Daemonologie, Duplicity and Doubt: 17th Century Witchcraft Exposed

Although there is a popular perception when it comes to witchcraft in the first half of the 17th century in England, that credulity ran higher than rationality, the evidence suggests otherwise.

There were undoubtedly times that belief was high, especially in the trauma of civil war when Matthew Hopkins, the infamous witchfinder general was doing his work. The power that such belief in witchcraft held over people’s minds and the terrible consequences of that belief are explored in The Mercenary’s Blade. But, whilst there were those then, as now, willing to believe in such things, there were many who were less inclined to do so. 

In 1597 King James VI of Scotland decided to publish his book Daemonologie in which two characters, Philomathes and Epistemon, argue over whether or not witches even exist. The sceptical Philomathes is eventually persuaded by Epistemon that ‘that witchcraft, and Witches haue bene, and are, the former part is clearelie proved by the Scriptures, and the last by dailie experience and confessions.’ Epistemon sets out his case, calling upon Biblical authority and examples from history, touching upon tales of ‘Pharie’ and which aspects of astrology are legal and which are not.

Aside from offering an intriguing glimpse into the mindset of King James, who of course became King of England a few years later, it is a reminder of the power belief in witches could have throughout society. And a huge red flag regarding the assumption of the universality of such belief as well.

James says in his preface that he wrote the book to ‘to resolue the doubting harts of many’ and Philomathes says that the existence of witches and witchcraft is something: ‘but thereof the Doctours doubtes’.

In other words, far from there being a strong belief throughout Scottish society that these things were true, a major reason James felt the need to write his book was that the level of scepticism about the existence of witches and witchcraft was held by the ‘harts of many’ to be very much in ‘doubtes’.

In Scotland, James oversaw an increase in the persecution of people, usually women, for witchcraft. But James himself, whilst adamant that witches did exist, was not blind to the malicious use of accusations. In the later years of his reign, he became more aligned perhaps with Philomathes, who, whilst not doubting the existence of the devil and sorcery, was less sure that there was so much truth in every individual accusation of witchcraft.

The case of William Perry of Bilston, is a good example.

We know of his case from a published pamphlet of anti-Catholic rhetoric published in 1622. Following an exposition upon how deceptive Catholic Priests can be, there is a brief account that the author, Richard Baddeley, attributes to a Mr Wheeler, which is presented as a confession made by a Catholic priest. This is followed by an account that is said to have been taken from court hearings.

The story begins with thirteen-year-old William Perry suffering convulsions and blaming a woman for his attacks. When she was brought into his presence he started vomiting straw, pins and rags which led to her being arrested and condemned as a witch. However even with Ms Clarke safely behind bars and awaiting execution, young William showed no sign of any improvement and people would visit his troubled parents to witness his attacks and leave gifts for them. Since his parents were people of no great means, his father is described as being a husbandman, so probably a farm labourer, such gifts were much appreciated.

Local clergymen tried to calm him by reading from the Bible and whenever the first verse of John was read to him he would go into contortions and start vomiting odd items.

By now the case had been brought to the attention of the local bishop of Lichfield and Coventry, who the pamphlet refers to as Thomas L. That would have been Bishop Thomas Morton, who would go on to become Bishop of Durham.

Thomas Morton (1564-1659), Bishop of Lichfield and Coventry (1619–1632), and later Bishop of Durham (1632 – 1646) Attributed to Simon Luttichuys , Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

The bishop read the Bible to the boy in Greek. This time there was no reaction to the verse, which convinced the bishop that William was not genuinely possessed. A demon, the bishop reasoned, would know Greek.

Torture failed to get the boy to confess, so he took William to his castle and had him watched. But the symptoms of possession continued, including William’s urine being black, Eventually, believing himself unobserved, the boy was seen to take an inkhorn from beneath his mattress and pour ink into his chamberpot. Challenged with this, William finally confessed not only to having been a fraud, but to having been persuaded into it and taught the necessary tricks by a Jesuit priest.

The tale has a happy ending with William Perry asking forgiveness when brought to trial at the assizes.

…the Boy craued pardon first of Almighty God, then desired the Woman there also present, to forgiue him; and lastly, requested the whole Countrey, whom hee had so notoriously and wickedly scandalized, to admit of that his so hearty Confession, for their satisfaction.

I am amazed at how often this story is quoted, uncritically, as being true when there is, to the best of my knowledge, no other contemporary reference to it anywhere else except in this pamphlet. One could poke many holes in it, not least why William, held in custody and closely observed, would not have been thoroughly searched.

But be it true or merely anti-Catholic propaganda, the story still makes the excellent point that belief in witchcraft cases as often being fraudulent was rife. The very fact that such a story could be used for such a purpose shows people were open to accepting fraudulent witches as possible.

And true or not it would have gathered impetus and been widely believed, adding to the general feeling that not all witchcraft accusations were valid ones.

In 1634 science stepped in.

Back in 1612 witch trials had taken place in Pendle in Lancashire and nine people were hanged as a result. Years later a related trial came to court with seventeen women accused. This time, although they were found guilty, four of them were brought to London with the king’s approval, to be examined by physicians, midwives and surgeons, led by Sir William Harvey the Royal Physician.

After examining the women Harvey declared he and his team could find no evidence of these women being witches and they were pardoned.

After that witchcraft cases were vanishingly rare in England. Until, in a nation ripped apart by the chaos and uncertainty of civil strife, and against a backcloth of war and brutality, Matthew Hopkins began his personal crusade as the self-appointed Witchfinder General. 

Matthew Hopkins, Witch Finder General. From a broadside published by Hopkins before 1650. Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

(The first image is Suspected witches kneeling before King James, a plate from Daemonologie by King James, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons)

The Fighters’ Guild of Merry England

Those who have read The Devil’s Command will already be aware of how Danny Bristow learned his swordsmanship, but the fact there was what amounted to a fighters’ guild in early modern England is not something that is generally known.

A guild of weapon masters is more something you think of when you consider fantasy fiction than real history.

At some point in 1540, we don’t know exactly when because the original documents have been lost, King Henry VIII set one up and gave it powers to root out any unlicensed schools in weapons training, powers which King James I & VI reconfirmed in 1604. 

To be technical it was never a guild, it was a corporation called the Company of Maisters of the Science of Defence. However, in every way that really mattered it operated much as a guild might. It even had its own coat of arms of a downward-pointing silver sword on a red background.

In charge were four grandly named Ancient Masters. Each school was under the control of its own Master, with a Provost or two to assist in the work of education of the scholars. 

Scholars were regular students who paid for their lessons. Most of these had no intention of making it into a career. They might be learning for self-defence, much as today we take up a martial art like karate or kickboxing, or because it was fashionable. In Tudor and early Stuart times being able to use a sword to some degree was a required skill for any man with pretensions to even the slightest social standing.

But for a few who started out as scholars, it was just the first step to their chosen career. Admission to the Maisters wasn’t easy and even wealth couldn’t guarantee advancement (although this did waver as time went on). In order to join the company one first had to earn the status of a Free Scholar. These were part of the company structure and the equivalent of apprentices, rather than regular pay-by-the-lesson students. They were there to train to become weapons masters themselves and perhaps one day hold the coveted rank of Ancient Master. 

To qualify for any advancement within the company from one rank to the next, an individual had to ‘play for the prize’. This was an event which usually took place over two days and the aspirant had to fight against opponents of their own degree. Sometimes this could require over twenty combats. These provings, especially for the higher ranks, would be open to the public and provided both a spectacle for the paying public and effective advertising for the specific Master and his school, as well as for the company as a whole.

Fencing lessons at the Collegium illustre in Tübingen 1606 
Datei:Chr Neyffer L Ditzinger Collegium Illustre Radierung 1606 Inv.1086.jpg. In Wikipedia.

To become a Free Scholar the aspirant had to be able to fight with both longsword and backsword (a backsword was a sword with only one sharp edge). If he was defeated then he would have to continue as a scholar, but if he prevailed he would be on the bottom step of a lifetime career in weapons mastery. 

The title might imply that there was no charge for holding the place of a Free Scholar, but as with any formal apprenticeship, money changed hands between the master and the apprentice or his sponsors (usually his family) to cover the costs of his education. However from then on, unlike regular scholars who were expected to pay a charge for their lessons, the Free Scholars did not. They were instead expected to begin to support the work of their Master in helping to train the regular scholars whilst learning themselves.

Having qualified as a Free Scholar the individual had to wait seven years (the standard amount of time for any apprenticeship) before they could again play for the prize. A would-be provost had to show his proficiency by fighting existing provosts with a two-handed sword, a backsword and a staff. As a Provost, he would then be bound by an oath not to kill any opponent in a training or proving bout unless to avoid bodily harm or death himself. The Provost would be like a journeyman in a trade guild, assisting the work of his master in teaching the scholars and free scholars whilst improving his own techniques. If demand was high enough, permission could be granted for Provosts to establish their own schools whilst still under their Master’s authority.

Detail from ‘Aristocratic students fencing around 1590’
Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

To become a Master, a Provost needed to be able to fight with four different sword types, including the rapier, as well as with a pike, and a dagger. The trial to become a Master would be a major event with paying public attending in large numbers to see someone playing for the prize. They would be held in theatres or in the yards of inns where plays were often put on. 

Once confirmed in his new status a Master was free to set up his own school according to the rules of the company. But these said nothing much about how the school would be run on a day-to-day basis, that and its organisation was left to the Master to decide for himself.

So why did the Maisters of the Science of Defence decline and fade from sight in the first decades of the 17th Century?

As yet historians have no definitive answer. We don’t know when the company formally wound up its affairs or indeed if it ever did so. But it was no longer around as a notable entity by the end of the 1620s.

It has been suggested that the sword-fighting methods the Maisters insisted on teaching were restricted and hidebound. However, that charge doesn’t really stand up to scrutiny. There was no restriction on how a Master might teach in his school, no set syllabus or form. Training in the necessary weapons could be according to the latest styles and would have been updated with each new generation of Masters.

Academie de l’espee (Academy of the Sword) 1628
Girard Thibault, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

In my opinion, two causes seem likely to account for its demise.

Firstly was the fact that Maisters didn’t have the necessary noble patronage. All through their recorded existence even the Ancient Masters were men who would be accounted at best gentlemen and were mostly yeoman. The sons of nobility or wealthy gentry would take private lessons with a Master and have no need to enter the schools in a regular way as students. That meant that the Maisters had little real power backing them up to enforce the exclusive licence they held.

Towards the end of the 16th century, there was a rise in fencing schools run by foreign swordsmen, men like Vincento Saviolo, focusing almost exclusively on the rapier, increasingly in vogue as a gentleman’s weapon of choice. These were usually not under the authority of the Maisters. Without the force majeure of powerful backers in the nobility, the Maisters could do nothing to prevent these fashionable schools from multiplying, especially when it was the nobility who preferred to frequent the trendy new schools.

But human competition was not the only problem the Maisters confronted. They were also suffering increasingly from the unstoppable onset of new technology.

As Danny Bristow says in The Devil’s Command: “A man with less than an hour of training to use one of these can defeat the best swordsman in the world.”

Detail from the cover of The Alchemist’s Plot

(The first image is Le Duel a l’Épée et au Poignard (The Duel with the Sword and Dagger), from Les Caprices Series A, The Florence Set 1617 by Jacques Callot , CC0, via Wikimedia Commons)

The Most Beautiful Swords in the World…

There is something about the schiavona which draws the eye and makes the hand want to reach for it – to slide into that gorgeous basket hilt and lift the sword. It is complex, sturdy and yet delicate in appearance, with its distinctive cat’s head pommel. 

The schiavona is defined by that hilt and never by the blade it is attached to. Indeed it was paired with a great variety of blade types, but most commonly with a double-edged kind, the classic broadsword.

There is no one moment – one sword – that we can point to and say ‘that is the origin of the schiavona’ but it developed in Germany through the late Sixteenth century and the opening years of the Seventeenth. 

So where did the name schiavona come from?

The name is Italian. Well, Venetian to be more precise. It is pronounced ski-ah-voh-na and the plural is, technically, schiavone, but schiavonas is much used today as well. In Italian schiavo means slave. It also once meant Slav (which is also the origin of our own word ‘slave’) because going back in the darkest recesses of history, in early medieval times Slavs were, tragically, the people most enslaved in all Europe.

In the 16th and early 17th century when the sword gained its name, schiavone referred specifically to the Slavic people who lived in Venetian-dominated Dalmatia, which is in modern-day Croatia. There is a famous portrait by Titian called La Schiavona painted around 1510, which shows a noble Dalmatian lady. 

Portrait of a Lady or ‘La Schiavona’
Titian, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

Although it may seem odd to bestow something that has such a classically masculine shape as a sword with a female name, in those European languages where objects have a gender, the word for sword is often a feminine one. In addition, men throughout the ages have referred to their weapons as ‘she’, much as to their ships, planes and other such. And when you consider its grace and elegance, maybe it is not so surprising, then, that this sword of all swords took on a feminine name.

The name soon gained in status and prestige as the Doge’s personal guard was formed from mercenary Schiavoni. They were well-respected warriors, favouring this style of sword, who served the Doge much as the Viking Varangian Guard had once served the Byzantine emperors, as the Janissaries served the Ottoman emperors and the Pontifical Swiss Guard still do serve as a Papal guard. It certainly helps your chances of survival to have men protecting you who are in your pay and dependent upon you personally for advancement, rather than those who have possible family connections to other powerful factions!

Today, Schiavon, Schiavone and other variants are fairly common Italian surnames and there is often debate as to whether this indicates their ancestor was so named as they were a Slav or a slave.

So it was probably the Slavic Schiavoni who gave their Venetian bestowed name to a style of sword hilt that had been developed in Germany.

But what is it that makes a schiavona so unique?

During the sixteenth century, the basket hilt began to evolve in a variety of ways. Some had solid shells, others had bars running from guard to pommel and attached top and bottom. They developed primarily as cavalry weapons. The basket hilt was intended to protect the hand and replace the need for heavy, armoured, gauntlets which were ill-suited to the increasing use of firearms.

Collection of early modern swords (17th/18th centuries) George F. Harding Collection of Arms and Armor
Claire H.CC BY-SA 2.0, via Wikimedia Commons

One design began to stand out as being different and distinctive.

It had a slanted basket design and the protective metalwork became ever more complex. This style had one big advantage. Unlike other basket hilts which stand parallel to the blade and are attached at both the base and pommel of the hilt, the schiavona gracefully swirls aslant to the blade and stands free of the grip, sometimes with a curved quillon or two. This meant there was greater freedom to expand the defensive metalwork of the basket without restricting the movement of the hand within it. 

The cat’s head pommel was the ideal complement to such a design. It didn’t need to be bulky or round as it wasn’t tethering any protective bands. Instead, it provided the perfect opportunity for both adornment and to be something that could deliver a strong knuckle-duster effect if used in a blow.

It is perhaps not surprising that, combining the practical function of a highly effective basket hilt with the elegance, style and beauty of its metalwork, the schiavona became a very popular sword type. Adorned by the wealthy with precious metal and gemstones, it was worn as much for its stunning looks as for its utility. But then soldiers of the time were not restricted by the dull uniform requirements of today and were keen on display.

But for anyone who has read Lord’s Legacy, the schiavona will always be inextricably linked with Philip Lord. His sword with its cat’s head pommel is often remarked on. And, of course, the nom-de-guerre he has as a mercenary commander is ‘The Schiavono’.

Eleanor Swift-Hook