Medieval influencers: 4 women who brought change to the Middle Ages

But disaster struck when Etienne died of the plague a decade later. Finding herself the sole provider for her children, Christine refused to remarry but instead picked up a quill. In doing so, she became the first known woman in European history to make a living as a writer.

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Christine was not only a talented author but an astute businesswoman. She became expert in book production, and leveraged her networks to ensure that her writing ended up in the hands of the highest echelons of French society. She started her career writing love poetry, but switched gears when she began to attract the attention of a wealthier audience.

She wrote political treatises for princes and other nobility, including a manual on how to be the perfect knight. She strategised, often choosing to write in French, a language “more common throughout the world than any other”, so that her books didn’t become “useless and forgotten”. She was even commissioned to write a biography of the late Charles V.

With her readership secured, Christine set out to effect change. In her political works, she called for an end to the in-fighting then plaguing the French nobility. She devoted a poem to Joan of Arc, confident that the peasant girl would lead the French to victory against the English in the Hundred Years’ War.

Most famously, she wrote back against the misogyny of her time, paving the way for later feminist writers. Considered to be the first proto-feminist tract in Europe, her Book of the City of Ladies begins with Christine in her study. She is frustrated by the “pack of lies” male authors peddle about women. She falls asleep and has a dream in which she builds an allegorical city, populated by inspirational women from throughout history.

Christine de Pizan started her career writing love poetry, but switched gears when she began to attract the attention of a wealthier audience. She wrote political treatises for princes and other nobility, including a manual on how to be the perfect knight

She tells of Empress Nicaula, better known as the Queen of Sheba, who was “more skilled in politics, statesmanship and justice” than any king, and of Queen Hypsicratea, who dressed as a male knight to help her husband achieve victory on the battlefield.

Christine uses these heroines to rebuff the vicious stereotypes about her sex – that they nagged their husbands, and were weak, unfaithful and incapable of leadership. She presented a copy of this book to the Queen of France herself, a lavish manuscript known as The Book of the Queen.

Margery Kempe: the holy woman who faced accusations of heresy and death threats to spread God’s word

It was hard to miss Margery Kempe (c1373— after 1438). Even though she was married and had given birth to at least 14 children, she would often appear dressed all in white, a colour then reserved for virgins. She was prone to disrupting church services and local events with loud and noisy outbursts of crying, and she rebuked anyone who swore an oath within earshot.

On pilgrimage, her fellow travellers, weary of her holier-than-thou attitude, exiled her to the end of the dinner table and refused to speak to her. Some loved Margery, but still more loved to hate her.

It wasn’t until after she was married that Margery decided she wanted to become a holy woman. Her dictated autobiography, The Book of Margery Kempe, tells us that she experienced the first of many visions from God after the traumatic birth of her first child.

Some years later, after a couple of failed business attempts in milling and brewing, she converted to the religious life and travelled all around the world, meeting with other holy people and following in the footsteps of saints. She even negotiated a celibate marriage with her husband because she considered herself married to God instead.

Because she was just an ordinary woman rather than a nun or an anchoress, some accused her of being a hypocrite and even thought her visions were sent from the devil. However, her book describes the positive influence she had on many others. A sinful woman on the point of death was “granted mercy” in the afterlife because Margery prayed for her soul.

Another, tormented by visions of devils after the birth of her child, underwent a miraculous recovery when Margery paid her a visit. And in 1420, when a fire threatened her hometown, Margery’s prayers helped to bring about a snowstorm to quench its flames.

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An outspoken woman who made her presence known and who refused to enclose herself in a convent or anchorhold, Margery often found herself in trouble with the authorities. Christian women in medieval Europe were forbidden from preaching and Margery’s readiness to talk about God, in public, led to serious accusations of heresy.

She was hounded to the outskirts of Canterbury by an angry mob who claimed they had a “cartful of thorns” ready to burn her with, and she was even put on trial in front of the Archbishop of York. Margery managed to talk her way out of execution, rightly asserting that she had never spoken from any pulpit, but her run-ins with the law remind us that women could find themselves in real danger if they attracted the wrong attention.

Marie de France: the poet fired by a thirst for glory – and sympathy for the sufferings of women

“The one who forgets herself is foolish,” wrote Marie de France. “Here I write my name, ‘Marie’, so that I will be remembered.”

We know little of Marie, a 12th-century French writer who spent time in England – we believe in the court of Henry II and his wife, Eleanor of Aquitaine, both of whom were energetic patrons of the arts. She is undoubtedly the most enigmatic of the four women on this list.

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But what we do know, thanks to a collection of lais – short poems that were most likely set to music to be performed at court – is that she challenged perceptions of female writers, and women more generally, in a deeply patriarchal society. Marie was well educated, leading historians to speculate that she must have been a noblewoman and perhaps even a nun.

We also know that she was successful. The prologue to her lais offers insights into her experience of entering a male-dominated profession. Anyone who has received the gift of eloquence, she insists, has a duty not to remain silent. She describes how she worked on the lais “late into the night”, hoping that they would win her “glory”. She set her sights high, dedicating the collection to the king himself.

Although many of the lais were translations of Breton stories, Marie put her own spin on them, populating them with resourceful heroines instead of damsels in distress. In Lanval, a fairy queen rescues her lover from execution. In Les Deux Amanz, a young maiden, hoping to ensure her lover’s success in a trial set up by her father, sends for a magic potion from her mysterious, powerful aunt.

Marie also offers sympathy to women who are trapped in unhappy marriages, forced to look for love elsewhere, or have sex outside of marriage. In Milun, a noblewoman uses her female network to hide her illegitimate child, and protect both his reputation and her own.

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Marie complains that anyone of “great renown” is bound to become the victim of jealousy, and certainly at least one of her contemporaries, Denis Piramus, was critical of her. Although he tells us that she was “much praised”, he ultimately dismisses her lais as frivolous fodder (“wont to please ladies”) rather than serious art.

Marie refused to let such talk stop her, and we can discern her influence today in modern updates of folk tales and legends, from Angela Carter’s The Bloody Chamber to Karrie Fransman and Jonathan Plackett’s Gender Swapped Fairy Tales.

Julian of Norwich: the lockdown saint whose words of religious fervour have carried down the years

When Julian of Norwich was 30 years old, in 1373, she lay in her sickbed, convinced she was going to die. Instead, something miraculous happened. The crucifix placed before her by a priest came to life, and she saw Jesus hanging on the cross, fresh blood dripping from his wounds. This was the first of a series of visions in which God appeared to, and spoke with, Julian.

After she had recovered from her illness, she felt compelled to write them down. She hoped her Revelations would bring comfort and inspiration to others. In her first account of these visions, known as the ‘short version’, Julian excuses herself as “a woman, ignorant, weak and frail”, a mere messenger for the word of God.

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But in her second, more celebrated version, this reference to her gender has been erased. It is possible that Julian removed mention of her sex because she feared she would be accused of heresy. Few women were writing religious texts and those who did often found themselves under serious scrutiny.

However, the fact that the ‘long version’ was written after Julian became an anchoress raises another possibility. Anchoritism was one of the most esteemed vocations of the Christian church available to a woman. A would-be anchoress had to petition the church, and they needed to have enough money to support themselves for the rest of their lives.

If their petition was accepted, they would have the funeral rites read over them by a priest before being imprisoned in a small room (or series of rooms) called a ‘cell’, usually adjoined to a church. Here they would pray, fast, reflect on God and live out the rest of their days. We don’t know what happened to Julian after she died, but many other anchoresses were destined never to leave their cells, their bodies being buried in the dirt beneath.

People came from far and wide to seek the blessing of an anchoress. We know from Margery Kempe’s Book that she went to meet Julian and to ask for her advice. After listening to Margery’s account of her visions, Julian told her to trust God and not to fear “the talk of the world” because, the more slander Margery experienced in life, the more reward she would receive in heaven.

This encounter suggests that Julian was a renowned holy woman. Perhaps her reputation as an anchoress gave her the confidence to remove some of the caveats from her Revelations?

It is possible that Julian removed mention of her sex because she feared she would be accused of heresy. Few women were writing religious texts and those who did often found themselves under serious scrutiny

As far as we know, no one read Julian’s Revelations in her own time, but it has been rediscovered and is beloved by many readers today. Hailed as the ‘lockdown saint’ during the Covid-19 pandemic, she is remembered with a sculpture at Norwich Cathedral. Ironically, her internment gave her the time, space and freedom required to create one of the most moving and poetical texts of the Middle Ages.

She hoped her Revelations, which characterise God as kind, gentle and motherly, would bring comfort and inspiration to others. Thanks to the love of God, she reminds us, “all shall be well”, no matter how much suffering we experience on earth.

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The lives of Christine, Margery, Marie and Julian reveal that, despite the challenges they faced, ordinary women could – and did – influence the world around them in the Middle Ages. Julian might have asked her readers to “forget” her name and think only of God. But by committing her experience to paper (or, rather, parchment), she ensured that she would be remembered centuries later.

This article was first published in the December 2024 issue of BBC History Magazine