In the days of old, trees were more than mere plants; they bore deep meaning and mystery in the hearts and minds of men. Medieval folk saw in trees not only wood and timber but symbols of the eternal struggle between good and evil, life and death. This duality, between the “good” and “bad” trees, was deeply rooted in cultural tradition, blending Christian teaching with Greco-Roman heritage and the ancient beliefs of Northern barbarians. It is upon this complex web of meaning that the use and esteem of wood itself rested.
The Good Trees
A Linden tree at the Münzenberg Castle – photo by Neptuul / Wikimedia Commons
Among the many trees revered in medieval England, none shone more brightly in the popular imagination than the Linden or Lime Tree (Tilia). The Linden was admired for its grandeur, long life, and sweet fragrance. Its flowers attracted bees whose buzzing gave the tree a musical quality that delighted all. More than beauty, the Linden was prized for its manifold uses: its leaves, bark, sap, and especially its flowers were famed for their healing virtues. The blossoms, long used in medicine, had sedative and even narcotic powers. In fact, from the 13th century onwards, it was common to plant lindens near hospitals and leper houses, believing in their protective and curative benefits.
The wood of the Linden Tree itself was highly sought after. Tender and light, with a fine, tight grain, it was the favourite of carvers and woodworkers. Statues of saints and religious icons were often fashioned from Linden wood, and it is tempting to wonder if the healing reputation of the tree lent its statues an added sacred power. Similarly, many musical instruments of the late Middle Ages were made from Linden wood, possibly chosen not only for the wood’s pliability but also for the lingering association with the gentle music of bees.
Other “good” trees included the Oak, symbolising strength and endurance; the Elm, often planted at places of justice; and the Ash, revered by the Germanic peoples as a mediator between heaven and earth and famed for attracting lightning. The Ash’s strong yet flexible wood was prized for weapons, while the Birch, bright and white, was known for its role in cleansing rituals, its branches used as whips to expel evil spirits.
The Bad Trees
A yew tree – photo by essers / Flickr
Yet alongside these noble trees stood those thought evil or unlucky, their very presence associated with danger and death. Foremost among these was the Yew (Taxus), an evergreen tree growing often in graveyards and lonely places. The Yew was linked in the medieval mind to death and the Otherworld, called in German lands Todesbaum, the Tree of Death, and in Italy albero della morte. All parts of the Yew were poisonous: its leaves, bark, seeds, and especially its sap. The wood, dark and resilient, was used for making bows, arrows, and coffins, its deadly associations enhancing its grim reputation.
The paradox of the Yew is striking: though dreaded and connected with death, its wood was treasured by English, Scottish, and Welsh archers for the famed longbow. Was the deadly sap thought to aid in the bow’s lethality? Or was it simply the wood’s physical properties—strength and flexibility—that made it invaluable? The question remains unanswered but reveals the tangled relationship between symbolic meaning and practical use.
Even more complex was the case of the Walnut Tree (Juglans), widely regarded as a malign presence. Medieval writers agreed the Walnut was a tree of ill omen, part of Satan’s flora. Its roots were said to poison the soil and kill plants nearby; animals venturing too close to Walnut trees from their stables or barns would fall ill. For men, sleeping beneath a Walnut was thought to invite fever, headaches, and even visitations by evil spirits and infernal deities, a belief persisting into the twentieth century. Isidore of Seville, the great medieval scholar, linked the name nux (nut) with nocere (to harm), reflecting this fear: the Walnut’s shadow and falling leaves were believed to injure neighbouring trees.
A 16th-century walnut tree by Hieronymus Boch
Yet despite this dreadful reputation, the Walnut’s fruit, leaves, bark, and wood were all highly valued. Walnuts were consumed widely, their oil and drinks prized for nourishment and medicine. The bark and leaves were used to dye cloth dark brown or black, a colour notoriously difficult to achieve in medieval Europe. Most notably, Walnut wood, firm, heavy, and resistant, was esteemed for fine woodworking and sculpture, rivalling the best materials in furniture and art.
Herein lies a striking contradiction: though the Walnut was feared and shunned in folk belief, its wood was eagerly worked by craftsmen. In the same village, peasants might avoid touching the Walnut Tree itself, yet joiners and cabinetmakers coveted its timber. How was this contradiction understood? Did the wood lose the tree’s malignity once cut? Did practical needs and economic concerns override symbolic fears? Or did the ideological power of the myth slowly yield to the demands of craft and commerce?
This conundrum of the Walnut stands as a testament to the complex and sometimes contradictory relationship medieval people had with their trees and woods. It reminds us that the symbolic world of medieval men was not a simple map but a living, shifting web of belief, use, fear, and reverence.
Dr Lorris Chevalier, who has a Ph.D. in medieval literature, is a historical advisor for movies, including The Last Duel and Napoleon. Click here to view his website.
By Lorris Chevalier
In the days of old, trees were more than mere plants; they bore deep meaning and mystery in the hearts and minds of men. Medieval folk saw in trees not only wood and timber but symbols of the eternal struggle between good and evil, life and death. This duality, between the “good” and “bad” trees, was deeply rooted in cultural tradition, blending Christian teaching with Greco-Roman heritage and the ancient beliefs of Northern barbarians. It is upon this complex web of meaning that the use and esteem of wood itself rested.
The Good Trees
Among the many trees revered in medieval England, none shone more brightly in the popular imagination than the Linden or Lime Tree (Tilia). The Linden was admired for its grandeur, long life, and sweet fragrance. Its flowers attracted bees whose buzzing gave the tree a musical quality that delighted all. More than beauty, the Linden was prized for its manifold uses: its leaves, bark, sap, and especially its flowers were famed for their healing virtues. The blossoms, long used in medicine, had sedative and even narcotic powers. In fact, from the 13th century onwards, it was common to plant lindens near hospitals and leper houses, believing in their protective and curative benefits.
The wood of the Linden Tree itself was highly sought after. Tender and light, with a fine, tight grain, it was the favourite of carvers and woodworkers. Statues of saints and religious icons were often fashioned from Linden wood, and it is tempting to wonder if the healing reputation of the tree lent its statues an added sacred power. Similarly, many musical instruments of the late Middle Ages were made from Linden wood, possibly chosen not only for the wood’s pliability but also for the lingering association with the gentle music of bees.
Other “good” trees included the Oak, symbolising strength and endurance; the Elm, often planted at places of justice; and the Ash, revered by the Germanic peoples as a mediator between heaven and earth and famed for attracting lightning. The Ash’s strong yet flexible wood was prized for weapons, while the Birch, bright and white, was known for its role in cleansing rituals, its branches used as whips to expel evil spirits.
The Bad Trees
Yet alongside these noble trees stood those thought evil or unlucky, their very presence associated with danger and death. Foremost among these was the Yew (Taxus), an evergreen tree growing often in graveyards and lonely places. The Yew was linked in the medieval mind to death and the Otherworld, called in German lands Todesbaum, the Tree of Death, and in Italy albero della morte. All parts of the Yew were poisonous: its leaves, bark, seeds, and especially its sap. The wood, dark and resilient, was used for making bows, arrows, and coffins, its deadly associations enhancing its grim reputation.
The paradox of the Yew is striking: though dreaded and connected with death, its wood was treasured by English, Scottish, and Welsh archers for the famed longbow. Was the deadly sap thought to aid in the bow’s lethality? Or was it simply the wood’s physical properties—strength and flexibility—that made it invaluable? The question remains unanswered but reveals the tangled relationship between symbolic meaning and practical use.
Even more complex was the case of the Walnut Tree (Juglans), widely regarded as a malign presence. Medieval writers agreed the Walnut was a tree of ill omen, part of Satan’s flora. Its roots were said to poison the soil and kill plants nearby; animals venturing too close to Walnut trees from their stables or barns would fall ill. For men, sleeping beneath a Walnut was thought to invite fever, headaches, and even visitations by evil spirits and infernal deities, a belief persisting into the twentieth century. Isidore of Seville, the great medieval scholar, linked the name nux (nut) with nocere (to harm), reflecting this fear: the Walnut’s shadow and falling leaves were believed to injure neighbouring trees.
Yet despite this dreadful reputation, the Walnut’s fruit, leaves, bark, and wood were all highly valued. Walnuts were consumed widely, their oil and drinks prized for nourishment and medicine. The bark and leaves were used to dye cloth dark brown or black, a colour notoriously difficult to achieve in medieval Europe. Most notably, Walnut wood, firm, heavy, and resistant, was esteemed for fine woodworking and sculpture, rivalling the best materials in furniture and art.
Herein lies a striking contradiction: though the Walnut was feared and shunned in folk belief, its wood was eagerly worked by craftsmen. In the same village, peasants might avoid touching the Walnut Tree itself, yet joiners and cabinetmakers coveted its timber. How was this contradiction understood? Did the wood lose the tree’s malignity once cut? Did practical needs and economic concerns override symbolic fears? Or did the ideological power of the myth slowly yield to the demands of craft and commerce?
This conundrum of the Walnut stands as a testament to the complex and sometimes contradictory relationship medieval people had with their trees and woods. It reminds us that the symbolic world of medieval men was not a simple map but a living, shifting web of belief, use, fear, and reverence.
Dr Lorris Chevalier, who has a Ph.D. in medieval literature, is a historical advisor for movies, including The Last Duel and Napoleon. Click here to view his website.
Click here to read more from Lorris Chevalier
Further Readings:
Pastoureau, Michel, “Introduction à la symbolique médiévale du bois,” Le bois et la ville, du Moyen-Âge au XXe siècle, Cahiers de Fontenay, 1991
Top Image: A tree depicted in Tacuinum Sanitatis – BNF MS Latin 9333 fol. 2v
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