Publication Spotlight: Churchmen and Urban Government in Late Medieval Italy

Prof Frances Andrew’s edited volume, Churchmen and Urban Government in Late Medieval Italy, c.1200–c.1450: Cases and Contexts, is an attempt to understand an intriguing phenomenon. It explores, through a number of case studies, the employment of members of monastic communities in urban government. The focus is, in particular, on paid, fixed service. These men were not involved in council, or high politics. Instead they were engaged in lower level, but equally essential, work: they might be employed in the treasury, for example, oversee building works, or make sure that all the bread sold within a city was edible.

This phenomenon raises interesting questions. How did this relationship between religious communities and urban government work? Why did it work? The answers to these questions have the potential to break down the neat categories between religious and secular spheres which continue to dominate our understanding of the medieval world.

Frances came across this phenomenon in her work on the Humiliati, an order originally dominated by lay people who committed to a religious life. She knew that there was a close relationship between these brothers, the secular clergy (priests, bishops and deacons), and urban government. Indeed, the Humiliati were well known to have been engaged in communal offices. It was during a year-long fellowship in Florence, however, that she noticed that in late medieval Siena and Florence this was also very often the case for other regular clergy (i.e. monks, canons and friars). Bearing in mind the vast number of urban governments in central and northern Italy and the abundance of extant sources, it was at this point that it became clear that on her own it would take decades to get a real sense of how this relationship worked.

The project which arose from this realisation and resulted in Churchmen and Urban Government, began with a conference Frances organised in 2007, funded by the British Academy. This enabled her to bring speakers together from Italy, the US, and closer to home, to discuss relations between regular clergy and public life. This fed directly into the creation of a major research project, ‘Religion and Public Life in Late Medieval Italy’, which was supported by AHRC funding.

The collaborative nature of the work has proved to be especially fruitful. Not only has this approach enabled urban and religious historians to work together and benefit from one another’s approaches, but it has facilitated comparison across northern Italian cities, something which is still relatively unusual. The volume contains an essay on each of a sample of thirteen cities, building on the expertise of each scholar on ‘their’ city. In the second half of the volume experts on religious life then explore the reactions of particular monastic orders, including the Camaldolese and the Cistercians. Thus, Churchmen and Urban Government shows the great variety in the relationship of monks, friars and penitents with urban governments: in Milan, being a Cistercian monk might mean spending some of your time working for the city, in Turin it did not.

So, the big question: why did cities employ monks in this way? The classic interpretation, put forth by Richard Trexler in 1978, places a lot of emphasis on the role of trust. Hypothetically, a religious superior instructed a monk to go and work in the city. The city could therefore trust this monk, because of the bond of obedience which bound the monk and abbot.

Whilst Frances believes that trust and integrity did play a role, there were a number of other reasons why monks were engaged. They possessed technical skills, such as in book keeping and the production of registers. In addition, relationships of patronage between monasteries and certain powerful families seem to have led to the greater deployment of monks in these roles.

Perhaps most importantly, Churchmen and Urban Government highlights the importance of the political context in determining the deployment of regular clergy. It demonstrates that the initial idea of employing people from religious orders or penitential brethren was something associated with the popolo, that is, the anti-magnate group in cities, a factional body closely identified with papal politics. Whilst trust was involved, the illumination of these worldly factors begins to turn Trexler’s model on its head.

What comes next? This work is, in fact, just one part of a larger project, and Frances is currently working on the second volume: a monograph intended to build on the case studies. As well as this, Frances intends to continue looking further afield for other comparisons. Churchmen and Urban Government closed with three colleagues’ case-studies on areas outside Central and Northern Italy, covering Sardinia, the southern Regno under the Hohenstaufen and, in a deeply comparative mode, England. Next year she’ll be in the Netherlands, where she plans to examine Dutch material on urban government. Unlike northern Italy, it doesn’t seem as though regular orders were employed by Dutch cities. Frances will be asking why this was the case, and who was doing these jobs, if not the regular clergy.

Publication Spotlight: ‘The Invention of News’

Spanning four centuries and most of Europe, Professor Andrew Pettegree’s new monograph, The Invention of News, tells the story of news before the newspaper. In doing so, Andrew illuminates a lively and previously marginalised culture which sees news moving in a number of ways, including by word of mouth, and through official announcements, sermons and cheap occasional print. Indeed, in this period, news actually travelled far more successfully in these forms than it did in newspapers.

Andrew was initially drawn to this topic through the research he conducted on cheap print for his previous monograph: The Book in the Renaissance. When researching for this work, it became clear to him that much of the dynamism in early print came from cheap books which gave good returns on investments. This had not been recognised before this point, largely because the survival rate of such print was so low. It was these little books which alerted Andrew to the importance of news in this period, and from which The Invention of News was ultimately developed.

At its core, The Invention of News deals with a technological change, that from manuscript to print. This phenomenon is one which ought to be familiar to us, as we are currently undergoing a similar shift, from print to digital platforms. It is not surprise, then, that Andrew’s work in this field has received a lot of attention, especially from journalists. A number of findings from The Invention of News, however, ought to be reassuring.

One of the most unexpected things that Andrew discovered was the persistence of a lively and lucrative manuscript news services throughout the period in question, in spite of a number of false prophecies that manuscript was dead. These were distributed by professional newsmen to a very small circle of paying clients, and were very popular: indeed, they were viewed as indispensable to those in positions of power. This service was regarded as being much more reliable than other sources of news, largely because it was exclusive and reassuringly expensive. Newspapers initially modelled themselves on these manuscript newsletters, but they certainly didn’t kill them, and they persisted and remained vital up until the French Revolution, 350 years after the invention of printing. The persistence of the manuscript newsletter for such a long period reveals a message which Andrew believes to be relevant today: in a period of technological change people do not tend to pick one format or another, but instead pick the best of both worlds.

Prof Pettegree receiving the Goldsmiths award

Prof. Pettegree receiving the Goldsmiths award

A similar finding of the Invention of News, which was equally surprising to Andrew, was how difficult early newspapers found it to make money. Andrews sees many new technologies being propelled by fascination, and not by economic reality, and argues that this was certainly the case for newspapers. Initially they popped up in a number of places, but the economics were dire. An average manuscript newsletter might have had twenty customers, who would each have been charged £10 a years for the service. This resulted in a very decent income for the newsman in question. The same newspapers, however, could only charge around 1 or 2 pence, as they had to match other cheap print. In order to make money, therefore, they would need to sell between 300 and 400 copies, and even then the profit would only be around ¼ of a penny on each copy. Some newspapers subsidised this paltry profit with alternative forms of income, such as advertising. The vast majority, however, survived primarily on government subsidies. This led to prestige for the government, but also meant that the newspapers were very reticent about criticising power!

So what comes next? There is the potential for a sequel, which would continue to look forwards to our digital age and the changes news experienced from the nineteenth century onwards. Returning to the early modern period, Andrew also sees potential for more interest in the ‘multimedia’ transmission of news, and for future studies to focus more on the relationship between print and oral culture. In the meantime, however, congratulations are in order. This work has received attention from quarters other than journalists wondering about their job prospects. At the beginning of March, Andrew travelled to Boston collect the 2015 Goldsmith Book Prize given by the Harvard Kennedy School, Joan Shorenstein Centre on the Press, Politics and Public Policy.

Publication Spotlight: John Wyclif on War and Peace

The cover image of Dr Rory Cox’s John Wyclif on War and Peace is initially surprising. The image is taken from a fifteenth-century French bestiary (The Hague, Museum Meermanno, 10 B 25, fo. 32r) and does not depict a warlike creature, but instead a pelican, who feeds her chicks using blood from her own breast. According to the tale behind the image, the chicks of the pelican attacked their mother, who killed them in retaliation. In order to revivify her young, the mother pecked her own breast and fed her chicks the blood which flowed forth. Pelicans were often represented in this way throughout the Middle Ages as this image was used as an allegory for God’s forgiveness and the resurrection.

Rory’s thesis, that John Wyclif was an “out and out pacifist”, is equally surprising. Wyclif, who died in 1384, was unique among his fourteenth-century contemporaries, and stood in stark contrast to the philosophical and theological traditions he inherited. He was the first to promote pacifism since early Christian thinkers, such as Tertullian and Origen. For much of the Middle Ages, ‘just war’ theory was dominant. This was based on the idea that war could be justified if it was based on three pillars: just cause, proper authority and correct intention. Wyclif completely dismantled this theory throughout his writing, and advocated a theory of pacifism based on a blanket condemnation of all violence, including self-defence. Thus, reflecting the pelican on the cover of the book, a good Christian ought to sacrifice oneself and suffer, in imitation of Christ, for the sake of others.

Wyclif’s political ideas, which Rory terms “Christian anarchy”, were every bit as radical. Based on the New Testament, these ideas focused on the essential sinfulness of human government, law and society. Instead, an evangelical state, in which all private property would be held in common, was viewed by Wyclif to be the ideal. Here, traditional secular government would be unnecessary: there would be no sin, so no need to punish crimes; no property, so no need for laws protecting property; and because everything would be communally owned, there would be no need for territorial defences.

The presence of this ideology in Wyclif’s writing has, until now, remained unrecognised. There are a number of reasons for this. Wyclif’s views on the Eucharist, papal authority, the translation of scripture and religious reform have received significantly more attention. In addition, previous scholars have focused primarily on a set of English sermons which, thanks to the work of Prof. Anne Hudson, can no longer be confidently attributed to Wyclif. Rory focuses his research on Wyclif’s lengthier, more complex, and indeed more marginalised Latin writings: his theological, philosophical, political tracts and, importantly, his sermons.

It was in these works, in his MA thesis, that Rory began to notice Wyclif’s unusual views on war. The thesis focused on criticisms of war during the Hundred Years War, and looked at the works of a number of writers, including John Gower and Chaucer. Rory’s supervisor, Prof. David D’Avray, suggested that he look at Wyclif, and quickly Rory saw there was more work to do. It was during his D.Phil that the full extent of Wyclif’s pacifism was explored. Originally the doctorate, completed at Oxford, was to focus on Wyclif’s angelology and the war in heaven, but soon it became apparent that Wyclif’s criticisms of war were both more far reaching and radical than Rory had initially realised. Thus, this topic soon became the focus of the doctoral thesis and, ultimately, the monograph, John Wyclif on War and Peace.

So where does this lead? Rory highlights a numberof remarkable similarities between Wyclif’s ideas and those circulating in Bohemia in Hussite writings of the fifteenth century, and sees this as a fruitful direction for further research. One branch of the Hussite movement – the Taborites – did not oppose violence, and indeed made use of it enthusiastically. However, other Hussite theologians, such as Petr Chelčický, remained peaceful and employed pacifist ideals which were strikingly similar to those put forth by Wyclif. Whilst Wyclif may have stood alone in fourteenth-century England, it is possible that further research will reveal other medieval and early modern pacifists, and see his ideas making an impact beyond the spheres of lollardy and Hussism.

Publication Spotlight: The Apocalypse in the Early Middle Ages

Regular features of the School of History blog are the two ‘Spotlight’ series, which focus on members of staff or postgraduate students. In these posts the research and teaching interests, as well as pursuits beyond academia, of both groups are discussed. In the coming weeks, we will be featuring a number of posts which will shine a spotlight on the varied and fascinating monographs and edited volumes recently published by members of the School of History. To kick this off, Dr James Palmer discusses the process of writing The Apocalypse in the Early Middle Ages.

I wrote The Apocalypse in the Early Middle Ages for a good reason: it was a book I wanted to read, and yet it did not exist.

My interest in the apocalyptic began when I was still teaching at the University of Leicester back in 2006. I had the fanciful idea of writing a cultural history of time in the early Middle Ages, examining the intersections of historiography, theology and ‘computus’ (the science behind Easter calculations). That unwritten study lurks in the background of The Apocalypse and a number of accompanying essays. It meant that my interest in the apocalyptic was not grounded in the fascination with messianic movements and irrationality which defines many other apocalypse scholars.

The ‘apocalypse’ I see in the early Middle Ages is really a discourse about change and reform. The Bible is pretty clear that the end will come, and the timing is left deliberately vague. What do you do about that? Late twentieth-century secularist fashions would encourage us to imagine that no one thought about it because it was ‘irrational’ to believe the world might end. Modern debate about the apocalyptic has often been surprisingly tetchy and defined by scholars arguing either that it was very important everywhere or not important ever. You of course have to take a position somewhere in the middle. Some people thought it was important; some people didn’t. Lots of people thought it was important some of the time but had a lot going on in their lives. What is inescapable is that the apocalyptic frames language and discourse in a significant number of sources, and it is mostly to do with stimulating and directing change urgently. The end might be coming: we’d better put the world right.

This does not lead us to looking at crazy people in the Dark Ages. What we find are strategies for understanding a complex and unsettled world – strategies which often seem familiar to us. The book starts with the example of an earthquake which affected Constantinople in 557. Many people did not know what had happened (the author of our principal source sneered, being a clever lawyer type). Self-proclaimed experts announced that the end was coming. Some people were scared. Some people gave money to the church, while others vowed to live purer lives and even began to do so. Then the crisis passed and everything went back to normal. How familiar does that sound?

Part of the fun was, unsurprisingly, the quest for new material. A good critical synthesis of existing scholarship could happily have filled the gap the book was intended to fill. Yet even a cursory examination of the manuscript traditions of key texts – with time spent in manuscript reading rooms in London, Paris and Berlin – showed that allegedly ‘unorthodox’ material circulated more widely than many people had thought. That needed explaining. There were also gems to uncover, such as an Irish treatise on time and apocalypse, buried unstudied in two manuscripts in Florence. Quickly, the book became both research monograph and a guide to the subject more generally.

Few projects are ever really completed, and I hope that the publication of The Apocalypse stimulates wider debate about the role of the apocalyptic – and belief more generally – in early medieval society. On-going collaborations are important here, particularly with Matt Gabriele at Virginia Tech, who is visiting the department in March 2015. Together we have co-ordinated a number of sessions on ‘Apocalypse, Prophecy and Reform’ for this year’s International Medieval Congress at Leeds, working with Felicitas Schmieder from the FernUni in Germany. Further projects will follow. In many ways, the book stands at the middle of a process, rather than at the end.

Postgraduate Spotlight: John Condren

John’s addiction to history began around the age of six, when he disappeared while on a family visit to his aunt’s house and was eventually discovered three hours later, blissfully engrossed in Treasure Island under the dining-room table. Shortly afterwards, he struggled to identify his favourite work of historical fiction from among Kidnapped, Lorna Doone, The Last of the Mohicans, The Three Musketeers, and Liam O’Flaherty’s little-known magnum opus, Famine. John’s somewhat precocious reading career ended abruptly when he began an undergraduate degree in law (2005-09) at the University of Limerick, but he quickly decided that the soul-sapping ennui of a legal career was not for him. The inspired choices of history and French as minor subjects kept him sane throughout these four years.

Happier times ensued when John took the sound advice of his Early Modern History tutor at Limerick, St Andrews graduate Dr Alistair Malcolm. He came to the School of History at St Andrews in September 2009, enrolling upon the MLitt in Reformation Studies (2009-10). He was immediately struck by the generosity and supportiveness of staff and fellow students, and the beauty of the town and its environs.

Sala dello Specchio, Palazzo Gonzaga, Mantua

Sala dello Specchio, Palazzo Gonzaga, Mantua

After a year away, to recharge his batteries and to begin learning Italian, he returned in 2011 to commence a PhD under the supervision of Dr Guy Rowlands. John’s research examines the diplomatic, political, and military connections between Louis XIV’s France and the small states of northern Italy, in a period of general peace on the peninsula, 1659 to 1689. This was a state of affairs which Louis ostensibly wished to preserve, but which, in reality, he, his ministers and diplomats managed to undermine. John spent his second year of doctoral study (2012-13) researching in French and Italian archives, enjoying himself immensely outwith the hours of 8am to 6pm every working day, when he was busily reading and photographing stacks of documents for his thesis. During that year, he also had an attachment to the Centre Roland Mousnier at Paris-Sorbonne IV, and filled an ERASMUS exchange from St Andrews to the EUI in Florence in the spring of 2013. He would strongly advise and encourage newer PhD students to avail themselves of this wonderful exchange opportunity, if they possibly can. John also tutored on the sub-honours module MO1007, The Early Modern Western World, in the first semester of his third year (2013-14) and again in the first semester of fourth year.

John’s immaculate sense of timing led him into an Italian archive for the very first time during the same ten days in May 2012 when not one, but two dreadful earthquakes tore through Emilia-Romagna. John describes waking up in his hotel room in Modena at 4am during the first quake as the most terrifying experience of his life, apart from a bungee-jump in Queenstown, New Zealand, when aged 19. The experience fortunately did not deter him from researching in Italy, however.

Letter from the Modenese envoy in Paris, Gaspare Rizzini, on 10 March 1683

Letter from the Modenese envoy in Paris, Gaspare Rizzini, on 10 March 1683

Outside academia, John enjoys playing touch rugby with the St Andrews university club, being unfortunately far too short and slight of build to play proper rugby union. He notes ruefully that March is his most professionally unproductive month of the year, when, like any self-respecting Irishman, he is distracted by the Six Nations (rugby) and the Cheltenham Festival (horse-racing). He is, to his supervisor’s surprise, not a gambler. Indeed, John rather piously wishes that an important figure in his thesis, Ferdinando Carlo Gonzaga (duke of Mantua from 1665 to 1707), could have exercised the same personal restraint, for the good of his state, his soul, and his pocket. John himself has been a keen equestrian in the past, joining his brother and sister in competing in shows, hunter trials, and one-day-events until his mid-teens. He now greatly prefers to occupy a watching brief, having far more of a care for his neck than he had in his rash youth. John can usually be found in the postgraduate office in the basement of St Katharine’s Lodge (the so-called “Black Hole of Calcutta”). If not there, he will probably be ambling along West Sands, or downing an espresso in the Cottage Kitchen café on many a long winter afternoon, and some summer ones, too.

Spotlight on Guy Rowlands

Guy RowlandsGuy Rowlands came to academia rather unexpectedly. In his youth he had been expecting to become an officer in the British army, but by the end of his undergraduate career he was beginning to realise he was more interested in studying armies than serving in them, so he didn’t last more than a few days at Sandhurst. He then worked for a year in Westminster, where he spent some of the time as Defence and Northern Ireland desk officer of the Conservative Research Department, while during the 1992 general election campaign he was by far the most junior member of a small team (including one David Cameron and Andrew Lansley) briefing and sorting press releases for the prime minister John Major and various cabinet ministers. Later that year he returned to Oxford, decidedly jaded by politics, to study for a DPhil on Louis XIV’s France under David Parrott. Just when he thought he’d wriggled out of spending his life in a barracks, he found himself in the French war archives at the military base of Vincennes just to the east of Paris, carrying out research on the French army in the second half of the seventeenth century, and he has returned to this magnificent château in most years since his postgraduate days to unearth more material on the war efforts of the principal superpower of 17th and 18th century Europe. Out of this work came his first book, The Dynastic State and the Army under Louis XIV. Royal Service and Private Interest, 1661-1701 (Cambridge University Press, 2002), which was co-winner of the Royal Historical Society’s Gladstone Prize in 2003. Dynastic State and the Army under Louis XIVIn the meantime Guy had held a junior lectureship and then a British Academy Postdoctoral Fellowship at Exeter College, Oxford between 1995 and 2000, before migrating to Cambridge, where he was a college and faculty lecturer in early modern history. One of the few men on the staff of Newnham College, he was lucky enough to meet there a colleague who subsequently became his wife, Bridget Heal, who has herself been in the St Andrews School of History since 2002. They now have a seven-year-old son, Thomas, who seems worryingly enthusiastic about history (mainly the ancient sort)….

The Financial Decline of a Great PowerAfter three years at Cambridge, Guy moved north to a job at Durham before joining Bridget in St Andrews in 2005. He quickly established and entrenched the Centre for French History and Culture, setting up its seminar series and founding its “midigraph” series of Open Access books, known as “St Andrews Studies in French History and Culture”, which was launched in 2010. By this time the western world had suffered financial meltdown, but it is an ill wind that blows nobody any good. After years of researching on French power – with a year working on 17th-18th century Germany as an Alexander von Humboldt Fellow at Freiburg in 2007-08 – Guy’s next project had some modern resonance: he launched into another book on the collapse of French finances during the final two decades of Louis XIV’s reign, and received a British Academy Senior Research Fellowship in 2010-11 to produce it. Like Voltaire two-and-a half centuries earlier he spent that year writing about Louis XIV’s France in Berlin, attached to the Centre Marc Bloch, but unlike Voltaire he did not eventually flee the country pursued by the German secret service. This book was published as The Financial Decline of a Great Power. War, Influence, and Money in Louis XIV’s France (Oxford University Press, 2012). Following this up, in November 2014 Guy published his third book, entitled Dangerous and Dishonest Men: the International Bankers of Louis XIV’s France (Palgrave, 2014), in Palgrave’s new “Studies in the History of Finance” series. In both these recent books Guy has aimed to shine a light on disasters in financial history in as accessible a way as possible, and to reveal the deeper complexities of what is considered – even by many professional historians – to be a daunting field. Dangerous and Dishonest MenIndeed, preparing these two books has been the most eye-watering work Guy has ever done, but he feels that he’s now broken through this particular pain barrier.

Being of a masochistic tendency intellectually, Guy is now involved with several international groups of historians working on the state and finance, notably the Contractor State Group and the Money, Power and Print association, while he is planning a bid to funding councils for a major project, with postdoctoral researchers, on the subject of the emerging western European state and the civilian contractors who serviced and supplied its armed forces in the period 1660-1730. In recent decades the defence establishments of the NATO powers have employed civilian contractors on a very large scale once again, including to run recruitment, but there seems to be a real lack of appreciation that so many of these arrangements have been tried before, and particularly so once the state started to emerge in a recognisably modern form from the mid-seventeenth century. Guy therefore hopes to engage with living people, corporations, think-tanks and ministries which have an interest in acquiring a stronger historical understanding of the origins of the modern state’s engagement with civilian contractors. Related to this he is the School of History’s lead figure in working with the School of International Relations to create a new Institute for the Study of War and Strategy, to be launched in 2015. But Guy remains committed to his own chosen field, France in her age of greatness, and he is particularly looking forward to 2015, the 300th anniversary of the death of Louis XIV. He will be enjoying at least one junket to Paris for a conference on the Sun King in the Foreign Affairs Ministry, while he and Julia Prest (Department of French) will be co-editing a volume with the provocative title “The Third Reign of Louis XIV”, to be published in 2016/17. Guy has always been a sun lover since childhood holidays in Mallorca, and he hopes to continue to bask in the Sun King’s rays for some time to come.

Spotlight on Michael Brown

Michael BrownBorn and raised as a man of Kent but with mixed Scottish and New Zealand parentage, Michael Brown first came to the University of St Andrews as an undergraduate in 1983.  After taking his MA (1987) and PhD (1991) at this hallowed institution he was released into the community and embarked upon a tour of the British Isles.  He held posts at the University of Aberystwyth (1993), Strathclyde (1994), University College Dublin (1995) and Aberdeen University (1996) moving on before he could do too much damage.  Whilst employed by Aberdeen, Michael resided in Cork, which is perhaps the longest possible academic commute in these islands.  He returned to St Andrews in 1997 as a lecturer in Scottish History, was made reader in 2004 and professor in 2014.

Michael’s research interests reflect the itinerant nature of his career path.  After his PhD on crown-magnate relations in the personal reign of James I of Scotland (1424-1437), which he turned into a political biography of the same pivotal, if unpleasant, ruler, James I, published in 1994. Michael next wrote a study of The Black Douglases: War and Lordship in Scotland 1306-1455 in 1998.  He then published The Wars of Scotland 1214-1371, volume four of the New Edinburgh History of Scotland in 2004.  His recent publications have encompassed a wider geographical perspective.  His book, Bannockburn: The Scottish Wars and the British Isles (2008) sought to demonstrate that the battle was an event of significance well beyond Scotland.  This work linked in with interests which had begun when Michael worked at Aberystwyth on fourteenth-century Wales and on his awareness of Ireland as a distinct but related model for comparison with late medieval Scotland which developed from his spell living and teaching in the Irish Republic.  Ultimately these strands came together in his recent book, Disunited Kingdoms: Peoples and Politics in the British Isles 1280-1460 (2013).  This is a study of the way in which trends towards the creation of a single political hierarchy in the isles were reversed in the later middle ages and the distinct character of the four lands was entrenched in this period.  After the activities of June, he is currently Bannockburned out.

Michael’s teaching reflects this interest in late Medieval Scotland and the British Isles.  His module The Castle in Medieval Scotland 1100-1550 (ME3142) has long been popular, particularly for its away day which ploughs across central Scotland in search of majestic (and not so majestic) sites.  He also teaches Age of Conquest: Edward I, Scotland and Wales (ME3304) and is launching a new module Kings and Rebels: Realms and Borderlands in the British Isles 1360-1420 (ME3312) which aims to bring out the contrast between arty kings and hairy wild men in far-flung parts of the isles.  Michael is currently part of the Medieval St Andrews project which is creating an app which will allow visitors to navigate and obtain information the medieval sites of the city.  Michael’s involvement in this is a matter of hilarity to those who know his inability to deal with anything more advanced than a tin opener and his role is solely on the information side of the project.

Michael lives in rural Fife with his wife, Margaret Connolly, who teaches in English and History, and their two children.  His hobbies include looking for his errant border terrier, Archie, and driving his children around.