Divine Iconoclasm and the Making of Sacred Space in John Capgrave’s Life of Saint Katherine of Alexandria

Abstract

The polemics of idol worship in John Capgrave’s Life of Saint Katherine of Alexandria have been interpreted by previous scholars as either the author’s engagement with the Lollard image controversy or a political critique of Henry VI. This essay, however, shifts the focus from Katherine and her iconoclasm to the concept of divine iconoclasm, defined here not only as the divinely sanctioned or divinely motivated destruction of religious images but also as God’s direct intervention to dismantle false representations and correct human perceptions of the divine. It further argues that Capgrave’s Life redefines sacred space as primarily constructed through light, emphasizing its immateriality and exposing the saint’s physical limitations. In these scenarios, divine iconoclasm emerges as a constructive force that resolves the tension between the secular and the sacred. Moreover, Christ’s celestial manipulation of the vision of sacred space and the relationship between body and space—encouraging confidence while discouraging self-inflation—serves as a model for how a monarch should inspire both love and fear. In this way, Capgrave’s Mirrors for Princes is embedded within his hagiography, where the image debate features prominently, addressing the heated political and theological controversies of his time. By combining these elements, the essay bridges two strands of criticism that have previously treated the political and theological dimensions of the text separately.

1. Introduction

Farewele my dowtyr, farewel ye fayre!

Whyl ye with my Sone were in the ayre

A qween leche to yow all that tyme kept (who looked just like you)

Youre grete astate: sche ete and slept,

Spake and comaunded, bothe dempt (judged) and wrote—

All this dyde sche ryght in your stede (place).

There was no man withinne that mote (castle)

That cowde aspye in hir womanhede

Ony manere differens, sat sche or yede (whether she sat or walked).

My Sone ordeyned this for youre sake.

Whan ye are ded and your corown take,

Than schall ye know swech pryvy thingys—

How thei ar doo and in what manere.

(John Capgrave, The Life of Saint Katherine, III. 1460–72)1

In Book 3 of John Capgrave’s The Life of Saint Katherine (written c. 1445), when Virgin Mary bids farewell to Katherine, who is newly baptized and wedded to Christ in heaven, the Virgin announces Katherine’s deposition as a monarch and martyrdom as a saint at the hands of the pagan emperor Maxentius. However, before revealing Katherine’s climatic confrontation with Maxentius, Mary recounts a stunning miracle—or rather, a troubling trick—performed by Christ on the saint’s behalf: Katherine, destined to become the iconoclastic virgin martyr who publicly challenges the worship of pagan gods as idolatry and openly mocks the tyrant Maxentius’s proposal to erect a statue of her in the marketplace, is effortlessly replaced by a simulacrum. This seemingly vivacious image, crafted by God as a visual deception for the masses, stands in her place. In this scenario, while Katherine is with Christ in heaven, her physical body and even her royal duties are filled in by this illusory queenly image, which eats, sleeps, speaks, commands, judges, and writes just as she would do. No one within the royal castle can tell that this simulacrum is not Katherine. Mary promises that after Katherine is deposed and dead, she shall know how such miracles are performed. More tragically, after announcing the future loss of Katherine’s life and kingdom, Mary discloses the most recent loss of Katherine’s mother: “Yet of another matere I geve yow warnyngys:/The qween your modyr, the whych dyd yow bere,/Is i-pasyd and ded, leyd low on bere” (V. 1473–75). Katherine’s presence in heaven costs her the opportunity to meet her mother for the last time, who has just passed away and now lies on her bier. True, Mary promises eternal life and offers herself as a substitute mother in compensation. Furthermore, one could argue that artificial and demonic images generate only death, while God creates this one for Katherine’s conversion and eventual resurrection as a saint. However, Mary’s announcement of one tragedy after another imbues the scene of image-making with a sense of death and foreboding.

This episode is an example of the “disturbingly arbitrary”, in Sarah James’s words, celestial visual deception, which reinforce the idea of the fallibility of oculi carnis—“eyes of the flesh”, or the physical, human capacity for vision, which is inherently limited, prone to error, and inevitably susceptible to divine manipulation (James 2014, pp. 433–34). However, this visual trick becomes increasingly alarming to the reader as the narrative unfolds, especially when Katherine herself questions Maxentius about what kind of craftsman could make the legs of her statue move and walk, its hands feel, its eyes see, and its tongue speak and cry—just as she does (V. 449–69). In her long dismissal of the dead statue, Katherine exhausts the list of organs and body parts to emphasize the impossibility of animating a statue, repeating three times that no artist on earth could ever accomplish a project of such subtlety. This stock scene of the virgin saint’s iconoclastic public speech, based on the accusation of the idols as physically insensible and spiritually dead in Psalm 113, appears in nearly every version of the Katherine Legend. However, in Capgrave’s version, the God-created simulacrum of Katherine—one that can actually move and speak—further complicates Katherine’s assertion that “no werkman in erthe that can it fulfylle” (V. 462). God, indeed, is no workman on earth, yet he has deceived everyone with an image that walks, feels, and speaks exactly like Katherine. In contrast to the statue of Katherine offered by Maxentius to symbolize her sovereign power, the vivacious image created by God can fulfill the quintessential roles and duties of a queen, commanding and judging with no distinction from Katherine herself. Katherine’s mockery of Maxentius’s offer makes God’s seemingly effortless replacement of her all the more troubling. The divine miracle is so close to artificial or even demonic tricks that create a delusional image or animate a dead one.

The legend of Katherine first emerged in Greece during the 10th century and gained widespread popularity across Europe in the late Middle Ages (Lewis and Jenkins 2003). Katherine, the princess and later ruler of Alexandria, governs as a virgin queen. After a mystical marriage with Christ in heaven, she converts to Christianity. When the Roman Emperor Maxentius invades her homeland, she confronts him, condemning his persecution of Christians and his worship of pagan idols. Her eloquence and wisdom astonish even the 50 philosophers sent to debate her, many of whom she converts. Refusing to renounce her faith, Katherine endures torture and imprisonment. She is eventually sentenced to death on a spiked wheel, which miraculously breaks apart. Finally, she is beheaded, and her body is carried to Mount Sinai by angels. In the 15th century, Katherine rose to prominence as a celebrated saint and popular cultural icon in England, inspiring numerous hagiographies. Among these were two midcentury versions: one in Osbern Bokenham’s Legendys of Hooly Wummen and another was John Capgrave’s 8,000-line Life of Saint Katherine (c. 1445).2 Capgrave’s version is unique in its portrayal of Katherine as both a sovereign and a scholar, challenging gender stereotypes while engaging with the political and theological debates of 15th-century England.

Previous scholars have interpreted the polemics of idol worship in Capgrave’s Life either as the author’s engagement with the Lollard image controversy or as a political critique of Henry VI.3 Karen Winstead frames the political interpretations of Capgrave’s Life as his Mirrors for Princes. Katherine’s confrontation with Maxentius is highly politicized, serving to expose Katherine’s shortcomings as a monarch, much like those of Henry VI (Winstead 1990, 1994, 2007). Theologically, as James Simpson observes, in Kathrine’s iconoclastic discourse, especially her adoption of the Lollard topoi and vocabulary, such as “maumetis” and “stokes” (IV. 701), the referent of her speech could have shifted from pagan to Christian imagery, potentially placing Capgrave in the dangerous position of aligning with Lollards who accuse the Church of idolatry in their image worship (Simpson 2011).4 In this instance, Simpson identifies the 15th-century English Church’s hesitancy regarding the endorsement of the liveliness of images, as well as the perilous closeness of the Church’s and the Lollards’ positions in encouraging a salutary, living relationship with images within devotional piety (Simpson 2011, p. 98).5 Karen Winstead notes that Capgrave still experiments with these opposing stances by using hagiography, a well-established “conservative” genre, to express his dissent against censorship and repression within an increasingly rigid and narrow orthodoxy (Winstead 2007, pp. x–xii).6 Capgrave proposes, instead, that difference and dissent should be integral to a broad-minded and self-critical Catholicism.7 Sarah Stanbury reads Katherine’s saintly body as performing the role of a wonder-working sacred image, whose miraculous efficacy lies in its excessive life, spirited physicality, and incarnate vitality like Christ (Stanbury 2015, pp. 43–46, 65). In comparison, as Stanbury observes, the menacing but ineffectual materiality of the carefully engineered wheel, the instrument of Katherine’s torture, offers a foil for Katherine’s compelling animism and “marks it as an idol” (Stanbury 2015, p. 59). Shannon Gayk also argues that Katherine uses the interpretation of images as a semiotic lesson to dismiss Maxentius as a superficial reader who overvalues external form but cannot read material signs spiritually (Gayk 2011, p. 98). Moving beyond the context of Lollard debates against religious images, Sarah James’s study offers a broader perspective, highlighting Capgrave’s engagement with Augustine’s theory of signs and his framework of three types of vision: physical, spiritual, and intellectual (James 2014). In Book 3 of the Life, James argues, Capgrave draws a sharp distinction between physical sight (oculi carnis) and spiritual insight (oculi mentis). While the latter is hard to transmit and difficult to follow, Capgrave embraces the complexity and the intellectual depth it offers.

Building on these observations, this essay interprets the troubling episode of God creating a simulacrum of Katherine not as Capgrave’s hesitancy to choose between polarized views on the complex issue of images, but as Capgrave’s representation of God’s constructive iconoclasm through the tension between Katherine’s body and the sacred space.8

Divine iconoclasm, as defined in this essay, refers not only to the divinely sanctioned destruction of religious images but also to God’s direct intervention to dismantle false representations and correct human perceptions of the divine. This theological concept is firmly rooted in the Old Testament, where God actively destroys idols rather than solely commanding humans to do so. For instance, Exodus 12:12 emphasizes God’s judgment against the deities of Egypt, while Isaiah 19:1 highlights the destabilizing effect of God’s presence on Egyptian idols. The New Testament further extends this theme: in Acts 17, Paul critiques the Athenian reliance on physical temples, asserting God’s transcendence beyond structures crafted by human hands, and Revelation 19 portrays Christ as a divine warrior vanquishing false worship. Though rare in literature, divine iconoclasm occasionally appears in works like Geoffrey Chaucer’s “The Man of Law’s Tale”, where God’s disembodied hand acts as an iconoclastic anti-image.9 More commonly, saints—not God himself—serve as agents of iconoclasm in hagiographies. However, Capgrave’s writings offer a unique exception within this tradition, distinguishing his work among other medieval saints’ lives.

By focusing on the uneasy relationship between Katherine’s physicality and sacred space, this essay shifts from the traditional focus on Katherine’s iconoclasm to divine iconoclasm—a transcendent force that operates beyond human agency. Capgrave’s Life undermines the materiality of the sacred space (defined instead by divine light) while emphasizing the inadequate corporeality of Katherine, using her perceived flaws to diminish her “excessive” life.10 The Life reimagines sacred space not as a static monument but as a dynamic, divinely reformed realm—one shaped less by material permanence than by the immateriality of light and the rupturing force of divine iconoclasm. Within this framework, sacred space becomes a site of spiritual and intellectual transformation, where the fragility of human forms—Katherine’s body and imperial authority—is juxtaposed with the intangible radiance of divine presence. Light, as both metaphor and theological instrument, dissolves the boundaries between earthly and heavenly, privileging a sacred immateriality that resists codification. By interrogating how Capgrave’s iconoclastic theology critiques idolatrous materiality while elevating spiritual renewal, this analysis engages broader discourses on medieval conceptions of sanctity, gender, and the paradoxical power of divine absence.

2. Anti-Euhemerism and the Vanishing Home of the Hermit

Apart from offering to make an image of Katherine, which occurs in every version of Katherine’s Life, Capgrave’s Maxentius promises to make the saint a temple which will memorize and deify her: “He wold a tempill all of marbell make,/Of ful grete cost rith for hir sake” (V. 417–18). This gesture superficially aligns with euhemerism—a theory positing that gods and mythic figures originate from historical individuals whose graves are venerated as temples and whose deeds are mythologized over time. Yet Capgrave’s framing of Maxentius’s offer complicates this logic: rather than affirming the gradual, organic process by which human memory elevates figures to divine status—the core mechanism of euhemerism—the pagan emperor’s coercive attempt to manufacture Katherine’s sanctity through material monuments perverts these principles. If euhemerism is already idolatrous, then Maxentius’s cult—centered on a physical monument intended to legitimize her divinity through imperial ritual rather than authentic memory—is doubly so. By rejecting his empty ritualism, Katherine exposes the futility of such forced deification, thereby advancing an implicit critique—or anti-euhemerism—that privileges spiritual authenticity over fabricated cultic devotion.

This rejection not only undermines the emperor’s personal authority but also interrupts the broader imperial logic of divinization, which relies on physical structures—above all, the temple—to naturalize sacred status. The deification process in Rome cannot be completed without the temple. As Gayk observes, like images, temples are material memorials that try to obscure their lineage and origins in order to appear permanent; therefore, Maxentius uses this “sacred space” as the finishing touch on his proposed cult of Katherine. Capgrave avoids implicating Katherine’s family in the euhemerist practices of their contemporaries: Katherine’s father, King Costus, is not commemorated by images and statues (I. 486–87) but by the changed name of the great city established by the king from Amaleck to Famagost, meaning “the fame of Costus” (I. 494) (Gayk 2010, pp. 137, 142). On earth, all human-constructed memorials, including sacred spaces like temples, are bound to be impermanent and subject to idolatry. Sometimes Capgrave feigns ignorance of pagan rituals, avoiding description of the altars, or emphatically denying the divinity of the pagan gods. For instance, Capgrave’s narrator, when describing the well-arrayed altar of Maxentius, would not call Cupid by his name: “I owe him non, for maumentrye I despyse” (IV. 406). Repeatedly, Capgrave refuses to honor pagan temples and altars, suppressing their sanctity and diminishing their significance. By using Capgrave’s representations of these memorials and spaces—which the pagans perceive as sacred—as foils, this section examines how Capgrave employs narrative strategies to consecrate Christian temples and the paradisal palace.

In Book 3 of the Life, the appearance of paradise is dramatized as a mystery, guided by a series of unpredictable divine interventions. Katherine follows Adrian, who is instructed by the Virgin Mary to covert Katherine, to his old dwelling, but they see nothing except wilderness, leaving the hermit in great distress.

Thus goo thei forth, walkyng bedeene (together),

Tyll thei come to the stronden (shore) where that his hous—

This ermyte, I mene, this man mervelous—

Was won for to stande (used to stand), but all is agoo (gone).

There is no home—all is wylldyrnesse.

He wayled, he loked, he went too and froo;

He cast (searched) the cuntré, but he coude not gesse (figure it out)—

Thus is he lefte in care and hevynesse.

(III. 810–17)

Although Adrian is no ordinary man but rather “this hermit” and “this man mervelous”, as Capgrave emphasizes by granting him a full line (III. 813), the hermit remains anxious, confused, and unaware that the vision of paradise awaits him. This mirrors his earlier failure to recognize the Virgin Mary and his refusal to obey her command to leave his dwelling and seek Katherine (III. 155–61). As Winstead observes, Capgrave does not shy away from depicting the saints and clergy in the Life as disoriented and even laughable, yet without compromising their worthiness.11

In these lines, Capgrave puts Adrian at the end line of a stanza, positioned between two lines of his “hous” and “home”, while rhyming “mervelous” with “wylldyrnesse”, as if to imitate the scenario of a marvelous man standing where his house once stood, only to be engulfed by wilderness. Then the next two lines are packed with actions: Adrian wails, looks, goes to and fro, and searches everywhere, but he cannot find his vanished home. The reader, aware of the man’s greatness and anticipating the forthcoming miracle, is not encouraged to sympathize with Adrian as an enfeebled old man who has just lost his humble dwelling. The sudden, miraculous disappearance of the hermit’s cell is juxtaposed with his way too mundane concerns about where to live. The hermit shows inordinate, even idolatrous, love of his own dwelling, doubting whether he should rebuild it or dig a well, which is beyond his physical strength, because he is still clinging to his old home: “To chaunge my dwellyng was I nevyr fayn” (III. 866). Although Adrian’s humanized reactions in the face of supernatural events do not provoke disdain from the reader, his reluctance to give up his old dwelling, from an omniscient narrator’s perspective, is against God’s will. His attachment recalls John Wycliffe’s argument that any manufactured objects, including utensils and buildings, if valued more than God, could potentially be idols.12 Here, God acts as an iconoclast, breaking the hermit’s excessive attachment to his earthly—albeit sacred—home.

On the one hand, Capgrave employs this narrative strategy to frame the appearance of heaven and the creation of a sacred space with a touch of comic relief, using ordinary experiences to temper the solemnity of the heavenly vision and mystical marriage. This approach underscores the intimacy between God, the saints, the clergy, and lay readers. The sacred man’s confusion and bewilderment often serve as “a remarkable celebration of ordinary human perceptions within a genre which had long denigrated them” (Winstead 1990, p. 68). Hagiography typically downplays the humanity of the holy men and women, prioritizing their divine connections and transcendence beyond human weaknesses. Capgrave, however, reminds readers that even in moments of divine intervention, ordinary human reactions and emotions remain valid and meaningful. By integrating the relatable qualities of sacred figures into the narrative, Capgrave makes his narrative more relatable and engaging to his lay audience.

On the other hand, the reader is not allowed to linger in mockery or pity for the bewildered holy man for too long. Capgrave soon provides a hermeneutic guide for interpretative practices.

Godd suffered this man to falle thus in trauns,

That he schuld not hymselfe magnyfye (become self magnified)

Of so grete sytys (sight) and of swech dalyauns (interaction)

Whech that he had with oure Ladye.

It is the use (practice) of oure Lord to lede men hye

Fro full low degré, as David fro the schepe

Was led to the kyngdam, if we take kepe (pay attention).

(III. 869–75)

God throws Adrian into confusion to prevent him from becoming overconfident after his previous vision of and interaction with the Virgin Mary. In 1 Samuel 16:11–13, Samuel summons David from his job of herding sheep and anoints him King of Israel. Although the Lord is not raising Adrian from a lowly position here, but rather humbling him by estranging him from his grand experience with the Virgin, Adrian will soon be lifted from this distress to behold the sight of heaven. Divine iconoclasm of the hermit’s original sacred space is undoubtedly constructive, as this humble dwelling will soon transform into a paradisal palace.

This iconoclastic act and the hermit’s bewilderment reveal that visionary experiences—or their deliberate withholding— operate as calibrated divine interventions. Through this mechanism, God prevents the inflation of Adrian’s ego, demonstrating that the most profound form of divine iconoclasm targets the hermit’s very sense of self. This episode functions simultaneously as a theological corrective against hubris and a cosmic comedy: its pedagogical rigor chastens spiritual pride, while its slapstick undertones expose the absurdity of human attempts to codify the sacred. The didactic thrust crystallizes in God’s methodical deflation of Adrian’s self-perception following his Marian vision. Though elated by this privileged encounter, the hermit must learn he holds no exceptional status before God—a revelation painfully dismantling his subconscious assumptions of spiritual superiority over Katherine and, more dangerously, latent tendencies toward quasi-divine self-aggrandizement. This iconoclasm against the inflated selfhood finds its narrative counterpart in Capgrave’s later critique of idolatry during Maxentius’s statue proposal, where worshiping idols ultimately becomes self-worship (Stanbury 2015, p. 40). The comic effect further emerges from the contrast between these two scenes of spiritual correction. Whereas Maxentius’s idolatrous imperialism culminates in catastrophic loss—both of his subjects’ lives and ultimately his own kingdom—Adrian’s chastening bears no dire consequences. Here, a well-meaning ascetic clinging to his rustic cell is gently schooled in humility, his spiritual stumbling rendered harmless. Readers navigate this comic tension through empathetic laughter: we recognize the hermit’s all-too-human fallibility while recognizing our shared susceptibility to misread divine signs as personal validation. The comedy’s edge lies in God’s refusal to grant further confirmations, training audiences to interpret spiritual experiences as provisional graces rather than guarantees of salvation. In this dual register of pedagogy and humor, Capgrave achieves a theological equilibrium—stern enough to check pride, yet compassionate enough to accommodate human frailty.

This equilibrium finds another narrative embodiment in Adrian’s perceptual limitations: when Katherine sees shining walls and gates appearing in the old spot of the hermit’s cell, Adrian sees only barren earth. After realizing that spiritual perception does not correlate with ascetic rigor, the hermit weeps and tells Katherine not to trust his unworthy guide anymore, as God now favors Katherine over him by showing her a vision that he cannot see (III. 880–96). More significantly, Katherine experiences the same distress later. After the mystical marriage in heaven, Christ and all his creatures depart, leaving only Adrian’s cell behind (III. 1345–50). While the hermit remains largely unmoved this time, Katherine swoons: “But than was it reuth for to beholde,/To se this swete, how sche than felle/Down in a swow (swoon), as ded thoo sche lay (as if she were dead)” (III. 1351–353). Here, the narrator does not overtly state that God attempts to deflate Katherine’s ego by withdrawing the grandeur of the heavenly vision. However, when reading this episode alongside Adrian’s previous experience, the reader becomes aware that this is yet another moment of divine iconoclasm and spiritual recalibration. This narrative maneuver underscores the theological principle again: that true spiritual insight and humility are fostered not by constant, unmitigated exposure to divine splendor, but rather through intermittent, corrective measures that remind the faithful of their ultimate dependence on God.

Katherine and Adrian then converse for 8 days before the Virgin Mary descends from heaven. During these days, their discussion is imbued with a tension between hope and the ever-present reminder that divine visions are neither permanent nor predictable. When Mary finally arrives, she comes not only as a figure of comfort but also as a harbinger of finality, announcing Katherine’s impending death with the solemn words: “…now am I come/To tell yow the manere of youre ending (death)” (III. 1445–46). This partly illuminates the simulacrum episode referenced at the beginning of the essay. The exhilaration of witnessing a divine image is always counterbalanced by loss, death, and effacement of divine presence. The cycle of divine iconoclasm, therefore, encourages both Katherine and the reader to view extraordinary visual experiences as temporary indicators of divine favor that demand cautious interpretation rather than uncritical adoration.

As exemplified by the hermit’s vanishing home, every divine iconoclasm targets both the object and the ego. God hides the hermit’s small sacred space to detach him from his devotional attachment—an anti-memorial and anti-euhemerist move. However, God is a constructive iconoclast, as he soon transforms the void into an architectural wonder. This is an iconoclastic act not only against the old chapel but also against the hermit’s sense of self. When the hermit becomes inflated with the vision of the Virgin Mary, God removes his home, making him slow to perceive the heavenly palace. The same process occurs with Katherine. Even after her conversion and mystical marriage with Christ, the saint undergoes various forms of divine iconoclasm, from the immediate loss of her vision to the eventual loss of her kingdom and life. Divine iconoclasm in Capgrave’s Life is an ongoing process, marked by the showing and withdrawing of paradisal visions, and the gaining and losing of the life-affirming forces.

3. The Making of Immaterial Sacred Space

Divine revelation’s inherent unpredictability, epitomized by the sacred space’s sudden appearance and withdrawal, frustrates human attempts to systematize transcendence. Such visions, frequently juxtaposed with imagery of loss or mortality, temper human presumption, framing revelation as inseparable from divine will. To advance this inquiry, the symbolic logic governing sacred space itself demands closer scrutiny. Unlike discrete sacred objects, which often materialize as transient marvels, sacred space operates as a structured locus of paradox: its construction—through ritual, spatial and visual experience, and communal memory—simultaneously actualizes and destabilizes meaning.

For Katherine, the sacred space of heaven is mainly distinguished by its light:

“Evene yondyr above, sere. Se ye nowth? (Do you not see it?)

The woundyrfull wallys schynnyng as sune,

Swech another thing was nevyr wrowte—

There was nevyr swech thing in erde begune (made on earth)!

The stones are bryght, the roves (buildings, roofs) are not dun (dim).

Loke up, man, meryly (joyously), se ye noght yon syght—

The castell yondyr whech schynyth so bryght?”

(III. 883–89)

In Katherine’s verbal painting of her heavenly vision, the wondrous walls shine like the sun, and the stones and roofs are particularly radiant. Katherine’s description of heaven is not entirely immaterial, as it includes concrete architectural structures, such as walls, stones, and roofs, allowing her to recognize it as a castle—a space that is, as James describes, “highly physical, orderly and hermeneutically stable” (James 2014, p. 435). However, unlike the Pearl-poet, Capgrave does not use grand spaces or precious gems to construct his vision of heaven; instead, he emphasizes its unearthly brightness above all else.

“Syght” and “bryght” rhyme in the last couplet of the stanza. However, the brightness of heaven, rather than enhancing the vision, impairs the sight with an excess of light intolerable to human beings. This offers, as James observes, “a contrasting view that serves to disguise or render indistinct the heavenly vision” (James 2014, p. 435). Such brightness clouds human vision, and Katherine’s wonder—that no earthly craftsman can create it—is inserted between the poetic lines describing the radiance of paradise. Beyond the theological perspective offered by James, the literary context of Capgrave’s Life provides another explanation for why the author chooses excessive light as a heavenly vision specifically designed for Katherine.

Just as Adrian is deeply attached to his cell, Katherine is most familiar with her study, which is a bright and grand “earthly paradise” for Katherine to live like a (secular) contemplative. The vision of paradise serves as an anti-dose to the space where Katherine isolates and indulges herself to study. Situated within a grand royal palace, Katherine’s study is so well-lit and meticulously arranged that it becomes the very embodiment of ordered royal magnificence.

Her stodyes there full craftily were i-pyght (furnished)

With deskys and chayeres (chairs) and mech othir gere (gear),

Arayed on the best wyse, and glased (well-lighted) full bryght.

Every faculté be himselve (discipline by itself), for thei of gramere were

Sett on the west syde, and eke thei that lere (study)

Astronomye on the est, ryght for thei schuld loke (look)

Sumtyme on the hevyn, sumtyme on her boke (book).

All the other artes betwyx hem stode arowen (in their place),

Ryght aftyr (according to) her age and aftyr her dygnyté.

Every man that cam there myght well i-knowe

Whech was worthyere and hyer of degré.

(I. 316–26)

In Capgrave’s version, Katherine’s study, particularly its symmetry and brightness, features prominently. Her private study, with walls and towers raised to such extraordinary heights that only birds in flight could access it, is crafted with precision and adorned with intricate arches (I. 302–64). This enclosed space, Katherine’s “earthly paradise”, is not sacred, but it is where she truly feels at home on earth. It is also the place where the hermit Adrian is instructed by the Virgin Mary to find her: “Withinne hir stody thus schall thu hir fynde” (III. 351). Therefore, as a vision uniquely tailored to Katherine, the architecture of the heavenly palace mirrors Katherine’s study, with everything appearing familiar yet ultimately foreign to her.

Like the radiant heaven, Katherine’s earthly palace, where she cultivates her learning, is also well-lit, “glased full bright”. However, unlike the heavenly palace that emits blinding light, everything inside her study is clearly visible. Moreover, in her study, books from every discipline are intelligently organized by age and prestige, so that anyone passing by could easily discern which holds greater value or higher status. Each subject is positioned independently, with those books on grammar placed on the west side, while those on astronomy were situated on the east side, allowing the scholars to alternate between gazing at the heavens and reading their texts (I. 316–25). Katherine, with her great learning, fine-tunes her intellect to perceive and understand the order and hierarchy of all disciplines.

However, when Katherine enters heaven, the people who greet her are also arranged in a similar order and sequence: she is met by worthy individuals at the outer entrance, by even better and more worthy people at the next, and by those of the highest status in the temple. Yet, unlike the books and scholars in her study, these celestial beings are almost unrecognizable to her: “…but non can sche ken (recognize)./Thei were other maner persones than sche had seyn” (III. 943–44). Despite their orderly arrangement, these otherworldly creatures remain alien to her. As a scholar well-versed in every discipline, Katherine’s mind has been honed and refined, but the heaven—so orderly and hermeneutically stable—remains beyond her full comprehension. This example represents a more sophisticated act of divine iconoclasm, as the paradisal grandeur is designed to appeal to Katherine’s carnal eyes, which are so accustomed to palatial magnificence, and the order of people in heaven mirrors the order of disciplines in Katherine’s study, but these features challenge Katherine’s cognition and remind her of her ignorance.

Surprisingly, yet not entirely so, another parallel space, filled with excessive heavenly light and rendered sacred, is Katherine’s prison, in which she prays for the best use of her learning. On the eve of her debate with 50 scholars, Katherine prays, and an angel descends to illuminate her prison, promising her success.

Whan that this lady had made hir orison (prayer),

There cam an aungell glydyng down fro hevene,

With mervelous noys cam he that tyme down,

As bryth he semyd, as it were the levene (lightening).

Alle the prison, whech had voutes (vaults) sevene,

Was lyght that tyme ryght of his presence (illuminated by his presence).

The derke corneres coude make noo resistens.

(IV. 1191–97)

The angel is accompanied by a marvelous sound and a brilliance like lightning, and the entire prison, with its seven vaults, is bathed in his presence—even the darkest corners. The last line in the stanza is the most vivid: when Capgrave describes how the dark corners of the prison are illuminated, the author imbues the space with agency, suggesting that they could make no resistance (IV. 1197).

The prison could have been a counter-space of the heavenly palace, resisting the angelic light just as its owner, Maxentius, rejects the Christian faith, with its “seven vaults” symbolizing the grandeur of his imperial order. However, it still cannot resist the heavenly illumination. Just as the secular world cannot resist sacred power, the pagans cannot resist the Christian faith. In contrast to Katherine’s study, which is overshadowed by the heavenly palace and serves as a reminder of her ignorance, this prison-turned sacred space, illuminated by the miraculous lighting, affirms her learning and ensures that her eloquence will triumph over the pagan philosophers in debate and enlighten them. Her powerful speeches, like the angel’s marvelous sound, will resound among the pagans. The prison, filled with angelic light like the heavenly palace and Katherine’s study, becomes a sign that Katherine has been enlightened and that the pagan resistance to her faith and learning is destined to fail.

This imagery of a well-lit prison-turned sacred space appears again when the Empress of Maxentius and Porphyrius, the counsellor of Maxentius, visit the imprisoned Katherine. The angel descends like lightning once more, transforming the dark place of confinement and despair into a sacred place of hope and holiness.

Whan thei comen there, thei too and no moo,

So grete lith (light) in prison sey thei thoo

That thei fallen down withouten spech or breth—

Thei hopyd (expected) nevyr to a ben so ny (near) her (their) deth,

For that brytnes was lych a lythnyng

Whech thei sey than, so wondyrfull and bryght

Her wytt is goo, and down in stameryng

Are thei falle for fere of that syght.

There was a savour (fragrance), also, with the lyght;

Thei felt nevyre swech, the story seyth, certeyne,

For with that savour her comfort (courage) cam ageyn.

(V. 809–19)

The Empress and Porphyrius fall to the ground, breathless and stammering in fear. Unlike Katherine, they do not swoon or become blinded by the light but are terrified by it. However, they soon smell a fragrant aroma, which revives and comforts them.

Instead of embracing the visual experience, the Empress and Porphyrius are guided by a more inferior sense—smell—which aligns with their spiritual status as unconverted pagans. Similarly, in Geoffrey Chaucer’s The Second Nun’s Tale, when Tiburce, Saint Cecilia’s husband Valarian, smells the fragrance of the invisible crowns of heavenly lilies and roses brought by the angels, he feels as if he were reborn into another nature: “The savour (fragrance) myghte in me no depper go./The sweete smel that in myn herte I fynde/Hath chaunged me al in another kynde (nature)” (pp. 250–52).13 The unconverted Tiburce feels the transformative power of the penetrating fragrance, but he cannot see the flowers, for the angel had earlier explained that only those who are chaste in soul can behold them with their carnal eyes: “Ne nevere wight shal seen hem with his ye,/But he be chaast and hate vileynye” (pp. 230–31). In divine revelations, the sense of smell proves more accessible than vision. Valerian explains that his prayers enable Tiburce to smell the lilies and roses, which his eyes cannot see (“Whiche that thyne eyen han no myght to see;/And as thou smellest hem thurgh my preyere” [pp. 255–56]). Only when Tiburce believes correctly and grasps the true faith does he come to know the real truth: “Bileve aright and knowen verray trouthe” (p. 259). In this Chaucerian example, as well as in Capgrave’s Life, fragrance serves as the introductory sense to sacredness. Similarly, the Empress and Porphyrius are mesmerized by the deep fragrance and find solace in it. Just as the roses and lilies in The Second Nun’s Tale remain hidden from Tiburce’s sight, so too does the prison-turned sacred space remain alien to the Empress and Porphyrius.

Throughout Capgrave’s narrative, sacred space is repeatedly framed through light to underscore its immateriality, yet its impact shifts dramatically across figures. Even Katherine, whose spiritual authority anchors the text, is overwhelmed by these encounters; for the hermit and pagan nobles, sacred space proves far more disturbing. The hermit is disoriented by the sudden disappearance of his own cell, the Empress and Porphyrius are struck dumb and filled with awe, while Katherine’s experience of heaven is most fully realized, as it mirrors both her study, her earthly paradise, and her prison, her earthly hell. Together, these encounters coalesce into a form of constructive divine iconoclasm.

4. Reconfiguring the Saint’s Virgin Body

If sacred space’s immateriality resists human attempts to systematize transcendence, this tension finds its sharpest expression in Capgrave’s treatment of the body itself. Across the Life, the saint’s corporeality emerges as a fraught site of negotiation: the material, mortal form clashes irreconcilably with the immaterial sacred spaces it encounters. Katherine’s body—marked by her discomfort in heaven and unease in the mystical marriage with Christ—becomes Capgrave’s primary vehicle for probing this paradox.

By invoking Saint Paul, who was in the holy place but uncertain whether his body participated in the mystery (III. 925–38), Capgrave contrasts this with Katherine’s experience, asserting that he is certain her body was present in the temple where she was adorned with holy baptism. No one, Capgrave insists, can be baptized without a body: “But this doute I not, that the body of this mayde/Was in that temple where sche was arayde (adorned)/With holy baptem (baptism)…” (III. 930–32). As Cervone observes, Capgrave takes great care to emphasize the physical presence of characters in spiritually heightened settings (Cervone 2015, p. 94).

Another notable detail is Katherine’s frequent swooning in response to the appearance and disappearance of the divine vision of sacred space in this tale. As explained in the earlier section, one can easily see why Katherine swoons for sadness when the heavenly sight departs, leaving Adrian and herself in the woods: “But than was it reuth (a pity) for to beholde,/To se this swete, how sche than felle/Down in a swow, as ded thoo sche lay” (III. 1351–53). The abrupt disappearance of the heavenly vision, as one important act of divine iconoclasm, strikes Katherine more than its sudden appearance. Capgrave’s narrator suggests that it is a pity to see Katherine swoon as if she were dead, yet death here has some positive connotations. Earlier, when Katherine swoons at the temple door in paradise, Capgrave positively aligns swooning with death before a new life.

… Therfore is sche falle

Down all in trauns—there was nevyr man ne schalle

That may susteyn in body swech hevynly blysse,

For who schall it susteyn must dye fyrst iwys.

(III. 977–80)

Capgrave offers an explanation for the trance: the saint must die first to renew her life before she can endure the experience of heavenly bliss in her corporeal body. However, even after her renewal through baptism and mystical marriage with Christ in Book 3, the material body of the saints still proves incapable of withstanding the heavenly bliss in the following two books.

In Book 4, when the angel visits her and fills her prison with light, she swoons once again: “And sche myght not susteyn that vysyoun,/So was sche ravyschyd with that new lyght;/Ryght with his comyng sche fell sone down” (IV. 1198–1200). Here, Katherine still cannot sustain the vision after her conversion and multiple experiences of divine visions appearing and disappearing. In Book 5, after 40 days of imprisonment and nourishment by the Holy Ghost, she swoons when Christ himself descends to her prison with many angels, shining wondrously bright: “Oure Lord Himselve to pryson is com down,/With many aungellys shynyng wondir bryth,/With many maydenes of ful grete renown —/For very joy Kateryne fell in swown” (V. 918–22). This time, the cause of her swooning is not the inability of her ravished body to sustain the divine vision, but sheer joy. However, both causes stem from the same source, for ecstasy induced by divine presence is also a form of fatal ravishment. As James summarizes, Capgrave draws on the Augustinian notion that “[t]he instantaneous and ecstasy-inducing glimpse of God attained by the oculi mentis cannot be sustained into a gaze, but falters and falls” (James 2014, p. 426). A fleeting glimpse of God brings intense rapture, but human beings—even saints like Katherine—cannot hold onto such mystical moments, as they cannot sustain the experience of divine presence in a steady, continuous form.

To emphasize the discomfort of the saint’s corporeal presence in a spiritual setting, Capgrave’s portrayal of the mystical marriage between Christ and Katherine in heaven is strikingly unconventional: Katherine is an unprepared bride, and Christ is neither eager nor warm in his reception. The saint’s inability to meet Christ’s gaze, paired with her imminent swooning, underscores the impurity of her body, rendering her unworthy of the sacred space where God reigns. Even after summoning all her faculties, Katherine dares not look up at the face of Christ (III. 985–95). Worse still, further humiliation awaits her—both as a human and as one with a pagan past—when Christ himself rejects her, insisting that she must first cleanse her body through holy baptism before she can behold his divine countenance.

Therfor, modyr, thus I answere onto yow:

This mayde may not hafe as now (as of now) that grace

Whech that ye aske for hir sake now,

I mene the vysyon, the syght of My face.

Lete hir goo clense hir, lete hir goo purchase (obtain)

The holy baptem, than hath sche My merke (mark).

Bryng hir than to Me and I schall hir merke

(III. 1044–50)

Christ’s rejection of Katherine is not addressed to her personally, but rather to the Virgin Mary. Mary then comforts Katherine by explaining that, even in secular marriages, brides must bathe to present their clean bodies to kings and dukes (III. 1069–71). This rejection from Christ exacerbates the tension and emphasizes the incompatibility between the saint’s earthly body and heavenly vision, underscoring the distance between God and human (Greff 2024, p. 74).

The tension between Katherine and Christ can be explained in multiple ways. James argues from a standard theological perspective that the divine visage cannot be perceived by carnal eyes; thus, a physical “image” or “simulacrum” of Christ, which Katherine longs to see, is inadequate in spiritual terms—much like why Maxentius cannot establish a statue to replace Katherine (James 2014, p. 436). Greff, on the other hand, interprets the text’s inclusion of quotidian secular elements in a sacramental mode as a deliberate attempt to appeal to the taste of the text’s lay female audience, who are more familiar with imperfections, discomforts, and practical negotiations in their marriages—some of which are naturally jarring in an “arranged marriage” united by Mary’s will rather than Katherine’s subconscious desires (Greff 2024, pp. 72, 83).14 However, the earthly does not function as an appropriate analogy of the spiritual, especially when Katherine fails to understand that Christ is rejecting her pagan faith rather than herself as a suitable bride (Greff 2024, p. 75). For Katherine and the audience, Christ’s rejection of her appears brutal, violating his traditional role as a loving suitor and a compassionate, humanized savior in hagiography (Greff 2024, pp. 75, 80).

But the issue goes beyond the inadequacy of Katherine’s unbaptized human body and Christ as a harsh judge in this nuptial context—it is the sacred space that matters. The tension brought to the foreground by Christ underlines that the sacrament conducted in heaven is theologically problematic. Another detail that attests to this conceptual difficulty is the hermit’s blindness during Katherine’s baptism: a “hame”, or a film of blindness, covers his eyes, preventing him from witnessing Katherine’s baptism; but as soon as this sacrament is completed, he regains his sight (III. 1132–40).15 As James argues, the administering of the sacrament of baptism is philosophically problematic and paradoxical, “[a]s the event takes place in the reality of heaven, it ceases to be a sign and becomes instead the thing itself—and it is this that Adrian cannot be permitted to see with his physical eyes, as the res in this case is of necessity discernible only to intellectual vision”(James 2014, p. 432). The idea of performing a sacrament like baptism in heaven introduces a paradox because sacraments are, by definition, signs pointing to a reality beyond themselves. In heaven, where the beatific vision—the direct apprehension of God—is believed to be fully realized, the need for such signs would disappear. The res (the heavenly reality) would no longer require the sacramentum (the earthly sign), as, in this case, Katherine and Adrian have already experienced the divine reality directly. Thus, the notion of sacraments in heaven challenges the very definition and purpose of sacraments as mediators between the earthly and the divine. It highlights the tension between the symbolic nature of sacraments within secular temporality and the direct, unmediated experience of divine reality at the end of time and the world. Like baptism, the mystical marriage is equally problematic when it takes place in physical form in heaven—not as a mystical vision in Katherine’s dream, nor after her death (the demise of her physical body), but as a tangible event. Just as the hermit cannot witness the baptism in heaven with his corporeal eyes, Katherine’s body is unable to sustain the vision of God, both before and after the mystical marriage.

However, there is a countermovement at work. The most striking imagery of the perfect harmony between the human body and light-filled sacred space is found in the metaphor of Mary’s womb. In Katherine’s philosophical debate with the philosophers on the immaculate conception, she invokes an image commonly used by late medieval theologians and poets—Mary’s womb as a sacred space, illuminated by divine light.

Ferthermore, whan He cam to that herbourgage (dwelling, Mary’s body),

His comyng was lich the sune schynyng bryth (bright);

Lich to the glas I lykne that maydenes cage (womb):

The sune schynyth theron with bemes lyght

And thorow it goth, as we se in syght,

Yet is the glas persed (pierced) in noo manere.

So ferde that Lord whan He cam down here.

Thus was she clene in hir concepcion,

Thus hath she receyvyd the Godhed of blys,

Yet was she clenner in His carnacion (conception),

Of whech clennes shall she not mys (lose).

(IV. 2179–89)

Mary’s womb is likened to a chamber with clear glass windows through which the sun’s bright rays pass, yet the glass remains completely intact. The metaphor is not Capgrave’s invention; rather, it is a common motif in 13th- to 15th-century vernacular poems and plays.16 Moreover, in 15th-century art, especially in the works of Flanders and Germany—regions whose cultural, economic, and religious influences also reached East Anglia through trade—such iconographies are commonly featured in altarpieces and stained glass, which themselves constitute part of the sacred space within the church.17 The same iconographies of Christ descending for his incarnation can be found in East Anglian churches, as evidenced by the survival of a 15th-century stained-glass window in St. Peter Mancroft Church, Norwich.18 What makes Capgrave’s verbal depiction of this commonly used iconography unique is its consistent emphasis on the overwhelming excess of light and the Marian body’s power to fully contain it. Given that Capgrave’s Life often emphasizes the infirmity of the human body, which often collapses when fully bathed in divine light, the powerful Marian womb enclosing divine light acquires more profound meanings.

Both the cleanness and intactness of the Marian body stand out prominently in this passage, but the cleanness of Mary’s body occupies a far more significant place than in other versions, extending across four lines. While Capgrave emphasizes that Mary is clean in her conception, which is common in this simile, he uniquely highlights that she becomes even cleaner after the conception (IV. 2188), a detail that is not frequently present in other vernacular versions of this iconic simile. In Capgrave’s Life, light and glass repeatedly appear in the construction of sacred space, but the most significant temple is Mary’s virgin body, penetrated and purified by divine light—and only Mary can sustain it. The perfection of the light-constructed sacred space in Mary’s body contrasts with the saint’s own bodily impurity and unfitness within the heavenly space.

Mary’s womb emerges as the ultimate sacred space, dissolving boundaries between materiality and immateriality through the female body. More significantly, her form operates as both sign and reality of divine presence: her immaculate conception, free from original sin, preserves her body as a pure vessel for divine manifestation, while her Assumption—body and soul ascending into heaven—affirms the sanctity of her physical form. Virgin yet maternal, her body shares in divine glory, bridging human and divine realms through its dual physical-spiritual integrity. By contrast, the saint’s body, even after mystical union, remains fractured—inadequate in heaven, transient on earth, and destined for destruction. This juxtaposition positions Mary’s sacred corporeality as both mirror and counterpoint to Katherine’s bodily iconoclasm: where Mary’s form resolves paradox, Katherine’s unravels it, justifying divine violence against the mortal frame.

5. Constructive Destruction of the Saint’s Monarchical Body

The tension between immaterial sacred spaces and the saint’s bodily inadequacy reaches its apex in Katherine’s paradoxical absence: while she ascends to heaven, her earthly queenship persists through a divinely crafted simulacrum—a problematic proxy central to the essay’s opening inquiry. This episode, too, must be understood as part of the scheme of divine iconoclasm. The simulacrum created by God embodies Katherine’s unfit queenship, which must be broken later. Like the sacred visions that vanish or the hermit’s disappeared cell, the eventual shattering of this simulacrum—and the consequent dismantling of Katherine’s regal authority—completes the arc of divine iconoclasm.

Katherine, though a wise, virtuous, but self-isolating ruler, does not make a good monarch, because she governs only herself, not others; her distaste for pastimes prevents her from receiving counsel and information during informal social occasions, leaving her unfamiliar with the aristocratic lifestyles necessary for effective governance (Winstead 2007, pp. 141–42). Perceived by her subjects as vulnerable and incapable of serving as a military leader and harsh judge, Katherine cannot present herself as a powerful, active, and visible leader whose presence inspires awe in both her subjects and enemies (Winstead 1994, p. 364). As a ruler, torn between conflicting claims of public responsibility and personal inclination, she experiences a full range of human limitations, displaying the same confusion and anxiety she feels in her role as a virgin saint (Winstead 1990, p. 66).

More importantly, Capgrave does not depict Katherine as a virtuous, powerful Christian monarch defeated by an evil invader, Maxentius, and then avenged by an equally virtuous and powerful Christian emperor, Constantine. Instead, as Winstead observes, “Maxentius, is in other respects, Katherine’s evil twin, with faults that are similar in kind, though not in degree, to hers”: both of them ignore the advice of their counselors; in comparison, Katherine has a virtuous character but cannot act, while Maxentius is active but lacks virtue; Katherine inspires love but not fear; Maxentius inspires fear but not love—each violating the principles of wise rule (Winstead 2007, pp. 148–50). As Winstead summarizes, “Maxentius and Katherine fail as monarchs for complementary reasons” (Winstead 2007, p. 140). Maxentius, instead of Constantine, serves as Katherine’s double in Capgrave’s Life.

Capgrave’s Katherine fails her queenship primarily due to her obstinacy and unwillingness to subordinate her own penchant and private desires to the common good, much like Maxentius.19 Capgrave’s profuse use of the word “heresye” throughout Book 4 further bridges the theological and the political dimensions of her failure: “Thei shall sonest destroy this heresye/Of this same lady, thus seyd thei all” (IV. 824–25). However, outside the image debate, Katherine’s opponents and relatives assign unexpectedly low-profile definitions to her “heresye” in the theological sense. In Book 4, the Roman emperor accuses her of falling into heresy due to “obstinacy” of mind: “We hafe here a mayde whyche with obstinacy/Reneyhithe (repudiates) owre lawes whyche we use here,/For she is falle into that cursyd heresye” (IV. 975–77). Interestingly, Katherine’s persecutors do not attribute her “heresy” to her moral deficiency or political maneuvering but to her unreasonable determination to uphold a false belief, which can be understood as the result of misdirected intellectual efforts (which the Life presents as Katherine’s bookishness).20 In addition, when Katherine’s uncle, the King of Armenia, tries to dissuade her from the “heresy”, he invokes the common practice of the royalty: “‘Cosyn (kinswoman)’, he seyd, ‘leve thys heresye./Thynk of your kynrode, both kyng and qwene:/Was nevyr non of them swych thyng wold susteyn (hold such beliefs)’” (IV. 1060–63). The King of Armenia uses the loaded word “heresye” without engaging with its theological and intellectual connotations, instead only asking his niece to be more practical and follow the familiar paths of kings and queens, not doing anything that their noble peers would believe is “heresye”. Notably, when praying to Christ, Katherine also defines her opponents’ beliefs as heresy. She uses the same word “obstinacy” to describe their folly: “With ful grete hert of cursyd obstinacy/Whech hath you brought in ful grete heresy” (IV. 713–14). In the mutual definition of heresy, “heresye” becomes no more than a personal intellectual and behavioral idiosyncrasy in politics and governance, further reinforcing that Katherine is Maxentius’s theological opponent but his political “evil twin”.

Earlier, the saint’s carnality is defined by her incompatibility with the sacred space in heaven, but on earth, she is equally inadequate. Just as she cannot access the temple in heaven by herself, she is unable to access the pagan temple without the escort of lords and the emperor’s son, who clear a way among the massive crowds with mace and menace until she arrives at the high altar (IV. 526–52). As Winstead observes, this scene is missing in previous versions of the Katherine Legend, in which Katherine marches directly and boldly to the imperial throne to denounce Maxentius (Winstead 1990, p. 65). Generically, a saint’s life often strips the story of historical and political context, but in Capgrave’s Life, the presence and action of Katherine are fully humanized and politicized, serving to expose all of her limitations.

Therefore, revisiting the tricky God-made simulacrum of Katherine, we see that it does not replace the perfect body of an ideal, fully functioning queen; rather, it is a replica of an isolated, passive, and contemplative image of an unqualified monarch—an indicator that the earthly body of Katherine must be destroyed. It is no surprise, then, that Winstead interprets Capgrave’s portrayal of Katherine’s queenship as a critique of Henry VI, presenting Katherine as a negative embodiment of the boy king, who, like her, is unable to lead and instill fear and respect for the law in his subjects (Winstead 1994, p. 369).

Then, the lingering question arises: if Capgrave’s political critique is so potent that his hagiography partly functions as Mirrors for Princes, what can be made of the divine iconoclasm of Katherine except that it disqualifies her? Winstead argues that King Costus is the only positive example of kingship, positioned at the midpoint of the Katherine-Maxentius polarity (Winstead 2007, p. 148). However, Costus appears too briefly and dies too early in the narrative to be truly exemplary. Building on the various aspects of divine iconoclasm discussed above, this section concludes that the true ideal prince in the tale is Christ, who exemplifies ideal kingship through celestial manipulations of vision, the appearance and disappearance of sacred space, and the construction and destruction of simulacra.

God’s active yet constructive iconoclasm is suggestive of political subtleties. He first shows miracles to instill confidence but withdraws them to deflate both the hermit’s and the saint’s ego. He rejects Katherine when he must uphold the Christian law, even though it pains her and stirs anxiety within her. He blinds the hermit during the sacrament of baptism, seems unhearing to Katherine’s prayers for 40 days, and only appears to her on the final day. The ideal monarch, then, should emulate Christ, the active iconoclast and pedagogue in this tale, who dares to violate both hagiographic and romance expectations.

Christ as the King of Kings (rooted in the biblical portrayal of Jesus as King in Revelation and expanded by patristic writings) is a long-established tradition in medieval political theology. However, Capgrave uniquely emphasizes the darker, crueler, and more subtle aspects of divine justice as a model for 15th-century English kings. A more common literary representation of Christocentric kingship in late medieval hagiographies portrays kings as either emulating Christ’s virtues—teaching rulers to cultivate piety and selfless service—or framing monarchic authority as an extension of divine order requiring divine sanction. Capgrave’s innovation lies in his creation of a heroine marked by an excess of virtue but insufficient power: she possesses hereditary right, moral and spiritual integrity, and a divinely ordained role, yet lacks the force to rule. In the turbulent landscape of 15th-century England—defined by dynastic strife and the weak rule of Henry VI, which precipitated the Wars of the Roses—the idea of a king embodying Christ’s justice served as a potent counter-model to ineffective monarchy. Therefore, Capgrave’s Christ exemplifies not mercy or love, but a ruler’s shrewdness: political cunning, strategic machinations, and even harsh judgment toward his subjects.

6. Conclusions

By intentionally recentering divine iconoclasm rather than adhering to the traditional sole focus on Katherine, this essay establishes a new interpretive framework for understanding John Capgrave’s Life of Saint Katherine, demonstrating how this theological mechanism subverts conventional notions of materiality while revealing alternative conceptualizations of sacred space. Divine iconoclasm initiates a process of spiritual and intellectual transformation, where paradigms and structures are shattered to make way for a deeper or purer understanding of God, fostering a more profound experience through the reimagining of sacred spaces. In this sense, it could be seen as a constructive force—breaking down the old patterns to create space for the new, aligning with the concept of sacred renewal or revelation. It reimagines the boundaries between the earthly and the heavenly, suggesting that sacred space is not a static monument to sanctity but a dynamic realm constantly reformed by divine intervention. This reframed perspective allows the work to engage with broader theological and cultural discourses that question the materiality.

In the Life, the sacred space is primarily constructed by light, emphasizing its immateriality, while the saint’s physical limits are repeatedly exposed. However, this exposure does not simply dismiss her as an unqualified saint or incapable monarch. The fragility of humankind, in the face of the larger, higher existence, is natural, and only the Virgin Mary can reconcile the light-filled sacred space with her physical body—even if this image is metaphorical in Katherine’s argument of the immaculate conception. Indeed, the strangeness of encountering the divine surpasses the strangeness of a woman occupying the imperial throne. The Otherness of a female body is diminished by the greater Otherness of the human body in the presence of the divine.

The troubling episode of the creation of Katherine’s simulacrum by God serves, on the one hand, as a reminder of the theological implications of visual deception and, on the other hand, as a demonstration of ways to correct problematic kingship on a secular level. Katherine’s passive possession of saintly virtues does not make her an ideal monarch. In contrast, Christ exemplifies the ideal ruler, invoking both love and fear, appearing and disappearing in a way that challenges the intellect to achieve the ultimate clarity of mind. Through his celestial manipulation of sacred space and the relationship between body and space, Christ fosters confidence, discourages self-inflation, and inspires both fear and love—qualities that define the perfect monarch. The friction between the secular and the sacred is highlighted, only to be resolved later. Such is Capgrave’s Mirrors for Princes, embedded within his hagiography.