As medievalists and scholars who spend our days reading, researching, and teaching the Middle Ages, it is easy to take for granted the vibrancy, intrigue, and importance of the period. But how can we help audiences outside the academy connect to people and cultures so distant from themselves? My own work offers me a readymade solution: animals. For several years, including in my current position as the Public Humanities Postdoctoral Fellow at Notre Dame’s Medieval Institute, I have had the privilege of speaking to many different groups of children and adults across multiple countries about the Middle Ages and its animals. It is always such a great joy to introduce them to the weird and wonderful world of medieval animal riddles and poetry, facts from bestiaries and other encyclopedias, and of course manuscript illuminations.
I usually start these talks with a series of strange animal illustrations from medieval manuscripts, asking the audience simply to guess what the animals are. A recent event for kids at the St Joe County Public Library thus began with these four pictures and more:
Then comes the reveal that all of the wildly different illustrations are meant to be the same animal: a crocodile. What follows are usually cries of incredulity and laughter over how inaccurate all the images are. They’re not all terrible, of course, and I do make it clear that I choose the silliest ones available.
The significant question, then, is why there are so many bad medieval animals out there. With animals like crocodiles, one straightforward answer is that the illustrators had never seen the creatures in real life, but were drawing them based on writings from other parts of the globe. This becomes a good opportunity to talk about the interconnectedness of the medieval world — an animal from the Nile gets written about by a bishop in Seville, whose words inspire a drawing in Peterborough. This can also lead to conversations about the nature of the writers and illustrators themselves, often monks and other holy men and women who are testament to the importance of medieval religious houses as centers of science and learning, thus challenging a popularly held stereotype about the “Dark Ages”.
With children (and their grown ups), there’s a silly drawing game I like to play to put them in the shoes of these medieval illustrators — how good can they be at drawing an animal they have never seen before? This can be done by making up an entirely new beast, but I prefer to defamiliarize an animal that the children already know, asking them to draw it one feature at a time, as with this example with information drawn from medieval accounts:
The animal is reddish in colour.
It has four feet and legs like those of a bull or a deer.
Its body is short at the back and tall at the front so it looks like it is always sitting down.
It has a long neck like a horse.
It has a head like a camel.
It is covered in white spots like a leopard.
By the time the kids figure out that they are drawing a giraffe, the results are usually already hilariously wonky, not far from the illustrations they were laughing at a few minutes ago!
Left: Activity sheets from the St Joe County Public Library event. Right: Manuscript illumination from British Library, Additional MS 11390, fol. 22v.
When giving these talks in the UK, often to school groups, I would generally begin with a different animal that they would be fairly familiar with, the badger. As with crocodiles, medieval illustrations of badgers could be ridiculously unrecognizable, as evident in the two images below.
Unlike crocodiles and giraffes, however, medieval Europeans should have been more familiar with badgers; literary, archaeological, and place-name evidence suggests that the animal was a common feature of the British landscape. What excuse, then, could medieval illustrators have in this case? In some instances, there was a method to their madness. According to the Third-Family Bestiary in the above Cambridge manuscript, the badger is called melo in Latin either because of its fondness for honey (mel) or because it is rotundissimo like a melon (melo). It’s safe to say that this particular illustrator was inspired by the notion of roundness.
The Cambridge illustration also to me recalls Thomas of Cantimpré, the thirteenth-century Flemish Dominican friar and preacher who in his natural encyclopedia, De natura rerum, wrote that the fatness of a badger increases when the moon waxes and diminishes when it wanes. As nocturnal animals, some badger behaviours (notably their mating patterns) are thought to be influenced by lunar cycles. Lunar influence on its rotundity may be more dubious, but did have significant practical implications. Thomas later stated that badger fat is a useful cure for fevers, which means that it was important to know when the animal would be at its fattest and most medicinally useful, and illustrations are a good way to get that lesson across. These may not be the most accurate illustrations, but they are undoubtedly memorable, which makes them extremely effective teaching and memorization tools.
This example thus becomes a good way to demonstrate to audiences beyond the academy that the so-called “Dark Ages” were really a time of curiosity, observation, experimentation, and innovation, when science and medicine were given great importance and there was a deep investment in understanding the world around us. Medieval animal texts are a testament to a love for learning and science and stories, and therefore a great way to help the public, children and adults alike, to connect with the Middle Ages.
Of course, it’s also very possible that many of these illustrators were simply bad at drawing animals and decided to lean into the absurdity of their creations. On this, I am sure we can all relate.
Ashley Castelino, DPhil Public Humanities Postdoctoral Fellow Medieval Institute University of Notre Dame
Since relocating from England and returning to my hometown in Colorado somewhat unexpectedly, I’ve been spending a lot of time soaking up the sunshine by the Arkansas river, and when a bighorn sheep approached the bank to drink the other day, it was not only a sure sign of spring but also a reminder of how medieval symbolism and modern day animals create connections across time and space, even entire continents.
Rocky Mountain bighorn sheep, one of seven subspecies native to North America, occupy mountainous areas in the United States and Canada. They are named for the male’s large, curved horns, a pair of which can weigh up to 30 pounds – the equivalent of the weight of all the bones in the male’s body. They are powerful, steadfast creatures with males weighing upward of 500 pounds.
Male bighorn sheet. Photo courtesy of The National Wildlife Federation Blog.
During rutting season, which runs from October to January, rams battle for dominance and breeding rights with ewes. After descending from steep, treacherous terrain to lower territory, males can be observed rearing and smashing their horns together in a violent collision, producing sounds that can be heard up to 40 miles away.
Indeed, we are in the season of the Ram, just as the Western medieval world would have been at this time of year. The sun entered the constellation Aries, the ram, on March 20th in line with the spring, or vernal, equinox in the northern hemisphere and will remain in this astrological sign until approximately the same date in April before transitioning into Taurus, the bull.
The spring equinox marks the moment the sun crosses the celestial equator, bringing nearly equal day and night lengths and signifying the start of spring. When the sun passes through Aries, it also marks the astrological new year. As the first sign of the zodiac, Aries season symbolizes a reset after a long winter and a sense of reemergence, both in modern and medieval times.
In the medieval world, the season was perfect for pilgrimage. The characters of Geoffrey Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, of course, begin their journey to Canterbury in mid-April as described by the first several lines of the General Prologue:
Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote The droghte of March hath perced to the roote, And bathed every veyne in swich licour Of which vertu engendred is the flour; Whan Zephirus eek with his sweete breeth Inspired hath in every holt and heeth The tendre croppes, an the yonge sonne Hath in the Ram his half cours yronne… (Chaucer 1-8).
When April with its sweet-smelling showers Has pierced the drought of March to the root, And bathed every vein (of the plants) in such liquid By which power the flower is created; When the West Wind also with its sweet breath, In every wood and field has breathed life into The tender new leaves, and the young sun Has run half its course in Aries… (Translation from Harvard’s Geoffrey Chaucer Website)
Sheep have maintained a strong presence in the English landscape since their domestication during the Neolithic era. Although they were not initially valued as highly as other livestock, they were integral in the early medieval period as providers of milk, wool, and manure. Their bodies were also harvested for meat, skin, fat, bones, and horns. They were hardy animals, able to thrive on rough grazing and survive during harsh winters.
They were also used for ecclesiastical purposes. The best vellum was produced from either calf or lamb skin, and regular parchment was procured from the skin of sheep and goats. Additionally, rams were some of the first animals to be sacrificed on altars in the ancient world. Isidore of Seville, in his 7th-century Etymologies, writes, “The ram [aries] is either named after the word aris, that is, after ‘Mars’ whence we call the males in a flock ‘males’ [mas, maris] – or because this animal was the first to be sacrificed on altars [ara, aris] by pagans.”
Further to the etymological origins of the word, the Oxford English Dictionary defines a “ram” simply as an adult male sheep, and the word has remained relatively unchanged since it first appearance in English during the Anglo Saxon period, wherein rams appear as sacrifices in Biblical stories, notably that of Abraham, and other Christian contexts.
Abraham’s sacrifice of Isaac with ram behind. Morgan Library & Museum, Bible historiale MS M.322 I, fol. 032r.
The term ram, however, also appeared in the context of battle, describing both a weapon of war (later renamed the “battering ram”) and the action of ramming as with the weapon itself, just as two rams would collide in conflict. Circa 1470, Thomas Malory in Morte Darthur describes how knights “hurteled togydirs lyke too rammes,” emphasizing the brute strength and blunt impact of the men as their bodies meet in battle.
At this time of year, bighorn sheep are less interested in fighting and more focused on lambing. Females typically give birth between late April and June, during which time they find steep, secluded habitats to protect their newborn babies from predators like mountain lions, coyotes, and bears. Males, during this time, live apart from females, maintaining a hierarchy of dominance amongst themselves. The separation during the springtime season creates an apt juxtaposition of violence and renewal from an ecological perspective, as well as a personal one: the hardest part has passed, and rebirth is possible.
The sighting of a bighorn sheep in early spring — powerfully yet gracefully poised on a rocky mountainside — poignantly connects my Colorado roots with my medieval interests and my previous home in England. It also reminds me that I am on the precipice of a new life after a difficult struggle, that this season symbolizes the beauty of living after a battle.
Emily McLemore, Ph.D. Alumni Contributor, Department of English
When students take a literature class, they often expect the familiar routine: read, analyze, write essays, repeat. But what happens when we shake it up and ask them to step creatively into the voices of the historical figures they’re studying? The results, as I’ve discovered in my teaching, can be transformative.
Benjamin Bloom’s 1956 taxonomy of knowledge, still considered a pedagogical standard (with some revisions), suggests that creating is the highest level of learning. When students can take apart information and put it back together again in a new way, they’ve fully integrated that knowledge into themselves. It’s not just remembering a rote list of facts (level 1) or understanding what those facts means (level 2). It’s not applying facts and ideas to real-world situations (level 3) or analyzing what different components make up ideas (level 4). Nor is it evaluating (level 5) — scrutinizing and making judgments about information and ideas.
Bloom’s revised taxonomy organized as a pyramid of learning levels with explanations of each, created by Tidema. CC-BY-4.0, Wikimedia.
When my students turn in creative assignments, I get to see all the levels at work: have they remembered and understood what’s happening in the readings and the historical facts? Have they caught key themes and concepts? Are they able to answer questions about them? Have they correctly identified the components of the information and concepts? Can they judge what is biased versus factual, what information is reliable and what is suspect? And then finally, when they blend it all together in a creative way, I can see what they’ve truly learned. Any concepts they haven’t quite grasped stand out clearly, and we can work on those further.
While I use creative writing in a literature class—a natural fit—it can be used in any subject, in and outside of the humanities. Have your theology student write a letter to God. Have your aerospace engineering student write a story about designing a turbine blade. Have your computer science student write a haiku in binary code. This approach works for any subject matter.
And let’s not forget the importance of fun! These assignments are often far more engaging for students to write than yet another analytical research paper. And they’re more enjoyable for us professors to read too.
If you’re worried about academic rigor, don’t be: you can ask your students to include a short essay reflecting on the process of creation. What sources and research did they engage with? Why did they choose that particular diction and imagery? What parts of the class readings inspired them? (This reflection process also uses Bloom’s highest level, creating).
Reader Responses: A Simple Starting Point
Let me show you one of the simplest ways I use creative assignments: reader responses in my course “Witches, Warriors, and Wonder Women: Women, Power, and Writing in History.” It’s a second-year course that meets both Fine Arts and Literature and Writing Intensive curriculum requirements.
I present the reader responses and creative option in my syllabus this way:
Written reader responses, 15%. Let’s dive into some reader responses! You’ll need to submit 10 of these total (no more than one per module). Each response should be about one double-spaced page. Be sure to turn it in before we discuss that person in class (for example, bring your Joan of Arc response on a day we talk about her). Graded ✓+ (3 points), ✓ (2 points), ✓- (1 point), or 0 points for not turned in.
(a) Feeling creative? You can mix it up! For up to 5 of your responses, write something in the voice of the historical figure we’re studying (like Boudica or Joan of Arc). Just make sure it shows you’ve really connected with the texts.
(b) Prefer prose? Submit 5 or more responses that explore how the historical figure and the texts about her make you think about women, power, and writing. Don’t forget to back up your thoughts with quotes (include page numbers too!).
A surprising number of students choose Option A pretty frequently! (This particular class is in Medieval Studies, cross-listed with English, History, and Gender Studies. It often attracts the lit kids and poets so I know I’m going to get some fantastic creative writing—but students in all majors turn in remarkable work!
Three of my students volunteered to let me publish their writing here.
Boudica: Celtic Warrior Queen
By Paul Walter—Boudica statue, Westminster, London, England. CC BY 2.0, Wikimedia
The first piece was written by civil engineering student Kate Ancona in the voice of Boudica, Celtic warrior-queen. We had read Tacitus’s account of Boudica and the uprising she led in about 61 A.D. against the Romans occupying Britain; we had also read William Cowper’s “Boadicea, An Ode” (1782). Kate captured beautiful details from Tacitus (like her flaming hair ) and drew inspiration from Cowper’s metrics. She meditates on Boudica’s iron strength, her fierce warriorhood, her quest for revenge against the violence done to her and her daughters and to her Iceni people.
Queen of the Rebellion
By: Boudica
I stood tall against the storm, Iron in my veins, a mother’s scorn, For daughters shamed and lands defiled, I raised my sword, fierce and wild.
They came with chains, with fire and lies, But I, Boudica, would not be disguised, By their power, by their might, I called my people to the fight.
We lit the night with Roman fear, For every tear, for every year, I became the roar of ancient land, A queen who’d die, but never stand.
In history’s grip, I’ll hold my name, A woman’s strength, forever flame, Beneath the earth, my heart may rest, But my spirit rides, the warrior’s quest.
This second piece was written by psychology student Anastasia Tejeda about a lesser-known aristocratic British woman who perished in the English Civil War while defending her family home. Notice how Anastasia approached the assignment thoughtfully, presenting contextual details about Lady Brilliana and assembling many pieces of information to imagine the rallying speech she might have given before battle. We have diary entries from Lady Brilliana but no account from her during her final siege. We rely instead on the account of an observer, Captain Davies. Anastasia masterfully captures the rallying rhetoric of the battlefield, drawing on Queen Elizabeth’s Speech to the Troops at Tilbury, which we’d read shortly before Lady Brilliana.
Anastasia’s Introduction
Like Joan of Arc and Queen Elizabeth I before her, Lady Brilliana Harley held military command and power during a time of war. Defender of her family’s castle in her husband’s absence during the English Civil War, she endured and emerged victorious as a Parliamentarian in a seven-week-long siege of the estate. Captain Priamus Davies, in his account of the siege, writes of the “honorable and gallant” Lady Harley and her confident, wise, and authoritative leadership (Hudson, The Grand Quarrel, 85). On August 22, 1643, the besieged received intelligence of the “low condition the Parliament party [was in] throughout the kingdom,” encouraging Harley to surrender (Hudson, 88). Yet far from despairing, Davies writes that “the noble lady protested that she would rather choose an honourable death, for she was confident that God would own His cause both in the public and private. We needed no better an encouragement” (Hudson, 89). This is the encouragement I imagine Harley would have given her troops on that night:
The Brampton Bryan Castle Address
My people, we have defended our home well thus far, and by the grace and care of God have proven ourselves brave and steadfast. I pledge to you, my loyal household, that as God has entrusted this estate to me to protect and preserve, He shall not abandon us now. So long as we stand here alive, so too is our cause alive, whatever news we hear from the outside. I urge you to remain firm and fight on against those who dare to make war against God and the sacred institution of Parliament. I will not abandon our commission for reason of fear. We shall fight, and fight nobly, certain of our favor with the Almighty, for should we perish, we shall perish nobly as well, preferring death to cowardice. I am confident in our imminent victory, and the glory and courage with which we will continue to fight until it is ours.
Anastastia’s Reflection on Creative Assignments
In composing a speech in the voice of Lady Harley, I was able to step inside her world, catching a glimpse of her convictions, passions, desires, and dreams, or what they might have been. When writing in prose on a historical figure, I am an outsider, evaluating and interpreting their life, drawing comparisons and conclusions about them. Speaking from the perspective of Lady Harley, I began to ask questions I never had before. What was she feeling at that moment? What were the words she would have said? Why would she choose these words and not others? I stepped into the voice of Lady Harley and learned who she was, not simply what she did.
Joan of Arc
Historiated initial depicting Joan of Arc. Public Domain, Wikimedia.
The third piece was written by Megan Ferrello, a history student, about Joan of Arc. Notice how Megan selected key details from Joan’s trials and stories written about her to get into Joan’s inner world. The only compositions we have directly from Joan—and even these are not certain—are a few letters written from the battlefield to rulers and to French cities. Megan pulled together details from various sources written about Joan, including her trial testimony, to weave a beautiful picture. Megan’s deliberate punctuation choices also reveal much about how she imagines Joan’s voice.
Joan of Arc: Reader Response—Poem
I led men into combat And it’s true I dressed as them But I battled under God’s order So why see me and condemn?
I have been beaten and battered and bruised But those were physical attacks I fear this quarrel you’ve brought me to Is something that from which I cannot come back
My only desire was to serve Him And perhaps in the end I did Yet the words of earthly men scream louder My actions they forbid
Like my holy Mother I remain untouched Though fire and flame consume me My purity I still clutch
I cry for Michael, for Catherine, for Margaret For they have never led me wrong I remain steadfast in my devotion So, to Heaven’s arms I now belong
They labeled me a heretic and an idolater But history will know the truth Of a girl who fought for God and Country Who was taken down in her youth
While my end was unjust, you must remember How the story did actually end Not of the flames, and the tears, and the dread But of the maiden who refused to bend
Megan’s Reflection on Creative Assignments
I really enjoyed having the creative options for reader responses, as I loved to write poetry when I was young, and these assignments have gotten me back into it! It even enabled me to choose creative alternatives in other classes, which is unusual for me, since the feedback I received from completing poems in Witches, Warriors, and Wonder Women helped me grow in my confidence! I loved putting myself in the mind of the historical woman, and I think it allowed me to read the primary sources at a deeper level.
The Impact: What Creative Writing Reveals
See what happens when students move beyond traditional analysis into creativity? Each student discovered something different through the creative process—not just about their historical subjects, but about their own capacity for empathy, research, and synthesis. They weren’t just analyzing these women’s experiences; they were wrestling with the same questions of power, identity, and purpose that their subjects faced.
Creative writing assignments don’t replace rigorous analysis; they enhance it. When students create an imagined narrative or commentary, they engage more deeply with primary sources, consider multiple perspectives, and grapple with ambiguity in ways that traditional essays sometimes miss. They move from studying history to experiencing it, from analyzing literature to creating it.
Whatever you teach, consider how creative assignments might transform your students’ relationship with your subject matter. The results might surprise you—and them.
Megan J. Hall, Ph.D. Associate Director Medieval Institute University of Notre Dame
