Count Guifré and the Return of Honour — Origins I

The legend of the origins of Count Wilfred the Hairy shows us that not everything that looks like a legend from the distant past was transmitted orally or formed part of a tradition passed down from one generation to the next. This is because what we now call a legend could once serve purposes that had little to do with popular imagination. The legend of Count Wilfred’s origins is one such case. It is a typically medieval piece of propaganda, inspired by historical events that it invents or rewrites over others, while also drawing on folkloric motifs from oral tradition and episodes from the fantastic literature of its time. In all likelihood, its transmission never extended beyond courtly, learned and aristocratic circles. In the past —and, in subtler ways, still today— it was common to recreate and manipulate real events in order to support political ideas or aims. Those responsible —monks, scholars, courtiers and scribes— often followed earlier models or narrative patterns already used by other European noble houses.

Many of these models drew inspiration from legends and folktales that genuinely did belong to oral tradition. There was a practical reason for this. The courtly listeners or readers for whom these «propagandistic» legends were intended were already familiar with such stories, which also carried a certain prestige. Medieval narratives did not arise out of nowhere: their authors shared a Greco-Roman, biblical and popular cultural background, which is reflected in their narrative choices. In the case of the Gestes, their genealogical and chronicle form is not neutral: it helps construct the continuity of the lineage and legitimise its power (Aurell 2005; Cingolani 2006). This is the aspect that interests me most: the earlier legends and folkloric motifs used to shape the story of Count Wilfred’s origins and the restoration of his lineage’s honour and dominion. For this reason, after presenting the legend in full, I will explore possible comparisons with other courtly narratives of the same period.

From the nineteenth century onwards, when the foundations of most European nation-states were being forged or reforged, the writers and ideologues of the Catalan Renaixença drew on a series of medieval and early modern narratives in order to provide and recover the basis of what they called the «Catalan spirit», following ideas derived from German Idealism and European Romanticism (Sunyer 2006). Some came from literature, others from religion or oral tradition, such as the Virgin of Montserrat, the songs of Serrallonga or Count Arnau. Among the literary and courtly traditions, some proved particularly successful, such as the legend of the Four Bars of Blood or the Nine Barons of Fame, which entered oral transmission thanks to the Renaixença. Others, such as the legends of Guillem de Montcada, the Empress of Germany or this story of the young Count Wilfred seeking revenge and the liberation of his lands from usurpers, never achieved the same popular resonance and remained largely within scholarly circles, even though they are every bit as fascinating and powerful as the better-known examples.

This process of selecting and reshaping the past partly corresponds to what Eric Hobsbawm and Terence Ranger defined as the «invention of tradition». As they themselves pointed out, the fact that a tradition is invented does not necessarily make it less valuable or less worthy of being considered a legend (Hobsbawm and Ranger 1983). Professor Magí Sunyer describes the process in these terms: «The closing years of the 1850s and the opening years of the following decade proved decisive for the development of the Renaixença. It was also then that the recovery of the Catalan language as a medium suitable for every sphere of use became linked to the establishment of a gallery of national myths and to the gradual consolidation of a sense of collective identity that would eventually lead to organised Catalanism.» (Sunyer 2008, p. 1) In other words, as happened among other European peoples of the period, these legends —drawn from a multitude of oral and literary sources, sung, written or recited, and more or less idealised or distorted— became an essential part of the development of Catalanism. If not always politically, then certainly artistically, emotionally and spiritually, with some acquiring great importance locally and others at a broader collective level.

It is for this reason that I begin this series on origins with this little-known but fascinating legend, in which, intriguingly, we also find the origin of the byname «the Hairy». These are the narratives that helped lay the foundations of the Catalan legendary tradition. I have used the earliest version of the Gesta Comitum Barchinonensium —the Deeds of the Counts of Barcelona— copied between 1180 and 1184. It is the earliest surviving version. The story that follows is my own translation and adaptation of the Latin text edited by Professor Stefano Maria Cingolani in his 2012 edition.

Main façade of the monastery of Santa Maria de Ripoll, the monastic centre where the Deeds of the Counts of Barcelona were copied and expanded. Author’s photograph.

Origins and Transmission of the Legend of Wilfred the Hairy

As Cingolani (2012) explains, the earliest version of the Gesta Comitum Barchinonensium was copied in several stages. The legend reproduced here belongs to its opening chapters, copied by three different hands between 1180 and 1184. Both Cingolani and Miquel Coll i Alentorn, a specialist who studied the Gestes, agree that the account depends on earlier material, including texts such as the Brevis Historia Monasterii Rivipullensis —the Brief History of Ripoll. Coll distinguished within these materials between the story supposedly handed down from earlier times and the ancient documents in which it appears, is quoted or is mentioned. In other words, between the legend on the one hand and documentary and literary sources on the other (Coll i Alentorn 1990). The text itself frequently tells us that something «was said» or that this was how «the ancients told it».

We do not know what kind of earlier narrative this might have been: whether it belonged to popular oral tradition, to a courtly and literary tradition, or to some intermediate space between the two. Coll believed that the legend was not originally part of oral tradition, but was composed at Cuixà around 1130 and later brought to Ripoll, where it was incorporated into the Gestes. Cingolani (2012), while accepting the possible dependence on earlier materials, likewise rejects the idea that the story was the product of a long oral tradition. What does seem clear is that the legend as we know it has the appearance of a compressed summary of an earlier version. In the following analysis I will try to support this hypothesis through several details.

The Latin model of the earliest version of the Gestes continued to be copied and expanded at the courts of the counts of Barcelona and later kings of Aragon, eventually giving rise to three principal redactions: the earliest Latin version, an intermediate Latin version now lost —from which the Catalan translation derives— and the final Latin version, continued down to the reign of James II. It is the intermediate version that stabilises the events of Wilfred’s legend, although apart from a few details it does not substantially alter the story (Cingolani 2008; 2012). Other chronicles recorded it between the fifteenth and seventeenth centuries and added further apocryphal scenes, but those versions do not concern us here.

Coll i Alentorn, like Ramon d’Abadal (1888–1970), believed that the legend had no basis in any real event. Other historians, including Pierre Ponsich (1912–1999), Joan Vilaseca and Josep M. Salrach (1945–2025), have argued that it may preserve historical elements distorted through legendary elaboration and political interests. Cingolani takes an intermediate position. He argues that the story is largely imaginary, but built upon verifiable facts. Those facts would have been manipulated to fit a specific political programme: that required by the courts of Ramon Berenguer IV and Alfonso the Chaste in order to justify their authority before the nobility, their rights over Occitan territories, the noble origins of their lineage, opposition to the French and other political ideas. Like many comparable works, it is therefore a text of dynastic and political legitimation (Cingolani 2006; Aurell 2005). The legendary Wilfred of Arrià would thus have been hypothetically constructed around the figure of Sunifred, whom historians identify as Count Wilfred’s actual father. The same applies to many other details which, although not historically accurate, use history as their foundation.

Consider another example. Count Wilfred (c. 840–897) —whose name appears in documents in forms such as Wifredus and Guifredus, probably Latinisations of the Germanic Wigfrid or its Gothic equivalent— brought several counties under his authority and, after his death, his sons inherited them without the Carolingian king appointing a new holder. This marks the beginning of hereditary succession in the counties, which had previously depended on royal appointment. It was not until the rule of Borrell II (c. 927–992) that ties with the Frankish monarchy were effectively broken. After Almanzor sacked Barcelona in 985 and Frankish aid failed to arrive, the accession of Hugh Capet in 987 transformed the previous dynastic framework. Historiography has therefore traditionally placed the emancipation of the Catalan counties around 988, as an approximate date. This episode echoes in the legend through the Frankish king’s refusal of aid, although this did not happen during Wilfred’s rule but during that of Borrell II. As folklorist Linda Dégh (2001) explains, legend is defined precisely by the problematic relationship it establishes with belief and with the possibility that the events it recounts may or may not be true.

The Narrative Pattern and its European Parallels

As for the folkloric elements and motifs the legend may contain, with a few exceptions specialists have paid them relatively little attention, often treating them as secondary and far less important than the historical questions. I will make a brief excursion into them here.

From a folkloric perspective, what is undeniable is that the legend follows an epic and imaginative pattern similar to many other works that had been written, or were still being written, throughout Europe at the time, such as the Gesta Normannorum ducum of the eleventh and twelfth centuries or the genealogies of the counts of Flanders from the twelfth century. These works in turn drew on Carolingian and late Roman models such as Jordanes’ Getica (sixth century) or Paul the Deacon’s Historia Langobardorum (c. 720–799). Cingolani (2012) explicitly places the Gestes within this European historiographical tradition. Unlike these models, however, I believe that the Catalan legend of Wilfred appears to have been deliberately stripped of many of the elements that would be of greatest interest from a folkloric perspective.

Traces of those probably excised elements can still be seen in the legend’s dramatic structure, which follows a timeless narrative pattern still used today in films, novels, comics and video games. A boy, Wilfred, sees his father dishonoured and unjustly murdered as a result of political interests and the envy of a traitor who wants to seize his domain. When the boy grows up, he seeks revenge and succeeds in recovering his father’s lost titles. All this is accompanied by a love story and by classic motifs of chivalric adventure: the disguise of the poor pilgrim, the old female companion, the maiden in love, the mark that distinguishes him from all other men, the petty antagonist —an uncle?— and the noble and loyal barons.

In other words, the structure is organised around the recovery of lost honour. If we compare it with other chronicles of heroic deeds that dwell at length on magical and legendary events, such as those concerning the dukes of Normandy or the better-known Historia regum Britanniae of Geoffrey of Monmouth (c. 1095–c. 1155), the difference is striking. Other legends of the same type have survived much more fully. They allow us to see how certain episodes may have been removed from this structure and others reduced, perhaps from an earlier version. Moreover, a linguistic and dramatic analysis of the story reveals obvious narrative gaps and highly compressed sentences, which likewise suggest the existence of a longer earlier narrative.

Perhaps the scribes of Ripoll concentrated on specific political concerns and removed narrative elements from the hypothetical earlier account or body of documents mentioned by Coll. Such elements may have seemed inconvenient because they appeared less serious and, more broadly, could have undermined the dignity or credibility of the scribes’ political aims. The story may even have undergone a second phase of courtly expurgation before being accepted in its final form. In this way, the narrative of the restoration of honour becomes a justification for comital authority over all its territories, without fantastic or exaggerated obstacles that might diminish its seriousness.

Title page of the 1514 edition of Saxo Grammaticus’ Gesta Danorum, the work containing the earliest surviving version of the legend of Amleth.
Published in Paris by Christiern Pedersen under the title Danorum Regum heroumque Historia. Public domain.

Revenge, Usurpation and Recognition

The central folkloric motif of the legend, however, is filial revenge [group H1228, adventure undertaken for revenge; H1228.2, son sets out to avenge the death of his father; and R54, hero remains a prisoner while his father is murdered]. Alongside it stands the motif of the hero dispossessed of his rightful inheritance [L111.1, exile returns and triumphs; L111.4, orphan hero; and S322.0.1, orphan dispossessed of his inheritance by hostile relatives] (Thompson 1955–1958). Here again we find a mixture of history and fiction, like the examples already discussed above.

Like Wilfred of Arrià/Sunifred, the antagonist Salomó, according to Abadal and Cingolani, would also have been based on a real historical figure: the count of Urgell and Cerdanya of the same name, who succeeded Sunifred, Wilfred’s presumed historical father, in control of those two counties. The possible kinship between Salomó and Wilfred’s family remains disputed by historians; among other hypotheses, it has been suggested that the two men were brothers and that Salomó was therefore Wilfred’s uncle. After Salomó’s death, the counties of Urgell and Cerdanya passed to Wilfred. This sequence of events recalls the narrative preserved in the legend. The father, Sunifred, dies and the uncle, Salomó, inherits the counties, but eventually they are restored to Sunifred’s son. We do not know why Wilfred did not inherit them directly instead of Salomó; perhaps he was still too young and Salomó administered the counties until he came of age.

The last counts of Barcelona appointed by the Frankish kings, Humfrid and Bernard of Gothia, were likewise involved in conflicts with the monarchy, episodes that may also echo in the story. But the version that has come down to us appears to lack an episode in which Salomó would have usurped comital power through the murder of Wilfred of Arrià. It is never explicitly stated that his death was the result of a plot devised by Salomó. Yet this possibility is implied later, when the young Wilfred returns and his loyal supporters secretly swear allegiance to him. For some reason, the connection has been omitted. Another apparently missing episode is the possible captivity or control of Wilfred’s mother by the usurper Salomó. Nor are we told why Wilfred must travel to Barcelona without being discovered, why he must meet his supporters in secret, or why, if his mother is still alive, she does not contact him beforehand —it is the countess of Flanders who must do so instead.

But if the murder of his father, Wilfred of Arrià, was merely the result of a quarrel with no political motivation, and if Salomó had no part in it, none of this makes much narrative sense. If, on the other hand, the provocation of pulling Wilfred’s beard had been arranged by Salomó in order to make the lord of Arrià lose his temper and commit an act of violence that would condemn him and provide a pretext for his removal —as ultimately happens— then everything else falls into place. Wilfred’s existence is concealed so that the usurper Salomó cannot kill him as well, as he did his father. This is reinforced by the recognition episode [group H150], when Wilfred removes his poor pilgrim’s disguise [K1810] and reveals his true identity to his loyal supporters.

The legend culminates in victory over the traitor [Q211, murder punished], resolved through the final confrontation. Nor does the legend tell us that Salomó was related to the lord of Arrià. Suspiciously, we are told almost nothing about him. But if we accept the hypothesis that the legendary Salomó was constructed around the historical figure, and also accept the possibility of kinship, the familiar motif of the usurping relative becomes still stronger. It is no coincidence that one of the most traditional European legends built around this theme is the Germanic-Scandinavian story of Amleth —which inspired William Shakespeare’s (1564–1616) Hamlet and Robert Eggers’ (b. 1983) 2022 film The Northman. The earliest surviving version is found in the Gesta Danorum of Saxo Grammaticus (c. 1150–c. 1220), composed between the late twelfth and early thirteenth centuries. The legend of Amleth itself, however, can reasonably be assumed to be older. In the story, Amleth’s uncle murders his father and usurps his throne, while the son pretends to be mad and feeble until he is able to take revenge on the usurper.

The Origin of the Byname «the Hairy» and Related Legends

One important detail in the legend is that the byname «the Hairy», the identifying mark that distinguishes Wilfred from other men [H50], would not, if we accept the arguments of the historians already cited, have belonged to the historical count at all, but would instead derive directly from the legend —it first appears in the Brief History. Much later, nineteenth-century Romantics revived the epithet and preferred the Catalan form «Pilós» because, to contemporary ears, it «sounded more ancient». The Brief History of Ripoll slightly predates the earliest version of the Gestes, and Coll argues that it was compiled from materials originating at the monastery of Cuixà, concluding that the earliest version of the legend came from that monastery’s scriptorium. We cannot know this for certain but, judging by the narrative pattern used by the legend, its motifs and its overall structure, I think it very likely that it was not much older than the earliest version, perhaps dating from the final years of the eleventh century or the first half of the twelfth.

Nevertheless, I think this argument is rather weak, because details of this kind can certainly arise within legends, but legends can also perform the reverse and much more common function: providing a more or less fantastic explanation for a fact whose origin is unknown or has been forgotten. Moreover, hair and body hair held enormous collective importance among Germanic and Scandinavian peoples. There are countless legends and personal names that could be cited in this connection. The Roman historian Tacitus (c. 56–c. 120), for example, tells us in the Germania that among the Chatti «as soon as they reach manhood, they allow their hair and beard to grow freely, and do not abandon this distinctive appearance until they have killed an enemy, since by it they dedicate and pledge themselves to valour». Of the Suebi he writes: «The distinguishing mark of the people is to sweep the hair to one side and fasten it in a knot. In this way the Suebi are distinguished from the other Germans and, among the Suebi themselves, free men from slaves.» He also notes that «when they go to war they arrange themselves in this way so that they may appear taller and more terrifying, adorning themselves for the eyes of the enemy» (Tacitus 1999, 31 and 38).

Better known is the legend of the Longbeards, the tribe or confederation of the Langobards. The earliest surviving version appears in the seventh-century Origo gentis Langobardorum, and Paul the Deacon later reproduced it in his Historia Langobardorum.

Another notable legend appears in Snorri’s Heimskringla, specifically in the saga of the Norwegian king Harald Hárfagri, whose epithet means Fairhair or «Beautiful Hair». Before completing the conquest of Norway he was called Lúfa, a name referring to his unkempt or tangled hair, because he had sworn not to cut or comb it until he had conquered Norway. Once the conquest was complete, he had his hair cut and groomed and became known as Hárfagri (Sturluson 1964, Haralds saga hárfagra, 4 and 23). Many other Scandinavian and Germanic rulers and heroes bear names or bynames referring to hair and beards, such as the Danish king Sveinn Tjúguskegg, Forkbeard; Þórólfr Mostrarskegg, Thorolf the Bearded Man of Moster, a courageous hero and devoted follower of the god Thor; the Icelander Járn-Skeggi, Iron-Beard; or, most famously, Ragnar Loðbrók, Hairy-Breeches (Cleasby and Vigfusson 1874, s. v. skegg; McTurk 1991). Odin himself bears numerous names referring to beards and hair, including Hárbarðr, Greybeard, and Langbarðr, Longbeard, among others. There are also the two brother heroes known as the Haddingjar, whose name has been etymologically associated with long hair and who have been compared in comparative studies with divine twins such as the Dioscuri or the Ashvins (Clunies Ross 2022). Closer in time to Wilfred were the Merovingian kings, who are known in the sources for their long hair (Goosmann 2012).

Long hair and beards could therefore be associated, among other things, with collective identity, social status, rank, masculinity or maturity, the condition of warrior and free man, a terrifying appearance, oaths and initiations (Bartlett 1994; Clunies Ross 2022). They could also intersect with animal symbolism: the bear, for example, occupied a royal and numinous place in the European bestiary for centuries before the lion gradually replaced it as king of the animals (Pastoureau 2011). Wilfred’s possession of a byname associated with body hair therefore fits within a long Germanic tradition, whether he was actually called by it during his lifetime or not —something we cannot know. If the epithet was a later legendary addition, it nevertheless refers back to that tradition.

Love, Prophecy and Literary Parallels

Another narrative element that appears to have been truncated is the romantic one [H1227, adventure undertaken before the hero may marry]. Wilfred’s historical wife was not a maiden from Flanders but Guinidilda —also documented in Latin forms such as Winidildes, probably deriving from a name such as Gunnhild, Ingvild or something similar— whose family origins remain disputed and who possessed property and authority of her own (Cingolani 2010). In the legend, however, we are told directly that Wilfred made the unnamed maiden pregnant. The fact that important characters such as the maiden and her father remain nameless is unlikely to be accidental. It leaves them in an indeterminate space that cannot be corroborated historically. The theme of illicit or clandestine love —in this case between a poor, landless young man of lower status and the daughter of a powerful aristocrat of higher rank— is highly characteristic of courtly love narratives and, more broadly, of romantic storytelling down to the present day.

One contemporary example is the late twelfth-century Anglo-Norman Roman de Horn. Its hero, Horn, sees invaders kill his father and drive him from his kingdom. Exiled together with his loyal companions, he falls in love with Rigmel, daughter of the king of Brittany. Their clandestine love is constrained by their difference in rank and by Horn’s need to recover the lands and identity that have been taken from him. Another example is the twelfth-century French romance Guillaume de Palerne. Guillaume is the son of the king of Apulia; his uncle attempts to kill him in order to seize the kingdom, and the boy grows up far from court. He later falls secretly in love with Melior, daughter of the emperor, and the two flee together because she has been promised to another man. Guillaume eventually recovers both his true identity and his rightful inheritance. Many other examples could be given.

As we can see, the legend of Wilfred’s origins is related to legends such as Amleth and to romances such as Horn and Palerne. It does not correspond exactly to any single tale type in the international index, but the episode of the prophecy and the dispossessed youth recalls ATU 930, The Prophecy —the poor young man destined to marry a wealthy maiden— (Uther 2004). A king uttering a prophecy is an archaic motif, belonging to a world in which monarchs could be credited with supernatural powers, such as healing by touch (Bloch 1973). Here the king announces that Wilfred will free his lands from the kingdom as a consequence of the injustice and dishonour that have been committed, acts that have disrupted the medieval social order and the agreements on which it rested.

A Monastic and Courtly Legend

In conclusion, and always within the realm of hypothesis, this would have been a legend of monastic and courtly origin intended to fulfil a propagandistic function, following a style and narrative pattern similar to those found in many other European dynastic «Deeds» (Aurell 1998; Cingolani 2012). In the Catalan case, real events were taken and exaggerated or distorted to varying degrees, just as they were in other Gestes. At the same time, the authors made use of narrative elements, episodes and folkloric motifs common in medieval European legends, particularly those of Germanic and courtly origin. It is also possible that a longer earlier version once existed, of which only possible traces survive in documents such as the Brief History of Ripoll.

It would be a considerable assumption to claim that this legend ever circulated orally among the wider population, and I find that very doubtful. Stretching the evidence as far as possible, the hypothetical earlier version may have included some element of oral tradition —perhaps disseminated for propagandistic purposes by minstrels and performers in taverns and streets, paid by the nobility— but this remains a risky hypothesis with little evidence behind it. What does bring the story closer to oral narrative is the fact that many of the motifs used by the scribes, as we have seen, are common in such traditions. This is characteristic of medieval literature, in which learned and popular, religious and secular, Greco-Roman and Germanic, biblical and courtly elements continually overlap; the boundary between voice and writing is not always rigid (Zumthor 1987).

It was not until the nineteenth century, with the Renaixença, that the legend of Wilfred the Hairy was recovered alongside many other narratives about the origins of Catalonia (Sunyer 2006). Unlike some other courtly and propagandistic legends, however, the story of Wilfred’s origins never achieved the same degree of popular resonance. The confusion between his legendary father, Wilfred of Arrià, and his historical father, Sunifred, together with the compressed and schematic nature of the surviving narrative, may have made its reception more difficult, although there is not enough evidence to identify any particular cause.

Beyond its later reception, the legend preserves a powerful narrative core that still lends itself to retelling: a dispossessed young man, the murder of his father, the return to his homeland, its liberation from the hands of the usurper and the restoration of his honour. These are the conflicts that drive the story and connect it with other European narratives. Prophecy, exile, recognition and filial revenge are not merely devices serving dynastic legitimation; they also give the story considerable dramatic power of its own.

A new adaptation could build on these elements while preserving the medieval setting and clearly distinguishing historical events from legendary elaboration. There would be no need to transpose the action to the present or detach it from its origins; instead, the conflicts, characters and episodes presented only schematically in the surviving version could be developed more fully. Robert Eggers’ The Northman (2022) offers an example of how a related legend, that of Amleth, can be given magnificent cinematic form through the themes of filial revenge and the recovery of honour. In Wilfred’s case, such a reinterpretation would remain entirely compatible with studying the political and cultural meaning the legend held for its medieval authors.