All this belongs to the world of legend; but the copulating male demon, or incubus as he was called, gradually began to invade the lives of real women. There is a hint of this as early as the ninth century, in the writings of Hincmar, archbishop of Rheims (the same who concerned himself with maleficium as a cause of impotence).(18) Hincmar tells how a demon sometimes deceives a woman by taking on the appearance of the man she loves; he also knows of a nun who was grievously tormented by an incubus, until a priest exorcized it.(19) But it is only from the twelfth century onwards that incubi figure at all prominently in the chronicles. Writing around 1120, Guibert de Nogent tells how at a time when his father had been made impotent by maleficium, his mother was visited one night by an incubus; fortunately a “good spirit” arrived just in time to avert the worst.(20) Guibert adds that he knows many tales of incubi, but forbears to tell them lest he alarm his readers.
Around 1150 St Bernard had to deal with a more serious case.(21) Arriving at Nantes, he found a woman who was much vexed by an incubus. The demon would come to her at night and take its pleasure of her, always without waking her husband. For six years she concealed her shame, but in the end fear of God’s judgement drove her to confess to a priest. Unfortunately none of the penances or remedies prescribed — neither prayer nor pilgrimages — proved effective; the demon returned every night and was becoming more and more lascivious. So when Bernard appeared the woman threw herself at his feet and implored his aid. The man of God spoke gently to her, promised her the help of heaven and told her to return next day. That night the incubus visited her again, adding blasphemies and threats to his usual misconduct. But Bernard devised a remedy: he gave her his staff to take to bed with her. This kept the demon at bay, but he stood outside the room, uttering fearsome threats and promising to resume his debauchery as soon as Bernard had gone. This called for more vigorous counter-measures. The following Sunday Bernard summoned the whole population to church. While the congregation held lighted candles, the saint mounted the pulpit and told the whole lamentable story; after which he solemnly anathematized the demon and forbade it, in Christ’s name, ever to molest any woman in future. That worked; as the candles were extinguished, the demon’s power was destroyed. The woman made confession and received the Eucharist; after which she never saw her incubus again.
A century later, Caesarius of Heisterbach has several tales about incubi. There was, for instance, the sad case of the priest Arnold, lately of Bonn.(22) Though a priest, Arnold had a daughter so beautiful that she was constantly importuned by men, and especially by the canons of the cathedral. One day a demon came to her in the form of a man, and by sweet talk seduced her. They made love often and with great satisfaction; but in the end the girl repented and confessed to her father, who promptly sent her away across the Rhine. Thereupon the demon appeared to Arnold, shouting, “You wretched priest, why have you taken my wife from me? You have done it to your hurt.” And he dealt him such a blow on the chest that the unfortunate man vomited blood, and died within three days. Caesarius tells also of a woman at Breisach on the Rhine who, feeling death approaching, confessed to a priest that she had been making love with a demon. It had given her such pleasure that she had resisted confessing for seven years; and now her soul passed from her before she could finish her confession and receive absolution.(23)
It is clear that these are all regarded as serious cases. When a woman yields to an incubus, she imperils her eternal salvation. Compared with this, the transgression of a man with a succubus, i.e. a demon in female form, is slight indeed. Here too Caesarius has an instructive example to offer. John, a theologian of Prüm in the Rhineland, tried to persuade a woman to come to him one night. She did not in fact come, but a demon came in her place, in her likeness and with her voice. In the morning his visitor informed the cleric that he had been in bed not with a woman but with a demon. But John merely uttered a strange word (which Caesarius, out of modesty, cannot repeat) and laughed at the demon, quite unperturbed by his strange adventure.(24) People never did regard succubi with the same horrified fascination that they brought to incubi.
If one compares the various stories about incubi which were current in the Middle Ages, a coherent pattern emerges. In each case the raw material of the story is provided by the woman herself; it is she who, of her own initiative, reveals that she has been having intercourse with an incubus. In some cases it seems that the lover who is imagined as an incubus is really a man — and it may well be that simple women were sometimes fooled in this way. In other cases the lover is clearly imaginary, a product of erotic dreams or reveries, or maybe of hallucinations. But the reason why such commonplace phenomena as erotic imaginings or extra-marital affairs were interpreted in such a sinister sense lies, of course, in the existence of a corpus of demonological lore. Without demons, no incubi.
It was a two-way process. If in the first place priests taught women to look out for incubi, by the thirteenth century theologians were reflecting on the experiences that women were reporting. Guillaume d’Auvergne, bishop of Paris, treats of the matter at some length, and in exactly the same spirit as he brings to the tales of Lady Abundia and the “ladies of the night.”(25) He is quite clear that demons cannot really have intercourse with women, because they have no true bodies and therefore no genitals; so it must be that women simply dream or imagine these things. On the other hand the bishop insists that, even if such dreams and imaginings sometimes have natural causes, they are usually the work of demons. Guillaume was more sceptical than most. Thomas Aquinas, for instance, was convinced not only that demons can mate but that they can procreate, and by a most ingenious method: as a succubus a demon receives seed which, transforming itself into an incubus, it then transmits to a woman.(26)
Neither the tales about pacts with the Devil nor the fantasies about incubi were originally connected with witchcraft — but when the new stereotype of the witch began to take shape, when the witch began to be imagined less as the master than as the instrument of the demonic powers, they were there to help the process along. Ancient legends, nocturnal experiences of neurotic or sexually frustrated women — all alike were transformed into further proofs that there existed a sect in which human beings operated under the direct promptings of demons, to whom they were helplessly enslaved.
To the creation of this imaginary sect, written works contributed little. Very few of the relevant writings antedate the Arras Vauderie, let alone the earliest trials in the Dauphiné and in Switzerland. The most celebrated, Nider’s Formicarius (1435-87), adds practically nothing to the age-old notion which simply equated witchcraft with maleficium; and, as we have seen, it explicitly denies the reality of the nocturnal flight.(27) The French poem by Martin Le Franc, Le champion des dames (1440), shows that the notions of the sabbat and the nocturnal flight were familiar at that date, but not that the author himself took them seriously.(28) The Errores Gazariorum (c. 1450)—“Gazarii” by that time meaning Waldensians — would appear to be the work of an inquisitor living in Savoy or by the Lake of Geneva.(29) It is based on the evidence already extracted during the trials, and treats that evidence as reliable; but — even apart from the fact that they exist only in a single manuscript — these few pages cannot possibly have fostered the trials themselves. We are left with the Flagellum haereticorum fascinariorum (The scourge of the heretic-witches) by Nicolaus Jacquier.(30) The author was inquisitor for northern France in the 1450s and was familiar with the proceedings against Guillaume Adeline; and his aim was, quite specifically, to demonstrate the reality of the nocturnal flight, as against the authority of the Canon Episcopi, which had represented the orthodox view ever since the tenth century. This is indeed a polemical and propagandist work; but it was written only one year before the Arras Vauderie — by which time innumerable smaller trials had already been held.