Medieval pubs were more than just places to drink—they were hubs of gambling, crime, and deadly brawls. From barroom assassinations to drunken feuds that ended in murder, these rowdy establishments were as dangerous as they were lively.
By Steve Tibble
The link between pubs, alcohol, and other vices was not just a useful trope for moralists to play upon. In 1268, for instance, the Sultan Baybars refused to put a truce in place with the Crusader lord of Jaffa. According to the chronicler Ibn al-Furat, Baybars claimed that: ‘[the Franks] have set up a tavern in Jaffa and put a number of Muslim women into it, and they have deliberately undertaken other things that are not covered by truce terms.’ Presumably, under the circumstances, the women were employed as sex workers.
The notoriety of Frankish pubs spread widely—there were even records among the Jewish community in Egypt reproaching some local shellfish gatherers for drinking ‘white Egyptian beer’ in a Frankish tavern of ‘bad repute’ and, it was implied, perhaps doing more than just drinking.
Bar Fights and Violence
Violence was also very closely associated with bars, and members of the military orders were explicitly forbidden by their rules from entering them. This violence could even extend, on occasion, to murder. In 1134, Hugh, an earlier crusader lord of Jaffa, went into revolt against King Fulk of Anjou. He was found guilty by his peers and ordered into exile for three years.
Hugh enjoyed the drinking and gambling opportunities offered by the capital, however, and, as he waited for his sea passage out of the country, he was ‘lingering in Jerusalem as he was wont to do. One day he happened to be playing dice on a table before the shop [presumably, a pub] of a merchant named Alfanus in the street which is called the street of the Furriers. The count, intent upon the game, had no thought of danger. Suddenly, before all the bystanders, a knight of Brittany drew his sword in hostile fashion and stabbed the count again and again.’
Aftermath of Assassination
Musée Condé MS.490 fol. 1r
Hugh survived the immediate aftermath of the attack but died not long afterward. His assailant, in true Frankish fashion, faced gruesome punishment. King Fulk ‘ordered a sentence commensurate with his guilt to be pronounced upon the man. The court accordingly convened, and the assassin was sentenced by unanimous consent to suffer the penalty of mutilation of his members. The judgment was reported to the king, who ordered the sentence to be carried out.’
As there was a history of bad blood between Fulk and Hugh, however, the king went to great lengths to ensure that the process was seen to be transparent so that he could not be accused of trying to avoid being implicated in the attack. The king insisted ‘that the tongue should not be included among the members so mutilated. This exception was made lest it be said that the tongue had been removed purposely so that the criminal would be unable to confess the truth of the matter, namely, that he had been sent by the king.’
Rats in the Arras
Other examples of criminality in medieval France give an indication of just how rough things could get. The scene is Arras in northern France in the late thirteenth century. A bar-keeper had an argument with one of his neighbours, a man named Karon de Bairy. We do not know their exact relationship. The neighbour may have been a disgruntled customer or, more likely in the light of subsequent events, an erstwhile partner in one of the pub’s less wholesome side ventures.
There was nothing subtle about the affair. At the end of the argument, the publican stood in the street outside his victim’s house and threw lighted torches through the windows. The arsonist was initially arrested but later released after concerted lobbying from his friends and associates, among whom, appropriately enough for semi-organised crime, were the local priest and the mayor.
The scale and reach of the publican’s criminal activities are striking. We know, and only by coincidence, that at least one of the witnesses—a certain Peter de Savie—was a well-known murderer. And the bailli, the senior police official on the case who was responsible for the arrest (and the subsequent release) of the bar-keeper, was himself later convicted on major charges of bribery and corruption. We may never know the full story of all the criminal relationships in this case, but they were clearly pervasive.
Natural Causes, Unnatural Expectations
Violence in pubs was far more usual, and far more expected, than in other environments—hence all the sermons encouraging people to avoid them. Even this expectation of trouble could have unfortunate consequences, however. In Abbeville in the 1280s, for instance, a customer enjoying a refreshing drink died with his wine in front of him. This was sad, of course, and unusual, even by the poor standards of medieval restaurant hygiene.
But, in the event, the death was found to be due to natural causes. Tellingly, however, because everyone associated with pubs was also presumed to be connected with criminality and violence, the publican and his entire customer base were arrested as the obvious ‘usual suspects.’ The bailli and his men turned up and, lazily but not surprisingly, just assumed the worst.
This level of negative expectation and presumption of guilt grew to the point where people did not even bother to question the motives or narrative behind violence in bars. It was presumed, often correctly, that alcohol was behind a lot of it and, more generally, that it was just the kind of thing that went on in pubs.
Unsolved Crimes?
Taking late thirteenth-century Abbeville as a continuing example, we find that, in one instance of violent fighting and murder in a local pub, the police did not even try to find out what the circumstances of the fight had been. In another incident, a customer got into a fight and was eventually chased out of the pub. He was pursued but not caught—or at least that was what everyone told the police. His body was found in mysterious and unexplained circumstances seven days later, but, again, nobody bothered to resolve the matter fully. Yet another man in a separate pub murder in Abbeville was later found drowned after a bar brawl, floating in a nearby pond—again, everyone was content to leave the crime ‘unsolved.’ The concept of going down the pub for a quiet drink was still several centuries in the future.
These cases all seem enigmatic and mysterious to us but were probably viewed in a far more pragmatic light at the time. Often they were not really ‘mysterious’ at all—the identity of the perpetrator was well known, but for various reasons nobody wanted to pursue things too closely. Or things were left uninvestigated precisely because they were the opposite of enigmatic. On the contrary, they were felt to be exactly what one would expect—the consequence of the illegal activities that arose all too frequently in pubs, and which were felt to be far too mundane to be worthy of more investigation. Then, as now, violence and murder among known criminals received less police attention than crimes involving innocent bystanders.
Manslaughter and Mayhem
There were a lot of manslaughter cases arising from a trip to the pub. Many men carried knives. Arguments between armed men might, not coincidentally, escalate quickly and end in an accidental, or at least unintended, death. The tiny fines that were often exacted as punishment and the quick departure of an unpursued perpetrator from a village show just how common such incidents were—although formal cases of murder might be relatively rare in the Middle Ages, unlawful death and manslaughter were not.
Less violent crime could also start in a bar and then be played out elsewhere, fuelled, as ever, by alcohol and high passions. In 1341, for instance, a woman named Agnes de Payenne got into a drunken argument in a pub. Her antagonist, a certain Guerin le Pioner, had publicly insulted her and claimed that she was talking ‘through her rotten teeth, like an old whore.’ Not surprisingly, Agnes was unimpressed by this vivid and enduring image. Knowing she would lose in a fistfight, Agnes took her debate elsewhere—she went off on her own and destroyed Guerin’s crops by way of riposte.
Sometimes men in pubs fought simply for the fun of it. One of the largest, old-style bar brawls of the age took place in Paris, at Sainte-Geneviève in 1288. It started, predictably enough, with an argument between a pimp and a disgruntled customer. By the end of that lively discussion, however, almost the entire pub had joined in, just for the sport—a violent, uninhibited celebration of the moment. Luckily for the participants, this colossal punch-up remained just that—a series of punches. When things became more serious, as they often did, it was generally because the ubiquitously carried knives had been drawn.
Want to learn more about crime during the Crusades? Check out Steve Tibble’s new book Crusader Criminals: The Knights Who Went Rogue in the Holy Land.
Dr Steve Tibble is a graduate of Jesus College, Cambridge and London University. He is an Honorary Research Associate at Royal Holloway College, University of London. Steve is a leading authority on warfare and violence in the crusading era.
Medieval pubs were more than just places to drink—they were hubs of gambling, crime, and deadly brawls. From barroom assassinations to drunken feuds that ended in murder, these rowdy establishments were as dangerous as they were lively.
By Steve Tibble
The link between pubs, alcohol, and other vices was not just a useful trope for moralists to play upon. In 1268, for instance, the Sultan Baybars refused to put a truce in place with the Crusader lord of Jaffa. According to the chronicler Ibn al-Furat, Baybars claimed that: ‘[the Franks] have set up a tavern in Jaffa and put a number of Muslim women into it, and they have deliberately undertaken other things that are not covered by truce terms.’ Presumably, under the circumstances, the women were employed as sex workers.
The notoriety of Frankish pubs spread widely—there were even records among the Jewish community in Egypt reproaching some local shellfish gatherers for drinking ‘white Egyptian beer’ in a Frankish tavern of ‘bad repute’ and, it was implied, perhaps doing more than just drinking.
Bar Fights and Violence
Violence was also very closely associated with bars, and members of the military orders were explicitly forbidden by their rules from entering them. This violence could even extend, on occasion, to murder. In 1134, Hugh, an earlier crusader lord of Jaffa, went into revolt against King Fulk of Anjou. He was found guilty by his peers and ordered into exile for three years.
Hugh enjoyed the drinking and gambling opportunities offered by the capital, however, and, as he waited for his sea passage out of the country, he was ‘lingering in Jerusalem as he was wont to do. One day he happened to be playing dice on a table before the shop [presumably, a pub] of a merchant named Alfanus in the street which is called the street of the Furriers. The count, intent upon the game, had no thought of danger. Suddenly, before all the bystanders, a knight of Brittany drew his sword in hostile fashion and stabbed the count again and again.’
Aftermath of Assassination
Hugh survived the immediate aftermath of the attack but died not long afterward. His assailant, in true Frankish fashion, faced gruesome punishment. King Fulk ‘ordered a sentence commensurate with his guilt to be pronounced upon the man. The court accordingly convened, and the assassin was sentenced by unanimous consent to suffer the penalty of mutilation of his members. The judgment was reported to the king, who ordered the sentence to be carried out.’
As there was a history of bad blood between Fulk and Hugh, however, the king went to great lengths to ensure that the process was seen to be transparent so that he could not be accused of trying to avoid being implicated in the attack. The king insisted ‘that the tongue should not be included among the members so mutilated. This exception was made lest it be said that the tongue had been removed purposely so that the criminal would be unable to confess the truth of the matter, namely, that he had been sent by the king.’
Rats in the Arras
Other examples of criminality in medieval France give an indication of just how rough things could get. The scene is Arras in northern France in the late thirteenth century. A bar-keeper had an argument with one of his neighbours, a man named Karon de Bairy. We do not know their exact relationship. The neighbour may have been a disgruntled customer or, more likely in the light of subsequent events, an erstwhile partner in one of the pub’s less wholesome side ventures.
There was nothing subtle about the affair. At the end of the argument, the publican stood in the street outside his victim’s house and threw lighted torches through the windows. The arsonist was initially arrested but later released after concerted lobbying from his friends and associates, among whom, appropriately enough for semi-organised crime, were the local priest and the mayor.
The scale and reach of the publican’s criminal activities are striking. We know, and only by coincidence, that at least one of the witnesses—a certain Peter de Savie—was a well-known murderer. And the bailli, the senior police official on the case who was responsible for the arrest (and the subsequent release) of the bar-keeper, was himself later convicted on major charges of bribery and corruption. We may never know the full story of all the criminal relationships in this case, but they were clearly pervasive.
Natural Causes, Unnatural Expectations
Violence in pubs was far more usual, and far more expected, than in other environments—hence all the sermons encouraging people to avoid them. Even this expectation of trouble could have unfortunate consequences, however. In Abbeville in the 1280s, for instance, a customer enjoying a refreshing drink died with his wine in front of him. This was sad, of course, and unusual, even by the poor standards of medieval restaurant hygiene.
But, in the event, the death was found to be due to natural causes. Tellingly, however, because everyone associated with pubs was also presumed to be connected with criminality and violence, the publican and his entire customer base were arrested as the obvious ‘usual suspects.’ The bailli and his men turned up and, lazily but not surprisingly, just assumed the worst.
This level of negative expectation and presumption of guilt grew to the point where people did not even bother to question the motives or narrative behind violence in bars. It was presumed, often correctly, that alcohol was behind a lot of it and, more generally, that it was just the kind of thing that went on in pubs.
Unsolved Crimes?
Taking late thirteenth-century Abbeville as a continuing example, we find that, in one instance of violent fighting and murder in a local pub, the police did not even try to find out what the circumstances of the fight had been. In another incident, a customer got into a fight and was eventually chased out of the pub. He was pursued but not caught—or at least that was what everyone told the police. His body was found in mysterious and unexplained circumstances seven days later, but, again, nobody bothered to resolve the matter fully. Yet another man in a separate pub murder in Abbeville was later found drowned after a bar brawl, floating in a nearby pond—again, everyone was content to leave the crime ‘unsolved.’ The concept of going down the pub for a quiet drink was still several centuries in the future.
These cases all seem enigmatic and mysterious to us but were probably viewed in a far more pragmatic light at the time. Often they were not really ‘mysterious’ at all—the identity of the perpetrator was well known, but for various reasons nobody wanted to pursue things too closely. Or things were left uninvestigated precisely because they were the opposite of enigmatic. On the contrary, they were felt to be exactly what one would expect—the consequence of the illegal activities that arose all too frequently in pubs, and which were felt to be far too mundane to be worthy of more investigation. Then, as now, violence and murder among known criminals received less police attention than crimes involving innocent bystanders.
Manslaughter and Mayhem
There were a lot of manslaughter cases arising from a trip to the pub. Many men carried knives. Arguments between armed men might, not coincidentally, escalate quickly and end in an accidental, or at least unintended, death. The tiny fines that were often exacted as punishment and the quick departure of an unpursued perpetrator from a village show just how common such incidents were—although formal cases of murder might be relatively rare in the Middle Ages, unlawful death and manslaughter were not.
Less violent crime could also start in a bar and then be played out elsewhere, fuelled, as ever, by alcohol and high passions. In 1341, for instance, a woman named Agnes de Payenne got into a drunken argument in a pub. Her antagonist, a certain Guerin le Pioner, had publicly insulted her and claimed that she was talking ‘through her rotten teeth, like an old whore.’ Not surprisingly, Agnes was unimpressed by this vivid and enduring image. Knowing she would lose in a fistfight, Agnes took her debate elsewhere—she went off on her own and destroyed Guerin’s crops by way of riposte.
Sometimes men in pubs fought simply for the fun of it. One of the largest, old-style bar brawls of the age took place in Paris, at Sainte-Geneviève in 1288. It started, predictably enough, with an argument between a pimp and a disgruntled customer. By the end of that lively discussion, however, almost the entire pub had joined in, just for the sport—a violent, uninhibited celebration of the moment. Luckily for the participants, this colossal punch-up remained just that—a series of punches. When things became more serious, as they often did, it was generally because the ubiquitously carried knives had been drawn.
Want to learn more about crime during the Crusades? Check out Steve Tibble’s new book Crusader Criminals: The Knights Who Went Rogue in the Holy Land.
on Amazon.com | Amazon.ca | Amazon.co.uk
Dr Steve Tibble is a graduate of Jesus College, Cambridge and London University. He is an Honorary Research Associate at Royal Holloway College, University of London. Steve is a leading authority on warfare and violence in the crusading era.
You can check out Steve’s other books: Templars: The Knights Who Made Britain, The Crusader Armies and The Crusader Strategy
Top Image: British Library MS Add. 42130, fol.153
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