknames of history’s nobility are the product of a male-dominated and occasionally misogynistic culture.

Leafing through this list naturally leads to the consideration of what nicknames current members of the aristocracy should be known by for centuries to come. The satirical magazine
Private Eye
has not been backward in coming forward with monikers for today’s British royal family. While Prince Charles enjoys the appellation of ‘Brian’, Her Majesty herself is referred to as ‘Brenda’. But these, I venture, will be short-lived, as was the nickname ‘Cheryl’ for ‘Diana the People’s Princess’.

What, therefore, might be the long-term soubriquets for today’s nobility? Will Prince Charles be known as ‘the Green’ for his concerns for the environment? Will Queen Elizabeth be hailed
in perpetuity as ‘the Steadfast’ for her firm grasp of the British royal tiller for more than fifty years? Will Queen Beatrix of Holland be known for the colour of her hair or the quality of her reign? Only time will tell, because, as this book amply demonstrates, nicknames are never forced, but acquired.

The Good, the Bad and the Unready
is by no means a comprehensive collection. Limited space prevents individual entries on ‘Olaf the Slippery’, ‘William the Delightful’ and ‘Charlotte the Warrior Lady of Latham’. Rather, it is a select miscellany where the depraved seventh-century empress ‘Lady Wu the Poisoner’ and ‘Poor Fred’, the hapless eighteenth-century prince of Wales, make interesting alphabetical bedfellows. Nor does this gallery give greatest attention to those individuals who have proven to be historically most significant. The focus is on nickname rather than place in history. The one-eyed Bohemian reformer John Zisca is thus given more space than King Henry VIII.

Emulating the chroniclers and the common people who, down the centuries, have bestowed epithets upon their nobles, this collection doesn’t let the truth get in the way of a good nickname or a good story. Instead it embraces the quirky, the fickle, and the occasionally downright wrong, with the same intensity that the love-stricken Nicole of
The House of Lorraine
embraces the man of her dreams.

During my Glasgow childhood, initiation into the semi-secret society of the ‘Excellent Eastons’ involved jumping off the roof of the potting shed in our garden into the compost heap alongside it. This I achieved, aged about seven, and joined my sibling band of ‘Marvellous Mark’, ‘Wonderful William’ and ‘Super Susie’. Nowadays, when I need to be humbled, my brothers and sister remind me that my nickname was ‘Ridiculous Robert’. Perhaps this early moniker was the embryo of this book.

In the late 1980s and early 1990s I worked for Boydell & Brewer, an academic publisher that specializes in scholarly works on medieval history and literature. It might well have been here that my curiosity and interest in historical nicknames and how people got them was rekindled.

Certainly, were it not for my dear friends ‘Hamish the Catalyst’ and ‘Frances the Splendid’,
The Good, the Bad and the Unready
would still be a jumble of anecdotes in my head. It was they (as well as ‘Anthony the Motivator’, who at our first meeting told me to write a book, though I doubt he was thinking of one like this) who encouraged me to stop talking about the thing and actually sit down and compile it. ‘Robbie the Affable’ and ‘Carol the Charming’ of the Fox Reformed, and several of my friends from St Mary’s Church, Stoke Newington, meanwhile, egged me on and plied me with fine wine.

I am grateful to the staff of the British Library and the University of Sussex Library, where much of my research was conducted, and to all my colleagues and students at Brighton College who have been subjected to my occasional ramblings on the subject. Special mention must go to my Upper Fifth religious studies class of ‘Lexy the Loon’, ‘Jonno the Mad’, ‘Jo the Great’, ‘Bobcat’, ‘Andrew the Eagle’, ‘Joshua of the Four Kinds of Love’,
‘Sophie the Sophisticated’ and ‘Sam the Sensational’ –maverick, hilarious and A∗ in equal measure. I am also indebted to publishing supremos ‘Simon the Shaken but not Stirred’, ‘Martin the Midwife’ and ‘Sophie the Great Overseer’, who, in their different ways, have brought this work to fruition. Thanks, too, to ‘Kate the Considerate’ and ‘Caroline the Thoughtful’ for their careful reading of the manuscript.

‘Kai the Wonderful Princess’, my wife and best friend, has cheerfully read various drafts and gently suggested how I might put bounce and clarity into leaden and convoluted prose – all of this in the midst of the challenges of an intercontinental commute between England and South Africa. My deepest gratitude, however, goes to Harry, who has been by my side throughout the entirety of this project. Without his companionship and constant demands to go for walks on Brighton Beach and the South Downs, this work would have been finished in half the time but with half the fun.

Charles the
Affable

Charles VIII, king of France, 1470–98

Sickly, short and very, very ugly, Charles was not admired for his physical attributes. But the people of fifteenth-century France looked beyond the bulbous black eyes, the immense nose and the pockmarked face, and liked what they found. Here was a young monarch who was not only genial and charming (more charming to women than his wife Anne, the duchess of Brittany, would have wanted), but also a cavalier man of adventure.

Charles was known for cooking up madcap schemes, and one of them was claiming to be the rightful heir to the kingdom of Naples. To realize this absurd ambition, he borrowed pots of money and signed disastrous treaties, eventually arriving in Italy amid outlandish pomp and ceremony in February 1495. After only a few weeks, however, a bemused coalition of regional leaders (including the pope) had had enough of his pretensions and drove him back to France. In retreat Charles, who during this time was called by some ‘Flagellum Dei’ or ‘the Scourge of God’, barely escaped with his life after the battle of Fornovo where he proved himself to be a brave, if not tactically astute, leader of men.

Back home, ‘the Scourge of God’ spent much of his time playing tennis or, when it rained, reading legends and romances. And it was while watching a game of tennis at his chateau in Amboise that tragedy struck. Charles went to use the latrine and smashed his head against the lintel of the low doorway. He returned to the tennis match seemingly none the worse for his collision, only to collapse and die later that day. Charles was only twenty-eight, and an entire nation mourned the loss of, if not a great ruler, an approachable, fun-loving dreamer of a man with a zeal for justice and a love for his subjects. The chronicler Philip de Commynes summed up the general opinion of Charles when he wrote that ‘he was but a little man, both in body and understanding, yet so good natured that it was impossible to meet a better creature.’

Alaric-Cotin
see
Frederick the
GREAT

Alexander II
see
Ptolemaic
KINGS

Charles the
Alexander of the North
see
Charles the
MADMAN OF THE NORTH