The technological developments of the twelfth century, alongside renewed scientific progress, continued throughout the following century. Greater survival of government records confirms that what was happening under the Plantagenets was also to be found under French kings and the Angevin rulers who seized the inheritance of the Hohenstaufen emperors in southern Italy. At a geopolitical level, the entire century was marked by the devastating impact across much of eastern Europe, the Middle East and China of Mongol invasions, and how these nomadic warriors made use of the technology of the people who fell beneath their yoke offers insights into levels of knowledge, as well as the value attached to people who could use it. In military technology, the century witnessed the widespread adoption of the counterweight trebuchet, artillery with revolutionary impact that came to dominate sieges across Europe and the Muslim world. Gunpowder was also first identified in Europe later in this century, although it was already well known in China.

In this chapter I argue that alongside increasingly centralised government there were substantial technological advances (and I examine whether they related to scientific knowledge). Consequent upon both trends, there is evidence of rulers paying more attention to having a body of engineering expertise on which they could call. Greater recognition of the value of engineers and master craftsmen, and (arguably) a greater differentiation among engineers, accompanied these processes.

This was a period in which royal governments in Europe began to become more centralised and more reliant on professional bureaucracies to carry out their functions. This was a slow process and not without interruptions, while in the Holy Roman Empire local princes, bishops and increasingly independent cities themselves consolidated a long-existing de facto right to self-government with only token acknowledgement of the place of the emperor. Frederick II (1212–50), the ultimate failure of whose efforts to assert imperial rights in Italy led to the destruction of his dynasty and the long interregnum that significantly undermined the power and prestige of German emperors, was a man whose wide range of interests included science and technology. One aspect of the process of developing a more bureaucratic and less personal government, the origins of which date back a long way, was the increasing use of paid soldiers to replace armed forces dependent only on feudal levies, with even the aristocracy now expecting reimbursement for service.

Extracted below are some of the references in the published volumes of the Pipe Roll Society (1844–2012) to aspects of engineering with military purposes. The Pipe Rolls (PR) – the accounts of the Exchequer preserved in the Public Record Office (now The National Archives) – have been published from that surviving for 1130 (31st year of Henry I), resuming from the first years of Henry II (1154–89) up to 1224 plus that for 1230, with gaps especially between 1131 and 1155, in 1215 (incomplete) and in 1217–18 (civil war). This table lists year, volume of the published series, name and title of recipient, amount paid and what the amount is recorded as being paid for. Under 1210 is added a record from the Liberate Rolls, published in 1844. Publication references are in the bibliography.

The reigns covered are: Henry I (1099–1130) (last year only), Henry II (1154–89), Richard I (1189–99), John (1199–2016), Henry III (2016–72). No Exchequer rolls survive for the reign of Stephen (1130–54).

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH FAMOUSLY described the child as “father of the man,” wishing for his days “to be / Bound each to each by natural piety.” Childhood, with a generous portion of filial piety, set the course for Robert Banks Jenkinson's life and career. Early loss of his mother, the world of his Jenkinson relations, and his father's political connections bent the twig from an early age. His family history highlights aspects of British politics and culture that influenced the future prime minister, along with particular differences that set him apart from contemporaries and colleagues. The Jenkinsons sprang from the provincial gentry that had governed England for a century or more. Charles Jenkinson took a common path for ambitious gentlemen without an estate to inherit by pursuing an administrative career that led him into parliament, while his wife's family used a fortune made in India along with ties forged there as a bridge into English society. Young Robert was raised to enter public life. Connections gave him an advantageous start.

Amelia Jenkinson gave birth to her only child at Hawkesbury in Gloucestershire on June 7, 1770, roughly sixteen months after marrying the rising politician Charles Jenkinson. Childbirth proved too much for the nineteen-year-old mother who died within a few weeks of her son's christening at St. Margaret's Westminster in London on June 29. Shattered by Amelia's death, Charles Jenkinson sought advice from the noted physician Anthony Addington, who also attended the Pitt family and occasionally served as Lord Chatham's spokesman in society, before spending three months in solitude to recover. His mother Amarantha Jenkinson took the baby into her care promising that “should God spare my life the loss of a mother I will endeavor to supply to the best of my power.” She hoped that “time, religion, and good sense” would carry Jenkinson through his loss. The pathos of an infant left without his mother struck a resonant chord in the age of sensibility, but it also underlined the predicament father and son faced. The forty-two-year-old widower devoted himself entirely to his son's upbringing and his own official career. Those two sides of his life fit closely together as the ambitious Jenkinson invested future hopes in his son.

Early modern Sweden was a multicultural kingdom. Within its 17th-century borders it included Finland (which was part of the realm since the Middle Ages) as well as Livonia, the German provinces of Bremen-Verden, Wismar and Pomerania, and old Danish regions of Halland, Scania and Blekinge, all acquired in war settlements. In the north, the lands of Sápmi (Lapland) were claimed and colonized with a new vigour at this time. The country also became home to various diasporas: groups of European immigrants who ventured to Scandinavia enticed by a possibility of social advancement, economic profit and a better life. It was furthermore a site of domestic resettlements, of which the most considerable was the movement of the so-called Forest Finns from eastern Finland to central and northern parts of Sweden proper. In many cases the Swedish government looked positively on migration or even sponsored the arrival of newcomers, who were regarded as a crucial ingredient in the ambitious plan to boost the economy and reputation of the country. Their injection of capital, market connections, skills and knowledge were rewarded with privileges, freedoms and various concessions. The expansion of the kingdom, relocations of its subjects and arrival of newcomers brought significant economic, technical and cultural changes. It created novel networks and connections which in turn posed new challenges, not least regarding how to respond to this multitude of cultures and customs, and how to accommodate members of different confessions in a sternly Lutheran kingdom. Even if the flow of people across the borders was not unique to early modern Sweden (but rather part of a contemporary global development of increased mobility, voluntary as well as forced), it nonetheless engendered and required localized responses.

This part of the book describes some of the individuals and groups that moved within the country's borders and who migrated to Sweden making it a temporary or permanent home. It focuses on their cultural strategies and interactions with the Swedish-speaking majority. Several chapters pay attention to borders and, noting their contested character, address questions of daily life in these charged areas, raising the issues of power, transgression and colonial expansion.

Exact figures for the size of parliament's naval fleets are problematic, because there are a number of surviving sources which record the ships set out by parliament, and these do not always agree. The purpose of this appendix, therefore, is to summarise these sources and indicate the likely (but not definite) numbers of ships set forth by parliament during the period up to 1649. Where auxiliaries are mentioned here, this is because they are included in these sources – as discussed in Chapter 4, parliament mobilised many more auxiliaries than are listed here.

Table 1 presents the minimum and maximum ranges indicated by the available sources for the summer guards, which were the largest concentration of ships. ‘Total’, in this table, is not the addition of the maximum or minimum for each category, but the range of totals indicated by the various sources. The printed lists (see Table 4, below) are also incorporated into this table, although they do not distinguish between summer and winter guards and therefore may, in some cases, represent the latter.

Table 2 presents the numbers recorded in two manuscripts held at the British Library. The first, Add. MS 17,503, is entitled ‘A list of such Shipps and Frigotts of the Navy Royall as Also of such Marchant Shipps as were sett forth in the service of the King & Parliament in the Yeares 1642: 1643: 1644: 1645: 1646: and 1647’. This document distinguishes between summer and winter guards, and besides merchant ships serving with the fleet it specifies colliers’ ships and fire ships in 1643, as well as merchant ships ‘taken upp … for the Irish Coast’ in 1645, and merchant ships that ‘Capt[ain] Lewis Dick set out for Scotland’ in 1647. It further notes eight pinnaces employed for eight months, in 1642, which are included here, and the ‘Hire and fraight of Ten Packet Boates and Ketches’ in 1644, which are excluded. Finally, it records, for the winter guard in 1643, 1645, and 1646, ‘divers of the Marchant ships’, manned with 1,808, 840, and 456 men respectively. For each of these years the average number of men per merchant ship in the summer guard has been calculated from the available figures, resulting in estimates of eighteen, thirteen, and six ships, respectively (rounding down) for the winter guards.

The central focus of this book has been on the quest to build effective strategies to support the development of enterprise on the margins, in South Africa’s mine-labour-sending areas, to create jobs and to reduce poverty. Across fourteen years and several different phases of the Mineworkers Development Agency (MDA)’s programme, in a period that also straddled South Africa’s transition to democracy, it is sobering just how marginal enterprise on the margins remained and how miserably low the returns usually were. Certainly, the ball can (and no doubt will) be thrown into our own court: in every phase, there was learning to do, mistakes made, strategic errors of omission and commission. Yet more than a decade later, surveying the field, a few things are striking. Firstly, many of the lessons we learned in this process remain very relevant to small enterprise (SE) development strategy in marginal contexts today. Secondly, it’s clear that, unique as MDA’s experience may have been, strategies promoting enterprise development in South Africa still often find it hard to achieve meaningful reductions in poverty.

At one level, this should come as no surprise. Yet the expectation that poor people can and will be able to self-employ their way out of poverty at significant scale – self-funded through micro-loans at commercial interest rates – remains deeply embedded in the policy discourse and the public imagination. Certainly, when the story outlined here began with the dismissal of forty thousand mineworkers, the expectation existed even in NUM that enterprise development activity – co-ops in particular – offered a feasible pathway back into employment for a significant proportion of this group. In the face of unemployment figures that have remained stubbornly high in the decades since, it really matters if the default assumptions about what it will take to change this are flawed.

As described in Chapter 10, strategies of enterprise development in poor and marginalised communities have had a tendency to underestimate the economic implications of South Africa’s high levels of structural inequality, including in particular the structure of the economy, the impacts of concentration and also of spatial inequality. The structure of the South African economy certainly also impacted on the wider region in which MDA’s programmes operated.

This chapter discusses Rodó's influence and the relevance of his outlook since his death. We begin with the immediate reaction, in Uruguay and abroad, to the news of his demise, which began a process of memorialization that continues to this day. We then address the ideological legacy of arielismo (Arielism), a movement that flourished throughout the subcontinent during the first two or three decades of the century and had Rodó as its inspiration. Next, we approach the resonance of Rodó's ideas in subtler ways up to the present. First, we discuss the unveiling of a bust of him in Paris in 1934, and what it can tell us about the subject that pervaded his last writings in particular: relations between Europe and Latin America. Second, we consider the stance of two remarkable socialist leaders, one in the United Kingdom in the middle of the twentieth century, and one in Uruguay at the beginning of the twenty-first. Finally we turn to two recent views on the crisis of the humanities in the English-speaking world, views that resonate with Rodó's message about deep learning as expressed in particular in his main works, Ariel and Motivos.

Shock, Sorrow and Apotheosis

The response to Rodó's death in Uruguay was of general numbness and overwhelming sorrow, as no one expected him to die so young (he was fortyfive). His biographer Víctor Pérez Petit described his own shock at seeing, on 3 May, the notices outside the newspaper offices, which had also set off their sirens – a measure taken only in extraordinary circumstances. He captured the mood thereafter in the street, including how a group of students demonstrating in the town centre suddenly stopped in their tracks upon hearing the news and, after reacting with “un silencio profundo, un silencio religioso” (a deep silence, a religious silence) (435), dispersed; he also reviewed and summarized the discussions that followed in parliament and in the press (435–46).

The reactions in both parliamentary chambers were instant and full of heartfelt emotion which turned quickly towards planning a homage to the great writer, their former colleague.

It has been established already that al-Hakkamat have significant power and agency, which they use to influence the social and political conduct of men, despite being excluded from the decision-making frameworks and initiatives within their tribes. Their influence, more often than not, has surfaced quite intensely as they have turned simple disputes among tribes and ethnic groups into events with disastrous outcomes. Since the 1970s, their destructive influence has featured quite remarkably in most of the conflicts experienced in Darfur. This is certainly not accidental, or a revelation of merely personal interests and attitudes. Indeed, it is the result of an authentic adherence to the ethical responsibilities and obligations towards the defence ideals of the tribe and the Ageed organisation. In the following pages, we explore the relationship between al-Hakkamat and the Ageed, and how it has unfolded in the context of conflict in Darfur since the 1970s.

AGEED MILITARY ORGANISATION

The complexity of nomadic life has compelled the Baggara communities in Darfur, since time immemorial, to frame their own arrangements in order to be able to protect their communities and herds from various adversaries. These arrangements have taken the form of a military organisation that has progressively acquired substantial importance, especially with the recent deterioration of social and economic resources and the mounting insecurity in Darfur, not least the absence of reliable governance to maintain law and order. This organisation operates quite independently of the native administration: the authority that should be responsible for administering people's affairs within the tribes’ land boundaries. This military organisation is called the Ageed.

The Ageed (sing. Ageed; pl. Augada) organisation usually consists of a group of Augada and horsemen (combatants on horses). Each Ageed represents a clan and he often commands about one hundred horsemen. The size of the Augada therefore depends on the number of clans (khashum bait) affiliated to the tribe. The tribal supreme military chief referred to as Ageed al-Shoosha, also called Ageed al-Augada, is just like a commander general in modern armies, and commands a group of Augada. The Augada constitute the military council of the Ageed organisation, whereas select horsemen would up make the executive body. It is a framework for unity and solidarity that responds to calls for help, especially in times of extreme need.

Synodal legislation from the thirteenth century had imposed on the laity – in practice, on parishioners – the obligation both of maintaining the fabric of the nave and tower and of ensuring that the incumbent possessed sufficient equipment for the seemly celebration of the parish liturgy. As a result, gifts of money or goods intended either to maintain the church fabric or to equip the parish would alleviate the burdens that present and future generations of parishioners ordinarily had to bear. Similarly, property devise, providing rents either to underwrite stipendiaries or to increase parish income, profited present and future generations who benefited from more lavish services without the obligation to pay for them. The All Saints’ archive suggests that whereas the donation of money or goods remained relatively steady in the century or more before the Reformation, the devise of property quickened, with significant results. Each practice will be investigated in turn.

‘Longing to be prayed for’: Communal commemoration within the parish

The bequests of money and goods made by parishioners loom large in the All Saints’ archive, and entries in the All Saints’ Church Book benefaction list occasionally mention something of donors’ motivation. Among those who gave sums of money, William Palmer, a goldsmith of London, who gave 40s., Robert Derkyn a London mercer, who gave 20s., and Martin Symondson, a hardwareman ‘of this parish’, who also gave 20s., all specifically did so ‘to be prayed for’. Thomas Abyndon, parishioner and inn-holder, ‘at his decease gave unto this church in money 40s.’, and did so ‘as a good doer’. Others gave items, usually with a liturgical purpose in mind. Richard Ake ‘gave to the use of the vicar for the time being one antiphonal, price ￡10, in order to be prayed for among the benefactors of the church. God have mercy on his soul.’ Other donations exhorted prayer, sometimes blatantly. Alice Chestre, as we have seen, gave ‘a hearse cloth of black worsted with letters of gold of H & C & A & C and a scripture in gold, Orate pro animabus Henrici Chestre et Alicie uxoris eius’.

“THE MIDDLE AGES have formed the paradise of my imagination.” So declares Derek Jarman (1942–94) in an entry in his journal Modern Nature. Here I take the artist at his word. Excavating Jarman's various engagements with medieval culture in his films, writings and other artworks, I ask what purpose this dialogue with the Middle Ages served. As will become apparent in the pages that follow, Jarman had an enduring fascination with texts, paintings, objects and buildings associated with the period we call “the Middle Ages.” Medieval culture was frequently a touchstone for Jarman's creative endeavours, notably insofar as it fostered distinctive ideas of time. But more than simply engaging with a particular historical epoch, Jarman was interested in developing what might be termed a “medieval modern” ethos – an approach to existence that inflected the way he lived.

Painter and poet, filmmaker and set designer, writer and memoirist, gardener and queer activist, Jarman has deservedly acquired a reputation as a visionary polymath. Too often, though, scholarly assessments of his art foreground a single medium, film, at the expense of coming to terms with a truly multidisciplinary body of work. Although film is central to the argument that follows, Jarman's medieval modern frequently disrupts or dissolves the boundaries of art, medium, time and discipline. His medievalisms are multifaceted.

Why medieval modern? As will be explained in Chapter One, “medieval” commonly operates as a negative category of difference, a term signifying that which is not modern. The word designates roughly a millennium of western European history, a middle period between ancient and modern. But it is also a fluid and floating category of otherness, one that operates spatially and morally as well as temporally. Thus, in certain corners of contemporary politics and popular culture, one is as likely to hear the word “medieval” being applied to Islamist terror groups or architectural styles as to a chronologically bounded period. Although derived from seventeenth-century Latin prototypes, “medieval” first entered the English language in the nineteenth century and possessed no currency in the epoch that today is labelled as such. Meanwhile, “modern” is supposed not to have existed in the past at all: it represents the now, or the nearly now.