Download PDF | Simon Barton, Peter Linehan - Cross, Crescent and Conversion_ Studies on Medieval Spain and Christendom in Memory of Richard Fletcher - (2007).
377 Pages
PREFACE
Because we had only corresponded before, it was not Richard Fletcher himself but rather his distinctively elegant hand-writing, observed upside-down across a Madrid library table early in 1967, that first caught my eye. Then I noticed the unmistakably English figure, the floppy fair hair, the well-cut (albeit rather frayed) jacket, corduroys and proper shoes, all strongly reminiscent of the smoking room at the Drones, and on introducing myself encountered those impeccable manners, the hesitant semi-stutter and the screwing up of the eyes while he searched fastidiously for the mot juste, the delighted thrusting forward of the head on finding that his companion’s opinion coincided with his own, forever assenting, rarely asserting.
At the end of that morning we adjourned to a nearby hostelry for the first of many such convivial retreats from the rigours of the research front-line. We did some archive-crawling together, compiling lists of regional delicacies from provincial Spinglish menus—“fryted egg” and “roasted heifer in his juice” helped down by copious amounts of “spumies whines” and “varios grog”—pitted our wits against the wily cathedral archivists of the day, and promised ourselves that sometime we would put together a Bad Archives Guide (strictly for private circulation). After the publication of his Episcopate book and St James’s Catapult, by 1989 when The Quest for El Cid was published Richard was becoming increasingly frustrated with the problems of continuing with Spanish history.
But because The Quest proved his most successful work to date, he was perhaps a shade reluctant to revert to what had been his earliest historical love, nurtured by James Campbell, namely the earlier part of the period covered by The Conversion of Europe (1998). At the time of his tragically early death he had embarked on what he cheerfully described as a rewrite of Gibbon. Another thing about The Quest was that it revealed Richard at his most characteristic: as for example in his manner of introducing the various personae of his drama. I find I wrote at the time of his doing so “rather in the manner of an attentive host introducing his guests to one another before they go off to dress for dinner (‘We shall hear more of him shortly’, ‘We shall meet again’, and so on)”:1 again the Wodehousian harmonies, though now it is across the hubbub of a Blandings drawing-room that the strains of that distinctive light-baritone prosestyle reach us. Richard was a maker of gentle rain and because of that would probably never have lent his name anyway to anything as acerbic as that projected Guide. He was far too nice and far too decent ever to say anything likely to cause upset. He shrank from inflicting pain. Other than when stuck behind a very slow driver, he was, quite simply, the very definition of Cardinal Newman’s gentleman.
My first acquaintance with Richard Fletcher came in 1984 when, as a callow MA student at the University of York, I tentatively knocked at his office door to seek his views about a dissertation I was then preparing on Anglo-Saxon kingship. From the very outset, Richard made a strong impression on me. I was struck by the courteous manner with which he responded to my naïve questioning, grateful for the sage advice he generously bestowed, and simultaneously transfixed by his Herculean— albeit ultimately unsuccessful—efforts to keep his pipe alight while we talked. In subsequent conversations, it was Richard who opened my eyes to the exciting possibilities that medieval Spanish history offered to the sufficiently intrepid, and two years later I returned to York to begin doctoral research under his supervision. Supervisory meetings with Richard often took place in a York pub, a practice that would doubtless be frowned upon by university quality assurance inquisitors today; but whatever the setting he was a constant source of advice, ideas and friendly encouragement. In later years, once the thesis had been safely put to bed and I had begun my first, faltering steps in the academic profession, I came to know Richard in another guise, that of stalwart colleague, ally and collaborator. In the late 1990s, we joined forces to prepare the translation of four Hispano-Latin chronicles that were later to be published as The World of El Cid (2000).
In the introduction to that work we observed that “to our surprise and pleasure . . . harmonious co-operation was never once threatened by even the suspicion of a cross word so much as meditated, let alone uttered.” How could it possibly have been otherwise with Richard? The only difficulty as far as I was concerned was keeping up; Richard worked prodigiously hard, and when the bit was between his teeth he moved at a cracking pace. Our other collaborative work occurred when we were both invited to Portugal to take part in the filming of a local documentary on the 1147 siege of Lisbon. Richard was a confident performer in front of camera, but for whatever reason, that particular documentary seems to have remained in the can and his budding career as a “media don” was thwarted. This volume is intended as a commemoration of Richard’s career and his remarkable contribution to our understanding of the medieval world.
The seventeen papers included here, contributed by some of the leading scholars of the period, reflect the three main areas of his scholarly endeavours: Church and society in medieval Spain; ChristianMuslim relations, both in the Iberian peninsula and further afield; and the history of the post-Roman world, with particular reference to the conversion of Europe. There is also an appreciation of Richard’s scholarly achievements by James Campbell. We dedicate this work to Richard’s memory with thanks, admiration and considerable affection, wholly mindful of the fact that both personally and professionally we are deeply fortunate to have known him.
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