Finally, we are back with a new extract from the forthcoming book ‘Highly Holy’, venturing into Chapter Five (‘Traces, Transitions and the Healer’s Touch’) and the thorny territory of continuity and change from the pre-Christian to the conversion era(s) in the Pyrenees! Apologies for the delay, normal service will now (more or less) be resumed!
Extract I from Chapter Five, ‘Traces, Transitions and the Healer’s Touch’
The issues of continuity, conversion and transition with the arrival and spread of Christianity within Europe are ones which have provided fertile ground for discussion and argument in scholarship for many decades, and centuries within the Church itself, albeit in a more critical (and concerned) sense. Across the ethnographic, historical and archaeological record there is a great deal of evidence to suggest that some pre-Christian practices or deities were adopted into a Christian calendar, places which were once considered holy in pre-Christian times were used by the Church for their own ends and symbols which have long flowed in the human memory took on new meanings under Christianity, often in a concerted and deliberate effort by the Church itself. The idea that pre-Christian elements of festivities, deities or legends survived and mutated into different forms under Christianity, whilst retaining vestiges or their outer trappings or inner meanings is hardly a radical one, although to what degree has been discussed in hundreds of thousands of pages. Much has also been made of a supposed tension between these ideas, although many scholars also argue that the human mind is quite capable of holding two things to be true in tandem; a site can be holy for multiple reasons, not all of which have to fit into a seamless schematic, and indeed for later generations the ‘why’ can become lost entirely, leaving only the ‘where’.
This pattern is no less true in the Pyrenees, and the wealth of toponymical, ethnographic, archaeological and historical detail attests to this. With the arrival of Christianity during the Roman Empire, its first presence in the Pyrenees was one of a persecuted and somewhat clandestine faith. After the Edict of Milan in 313 this changed and within a decade was adopted as the official faith of the Roman Empire. With the Empire’s collapse, new and unorthodox strains of Christianity were introduced to the region via the Visigoths, but it was still Christianity, giving way to the Catholicism of the Franks in the early sixth century. Prior to the dispatch of the ‘seven Apostles of Gaul’ by Pope Fabian in 250, their message penetrating into and sometimes beyond the Pyrenees, there existed earlier communities of Christians in Gaul, frequently under heavy persecution. Yet far more prevalent were a great many gods and goddesses within a shifting series of pantheons which could, very broadly, be classed across the Pyrenees under the rough terms of Gaulish, Celtiberian, Basque and Roman.[1] The latter proved to be a mercurial pantheon which could adapt to local deities which represented the same virtue, quality or element. There were also hyper-local deities too, evidence for which is found only within one or two particular localities via inscribed (Latin) altars. It is not the purpose of this chapter to provide a detailed picture of the pre-Christian Pyrenees but to instead examine examples of sites and celebrations which bear hallmarks of pre-Christian worship that have been adopted and transmuted into the Pyrenean liturgical calendar, as well as provide examples of folk magic which invoke saints for the purposes of healing, protection and other beneficial actions. However, to do this it is worth setting the scene as to what the ‘Apostles of Gaul’ encountered and what the formalized Church, some two centuries later, was in the process of moulding into a Christian framework.
The Gods worshipped in the Pyrenees prior to the arrival of the Romans continued to be venerated after the region became integrated with the Roman Empire. The inhabitants shared their prayers between the traditional Gods and the newly arrived Roman deities in order to ensure their own protection. The Romans brought their culture, language and gods to the Pyrenees. The latter could be said to have largely remained relegated to the cities, leaving, with some exceptions, the world of rural local divinities still intact in the more remote Pyrenean valleys. Throughout all Roman territories, one of the fundamental (and indeed obligatory) cults was that of the Imperial Cult. The Imperial Cult was not the deification of the reigning emperor, but rather the joint celebration of both Rome and the emperor. The latter was responsible for a perfect world, personified by Rome, where he reigned while peace existed within the Empire and between gods and men. This allowed the Imperial Cult to exist (and be enforced) alongside local pantheons and imported Roman pantheons without being at the exclusion of venerating other divinities.[2]
From inscriptions found across the Pyrenees, we know of at least forty-five names of Pyrenean deities that are present in the archaeological record, typically on funerary monuments and, most commonly, votive stone altars. A few, such as ‘Xuban’ (found on an altar near Comminges and Arbas in Gascony, where an inscription which refers to him as Xuban deo) and ‘Edelat’ (found in a single inscription on a votive altar in Benque (Haute-Garonne), possibly a Latin name for a local god) occur only once. It has been suggested that Xuban may have been associated with a local mountain.[3] An inscription referring to Dianae et Horolati et Garre deo has been found at the foot of the Gar mountain, with Horolati possibly referring to an eponymous god of the Ore village, and ‘Garre’ referring to a god of the local Gar mountain.[4] The village of Saint-Pe-d’Ardat has an inscription Artehe deo, an interesting name that combines both its new patron St Pierre and its former, Arteh, likely another local god.
At Escunhau, in the Val d’Aran, there is an inscription dedicated to Iluberrixo, whose name resembles many other Pyrenean deities (‘Iluro’, ‘Ilumber’ etc.) and some Pyrenean Roman towns (Illiberis which became Elne, Eliberis or Elimberris Auscorum which in turn became Auch.[5] It is possible that this points towards a broader Pyrenean divinity whose name was adapted to local dialects yet fulfilled the same role, sharing the same etymological root. In this vein, we find more frequently represented deities in inscriptions, such as Baicorrix (otherwise known as ‘Baigorisco’, ‘Baigorix’ or ‘Buaioris’, and possibly relating to a ‘Behigorri’, an underground Basque spirit or guardian), ‘Ilun’ (again, possibly deriving from a Basque etymological construct relating to the evening, the moon or darkness), and Abellion (a deity, Abellio, related to sun worship and assimilated into the cult of Apollo with no less than eight recorded inscriptions). With regard to the latter, a carved ‘Cross of Béliou’ exists in the valley of Lesponne (Hautes-Pyrénées), and this stone altar is the most visible vestige of the cult, on which a round face is carved, along with two reused Gallo-Roman altar stones in the church Saint Arventin (Larboust, Haute-Garonne) which bear inscriptions to him.[6] Another figure of note in the Pyrenean pantheon seems to be ‘Ageio’ (or ‘Ageion’, ’Egeion’), found in the Baronnies valley in the Hautes-Pyrénées. The inscription on his altar references the mountains, suggesting a strong link between the local peaks and his cult, as well as the potential for his being a patron of the local iron mines.[7] In Caumont (Ariège) a stone was found on the site of a Roman castrum with an inscription referencing the goddess ‘Ande’,[8] and in the valley of the river Louge (Haute-Garonne) five altars were discovered referencing the goddess ‘Lahe’.[9]
The ‘Mask of Montsérié’ is an excellent high-status example of the material culture associated with these Pyrenean gods. Crafted from a single sheet of bronze, this mask found in the sanctuary of Montsérié (Hautes-Pyrénées) portrays a bearded male deity. Dating is controversial, ranging from the third century BC to the second century AD, and could represent either a votive offering or a standing representation of the divinity in question. At the same site (protohistoric & Gallo-Roman) were found statues of a wild cockerel, a boar, coins and votive stelae, the latter being dedicated to the god ‘Erge’. Dolmens still stand on the site, and the high altitude has led some to suggest that it allowed for the observation of the stars.[10]
Contact between the local Pyrenean Gods and the Roman Pantheon brought about a mixing of divinities and a sort of assimilation. Local divinities became hidden or amalgamated with their Roman counterparts under a Latin name. For example, the god ‘Leherennus’ became known as ‘Leherennus Mars’, particularly around the Ardiège commune (Haute-Garonne) where all inscriptions mention Leherennus in connection with Mars, as well as on a stone robbed from another temple or altar in the walls of the Aruse Priory near Saint-Bertrand-de-Comminges, where Joseph Pouy-Fourca de Parra deduced that the name ‘Aruse’ derived from another inscription, Ara, which he interpreted as referring to a local deity.[11] Other gods emerged out of this melting pot, such as ‘Fagus’, a god of Beech trees, known from four inscriptions found in the Haute-Pyrenees where there are numerous beech forests. Interestingly, this area’s language has been described as Proto-Basque rather than Celtic, whereas Fagus is the Latin term for Beech, indicating that he was simply renamed under a Latin term rather than his previous probable indigenous epithet. In Loudenvielle (Hautes-Pyrénées) an altar references ‘Arixo’, which has been suggested as having a link with the oak tree, known as aritza in Basque. Similarly, in Saint-Pé-d’Ardet (Haute-Garonne) five dedications have been found to ‘Artahe’ or ‘Artehe’, whose name resembles the Basque for holm oak, arte. This cluster suggests the presence of an ancient sanctuary.[12] In Arbas and Montespan (Haute-Garonne) there are also votive references to ‘Sexsarbor’, which can be loosely translated as ‘Six Trees’, indicating that this may have been a deified tree, as with ‘Fagus’.[13] The nineteenth-century etymologist and historian Sacaze was convinced that the Pyrenean being ‘Tantugou’ held a similar role to the forest guardians of Roman myth.[14] In Luchonaisse mythology, Tantugou appears as a tall bearded old man, dressed in a hooded tunic with animal skins, and armed with a club, similar to the Aragonese ‘Silvan’ figure across the border, whose name bears more than a hint of Latin influence. His role is typically to protect crops, flocks, and the secrets of nature, ensuring that no thieves of these things go unpunished. Tantugou is associated with the Gallo-Celtic god Sucellos, himself a hooded, bearded pastoral god who roams the land.[15] Some deities will no doubt exist whose votive altars protect their anonymity, being dedicated as many are to montibus (the mountains) or fontibus (springs). Interestingly it seems that latter appears more frequently than the former, possibly influenced by the imported Roman cult of the nymphs, or possibly simply reflecting that age-old impulse to venerate the source of water, that gifts the ability to live. Many of the votive altars which provide the name evidence for these Gods, at least in their Latinised form, survive in the area of Marignac (Haute-Garonne). In short, the Pyrenean world into which the first Christians came, and subsequently the Church once it began to establish itself formerly following acceptance by the Roman Empire, was one in which the topography was marked by a combination of native and Latinised deities and land spirits, all of which would have held strong roots in the daily lives of local people. In order to sway the minds of these people, each of whom represented a potential layperson, arguments and miracles were not always enough; it was also necessary to follow the Roman lead and pursue a moderately syncretic process. Even where this was not pursued and strong attempts were made to supress pre-Christian beliefs and practises, examples given later in this chapter will demonstrate that vestiges remained in the context of local folklore, often with Christianised motifs. Cultural confrontation was a very real phenomenon and when aiming to introduce Christianity to a populace already rooted in their own native tradition, there is the danger of minimising Christian essentials in order to incorporate indigenous customs, thereby walking the line between cultural alienation and religious syncretism. This worry was perhaps best expressed at this early time by the fourth-century Emperor Julian, whose writings indicate that he considered that ‘each ethnic and national group had its own unique origin, character, and god, and that it was ill-advised to attempt to modify the cultural and religious traditions derived from this organic uniqueness.’[16] Despite the misgivings of Julianism regarding such evangelising, Christianity made significant and rapid headway in most areas of the Pyrenees throughout the fourth and fifth centuries, with real resistance only really being encountered within the Basque regions of Aquitaine and Gascony up until the eighth and ninth centuries, which necessitated the sending of further missionaries such as Saint Léon de Bayonne to convert (or re-convert) the remaining populace.[17]
Man is a religious animal, and throughout history this need has been expressed in many different ways for some spiritual underpinning to human existence. Often this expression becomes, at least partially, rooted to space and place. This is clearly true within animistic practices and polytheistic practices, many of which are tied to a certain cultural or ethnic group and consequently a geographic location. Yet it would be a mistake to see this approach as lacking in monotheistic, universalist doctrines, such as Christianity. The instances of pilgrimage sites, apparition shrines and saint cults found in previous chapters all demonstrate an affinity for representations of the divine which are specific to particular places not only in terms of occurrence but also often in terms of meeting the needs of the local community. One could argue that this association of place and spirit (outside of biblical sites) reached back to the early Christian martyrs, whose places of burial were often guarded by Roman authorities to (unsuccessfully) prevent their becoming shrines. The majority soon possessed chapels, churches and basilicas on the site of either the burial or the martyrdom once Christianity became an accepted and then celebrated part of the Roman Empire’s spiritual landscape. This is true in many of the Roman urbes and vici throughout the Pyrenees in which Paleo-Christian martyr cults flourished. Many of these would then become bishoprics and diocese centres, such as Pamplona, Toulouse, Saint-Bertrand-de-Comminges etc. Many of these burial sites were within Roman necropolises, which did not traditionally contain extant cults relating to Roman or local pantheons; by that measure many of those churches and chapels raised on sites of martyrdom cannot be considered to be repurposing existing sacred sites. It is therefore fruitless to search for direct instances of site replacement in the early days of Pyrenean Christianity after the Edict of Milan. Judging by the archaeological contexts in which they were found, the votive altars described above were frequently found in natural spaces and Christian culture tended to be focused on urban centres, at least in the third and fourth centuries during the main evangelising drive from Rome after the end of Christian persecution in the Empire. One exception to this urban rule can be found in the element of water; more specifically, holy springs or fountains which feature so prominently in hagiographies, particularly in reference to occurrences of martyrdom and healing. These are typically found outside of cities and towns, in the countryside, and usually connected to the killing of a saint, a miracle or a hermitage. A great many of these are referenced in Chapters Three and Four and present an entry point into the issue of continuity and assimilation or imposition. It is now time to examine the role of water in Christian liturgy and symbolism, as well as the potential for overlap between the pre-existing veneration of springs and rivers in the pre-Christian Pyrenees and the possible incorporation of those same springs (or nearby ones) into sacred Christian topography. Holy wells and springs are strong survivors of mythologised landscapes, frequently with layered histories of worship and intent. They offer a starting point in this discussion especially in conjunction with the figure of the Virgin Mary.
Water sources were an integral part of pre-Christian sacred landscapes across Europe (and the world), with springs, wells and rivers forming key topographical and mythological elements in Norse, Germanic, Celtic, Classical, Slavic and Finnish traditions. A water supply was an essential condition for a community’s survival, not only for drinking but also for irrigation and raising livestock. However whilst it promoted life and fertility, water also held the power to destroy, drown and flood; as such it was revered and feared, and often so as to plea for clemency, a process which evolved into the reverence for divine water entities. Water also holds a numinous aspect, in terms of its springing from the ground, and in the pre-Christian world it was often believed that such springs gushed forth from deep in the earth where the divine world was situated; springs were gifts from the gods, and along with rivers, lakes and seas, a threshold to that world. Such was the importance of springs across the pre-Christian board that there are countless injunctions by Christian kings, Church leaders and theologians between the fourth and eleventh centuries from Rome to Britain and modern-day Germany against the local populace worshipping at springs. The sixth-century Saint Martin of Braga in his ‘On Reforming Pagans’ specifically warns that ‘many of those demons that have been expelled from heaven have their seat in the sea or in rivers or in springs or in woods’; eleventh-century King of England Cnut defines paganism as being when ‘one worships heathen gods, and sun or moon, fire or running water (rivers), wells (springs) or stones or any kind of wood’; and Charlemagne’s laws refer to any man making ‘a vow at springs or trees or groves’ where ‘some stupid people do lights or perform other observations’. For the Romans, Servius makes the blunt statement that ‘nullus enim fons nor sacer’ (‘there is in fact no spring that is not sacred’).[18]
With regard to the Pyrenees, it seems that for the Gauls and Celtiberians, water was the element par excellence in terms of sacrality. For the Gauls, who shared the Pyrenees with the Celtiberians and the Basques, springs and water sources were commonly associated with female deities and the power of healing. Rivers, wells and springs are a frequent motif in Celtic mythology, often relating to healing, wisdom or some manner of transmission from the Otherworld. Many of their hydronyms reference deities, using the root deva, derived from the old Indo-european root *deivo or *deiva, which means ‘divine’. Examples can be found in Britain with the Rivers Dee and Devon, and in Gaul via the Rivers Dive, Divette and Divatte, as well as the la Deba and la Deva in Spain. In ‘De Bello Gallico’, Julius Caesar uses the name ‘Sequana’ for the River Seine, a name which appears to be related to a goddess via inscriptions found on various objects discovered at Sources-de-la-Seine during excavations throughout the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. These inscriptions reference Dea Sequana and were found on four altars, a stele, a gold ring, a red coarse jar and stone leg and a bronze plaque; a number of ex-votos were also found, indicating pilgrimage to this place during the Gallo-Roman period.[19] After the Roman Empire conquered Gaul between 58 and 51 BC, the process of Romanising the Gaulish deities took place, resulting in a Gallo-Roman pantheon was often associated with natural springs, with many Gallo-Roman temples located near water sources:[20]
There was also a link between the depths of earth and of water. This can be seen in the importance of the spring or well, continually found in or beside holy places. Some of these possessed medicinal qualities, but others are only sources of pure water. […] There were many Celtic sanctuaries at the sources of rivers or beside lakes, and offerings where regularly thrown into water.[21]
In Gaul, ‘springs were often aménagés, kitted out with specially constructed pools, in temple precincts’, and part of the Roman culture which merged with Gaulish beliefs held a heavy reverence for ‘the genius (spirit), or the power (numen) of the spring, the power of the nymphs of the water, the spring powers, the divine springs, the most holy spring’.[22] Much of this power was directed towards healing and the presence of healing divinities, ‘among them were gods called ‘Mars’ or ‘Apollo’ in Gaul and Britain, typically with a local Celtic title added […] Apollo’s speciality in Gaul, according to Caesar, was depellere morbos, ‘to get rid of illnesses’. Maponus (‘Youth’), a title of this healing god ‘Apollo’, has a spring, Mabonus fons, which was still named after him in a cartulary of the abbey of Savigny (Rhône) around 1090.’[23] Many of the hot springs which are still present in the Pyrenees today possess Roman or pre-Roman origins. A god regularly associated with these Gallo-Roman hot springs was ‘Apollo Bormo’ and his worship is attested at many sites in which the prefix Aix or Ax is present, such as at Ax-les-Thermes (Ariège).[24] In Bagnères-de-Luchon and Montaubon-de-Luchon (Haute-Garonne) an altar was discovered near the Roman baths dedicated to Ilixon, which suggests that a deity linked to the springs and healing, and the toponyms Luchon is thought to be linked to this name.[25]
For the Celtiberians, many questions remain to be answered with regard to their religious beliefs. Archaeological research has in recent years begun to carve out a basic understanding in this area. This relates primarily to urban sites, however work by Ayllón-Martin has identified thirty-seven sacred spaces in the form of caves, groves and mountains. By the time of the Romans’ establishment of a new cultural and social order, a great many of these Celtiberian sacred sites likely existed within central and eastern Hispania Citerior Tarroconensis, which includes the central and eastern Pyrenees, as well as the modern provinces of Soria, Guadalajara and Cuenca, eastern Segovia, southern Burgos and La Rioja, western Zaragoza and Teruel and the north-east of Valencia. They were a wide range of people with ‘different chronologies and fluctuating boundaries between them’ but, despite these variations between different Celtiberian tribes, water emerges as a fundamental feature of many of their sacred spaces:
The location of these sacred spaces influenced the deity’s identity and its attributes, and these, in turn, defined votive offerings that were also determined by the cultural or religious needs of the nearby communities. In general terms, the availability of water stands out as the most common feature in natural sacred spaces in Celtiberia with up to twenty-three sites, as springs and rivers are found in the vicinity of caves and groves.[26]
Whilst remaining speculation due to a lack of material evidence, Ayllón-Martin’s identification of a high presence of Matres in the north-western Celtiberia may also have been similarly represented within the Pyrenean areas which fell within Celtiberian tribal territories, and her findings bear repeating due to their link with water:
The distribution of the Matres in this area matches several sacred spaces discussed in this paper. They were not only fertility goddesses of earth and water, both essential elements upon which subsistence farmers depended, but also fecundity, abundance and health deities, which explains their close connection with water cults. In this regard, at least four of the aforementioned sites had healing waters and all of them were located in important natural paths and mountains passes.[27]
The Matres were commonly revered in Celtiberia (as well as in Gaul, Germania and northern Italy) as a Romanised version of indigenous female deities who represent the fertility of the fields, prosperity and often are triadic in nature. They were also protectors of the hearth. It is believed that the Matres were the origin of the Medieval figure of Melusine, a female spirit of fresh water in holy wells and rivers, often with a serpent’s or fish’s body from the waist down.[28] Some scholars believe that the Lords of Biscay and the Blanch lineage in Catalonia both claims their origins from the Melusine and therefore, by extension, to the Matres; in the case of the Blanch line, their mythological ancestor is said to be the ‘dona d’aigua’, the lady of the water.[29] Along with the Matres, the goddess ‘Reue’ is also thought to represent the deification of the rivus or stream, deriving from the root *reu-, which likely related to flow, water current and river, and links to mountainous areas. An example of an inscription from the Celtiberian territories which relates to ‘Reue’ reads Reue Anabaraecus, which contains ‘the element ana (with its obvious river connotation) and bara, which sometimes means ‘riverbank’ and other times expresses a hydronym. Therefore, the dedication probably means ‘to the god Reue of the riverbank of Ana’.[30]
[1] The term ‘Basque’ is here used to refer to the Vasconic and Aquitanian groups which inhabited the lands that would become commonly referred to as ‘Basque’.
[2] Fishwick, Duncan, The Imperial Cult in the Latin West (Leiden: Brill Publishing, 1987).
[3] de Marliave, Olivier, Dictionnaire de Mythologies Basque et Pyrénéenne (Paris: Éditions Entente, 1993).
[4] Sacaze, Julien, Les Anciens Dieux des Pyrenees: Nomenclature et Distribution (Saint-Gaudens: Imprimerie et Librairie Abadie, 1885).
[5] Ibid.
[6] de Marliave, Olivier, Tresor de la Mythologie Pyreneenne (Toulouse: Editions Sud Ouest, 1996)
[7] Sacaze, 1885.
[8] Ibid.
[9] Rodriguez, Laëtitia & Sablayrolles, Robert, Les Autels Votifs du Musée Saint-Raymond, Musée des Antiques de Toulouse (Toulouse: Musée Saint-Raymond & Musée des Antiques de Toulouse, 2008).
[10] Tarrats Bou, Francesc, L’Astre Olimp. Els Pirineus a l’Antiguitat: Societat, Economia I Religio. Guia de l’Exposicio, 29 de Gener al 16 de Maig de 2010 (Tarragon: Museu Nacional Arqueològic de Tarraona, 2010).
[11] Pouy-Fourca de Parra, Joseph, ‘Prieuré d’Aruse’, Mosaïque du Midi, Vol. I, 1838, pp. 98 – 101.
[12] Sablayrolle, Robert & Beyrie, Argitxu, Carte Archéologique de la Gaule 31-2: Le Comminges (Hautes-Garonne) (Paris: Éditions de la Maison des Sciences de l’Homme, 2006).
[13] Sablayrolle, Robert, Les Dieux des Bucherons à l’Époque de la Domination Romaine in Protoindustrie et Histoire des Forêts, Actes du Colloque Loubière, 10 – 13 Octobre 1990 (Toulouse: Les Cahiers d’Isard, 1992), pp. 15 – 26.
[14] Sacaze, 1885.
[15] de Marliave, Olivier & Pertuze, Jean-Claude, La Panthéon Pyrénéen (Carbonne: Éditions Loubatieres, 1990).
[16] Russell, James, The Germanization of Early Medieval Christianity (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1994), p. 12.
[17] Ibid.
[18] Dowden, Ken, European Paganism: The Realities of Cult from Antiquity to the Middle Ages (London: Routledge, 2000), pp. 42 – 43.
[19] Noémie, Beck, ‘the River-Goddess in Celtic Traditions: Mother, Healer and Wisdom Purveyer’, in Mélanges en l’Honneur de Pierre-Yves Lambert, Guillaume Ouder et al. (Eds.) (Rennes: Tir, 2015), pp. 277 – 297. Available here: https://hal.science/hal-03275671v1/document
[20] For an assessment of these Gallo-Roman temples, see: Goodman, Penelope, ‘Temples in Late Antique Gaul’, in The Archaeology of Late Antique ‘Paganism’ (Leiden: Brill Publishing, 2011), pp. 165 – 193.
[21] Ellis Davidson, Hilda, Myths and Symbols in Pagan Europe (Syracuse, NY: Syracuse University Press, 1988), pp. 25 – 26.
[22] Dowden, 2000, p. 43.
[23] Ibid., p. 45.
[24] Ibid.
[25] Rodriguez & Sablayrolles, 2008, p. 193.
[26] Ayllón-Martin, Ruth, ‘Natural Sacred Spaces in Celtiberia: Myth and Reality’, in Sacred Landscapes in Antiquity: Creation, Manipulation, Transformation (Oxford: Oxbow Books, 2020), p. 105.
[27] Ibid., p. 112.
[28] For a detailed analysis of Melusine, see: Kemmis, Deva, Ridley Elmes, Melissa & Urban, Misty, Melusine’s Footprint: Tracing the Legacy of a Medieval Myth (Leiden: Brill Publishing, 2017).
[29] Roque, Maria Angeles, ‘Las Matres Celtibéricas y los Relatos Sobre los Orígenes de los Territorios Comunales Castellanos’, Revista de Folklore, Vol. 10a, No. 110, 1990, pp. 59 – 69.
[30] Olivares Pedreño, Juan Carlos, ‘Celtic Gods of the Iberian Peninsula’, E-Keltoi, Vol. 6, 2005, p. 628.
