Scholars have discovered the roots of stories about the wandering army of the dead known as “Hellequin’s Horde” in pagan antiquity and Germanic traditions, but the most detailed descriptions of this unearthly manifestation emerged in Latin texts from the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. Walter Map described their origin in his satirical book On the Trifles of the Courtiers. According to Map, a pygmy king doomed an ancient monarch of the Britons named Herla and his entourage to an endless, fruitless march. While Map’s use of this story served his satirical purpose—Herla’s court prefigured the vain and hectic court of his employer King Henry II—other authors invested this ancient story with a message about the Christian afterlife. The most vivid rendering of the horde’s activity came from the Anglo-Norman monk and historian Orderic Vitalis (c. 1075–c. 1142), who told how a priest named Walchelin had a nocturnal encounter with a vast column of dead soldiers and their entourage. He identified them as “Hellequin’s Horde” and described them as a purgatorial procession of suffering sinners, doomed to trudge ever onward until they earned relief from their punishment. Among them, Walchelin recognized many people he knew in life, including his beloved brother, who begged his sibling for the respite brought by prayers and alms given to the poor on his behalf.
Legends tell of one court and one alone that is similar to this court of ours [of King Henry II]. This, they say, was the court of Herla, a king of the most ancient Britons, who was put in contrast by another king, a veritable pygmy, for the smallness of his stature was no greater than that of a monkey. According to the story, this little man rode on a large goat and could be described as a kind of Pan, for he had a fervent expression, a large head, a red beard so long that it reached his chest, which was covered in spotted fawn skin, and his legs ended in the hooves of a goat.2 Herla spoke with him one on one. The pygmy said, “I am the king of many kings and princes, a people without number; I come willingly, having been sent by them to you. And although I am unknown to you, I rejoice in the fame that has elevated you above all other kings. For you are indeed the best of your kind and related to me in place and blood, and you deserve to adorn your wedding ceremony gloriously with me as your guest, when the king of the Franks gives to you his daughter in marriage. This is in the works without your knowledge and behold his ambassadors arrive today. Let there be a binding agreement between us: first I will attend your wedding and then you will attend mine on the same day next year.” Once he had said these words, quicker than a tiger, he turned around and vanished before our eyes.
The king returned home in a state of amazement, received the Frankish ambassadors, and accepted the proposal. When he was sitting ceremoniously at his wedding, behold the pygmy appeared before the first course with a great multitude of creatures like him. They sat down to dine, filling the tables, more of them sitting outside rather than inside in tents belonging to the pygmy, which were pitched in an instant. From these tents rushed servants with vessels made entirely of precious stones constructed with a skill beyond imitation. They filled the palace and the tents with dishes of gold and precious stone; they served nothing on platters of silver or wood. Wherever they were needed, there they were. They took nothing from the palace or anywhere else, pouring forth everything from their own supplies; and everything that they brought with them fulfilled the wishes and desires of everyone present. Everything that Herla had prepared sat untouched; his own servants sat still for their services were neither sought nor needed. The pygmies circled around, earning the gratitude of everyone, shining like lights among the crowds with the richness of their raiment and gems, troubling no one with word or deed, either by their presence or their absence. Then, while his servants were in the midst of their work, their king addressed King Herla thus, “Best of kings, with God as my witness I am here at your wedding according to our agreement. If I can fulfill any part of your contract more so than what you now see, I will see to it gladly down to the last detail. If not, then do not defer the return of such great honor when I seek it from you.” After he said these words, without waiting for a response, he retreated to his tent and around dawn he departed with his entourage.
The very next year, the pygmy appeared suddenly in the court of Herla to request the fulfillment of their pact. The king agreed and once he had prepared enough supplies for the repayment of the debt, he followed where he was led. Soon they entered a cavern in the face of a very tall cliff. After passing through darkness into a light which did not seem to come from the sun or the moon, but from many lanterns, they arrived at the homes of the pygmies, a dwelling place every bit as handsome as the palace of the Sun described by Ovid.3 There they celebrated the wedding, and the pact with the pygmy king was fulfilled appropriately. When he received permission to leave, Herla departed laden with gifts and presents of horses, dogs, hawks, and every accoutrement that allowed one to excel at hunting or fowling. The pygmy king escorted them as far as the darkness, where he presented Herla with a bloodhound that was small enough to carry. He warned the king in no uncertain terms, however, that no one in his whole entourage should ever dismount from their horses until the dog leapt down from his arms. With these words, he bid the king farewell and returned to his own country.
A short time thereafter, Herla returned to the light of the sun and to his kingdom. There he spoke to an old shepherd, seeking news concerning his queen, whom he mentioned by name. Looking at the king with wonder, the shepherd said, “Lord, I can hardly understand a word you say, for I am a Saxon, while you are a Briton. But I have not heard the name of that queen, except that people say that there was once a queen of the most ancient Britons who went by the same name. She was the wife of King Herla, who, the story goes, disappeared with a pygmy at this very cliff and was never seen in the world again. It has been two hundred years now since the Saxons took over this kingdom and drove out Herla’s people.” The king was stunned for he thought that he had tarried only three days; it was all he could do not to fall off his horse. Then some members of his entourage, forgetful of the pygmy’s warning, dismounted from their horses before the dog did, and immediately turned to dust. The king, understanding the reason for their distintegration, forbade under a penalty akin to death that no one should dismount their horse until the dog came down. But the dog has never come down.
And the story goes that King Herla forever follows a mad course of endless wanderings with his entourage who know neither rest nor respite. Many people have often claimed to have seen Herla’s army, so they believe. But in recent times, some maintain that in the first year of the coronation of our King Henry [1154–1155], Herla’s horde stopped coming to our country in its great numbers, as before.4 At that time, many Welshmen claimed to have seen it plunge into the Wye, Hereford’s river. Since then, this phantom patrol has ceased; it is as though they passed their wanderings on to us when they traded theirs for rest.
I do not believe that I should pass over or commit to silence an event that happened on the first of January to a priest in the diocese of Lisieux. In a village called Bonneval, there was a priest named Walchelin who served at the church of Saint Aubin, a former monk who became bishop of Angers and a confessor. On the first of January in the year of our Lord 1091, this man was summoned, as duty dictated, to visit a sick person by night on the far reaches of his parish. As he was returning home all alone and making his way far removed from any settlements, he began to hear a loud noise like that of a great army and he believed that it was the household guard of Robert of Bellême marching in haste to lay siege to Courcy. The moon in its eighth phase, in the sign of ram, was then shining brightly and showed the way for travelers. The priest was young, bold, and strong, large of body and nimble. When he heard the sound of men approaching in disorder, he became afraid and began to weigh many options in his mind, whether he should flee so that he would not be assaulted by lowly minions and shamefully robbed, or whether he should raise a defiant hand in his own defense if someone confronted him. At length he spied four medlar trees in a field some way off from the road. He decided to run to them quickly and hide until the horsemen had passed by. Then a man of enormous size carrying a giant mace blocked his way as he ran, and with his weapon poised over his head, the man said, “Stand still and go no farther!” The priest immediately did as he was told and, leaning on the staff that he was carrying, he stood very still. The stern warrior stood beside him and, doing the priest no harm, watched as the army passed by. Behold, a huge horde of people on foot went past and they were carrying on their necks and shoulders animals and clothing and all manner of furniture and household goods just like pillagers do. They were all lamenting excessively and urging one another to hurry. The priest recognized among them many of his neighbors who had recently died and he heard them bemoaning the great torments by which they were being tortured because of their sins. Then a horde of coffin bearers followed and the giant quickly joined their march. Nearly five hundred biers were being carried and each one was shouldered by two carriers.6 Furthermore, upon the biers sat men as small as dwarves, but they had huge heads like barrels. Indeed, two Ethiopians were carrying a giant tree trunk and upon the trunk a wretched man, cruelly bound, was being tortured and he was crying out, emitting screams amid his dire torments. Then a terrifying demon, which was sitting upon the trunk, goaded the bleeding man mercilessly on his legs and back with fiery spurs. Walchelin actually recognized this man as the murderer of a priest named Stephen and realized that he was suffering unbearably for the blood of the innocent man that he had spilled two years previously, for he had died before he could complete his penance for such a terrible crime.
Next followed a cohort of women, whose multitude seemed without number to the priest. They were riding in the manner of women, sitting on sidesaddles in which burning nails had been affixed. The wind was frequently lifting them up the length of a cubit from the saddle and then dropping them back upon the spikes.7 Wounded by the hot nails in their buttocks and tormented frightfully by the stabs and the burning, these women cried out, “Woe, woe!” and openly bemoaned the sins for which they were suffering such punishments. Indeed, it was for the enticements and obscene delights that they had indulged in while they were alive that they now endured dreadful fires and stenches and many more torments than they could ever tell, and they bemoaned their punishments, crying out with wretched voices. In this troop, the priest recognized certain noblewomen and he saw horses and mules with empty litters belonging to women who were not yet dead.
Terrified by these sights, Walchelin began to contemplate their many possible meanings. Not much farther along he saw a crowded column of clergymen and monks and also noticed their leaders—bishops and abbots—with their pastoral staffs. The clergymen and bishops wore their black caps; the monks and abbots were dressed likewise in their black cowls. They were groaning and lamenting and a few of them called out to Walchelin and asked for the sake of their past friendship that he pray for them. The priest related that he had seen many prelates of sterling reputation there, who men now believed to have joined the saints in heaven. Indeed, he saw Bishop Hugh of Lisieux and the famous abbots Mainer of Saint-Évroul and Gerbert of Saint-Wandrille and many others who I cannot recall by name. I will not try to commit their names to writing. Human perception often fails, but the eye of God pierces to the marrow. A human being sees what is on the surface, but God looks upon the heart. In the kingdom of eternal blessedness an everlasting brightness shines upon all things and there perfect sanctity, having obtained every delight, exults in the sons of the kingdom. Nothing without order happens there; nothing polluted enters there; nothing sordid and contrary to honesty is found there. Whatever sin the filth of the flesh has committed is burned away by a cleansing fire and is made clean by many kinds of purgation according to the decision of the eternal judge. And just as a vessel, scrubbed clean of rust and carefully polished all over, is placed in a treasury, so too the soul, cleansed from the contagion of every sin, enters paradise, and there, fortified with every happiness, it rejoices without fear or concern.
After he had seen these terrible things, the priest trembled uncontrollably and, supported by his staff, he waited for worse things to come. Behold, a teeming army of soldiers followed next. They sported no color except for black and a flickering fire. All of them were mounted upon huge horses and girded with every conceivable weapon as though they were hastening to war, and they flew pitch-black standards. Richard and Baldwin, the sons of Count Gilbert, who had recently died, could be seen there, as well as many others who I cannot hope to number. Among the rest, Landry of Orbec, who had died that same year, began to speak to the priest, and relayed his messages to him with terrifying shouts, beseeching him emphatically to convey his instructions to his wife. But the hordes behind and up ahead interrupted his words and said to the priest, “Do not believe Landry, for he is a liar.” He had been viscount and advocate of Orbec and had risen far beyond his humble origins through his innate intelligence and honesty. But in lawsuits and pleas, he judged according to his will and perverted his judgments in return for money, a servant more to greed and fraud than to any moral standard. For this reason, he deserved to be shamed in his suffering and openly called a liar by his companions. In this judgment, no one flattered him and no one beseeched him for his clever pleading. Truly, because he was accustomed to closing his ears to the cries of the poor, now in his torments he was judged to be contemptible and unworthy of a hearing.
After the great cohort of many thousands had marched on, Walchelin began to think to himself, “Without a doubt, this is Hellequin’s horde. I have heard from many people that they had once seen it, but incredulous I mocked their stories because I never saw any firm proof concerning such things. Now I truly do see the spirits of the dead, but no one will believe me when I tell them what I have seen unless I can show some sure proof to the living. Therefore, I will catch one of the riderless horses that follows the horde. I will mount it swiftly, ride it home, and show it to my neighbors to earn their belief.” Soon he grabbed the reins of a pitch-black horse, but this animal shook itself from his grasping hand and, running as though winged, it galloped after the dark host. The priest was disheartened by his failed attempt, but he was young in age, bold and agile, indeed swift of body and strong. Prepared, he stood in the middle of the road and held out his hand to an approaching horse that appeared most ready to be taken. The horse stopped to allow the priest to mount and, exhaling from its nostrils, it produced a great cloud in the shape of the tallest oak tree. Then the priest put his left foot in the stirrup and, once he had seized the reins, placed his hand on the saddle. Suddenly he felt an intense heat, like a burning fire, under his foot and an indescribable chill penetrated his heart through the very hand that held the reins.
While this was happening, four horrific horsemen arrived and asked with booming voices, “Why are you stealing our horses? You will come with us. None of us harmed you, yet you have tried to take what is ours.” The priest was very frightened and let go of the horse, and as three of the horsemen were about to seize him, the fourth one said, “Let him be, and allow me to speak to him, because I want to send my instructions to my wife and my sons through him.” Then he addressed the fearful priest directly, “Listen to me, I beg you, and relay to my wife what I command.” The priest responded, “I do not know who you are and I would not recognize your wife.” The soldier said, “I am William of Glos, the son of Barnon, who was once the well-known steward of William of Breteuil and his father Count William of Hereford. Among mortals I made unfair judgments and seized plunder, and I am guilty of more crimes than anyone can relate. Usury torments me more than all other sins. I lent my money to a certain man in need, and I received a mill that he owned as security. When he was unable to repay the loan, I retained the mill for the rest of my life, disinheriting the rightful heir when I left it to my own heirs. Behold, I carry the burning iron of a mill-shaft in my mouth, which seems to me heavier to carry than the castle at Rouen. Therefore, tell my wife Beatrice and my son Roger to help me by restoring with all haste to the rightful heir the surety from which they have received much more than I ever gave.” The priest responded, “William of Glos died long ago and a message of this kind would find no acceptance by any of the faithful. I have no idea who you are, nor who your heirs might be. If I should presume to tell this story to Roger of Glos or to his brothers or to their mother, they would ridicule me as a madman.” Persisting further, William beseeched him resolutely and put forward with urgency many recognizable signs of his identity. But the priest, though he understood all that he heard, nonetheless pretended that he did not understand at all. Finally, overcome by William’s insistent prayers, Walchelin agreed and promised that he would fulfill what he was asked to do. Then William repeated the details of his story once more and in a long tale he related many things to the priest. Meanwhile, the priest thought to himself that he would not dare to relay the commands of this wretched undead to anyone. “It is not right,” he said, “to proclaim such things. There is no way that I will share what you have imparted to me with anyone.” The enraged knight thrust out his hand, seized the priest by the throat, and uttered threats as he dragged him along the ground. The captive man could feel the hand that held him burning like fire, and in great distress he cried out, “Holy Mary, glorious mother of Christ, help me!” As soon as he called upon the most pious mother of the son of God, help ordained by the All-Mighty appeared at once. For a knight approached carrying only a sword in his right hand and brandishing the naked blade as though about to thrust, he said, “Why are you cursed men murdering my brother? Leave him alone and go!” Off they galloped at once in pursuit of the dark host.
When they had gone, the knight tarried on the road with Walchelin and asked him, “Do you not recognize me?” The priest responded, “No.” The knight said, “I am Robert, the son of Ralph the Fair, and I am your brother.” As the priest marveled at this unexpected turn of events and was tormented greatly on account of everything that he had seen and felt (as I have described), the knight began to recount for him many details of their shared childhood and to relate well-known proofs to him. The priest remembered well everything that he heard, but not daring to confess with his mouth, he denied everything. At last the knight said, “I marvel at your hardness and stubbornness. I took care of you after the death of our parents and I loved you more than any other person. I sent you to schools in France, I supplied you with clothing and cash in abundance, and I strived hard to help you in many other ways. Now you seem to have forgotten these things and disdain to recognize me at all.” Once these truthful stories had been offered in abundance, the priest was then convinced by the knight’s assertion and openly acknowledged his brother’s account with tears. Then the knight said to him, “By all rights you deserve to die and to come with us now as a participant in our suffering because you took what was ours with a wicked rashness. No one else has ever dared to do this, but the mass that you sang today saved you from death. Also I have now been allowed to appear to you and to show you how wretched I am. After I last spoke with you in Normandy, blessed by you I traveled to England. There I met the end of my life by the Creator’s command, and I have endured immense punishments for the sins by which I was so greatly burdened. The weapons that we carry burn like fire and they taint us with a terrifying stench and they oppress us greatly with their massive weight and they burn with a fire that does not go out. Up to now I have suffered unspeakable torment from punishments of this kind. But when you were ordained in England and you sang your first mass for the faithful departed, your father Ralph was released from punishment and my shield, which caused me such pain, fell off. I still carry this sword, as you can see, but this very year I await in faith for my release from this burden.”
When the knight was relating these things and others like them and the priest was listening to him carefully, he saw at the knight’s heels around his spurs a mass of blood in the shape of a human head. Marveling, the priest asked, “Why do you have such a great clot of blood on your feet?” And the knight responded, “It is not blood, but fire, and it weighs more than if I was carrying Mont Saint-Michel.8 Because it was my custom to wear spurs that were bright and sharp so that I could gallop quickly to spill blood, I rightfully bear this enormous load upon my heels, by which I am weighed down so intolerably that I cannot evoke the extent of my pain to anyone. The living should constantly consider these things and tremble, indeed beware, lest they suffer such dire penalties for their own sins. I cannot speak with you any longer, brother, because I am compelled to follow in haste this wretched host. I beg you, remember me and assist me with your pious prayers and alms. For I hope to be saved one year from Palm Sunday and to be freed from all of these torments by the mercy of the Creator. Be mindful of your own fate and lead your life wisely, for it is already stained with many sins, and know that it will not last long. For the time being, keep silent. The things which you have inadvertently seen and heard, do not speak of them for now and do not try to tell anyone about them for three days.”
Once he had said these things, the knight departed in haste and the priest was seriously ill for a week. Then, at last, he began to recover and went to Lisieux, where he told the entire story to Bishop Gilbert and received from him the remedies that he required. He lived in good health for another fifteen years. I heard from him personally all the things that I have written and many other things that have been lost to oblivion and I saw on his face the wound caused by the touch of the terrible knight. I have recorded these things for the edification of my readers, so that the just may be strengthened in their goodness and the wicked may be recovered from evil. Now I will return to the matter at hand.