The Making of a Bishop...

We do not know when Diego Gelmirez was born. We don't even know where. But it was quite likely at the Torres del Oeste, the formidable fortress towers administered by his father, Gelmirio, in the service of Bishop Diego Pelaez whom we have already met. His date of birth was also most likely sometime during the 1060's.

Diego's father was greatly trusted by Diego Pelaez. The geographical area he governed on the River Ulla was particularly important strategically being vulnerable to periodic Viking and Norman raids.(During July every year there is a re-enactment of one of these at the site of the Torres which still exist.) Gelmirio, though likely of no great social rank, was considered by all as a "rising man" and young Diego most likely witnessed many comings and goings of the high and the mightly. Perhaps this fuelled his young ambition to rise higher than his father.

Diego attended the Cathedral school at Compostela and it seems he was destined for an ecclesiastical career from very early on. After his schooling, in which he was given a good grounding in church matters, the scriptures, and the law, he spent some time at the royal court, most likely during his late teens. Here, travelling with the royal retinue, young Diego had the perfect chance to watch, listen, and learn and to ingratiate himself into the company of those who may at some point be able to give him a leg up the ladder of preferment.

Sometime before 1085, Diego Gelmirez was back in the household of Bishop Diego Pelaez where we can be sure his listening skills were put to great advantage. What he did with what he learned one can only guess.

What is clear, however, is that Diego survived his patron's downfall and disgracein 1087. Perhaps he saw his career at stake and fought hard to secure it. Maybe as Fletcher suggests, he "...may not have been able to keep his hands clean". Diego, as you will learn, had a habit of coming up smelling of roses no matter what he did. Certainly his extreme reluctance in later years not to travel through the Kingdom of Aragon where Diego Pelaez was living in exile certainly makes us wonder if Diego Gelmirez had a guilty conscience...?
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After Diego Pelaez...

Alfonso couldn't allow Galicia to remain without a bishop, that was for sure, and so he appointed Pedro of Cardena to fill the vacant post. Trouble was this was not exactly his job...that is to say the Pope knew nothing about it. This was simply Not Good.

Once he found out (the Pope at the time was Urban II) Alfonso's choice was outright rejected and we can be sure that letters had been flying back and forth from Diego Pelaez and the Vatican at this time also (Diego Pelaez had found refuge at the court of the King of Aragon, not exactly a friend to Alfonso VI). Pope Urban rejected outright the deposition of Diego Pelaez and chastised Alfonso most resoundedly for having the gall to remove, seize, and imprison a bishop. Alfonso was forthwith instructed to reinstate Diego and no backchat! Urban then backed up his demands with a letter to the clergy and people of Compostela which said: "We forbid you to accept or obey this upstart so-called bishop, Pedro," or something more ecclesiastical and Latin to that effect, and poor Pedro, who likely had had little choice but to obey his king, was summoned to Rome toute de suite!

In the meantime, Alfonso himself had other problems to consider. For one thing he was surrounded by the Moors on virtually all sides; for another, his Queen, Constance, had produced the Infanta Urraca, but so far there was no male heir. And everyone around him was very aware of it. He was obliged to hold on to what he had so far gained and turn a blind (though watchful) eye to Galicia for the time being.

In Compostela, the building of the cathedral came to a grinding halt, and in the words of historian Bernard Reilly, it was: "scarcely more than a handful of piers, melancholy and silent in the winter rains of the northwest".

Never had Galicia needed a champion more.
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Preyr for Charlies Mum

Sorry not to have written for a while but I have been in London. I was invited by my friend Mary to 1) dogsit while she was away, 2) sing with The American Choir of London on Thanksgiving Day. Both were delightful experiences. The latter involved a lot of security checks and was attended by the American Ambassador to the UK who gave a rather ethnocentric speech.

That being as it it may, the chance to sing in St. Pauls, from the original church choir stalls was a bit too much for this (soprano) pilgrim and I jumped at the chance. (Carpe Diem indeed.)

It was truly a "once in a lifetime experience" and, getting up into my late fifties, I decided I had to take seriously this voice that said "do it!".
So I did it. And hope (now as an "Honorary American" - note spelling -) I hope to do again next year.

But that is not what this blog is about.

While staying at Mary's I began to read a bit more about the Wren churches and was determined to visit one or two. Which I did. The second was called St. Magnus the Martyr which I found in the rain. It is close to London Bridge, and the sort of northern end if you like. Very close to The Monument (the Great Fire of London started close to here). I was having the time of my life: getting on this bus, getting off, getting on another. And so I found St. Magnus. Martyrs of all stripes are my interest right now.

Now I don't know very much about St. Magnus (actually I don't know anything about St. Magnus other than he has a horned helmet so presumably was a Viking), but I really did love the church especially as they had a booksale. On the first day I went (I went twice) I had intended to go to the Tate but never made it as just as I was about to leave the organist came in to "practice" and that took an hour or so of my London time.

On the second day I went back to pick up a book I regretted not buying the first time and it was then I decided to light a candle. Above the candles were yellow slips of prayers (I added one) and one in particular caught my eye.
And this is the purpose of this blog. It asked, in very childish writing:
"Plese say a preyr for Charlies Mum she has a brane tuma".

Now I don't know who wrote this. Nor do I know who Charlie is, nor his Mum. But it did touch me very deeply. I lit a candle and felt very humble and not a bit ashamed for complaining about the weather.

So, I am asking you to please say a "preyr", especially for Charlie's Mum. Maybe if you label your prayer "Charlie's Mum" it might have a special delivery, and while you are at it think of all the mums in the world who might have a brane tuma, and may never see their children grown.

Back to the 11th century next week, but thought this worth posting.
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The bishop rebels...

By 1080, the Roman Liturgy was beginning to replace the old Mozarabic (Visigothic) rite. The influence of the Order of Cluny was starting to change the way that people in Galicia would worship from henceforth. And not all welcomed this change.

We are not sure if Bishop Diego Pelaez was one of these, but there can be no doubt that he would have felt the winds blowing from France. King Alfonso VI made Constance of Burgundy his queen, and as often happens, this seemed to involve importing a few relatives as well.

Up to this point, Toledo had been the capital of the old Visigothic kingdom for many hundreds of years. By the late 11th century it was still in Moorish hands, but this was all to change. Alfonso captured Toledo, making Bernardo, a Frenchman, its archbishop. Perhaps Diego Pelaez felt that Galicia was to slip into the backwaters with the new changes with the shrine of St. James assuming less and less importance.

The Infanta Urraca, Alfonso and Constance's only issue, was promised to Raymond, also of France. In the absence of male heirs, this meant that Raymond, a foreigner, would become king.

Perhaps it was all too much got the independent Galicians to bear. This increasing hegemony threatened a vanishing way of life. Before Galicia had been effectively cut off from the rest of the kingdom, yet retained its autonomy, even its king, in this case the imprisoned Garcia. Now, although the pilgrim road had opened Compostela up to the world, instead of achieving its rightful place as the Spanish rival to Rome, it was slipping behind the newly captured Toledo.

In 1087 Count Rodrigo Ovéquez led a rebellious force into Lugo, capturing the city, and his accomplice, it would seem, was none other than our own Diego Pelaez, Bishop of Compostela.

Of course, it was doomed from the start, a daring plan simply destined for failure.

Thirty years later, whilst Diego Gelmirez was archbishop, one of his clerics wrote that charges against Diego Pelaez had been that he had sought the assistance of William of Normandy, "The Conqueror" of England, and although it was not stated, it is impossible not to add: perhaps to free Garcia and re-establish him as the King of Galicia.

This is not as far fetched as it may sound. No less than three of William's daughters had been suggested as marriage partners for the three brothers. Prior to his bethrothal to Constance, Alfonso was to marry Agatha, but she died on route to her bridegroom. Another daughter, one Alberta, was mentioned in connection with Sancho, and may even have married him. What is interesting is that her name (William had a lot of daughters) also comes up in connection with Garcia, the youngest, the dispossessed king of Galicia. Was there some rivalry between the two brothers which history has swallowed up? A romance lost and forgotten? We will never know.

The rebellion lasted for two years. As it was it was all to come to naught. William died unexpectedly when a riding accident threw him onto the pommel of his horse. The ringleaders of the rebellion, including Diego Pelaez, were rounded up and thrown into prison.

The Historia Compostelana tells us that Diego Pelaez was brought in front of his accusers in chains. He was forced to declare himself unworthy of his office, to surrender his pastoral ring and staff. Much later he was banished, exiled, and he spent the rest of his days in Aragon at the court of Pedro who was no friend to Alfonso, and subsequently none to Diego Gelmirez either. But I am getting ahead of my story.

Building on the cathedral stopped. Maestro Esteban followed Diego Pelaez east and began to work on a new cathedral to be built at Pamplona. The masons dispersed. An angered pope tried to re-instate his bishop who meanwhile languished in the dungeons, but with no success. And the bishopric stayed empty for 12 whole years while Diego Gelmirez, moving his way up through the ranks, was happy to bide his time.
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Diego Pelaez...

Ask most people connected with the cathedral of Santiago de Compostela and they will say that it was the child of the first archbishop, Diego Gelmirez, and in many ways this was so. What you may not be told, however, is that it was Gelmirez’ predecessor, Diego Pelaez, who first conceived of enlarging the basilica, nor that the first architect was one Maestro Esteban, most likely a Frenchman.

If we know little enough about Priscillian of Avila, we know even less about Diego Pelaez. We don’t know when he was born, nor where. It seems likely that he was a native of Galicia, but Pelaez (of the family of Pelayo) was a common enough name and crops up quite a bit in connection with the Camino both in Galicia and Asturias. We are told by the authors of the Historia Compostelana (of which you are going to learn a lot more in the weeks to come) that Diego Pelaez was consecrated by Sancho II. While this is possible, subsequent events were to make it more likely that Pelaez had enjoyed the patronage of Garcia of Galicia, and bishops in those days were kings’ men through and through. Besides, the Historia Compostelana is not known for its…um…accuracy.

Be that as it may, by the time that the groundbreaking began (with the old church still inside), Sancho had been dead for 3 years, at the hands of his brother Alfonso. Garcia, having made the mistake of seeking a truce with his brother, was languishing in prison as an unwilling guest in the Castillo de Luna in the mountains above the Rio Orbigo. Diego Pelaez, in his untouchable position as bishop, was perhaps enjoying the relative isolation of his see at Compostela.

The new church was to be constructed in the French “Romanesque” style. With a Latin cross form, three naves and a ground area of 8,300 square meters, this was to be far, far grander than any of the churches of St. James before. An increasing number of merchants and artisans were settling along the pilgrimage route. The work progressed under the watchful eyes of not only Maestro Esteban, but also two master masons known as Bernard and Robert. At least 50 men were employed upon the building during the time of Diego Pelaez.

In some ways, the eventual fate of the church at Compostela was a victim of its own success. Compostela (it had been known by this name since 1056) became more and more “European”. The see had already been moved from Iria Flavia by that time. Prior to this, Galicia had in many ways been cut off: politically and especially geographically. Bishop Cresconio, Pelaez forerunner of long tenure, had had more to worry about with Norman and Viking invasions than incursions from rival kings. For this he had fortified the coastal areas and in particular (for our story as you will see) built a castle at Torres del Oeste near Iria. During Diego Pelaez’ time as bishop, this as occupied by his seigneur, Gelmirio who had several sons, one of which, Diego, is to rise to almost unapproachable power as the first archbishop of “Santiago de Compostela”.
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A bit more necessary history (bear with me!)...

In the early to mid-11th century, as if the threat from the Normans and Vikings was not enough, constant rivalry between the Kingdom of León and the Kingdom of Castilla opened rifts that could be (and were) exploited by outsiders, and so Sancho III "the Great", King of Navarre (1004–1035) took steps to eradicate the problem. This powerful king "absorbed" Castile in the 1020s, and added León in the last year of his life, driving King Bermudo of Leon back into Galicia which formed a part of his lands.

On Sancho's death, the kingdoms were once again divided, this time between Sancho's sons. At first it would seem that Bermudo took advantage of the situation and gained his Leonese territory back, but he could not hold it against the more powerful Fernando.

Castilla had fallen to Fernando, but for him that was not enough. He engaged Bermudo in battle and defeated him. In this way, Fernando was to remain the ruler of Castilla, Leon, and Galicia until his death in 1065.

But Fernando I seemed to have had very little interest in Galicia. At least it does not appear to have profitted in any way by his becoming king, and it would seem that Galicia had not forgiven Fernando for dethroning their own king, Bermudo. Rebellions broke out, although none very successful. For a while an uneasy peace was established. But the Gallego nobles had long memories.

Before Fernando died, he, like his father before him, divided his lands amongst his sons. Castilla went to Sancho who became Sancho II. Alfonso became King Alfonso VI of Leon, and finally, Galicia went to Garcia, the youngest of the brothers and perhaps the weakest. Nice guys finish last.

Garcia must have known that he could only rule his kingdom with the cooperation of his nobles and in order to placate them he undertook an oath: he swore he would be a good lord and would not deprive them of their lands. "...nor send them into exile; nor .....encourage their ill-wishers". The former was no doubt in response to the widespread rebellion by Count Muño Rodriguez, who had been imprisoned and stripped of his lands by Garcia's father, Fernando I.

But at the very least, Galicia had a king once more, and one it would appear it was willing to defend. Garcia seems to have made good upon his promises and attracted some loyal nobles to him although perhaps his zeal for reform did not endear many of his older subjects to him. But it wasn't to last for long. In true Mediaeval family tradition, Garcia was soon dethroned by his brother Sancho II of Castilla, who then met his own come-uppance when his lands were annexed by Alfonso. Alfonso then became King Alfonso VI of all the kingdoms formerly united under his father. Having seemingly formed an alliance with Sancho to remove their brother from his rightful inheritance, this may very well have been Alfonso's intention all along as in 1072 Sancho was dispensed with never to cause the new king any trouble again. Garcia fled to Sevilla, still then, in the hands of the Moors. Safety amongst nominal enemies seemed to be a better election than staying anywhere near his only remaining brother.

This may have simplified things historically, but things were still not happy in Galicia. In 1085, a further rebellion broke out, this time led by the Count of Lugo, Rodrigo Ovéquez. This revolt was no minor skirmish but a serious situation in which the disaffected aristocrats of Galicia, perhaps remembering only too well their own King Bermudo and his fate and more lately the self-imposed exile of their king, Garcia, posed a threat to Alfonso which had to be dealt with quickly and cleanly.

One man involved was not of the aristocracy, however...at least not of the landed gentry. He was the Bishop of Compostela, a man who had received his see at the hands of King Garcia, and, it is almost forgotten, the first architect of the Cathedral. It is to him that we shall turn our attention next.

His name was Diego Pelaez...
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Compostela: a sneak peak at my new book...!

Two timelines - the first year of the 21st century, and 1000 years before - a woman finds herself torn between her love, her research, and a powerful bishop's obsessions.

Felix and Laura return to Santiago. Laura has a thesis to write and what place could be more atmospheric than the University of Santiago? The couple, who met while walking the Camino de Santiago, are deeply in love and should be blissfully happy. But as the Galician winter draws in, Laura begins to encounter strange visions in the streets of the old city. Voices tell her she should beware, but of what, and whom? Confused and frightened, Laura becomes aware that she is pushing away the very love that she had once welcomed. Felix hits the Camino once more leaving Laura to enter the past, alone.

Against the backdrop of medieval Compostela, Diego Gelmirez propels himself to prominence as the first archbishop of a growing diocese. Ambitious, shrewd and ruthless, Diego will go to any lengths to protect his cathedral, even to the point of challenging a queen.

In 2010, more than one quarter of a million pilgrims from all around the world are expected to make the pilgrimage to the Shrine of St. James.

But how true is the Legend of Santiago? Who had the most to gain by promoting it?

And who still does...?
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Help Wanted...

You could contribute to the writing of Compostela which is slated for publication in 2010. And since today is The Day of The Dead what better time to ask you for "spooky Camino stories"! If you or anyone you know has somehow experienced the "Supernatural" while walking the Camino routes or especially while in Santiago please do not hesitate to contact me at priscillianmartyr@yahoo.com All messages will be answered, and if I use the story in the book, acknowledged in print.
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A bit more about the Moors...

The name of the Moors derives from the ancient Berber tribe of the Mauri and their kingdom, Mauretania, which became a Roman province after its last king Bocchus II willed it to Octavian in 33 BC. Mauretania lay in present day Morocco and Western Algeria. The name of Mauri was applied by the Romans to all non-romanised natives of North Africa still ruled by their own chiefs.

In 711, under their leader Tariq ibn-Ziyad, (from whom we have the name “Gibraltar”), the Moors brought most of Spain and Portugal under Islamic rule in an eight-year campaign. On the eve of the battle, Tariq is alleged to have roused his troops with the following words:

"My brethren, the enemy is before you, the sea is behind; whither would ye fly? Follow your general; I am resolved either to lose my life or to trample on the prostrate king of the Romans."

Surprisingly quickly, Iberia came under their domination. They attempted to move northeast across the Pyrenees but were defeated by the Frank Charles Martel at the Battle of Tours in 732. However, with the notable exception of the north west (which was occupied only briefly)and the Basque regions, the Moors ruled Iberia, especially in Al-Andalus where they were to remain a presence until the fall of Granada in 1492.

The north of Iberia (the former "Duchy of Gallaecia") even though nominally conquered, was not the most ideal place for the Moors, who just sent a military force and collected taxes. As had the Romans before them, the Moors did not bother the Astures and Cantabri. But the relative peace was not to last. The Berbers in the north did not like the lands they were given and a rebellion broke out(perhaps they didn’t care for the weather). They repressed by the forces in several battles until the rebellion stopped, but then the Berbers turned against the Astures, claiming higher taxes and setting punishment patrols against their villages. This forced the Astures to start a guerrilla war.

The Moors were driven out of Galicia in 739 by Alfonso I of Asturias. From then on, the kingdom was known as the Kingdom of Asturias until 924, when it became the Kingdom of León. “Almanzor", as we have seen, perhaps recognising the increasing power wielded by those who claimed St. James as their own saint, raised the growing settlement of Compostela to the ground and took back with him the bells and doors of the church. But although he destroyed the shrine, he did nothing to remove the relics. This was not an attempt at invasion per se; it was more of a punitive expedition. As far as Al Mansur was concerned, the north west was getting a bit too big for its boots.
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The Moorish Threat: Al Mansur...

And so, as Santiago became famous as the conqueror of the Moors, what we need to remember is that at that time during the 10th century, Spain such as we know it now, did not exist. Instead it was a number of small kingdoms: Navarra, Aragon, Leon, Castilla. Most of it was, however, overrun by the Moorish conquerors, most especially, Al Andalus, very loosely, today’s Andalucia. The Caliphate of Córdoba was so powerful as to be a rival to Baghdad. Enter Al-Mansur, also known to the Christians as Almanzor: The Victorious One.

"Al-Mansur" was born Muhammad Ibn Abi Aamir into a noble Arab family. He was not born into the royal circles; in fact he came originally from the strategic port of Algeciras. He eventually arrived at the court of Córdoba as a student studying literature and law. He was an ambitious man and fast rose to power as the manager of the estates of Prince Hisham II and as such he rose to ever increasing positions of influence, ruthlessly eliminating his political rivals along the way. Hisham II became Caliph, but he was only 12 years old. Al-Mansur used his influence and occupied and added to the beautiful new palace on the outskirts of Córdoba called Medina Azahara (Medinat al-Zahra) which can still be seen today. The palace became a city where the royal mint and the administrative quarters of the Caliphate were located. Built by the Caliph Abd al-Rahman III in 940, it is said that his young bride (one of - al-Rahman had hundreds) missed the snows of her native land, and so al-Rahman planted almond trees around the palace so that their blossom in the spring would remind her of her homeland.

Al-Mansur was less romantic. After the death of Al-Rahman III, the heir to the Caliphate, as we have seen, was a mere boy, Hisham. Al-Mansur brought the young ruler under his power so completely that he made him a virtual prisoner in Medina Azahara while Al-Mansur secured his position and carried forward with agendas of his own.

As you can imagine, the court of Córdoba was full of intrigue and Al-Mansur knew that he would have to act ruthlessly if he was to maintain his position of power. This took him into many battles. One of these was in the year 981 when he engaged his last remaining rival, Ghalib Al-Nasiri, in battle. He returned victorious. What was seemingly unimportant to him that the leader of the opposition was his own father-in-law.

Ruthless, as we have said.

Upon his return to Córdoba, he assumed the title Al Mansur bi Allah – Victorious by the grace of God. To the Christians, who had every reason to fear him, he was known as Almanzor.

Al-Mansur’s grip on Al-Andalus was now without challenge. He was absolute ruler. He dedicated himself to military campaigns against the Christian states of the peninsula. He organized and took part in 57 campaigns, and was victorious in all of them. To wage these campaigns against the Christian states, he brought in many Berber mercenaries from what is now Morocco, which upset the political order over time. Although he mainly fought against León and Castilla, in 985 he sacked Barcelona and in 997 he turned his interests towards Compostela.

The church was sacked. He took the doors to use in his navy, and he returned triumphantly with the church bell carried on the back of captured Christian slaves.
The legend says that he spared the tomb of St. James. And this fascinates me. Supposedly he rode into the church upon his horse, but he found a pious monk (perhaps the bishop) in prayer by the side of the tomb who refused to leave the site. Again, legend tells us that he was so taken with this man’s piety that he left the shrine,and the priest, alone.

Now what intrigues me is why would this be? Al Mansur was not known for his mercy. He had attacked Compostela for the simple reason that he knew (and I imagine it hadn’t taken too much for his spies to learn this) that the church contained a rival – and a powerful one at that – to his own beliefs. One which had been promoted as a figurehead to rouse the people of the Christian north against him. It would have been understandable if along with the doors and bells (he burned the new church to the ground) he had returned even more triumphant with the remains of the saint with whom the Christian might of the northern kings had planned to threaten his power.

But he didn’t. Why not?

The compelling thought which grips me is that Al Mansur learned something from this monk; something which enlightened him as to the real remains in the tomb. That is to say, that it did not contain St. James, his nemesis, but someone else. Someone perhaps who posed no threat at all? Someone whose own views were not so dissimilar to those of his own religion. Could he have learned from this monk about Priscillian? We will never know. But there are so many mysteries surrounding this tomb that this is one we should not discount.

Al Mansur was not to enjoy his power for much longer. Within five years he was dead. And a new church was to arise from the ashes of the old one. Supposedly, with its relics still intact.
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The Cult of St. James Begins...

We have seen that Alfonso II and Bishop Theodemir took an interest in the discovery of a tomb which they claimed must have been St. James. A church was built – not a very impressive one by all accounts. Most texts claim monastic buildings erected there also, although by no means all. Things go on without much ceremony at the simple church for some time. The Battle of Clavijo comes and goes with, or without, St. James depending on whether you want to ignore history or not. Ordoño succeeds Ramiro and then he too passes into that great battle in the sky, or wherever it is that warring kings choose to go. There is then a brief dispute about territory as Alfonso III comes to the throne.

Remember it is Oviedo which is the centre of all the action at this point. Galicia is little more than a troublesome outpost – hard to get at. Count Froila of Galicia makes an appearance here by trying to claim some property belonging to the church at Santiago (we are not told whether this was actually in or near Compostela. Churches used to own property well away from the actual church precincts). Froila is defeated, and after his death the lands are returned to the church. As a mark of “gratitude” to St. James (for being on the right side) Alfonso III sends a jewelled cross to the church of St. James in Compostela which bears the words Hoc Signo Vincitur Inimicus. Just before the Battle of Milvian Bridge,the Roman Emperor Constantine was said to have had a vision in which he saw a cross in the sky. He dreamed that this meant “By this sword you shall conquer”. That the Latin words mean more of less the same, Alfonso clearly intended as a parallel with his golden gift. St. James was to be seen on the side of the righteous and dutiful, not the enemy. This, at a point where the Moors were overrunning the Peninsula and moving north at an accelerated rate, is not a point to be overlooked in our story of how the Cult of St. James began. (This, by the way is the accepted term, not mine.)

There follows a period in which Alfonso and Bishop Sisnando begin to heap rewards on the church of Santiago and the little wattle and daub church is thought not to be grand enough to receive such attention. Alfonso digs deep into his pockets (or whatever they had in those days) and a new and improved church is built, bigger, better. In 899 no less than 17 bishops come to the consecration, one from as far away as Zaragosa. As if St. James’ remains were not enough, Alfonso adds relics from Santas Leocadia, and Eulalia too.

Around about this time there is evidence of a letter written by Alfonso to the clergy of Tours in France, famous for being the burial place of St. Martin. It would appear that a question had come Alfonso’s way: “Who is buried in Galicia?” His response is unequivocal: “Let them know that it is James the son of Zebedee.” The letter makes reference to miracles at the site which would seem to indicate that some pilgrimage on what was later to become the Camino de Santiago had already begun.

What I find intriguing about this letter is that Alfonso seems to be asking for some assistance setting up his relics shop. He asks for more information about St. Martin, (who was a contemporary of Priscillian, not in agreement with Priscillian’s form of Christianity but appalled by the treatment he received. It is St. Martin’s biographer Sulpicius Severus who has provided just about everything you will read about Priscillian with the agreement of the Catholic Church, i.e. not very sympathetic). Alfonso wants details: miracles etc. Fletcher makes the acerbic observation that perhaps Alfonso is “…a man who is still something of a beginner in the business of shrine promotion”.

Yet despite all the fuss surrounding Compostela at this time, Oviedo is still the royal seat and it was characteristic for relics to be translated to more important centres. Oviedo was a “veritable spiritual fortress” at the time (I had the same observation as Fletcher when I visited Braga this year. There are so many relics there that when I saw the word SAN ITARIOS on a wall in the Cathedral it took a minute for it to dawn on me that this was the sign for the toilets. True story! That’s what happens when you get research-obsessed).

Where was I?

Ah yes…I think the point that intrigues me at this point is: why didn’t Alfonso take the remains to Oviedo to add to his collection? That is what kings in those days did. Alfonso III didn’t.

Why not?
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