Let me attempt to explain some numbers. Every generation you trace backwards gives you more great-grandparents. Your family tree spreads in what's known as a geometric progression. So by the time you get back 30 generations, to the early Middle Ages, you have upwards of 8 billion ancestors.
But are they 8 billion different people? No. There’s a concept called “pedigree collapse”: the further back you go, the more your ancestors start to repeat. Which is not just interesting, but absolutely essential, since there were only around 70 million Europeans knocking about back then.
Some families, however, are better at keeping records. If you can find an aristocrat up your family tree, names and personal histories sprout profusely. They liked to keep records. Which is how my husband found some branches with hard-hitting names like the Empress Theophanu and the impressive Wiprecht von Groitzsch. The discovery sparked a family interest in the early days of the Holy Roman Empire that shaped this trip.
The actual Roman Empire had faded away in the 5th century. Historians these days are fond of pointing out that the Dark Ages weren’t nearly as rough as we once thought. What statistics we have, however, still show a world mired in political and economic instability. Around 800, Charlemagne (another ancestor Piers can actually trace, while I just make the statistical claim) got things back to almost Roman levels of administration and prosperity. But his sons couldn’t keep it up, and everything fragmented again.
About 100 years later, a family in Saxony—descendants of Charlemagne through a female line—had another go, and they held it together longer. Today we know them as the Ottonians. Though Charlemagne was the first to proclaim himself “Holy Roman Emperor,” it was the Ottonians, followed by their cousins the Salians, who solidified the job and laid the groundwork for Germany to be a very big deal in the Middle Ages. Films always put castles, knights in shining armour, and the rich pageantry of medieval courts in France or England. But Germany—and particularly Saxony—was a big deal in this time period.
The most moving moment, unsurprisingly, was when we got to look him in the face. Not literally, of course, but a tomb effigy is as close as you’re going to get after 1,000 years. Wiprecht has his own chapel just to the right of the entrance into the church at Pegau, a small town about 40 minutes south of Leipzig.
This isn’t a place any tourist would have reason to visit. It’s home to about 6,500 people and isn’t in any guidebook. But it has two lovely squares surrounded by historic buildings, one dominated by the church of St. Laurentius and the other by a traditional Rathaus, or town hall. On a Wednesday morning in May, hardly a soul stirred, and the pharmacy was the only open business. The old East Germany has a well-publicised problem with young people moving west for better jobs; this had the look of a place that’s great to grow up in, but then you leave. The Benedictine abbey that might have drawn modern tourists was shut down in the Reformation.
Wiprecht founded that abbey, and he was originally buried there. But when Protestants closed the monastery, they realised he was too important to be left in the ruins, so they moved him to the newly Protestant main church. These days, even Protestantism is a minority faith in a primarily religion-free part of the country (remember, this was communist and therefore banned religion for 40+ years), so the church is now only open for services. We had to make an appointment with the pastor to get in. It was worth the effort.
I’ve looked at a lot of tomb effigies in my life, but never one quite like this. Wiprecht lies like many a medieval aristocrat, feet on a lion, one hand on his shield and sword while another holds his pennant. Unusually, he is encrusted with gemstones that form patterns on his cloak, tunic, shield, and the plinth he’s lying on. Paint still remains on the stonework. He’s lost the tip of his nose over the years, but there is enough of his handsome face, luxurious hair, and beard to complement the regal clothing and accessories. He is an obviously grand figure, and would have caught my eye even if I’d known nothing about him. Having the personal connection made our visit all the more special.
A stumbling German conversation with the pastor suggested that what we were seeing was not entirely authentic. It seems the effigy was carved about 100 years after Wiprecht died, in a time when people were trying to celebrate a heroic past and better define Saxony. Late 19th-century restorers had similar motives, though now they were celebrating Germany. Thus the side chapel in which Wiprecht lies has obviously neo-Gothic wall paintings, while the faded paint and gemstones are probably only 150 years old. The question is whether those highly unusual gemstones were original to the Middle Ages and replaced, or added in the 19th century. Piers and I went for original, given the way the stone settings for the jewels seem integral to the original. Whatever the truth, his tomb was magnificent and rewarded our efforts to see it.
Just down some very pretty country lanes from Pegau is the town of Groitzsch, from which Wiprecht took his name. It has about 1,000 more residents than Pegau, though it felt smaller because its church and town hall weren’t as impressive. There’s a community centre, a gymnasium named for Wiprecht, a few pretty Renaissance buildings, and a handsome inn on the market square called the White Horse—presumably after the white horse on Wiprecht’s crest. People were starting to set up the square for the coming May Day holiday but, like Pegau, the place was as sleepy as an enchanted village when we drove through.
Our destination was the Wiprechtsburg. It’s a wooded hillside above flowering water meadows beside a clear, meandering stream called the Schwennigke. There’s little beyond natural beauty here now, but once upon a time this was Wiprecht’s HQ. There would have been an impressive castle here. When he was in residence, messengers would have raced up and down the nearby roads and local merchants would have bustled to provide for the castle’s needs. Now, there’s little beyond the pub emblem, the place names, and the ruins of a chapel at the top of the hill. Locals have made the most of their resource by clearing what would once have been a castle bailey into an open space that now hosts summer theatre, ringed with benches for audiences. Paved paths offer easy, pleasant walks around the mound. In May, the woods were exploding with lilacs and wildflowers. The air was heavy with scent. It was probably never this calm when Wiprecht was around.
If, a year ago, you’d told me that a heavily restored medieval tomb effigy and a stroll around a wooded hill with one tiny ruin were going to be the highlights of two weeks in Germany, I wouldn’t have believed you. But they were. Because we dived beyond the traditional “must sees” into family histories and deeply human stories, we were looking at essential pieces of a drama we’d been watching in our minds for months.
It’s niche, and I wouldn’t recommend it to everyone. But if you’re of European descent, the mathematical probability is that you’re descended from Wiprecht, too. So why not?
Wiprecht founded that abbey, and he was originally buried there. But when Protestants closed the monastery, they realised he was too important to be left in the ruins, so they moved him to the newly Protestant main church. These days, even Protestantism is a minority faith in a primarily religion-free part of the country (remember, this was communist and therefore banned religion for 40+ years), so the church is now only open for services. We had to make an appointment with the pastor to get in. It was worth the effort.
I’ve looked at a lot of tomb effigies in my life, but never one quite like this. Wiprecht lies like many a medieval aristocrat, feet on a lion, one hand on his shield and sword while another holds his pennant. Unusually, he is encrusted with gemstones that form patterns on his cloak, tunic, shield, and the plinth he’s lying on. Paint still remains on the stonework. He’s lost the tip of his nose over the years, but there is enough of his handsome face, luxurious hair, and beard to complement the regal clothing and accessories. He is an obviously grand figure, and would have caught my eye even if I’d known nothing about him. Having the personal connection made our visit all the more special.
Our destination was the Wiprechtsburg. It’s a wooded hillside above flowering water meadows beside a clear, meandering stream called the Schwennigke. There’s little beyond natural beauty here now, but once upon a time this was Wiprecht’s HQ. There would have been an impressive castle here. When he was in residence, messengers would have raced up and down the nearby roads and local merchants would have bustled to provide for the castle’s needs. Now, there’s little beyond the pub emblem, the place names, and the ruins of a chapel at the top of the hill. Locals have made the most of their resource by clearing what would once have been a castle bailey into an open space that now hosts summer theatre, ringed with benches for audiences. Paved paths offer easy, pleasant walks around the mound. In May, the woods were exploding with lilacs and wildflowers. The air was heavy with scent. It was probably never this calm when Wiprecht was around.
It’s niche, and I wouldn’t recommend it to everyone. But if you’re of European descent, the mathematical probability is that you’re descended from Wiprecht, too. So why not?
