Jehannin Le Fournier: A Medieval Case of Stranger Danger and Well-Poisoning

If you, like me, were a child of the 80s, you had the admonition “Don’t Talk to Strangers” drilled into your head. It was the time of Stranger Danger, a fear that only ramped up in the 90s.

1984 boardgame Don't Talk to Strangers

I suspect that Jehannin Le Fournier, brought before the provost of the Châtelet of Paris in 1390, really wished Stranger Danger had been a thing in his own formative years. At 28, he was still young, yet old enough perhaps to have known better than to accept a package from peeps unknown. Even if those peeps were Dominican friars.

Jehannin’s story is enough to make me think that maybe the TSA was on to something when it started asking travelers if they’d been asked to carry anything onto flights for someone else. (As a kid, when the TSA asked me this, I always felt a little confused. My parents asked me to take lots of things. I suppose that’s why the language eventually shifted to mimic the vocabulary of stranger danger.)

In honour of my lost childhood and Jehannin’s lost life, I’ve subtitled this post Stranger Danger (or Danger Étranger). The case comes by way of the Registre Criminel du Chatelet, vol. II.

In July 1390, Jehannin had been living in Chartres. Around the feast of the Magdalene, he felt moved by the spirit to travel to Notre-Dame du Puy, in Anjou.

Not far outside town, maybe a quarter of a league give or take, two Dominican friars came up to him and asked if he wanted to earn some money.

And really, this is where he should have stopped. It’s like those spam calls that I get asking if I want to make lots of money by doing absolutely nothing from home. There’s always a catch.

Jehannin, not wise in the way of telemarketers, said, “Oh hell yes! Tell me what I need to do.”

In the mold of all good scams, it was a simple thing, really. No back-breaking work. No long hours. All he had to do was throw some small packets into the various wells and fountains he passed by on his way to Anjou. Do that, and he’d be paid handsomely.

Stranger Danger PSA Image
I’m sure this is how Jehannin imagines himself, sweet and innocent, as the friars show him the poison packets.

Jehannin may have been a bit too eager to make easy money, but he was also a curious man. “What’s in the packets?”

“Oh, just some poison, meant to kill certain men.”

Oh good. No biggie. Just a highly selective poison tossed into the common drinking water of the town. It will definitely only kill the right people. Sure.

Okay, organic chemistry was not yet on the roster of classes available at the University of Paris. But it was 1390, my dude! The Black Death is still having its way with the world and there have definitely been a lot of accusations of well poisoning floating around. Against Jews, against the poor, lepers… Lots. You’d think it’d give him pause.

You’d be wrong.

He was good to go, so long as he was well paid.

They gave him three blancs (in value about 10d. each) and promised him that he’d get more once he’d jettisoned the 25-30 packets they tipped into his outstretched palms.

It probably helped Jehannin that he wasn’t alone when he met with the Dominicans. There were more than a dozen people, none of whom he knew, whom the Dominicans approached and gathered together. Though they were all strangers to Jehannin, he does give quite the description of one of them, whom he names Gilet:

Dressed in blue and white, about 32 years old, with deformed legs, Gilet was a tall man. His hair was long and brown and he had been begging for bread along the road.

At last on his own, Jehannin continued on his way. That very same day, he threw packets into two wells and two fountains. And then somehow, amazingly, he thought better of it, realized he’d done evil, and tossed the remaining packets of poison in a bush.

Why does he have this amazing revelation? Probably because we have this story thanks to the fact he was caught. What I’ve just written his first go at a confession, given in Tours.

First go. There was a second, once he was transported to the Châtelet in Paris. He amends things a little.

We get the same opening, finding out he was born in Dijon in Burgundy and is about 28 years old in 1390. Once again, he’s off to Notre-Dame du Puy and just outside the town he encounters two Dominicans.

Or does he?

Because this time, he says they were two men dressed as Dominicans, riding horses.

The same conversation commences. Jehannin once again agrees, though this time he’s quick to point out it was thanks to the Devil’s temptation, and they again pay him three blancs and give him only 8 packets, each as big as a hazelnut, wrapped in a small white cloth.

Jehannin makes no mention of the other people these men propositioned. He also does not take his leave immediately. Instead, he spends the next three days in their company, eating and drinking and taking his ease beside them. Traveling together, they passed through various villages. Once more he “poisons” four wells. And then once more, he has a sudden realization that he’s done evil and tosses the remaining packets into a bush.

The officers of the Châtelet were none too happy with Jehannin’s revised tale. His attempt to poison people, whether specific or indiscriminate, amounted to lese majesty, the highest of high treasons. He had threatened the common good, as well as “the universal world and human creatures.”

Crimes against humanity, the Middle Ages sees you.

The provost and his councilors sentenced Jehannin to death as a traitor. On 27 December 1390, he was decapitated, then his corpse was hanged from a gibbet.

The Commonly Uncommon Medieval Execution

Right. What’s going on with burning Agnes at the stake? Is it just a medieval form of eye-for-an-eye? You burn down your neighbour’s house, we’ll burn down the bodily house in which your soul resides. You blaspheme against God, we’ll rip out your tongue. You steal a loaf of bread, we’ll steal your appendix. You forge letters, we’ll use your bones to heat the forges making…umm…paper?

I think things have rather quickly gone off the rails.

Maybe it’s not so simple as eye-for-an-eye, in that case.

First, let’s put aside one common misconception about the Middle Ages: punishment was not always and everywhere tortuous and deadly. As an illustrative example, here’s the cover of a book by John D. Bessler, associate professor at the University of Baltimore School of Law.

Cover of John D. Bessler’s The Death Penalty as Torture: From the Dark Ages to Abolition. Carolina Academic Press, 2017.

Before I tear this cover to shreds, allow me to acknowledge that Bessler probably didn’t choose this cover. I also have some fellow-feeling for Bessler as a fellow-Minnesotan (he even did his law degree at Hamline, where my father taught and where my mother got her JD). Now that those biases have been set forth, let’s look at the bias set out here. Then I’ll get to the question of burning at the stake directly.

Here’s an excerpt of the book blurb (I’ve only omitted the bits having to do with the modern world):

During the Dark Ages and the Renaissance, Europe’s monarchs often resorted to torture and executions. The pain inflicted by instruments of torture from the thumbscrew and the rack to the Inquisition’s tools of torment was eclipsed only by horrific methods of execution, from breaking on the wheel and crucifixion to drawing and quartering and burning at the stake. The English Bloody Code made more than 200 crimes punishable by death, and judicial torture expressly authorized by law and used to extract confessions permeated continental European legal systems. Judges regularly imposed death sentences and other harsh corporal punishments, from the stocks and the pillory, to branding and ear cropping, to lashes at public whipping posts. In the Enlightenment, jurists and writers questioned the efficacy of torture and capital punishment…In The Death Penalty as Torture, Prof. John Bessler argues that death sentences and executions are medieval relics…

Were there executions during the Middle Ages? Yes!

Was there torture? Yes!

Does it really get my goat when someone calls the entire 1,000 year expanse of time (not to mention geography) that encompasses the Middle Ages the “Dark Ages”? Oh, you have no idea… I have lost so many goats…

I haven’t read the book, I will admit, but the blurb and the cover do a lot of work to play on stereotypes we have about the Middle Ages. Did those horrific executions described in the blurb exist? Yes. Were they the most common forms of execution? Not hardly. Hanging was the most common, followed by simple decapitation. Torture was also used, and it was bad, no question about it, but even it had rules. Those who broke those rules could be and were brought up on charges over it.

And I’m just going to set the Inquisition to one side, because it’s really not the same kettle of fish as the rest of the daily business of justice Bessler lumps it in with.

Back to the summary: Did a lot of executions take place. Sure. When you’re talking about 1,000 years and a geography that spans all of Europe, North Africa, and the Middle East (and I’d argue even more than that, but I strongly doubt Bessler has such an expansive, global view of the Middle Ages), the numbers swiftly add up. Here’s the thing though, most crimes did NOT end with an execution. Even when the statute books said that that was the only punishment available.

In other words, if you judge only by the law books, medieval Europe (again, limiting to be fair to Bessler’s scope) looks a lot more bloody than it was in reality. How do I know this? Well, we have records. We also have a lot of not-records.

Allow me to explain.

There are numerous cases of a person committing, say, treason against the king. Pretty clear case that it’s a capital crime. Same with murder. Definitely a capital crime, especially once we’re into the late Middle Ages (meaning ~1250-1500). Yet, when you read the trial documents, many many people (sometimes a majority, depending on when and where you’re looking) get off with a fine or a bit of public humiliation. As for the “not-records,” that comes from the fact that often times people took themselves into self-imposed exile. Or we have a record where the trial was begun, but we never see its conclusion. We cannot, based on what I wrote above regarding fines, then assume that the trial ended with an execution. Sometimes we can even be positive that it didn’t because the accused crops up later on in another record.

We can’t even be certain they were tortured, as many times the existing records don’t specify that they were.

Shouldn’t we assume it anyway?

No. Consider my area of expertise, France. Torture was more often used post conviction. So if we don’t have a conviction, we can’t be sure someone was tortured. Add to that the fact that simply being left alone in the room to contemplate the instruments of torture, before they’re ever used on your body, was counted by some courts as a round of torture in itself. How do we, in 2020, tally that up? Torture or not torture?

Now for the book cover.

Cover of John D. Bessler’s The Death Penalty as Torture: From the Dark Ages to Abolition. Carolina Academic Press, 2017.

We have the stocks up at the top. Also known as the pillory, this was definitely a humiliating and painful punishment, but it wasn’t execution. In fact, it was often used instead of capital punishment.

How about hanging, of which there are three woodcuts on this cover (unless the top right is meant to be the ladder)? Well, it could be pretty bad. And there’s no question it was a method of execution. But while the corpse was often left suspended from the gibbet for days, the death itself was often quick. Medieval executioners knew their craft and typically the knot was tied in such a way as to break the condemned’s neck at the initial drop.

Look, I’m not advocating for any of this. I personally am opposed to both the death penalty and incarceration. What I am advocating for is a better, more nuanced understanding of the history, even its most salacious bits.

Now we come to burning at the stake. Absolutely, this was a horrible way to go. Most people who were burned alive died of smoke inhalation long before the fire itself consumed their bodies. Again, there were ways to ensure this, based on the type of wood and kindling placed upon the fire. And in many cases in the historical record, the condemned would be strangled at the post before the flames were ever lit, a final act of mercy.

Before I began my Ph.D. work, I assumed that burning at the stake was reserved for witches. After all, that’s how it was always depicted in film and story and my history textbooks from grade school. Certainly, the witch burnings are a dramatic and tragic example of what burning at the stake can be like. But it wasn’t exclusively meant for witches, or women.

So what was burning at the stake used for?

It was the most common means of capital punishment for women in medieval France (though this is not exclusive and changes with time — by the 17th century, the notorious poisoner Madame de Brinvilliers was beheaded and women who’d committed bestiality were buried alive with their animal of choice).

It was also the execution method of choice for heretics, dating back to 1022, the first recorded incidence of it since the end of the western Roman Empire.

In sum, Agnes died at the stake not because she was a witch, or to cosmically balance the scales of justice in light of her arson (har har), but because she was a woman who had committed felony treason.

She was burned because that’s how women were executed in 14th-century France.

She was executed because a woman committing lese-majesty was an abomination in the eyes of the French state.

She deserved it, said her judges, because her crime and being was disruptive to the good of the whole and could not be tolerated within the society.

We lock people away for an eternity because they stole a pair of hedge clippers. s infuriating. And is this story just one instance? Sure. But so is the case of Agnes. So maybe we shouldn’t judge an entire millennium on the basis of one person.

However, I’ll very happily judge the Louisiana Supreme Court on the basis of Fair Wayne Bryant.

5 Ways to Commit Medieval Treason without Knowing It

Medieval treason, usually called lèse-majesté in the French criminal records, was a catch-all term in the 14th century. Just about anything could be treason. There’s your obvious stuff: trying to kill the king, allying with the enemy during a time of war, trying to overthrow the king. Then there’s the less obvious, such as theft and rape and things that seem to have nothing to do with the king or the realm.

Here are five ways people in medieval France found to commit treason without even realizing they were doing it.

‘Treason!’ says the king to the cat on the throne.

1. Burn down your neighbour’s house

As Agnes Poulain discovered in 1390, arson, especially when it could threaten an entire village, was not taken lightly by the Crown. Her fire-starting habits were a threat to the king’s ability to protect his subjects, as well as being bloody stupid.

2. Burn down a post

It helps if that post is currently displaying the royal safeguard, the sign of the king’s special protection over an area or a person. In one case, in 1348, a knight attacked a town that had been placed under the king’s protection. The court is very clear that what makes all the raping and pillaging particularly egregious, and so high treason, is the incineration of the safeguard. Sure, killing the friars in the priory isn’t great, says the court, but what really gets our goat is thumbing your nose at the king’s authority. Typical bureaucrats.

3. Steal letters of commission

In 1349, the bishop of Luçon and his accomplices attacked the nephew of the archdeacon, taking royal letters granting the nephew an official office. The act of stealing royal documents, even ones as routine as an appointment to a regional post, was ruled an act of high treason. Put simply, it interfered with the king’s ability to run his kingdom as he wanted.

4. Rape your son’s fiancée

When the lord of Biron got it into his head in the 1340s to rape his son’s betrothed, he probably didn’t expect the Crown prosecutor to charge him with high treason. This one’s trickier to suss out why it’s treason. The short of it is that treason was as much about protecting the king and his rights as it was about articulating social expectations. Yes, even in the Middle Ages, society expected you not to rape your son’s wife-to-be. Also, don’t violate a marriage contract. I’ll leave it to you to decide which violation mattered more.

5. Sell some apples

Jean Maillet made the mistake of selling some apples and other foods to the English and Flemings in 1340, during the Hundred Years War. That’s provisioning the enemy, that is! He should know better! Except, Jean pointed out, he did so during a time of truce. Tricky situation!

What was medieval treason?

If these five examples are any guide, medieval treason was anything the court needed it to be in the moment. But maybe there’s more to the story? In the coming weeks, I’ll revisit these cases to look at what’s going on in more depth.

I wrote a whole Ph.D. dissertation on the topic. I’ve spent far too many years thinking about medieval treason. And still I can’t shake the nagging feeling that treason was like cooked spaghetti.

You throw it at the wall and see if it sticks.

Voice in a Medieval Arson Trial

I absolutely love the story of Agnes. There’s something about her deposition, her trial voice, that comes alive for me every time I read it. It’s like I can hear her voice in my head: a little petulant, very bossy, and overwhelmingly tiresome.

I have a feeling she’d identify with the Demi Lovato song “Sorry Not Sorry.”

Was Agnes actually petulant, bossy, and tireseome? Who knows! That’s the thing about these medieval cases, whether for arson or any other crime. What we have is, at best, a true-to-sense relaying of what the accused said. But then, medieval scribes aren’t known for their accuracy in transcribing the accused’s voice at trial.

The Châtelet of Paris, especially after about 1380, had become notorious as the royal prison and embodiment of judicial power in the Paris region. When a prisoner was called up to speak before the tribunal, they were questioned typically without a lawyer present (something that was more common in the Parlement of Paris). In Agnes’s case, we know that she was examined at least twice, “without force or constraint.”

That’s code for “not under torture.”

Does that mean she wasn’t tortured? Good question!

The short answer is no, it doesn’t.

Here’s how it often worked. A confession gained “without force or constraint” meant that it had been at least 24 hours since the last torture session (and there were only supposed to be three of these, max). The confession made is therefore not during torture. If it’s confirmed (that is, a court official reads back to the accused their confession, asks if it’s been correctly recorded, and receives an affirmative), then the confession is established as true.

Now, none of this is to say that Agnes was tortured. It’s hard to read through the medieval terms of art to see what actually happened. However, these particular records from which I took Agnes case tend to be unabashed about using torture. They’ll even go so far as to tell you what kind of torture.

The same goes for being sure that what’s recorded is what Agnes said. Agnes would have spoken a dialect of French. Coming from Brittany north of Rennes, she may have grown up speaking Dolois, the regional patios (a mix of French and Breton). Once near Paris, she likely spoke the Middle French dialect of that zone.

Undoubtedly her French, even if the same dialect as that spoken at court, would have had a different vocabulary and register than what the educated judges and scribes spoke. That in itself presents a challenge in trusting that what we have of Agnes’s words is true to her voice. Thankfully, the criminal registers by the 14th century were no longer being preserved in Latin (which was the case only a hundred years earlier, and meant that a scribe was translating from the vernacular, creating yet another layer of distance between the modern reader and the medieval speaker).

So, we don’t have to contend with Latin, but how about the way she describes the events? Can we be sure any of it is in her voice?

On the one hand, the story feels like it’s leaving something out, doesn’t it? Her neighbour won’t say hi and basically says he never wants to speak to her again, and her response is to burn down his house.

I mean really, WTF?!

Fire’s dangerous! And it’s your neighbour! Your house is going to be next if the thatch roof catches!

So surely there must be more context that we’re not getting, right?

Maybe. On the other hand, perhaps she was just that unhinged. People are weird. Ever hear of Florida Man?

To the question of whether this is a medieval thing, that the idea that not saying hello to a neighbour is some unforgivable insult, I can’t find any indication that that’s true. Rude, sure. But not “I’m going to burn your house down and maybe our whole village and everyone will think I’m totally justified” level rude.

And we do have some indications that these are her words, at least in broad strokes. The scribe includes Agnes saying that she’d been “tempted by the Devil.” In my AITA rendering, I translated that has “I must have had a devil on my shoulder.” The idea is largely the same, just more idiomatic in my translation.

Over the course of the later Middle Ages, in French materials at least, there’s an increase in attempts to blame a crime on the devil’s temptation. If you’re interested, I’ve written an article on this. What it boils down to here is that Agnes is trying to claim that her decision to burn down Miserelle’s house was a temporary one. More than that, it was aberrant. She’s not really like that, you see, it was just the Devil who, for one moment in the heat of her anger, succeeded in getting her to act so sinfully and criminally.

As we saw, that tactic of blaming the Devil didn’t work. But, the fact that the attempt was there suggests that Agnes did have at least some of her perspective or interpretation of events recorded.

Not that it did her any good.

There’s more to say about this case, but I’ll stop here for now. Agnes has put me in a musical state of mind, so let’s end with Billy Talent’s “Devil on My Shoulder.” Fitting, neketa?

Agnes Poulain, a Medieval Arson Trial

When I first read the medieval arson trial of Agnes, wife of Jean Poulain, it immediately felt like a medieval Am I the Asshole (AITA) post. I think you’ll see why in a moment.

This arson trial is from Paris, preserved in the medieval Registre Criminel du Châtelet (vol. II, pg. 61-64). It’s dated 28 January 1390-91.

Agnes earned her living, meager as it was, by carding and spinning. She’d been born in Dol, in Brittany. Around the age of 20 she moved to Chasteaufort (now Châteaufort). About seven years later, now married, she moved to Gif (now Gif-sur-Yvette), where our story takes place.

Map of northern France, showing Dol-en-Bretagne, Chateaufort, and Gif-sur-Yvette

Let’s try to imagine what happens as if she were writing an AITA post. Mind, I’ve never written one of these before, but then neither has Agnes, so all hiccups in the genre imitation I ascribe to her. Everything that follows, unless otherwise noted with an *, is from the trial record.

AITA for burning down my neighbour’s house?

So last Thursday I’m sitting outside my door, just doing my thing before I completely lose the light. Because it’s evening, right? Anyways, as I’m carding, my neighbour Jean Miserelle comes by. And he doesn’t say anything to me. Not a word! I thought maybe he was mad at me, so I walked up to him and said:

“Miserelle, why didn’t you say hi to me? What’d I do? Are you mad at me? I want to know what’s going on. Usually you chat with me and my husband, you have drinks and eat with us. On cold days you even come over and warm up in front of our fire. I thought we had a good time together.”

Here’s what Miserelle said back:

“Fine, I’ll talk to you, but only to answer your questions. But here’s the thing, if I’m mad at you, or if I don’t want to answer your questions, what are you going to do about it? I’m not going to talk to you anymore, ever. I won’t even say hello, if I don’t want to. And why should I tell you if I’m mad at you or don’t like you? Leave me alone. Let me do my thing, and you go do yours. Leave me alone.”

*Can you believe that? How rude! Well, as you can imagine,* I was pissed when he said all that. I replied:

“Well if you’re going to be mad at me, it’s going to be for a reason!”

At that, I left him and went back home. I must have had a devil on my shoulder, because when I got inside I went straight to the hearth. I pulled out a large, burning coal and wrapped it up in a linen sheet, best I could—*it was hot!* Then I slipped back outside with my bundle. Jean Miserelle’s house is right next to mine, so I easily, *and without anyone seeing,* stuck the linen-wrapped coal under the thatch of his roof, wedging it between two wooden tiles.

Medieval thatched-roof house, dating back at least 500 years.
The Hovel. Ludgershall, Buckinghamshire, UK

Then, like he asked, I went and did my thing.

It didn’t take long for the fire to start. When I saw the flames, I called for for help. Lots of people came running to put the fire out.

*TL;DR My neighbour refused to say hello so I burned down his house. AITA?*

Answer: yes!

Certainly Agnes’s neighbours thought so. Jean Miserelle’s house burnt down to the foundation, despite her cries of “Fire! Fire!”

Image of the Murder of Innocents, showing a man stabbing a woman with a child.
Book of Hours. France, ca. 1480. MS M.6 fol. 51v. I suspect this is how Jean was feeling toward Agnes after his house burnt down!

Everyone immediately suspected Agnes was the one who’d done it and they arrested her. First taken to Chasteaufort as a prisoner, she was then transferred to the Châtelet in Paris and put on trial for arson.

After Agnes had given her version of events (and I have a hard time hearing contrition in her deposition), the tribunal deliberated. They called her back in a second time to confirm that the events she’d confessed to were true. When she said they were, the tribunal was left in unanimous agreement. Agnes’ arson was treasonous and she could not be released. She would get what she deserved: burning at the stake.

Agnes’s sentence was carried out on Tuesday, 7 March 1390. She had no property, the court scribe reports.

I’m working on a comic for this one. Somehow, moths seemed like the appropriate animal choice. Here’s a taste. I’ll post an update once the comic’s done and up.

Moth version of Agnes, thinking "Why didn't he say hello? Is he mad at me?"