by  Dr Eyhab Abdulrazak Bader Eddin

Imagine walking into a 13th-century English courtroom. The judge addresses the court in French, the clerk scribbles notes in Latin, and the plaintiffs mutter to each other in English.

This vivid scene captures the reality of post-Norman Conquest England, where three tongues coexisted in a delicate dance. After 1066, Norman French became the language of kings and courts, Latin remained the language of the Church and official records, and English – though the mother tongue of the populace – was pushed into the background of high society.

I like to think of this coexistence as less a chaotic collision, and more a rich cultural symphony – three instruments playing in counterpoint, sometimes clashing but often harmonising. I see it as proof that a society can thrive, even flourish, in the presence of linguistic complexity.

Before 1066, England’s cultural voice was carried by the scops – poet-singers who preserved history, legend, and identity in the rhythms of Old English verse. Works like Beowulf were not read silently in libraries but performed aloud, woven into memory by sound.

After the Conquest, that native oral tradition found itself overshadowed by French romances and Latin chronicles, with the vernacular pushed to the margins of ‘prestige’ culture.

How disorienting it must have been for an English listener, whose grandparents grew up with scop-sung sagas, to suddenly hear the stories of kings and saints recited in French or Latin. It feels like a cultural displacement as much as a linguistic one – proof that when languages compete, whole traditions can be lost or reshaped.

After the Conquest, Anglo-Norman French swept into the halls of power. It became the spoken language of the royal court, the nobility, and the legal system. In courtrooms, proceedings were conducted in French. Judges and lawyers used la langue d’oïl, while written legal records were kept in Latin – a double barrier to the average person.

This high-register French left a deep mark on English law and government. Thousands of French words flooded into the English lexicon, so much so that today our legal vocabulary still brims with Norman French terms (consider court, judge, jury, attorney, plaintiff, and verdict, to name a few).

I can’t help but admire how sticky Legal French was – it clung to the fabric of English law for centuries. There’s a certain elegance in how even today’s lawyers echo medieval phrasing without realising they are channeling Norman lords. It’s as though legal English carries ghosts of the Conquest in every contract and courtroom.

One remarkable example of multilingual practicality comes from 1258, when King Henry III’s government issued a proclamation in three languages simultaneously – Latin, French, and English – to ensure every subject got the message. This was unprecedented: official letters addressed “to all the king’s subjects” were penned in Latin, then translated into French and English for public reading.

I find this moment particularly poignant: it is government at its most democratic and inclusive, linguistically speaking. It shows that the crown – often seen as aloof – recognised that authority had to be intelligible to be legitimate. In a way, Henry’s trilingual proclamation foreshadowed the idea of ‘plain language’ campaigns and translated versions centuries before they became the norm.

By the mid-14th century, the linguistic balance tilted toward English. In 1362, the Chancellor opened Parliament with an English speech – the first in nearly 300 years. And the Statute of Pleading mandated that oral court pleas be conducted in English too. Latin still ruled written records, but the tide had turned.

This was not just legal reform but a cultural reawakening. It’s as if England, after centuries of speaking with borrowed voices, rediscovered its own tongue in the very halls and rooms where power was exercised. This is an early assertion of national identity through the English language.

If French ruled the courts, Latin ruled the cloister and classroom. Mass was in Latin; university lectures were in Latin; charters and chronicles were in Latin. Yet in parish sermons, priests sprinkled their English homilies with Latin quotations. A preacher might cite Scripture in Latin before switching to English for explanation.

I love the thought of a parish priest sliding between Latin and English mid-sermon. To me, it shows language wasn’t a rigid boundary but a living bridge to inspiration and understanding. Just as modern bilingual speakers switch between languages and choose phrases for best effect, medieval minds were just as agile as ours in negotiating a more fertile linguistic terrain which uses more than one language.

Education was equally trilingual. For centuries, children learned Latin grammar through French. Nobles were raised in French from the cradle, as chronicler Ranulph Higden observed, and schools used French to teach Latin. Yet by the late 14th century, John of Trevisa lamented that grammar schools had switched to English, leaving children “knowing no more French than their left heel.”

This tension is timeless – every generation debates whether education should prize tradition or accessibility. I sympathize with Trevisa’s frustration. He saw the loss of French as a cultural narrowing. But others saw it as liberation for English. Medieval England wrestled with the same dilemmas we do today.

The trilingual mix also infused culture. Macaronic carols blended English verses with Latin refrains, producing joyous hybrids. One 15th-century carol sings: “Nowell sing we, both all and some; Now Rex pacificus is come.” English carries the melody, Latin supplies grandeur. These carols are evidence that multilingualism was not just functional but also festive.

Writers, too, revelled in code-switching. Chaucer’s characters toss in French and Latin to signal learning or pretension. The Pardoner begins his sermon with “Radix malorum est cupiditas,” while the Summoner drunkenly blurts “Questio quid juris?” Even the Prioress speaks French with a provincial twang, highlighting how social class and language intertwined.

I adore Chaucer’s ear for linguistic comedy. His portraits remind me that language has always been a stage for performance – a way to show off, to mock, or to signal identity. In this sense, medieval England feels very modern: we still use language choices to flaunt sophistication or poke fun at pretension.

The trilingual centuries transformed English into the hybrid language we know today. French and Latin ‘loan words’ enriched the native Germanic stock, creating layers of synonyms (kingly / royal / regal, freedom / liberty). Legal French and Latin lingered in ceremonial roles long after English triumphed, leaving traces like Oyez and ‘Dieu et mon droit’ in our institutions.

Latin endures in symbolic corners of English life. Oxford still proclaims “Dominus illuminatio mea” (“The Lord is my light”), while Cambridge boasts “Hinc lucem et pocula sacra” (“From here, light and sacred draughts”). Countless schools, guilds, and civic institutions across Britain likewise display Latin mottos on their crests.

I love how these linguistic fossils still live in our everyday lexicon. It’s like walking on a beach and finding seashells from a lost sea – reminders that the tides of French and Latin once washed over England. English didn’t drown; it absorbed the waves and became oceanic itself.

Perhaps most importantly, medieval multilingualism anticipated our modern global world. People then, like now, navigated multiple languages daily. Code-switching wasn’t exotic; it was normal.

I see medieval England as a rehearsal for our age of globalisation. Their sermons, songs, and court cases were as linguistically blended as today’s WhatsApp chats in Spanglish or Hinglish.

To me, the moral is clear: hybridity is not a flaw in English but its oldest strength.

Dr Eyhab Abdulrazak Bader Eddin is an accomplished Assistant Professor of Translation and Linguistics with over two decades of academic and professional experience across the Middle East. A member of CIOL, Chartered Linguist and MITI translator, he has held key roles at prestigious institutions such as Dhofar University, Kuwait University and King Khalid University. His research interests include translation theory, Quranic linguistics, and stylistics. Committed to educational innovation and community service, he continues to shape future translators and contribute to intercultural understanding.

You can contact Dr Bader Eddin on LinkedIn.

Views expressed on CIOL Voices are those of the writer and may not represent those of the wider membership or CIOL.