Stephen I, the first king of Hungary (r. 997–1038) is arguably the best-known Hungarian of all times. Several centuries of historical research has endowed him with a rich profile, from which it may seem that despite the distance of a millennium to his life, the glass holding the evidence on his person is at least half full. Nora Berend herself has contributed to refining the image on the monarch and his times by heading a comparative research project on “Christianization and the Rise of Christian Monarchy: Scandinavia, Central Europe and Rus’ c.900–1200″ and editing a pioneering volume under the same title (2007).

In her new monograph, however, she sets out to show that the glass is in fact more than half empty, and that much less of Stephen’s image is based on hard facts than one may think. This sobering survey is the task of the Introduction. Following up on this critical stance, the volume analyses the substance that this void is filled with, and how politics of all periods shaped or invented traditions to their image and likeness. Berend’s book is therefore not intended for those who expect to get a conventional biography of a medieval monarch but offers much to readers interested in the creation of historical narratives and myths instrumentalized for a variety of goals from the Middle Ages to the present. Accordingly, the cover image shows Stephen’s 1906 equestrian statue by Alajos Stróbl standing in the Fishermen’s Bastion in Buda Castle, impersonating a forceful leader of a (then) glorious nation, wearing the crown that the medieval Stephen never wore.

The main body of the volume, arranged in four chapters, discusses four themes that exemplify narratives on Stephen “from medieval myth to modern legend,” as the subtitle reveals. The deliberately vague word ‘theme’ indicates that the subjects of the four chapters do not fall into the same category. The first one is dedicated to a medieval personality (if he indeed existed), the second to a modern rock opera, and the third and fourth to two highly symbolic objects. Each chapter builds therefore on a distinct (and very broad) set of primary and secondary sources and follows different methodological approaches. Apparently, Berend’s goal was to identify and dissect the most controversial constituents of Stephen’s image rather than offering a full overview of his historiographical treatment. The coherence of the volume rests on its meta-narrative on the constructed character of sources, be they medieval or modern.

Chapter 1 on Cupan (Koppány), Stephen’s alleged contender investigates the ambiguities of a story that was successively elaborated from vague hints to a fully fledged narrative from the eleventh (or thirteenth) century to the present. According to this, Cupan, a presumed pagan member of the Árpád dynasty who laid claim to Stephen’s throne and perhaps his mother’s bed, was duly defeated and shamefully dismembered. Berend argues convincingly against the credibility of Cupan’s punishment, the quartering, but leaves the reader with a series of questions regarding the historicity of his person (p. 50). The most unexpected turn in the modern development of the myth is Koppány’s metamorphosis into a positive hero, a protagonist of national freedom.

With the critical analysis of Cupan/Koppány’s figure, Berend prepares the ground for his reappearance as the hero of a rock opera first staged in 1983. Although this musical piece is titled “Stephen, the King,” Koppány clearly takes center stage, telling the viewer to take sides between “freedom and captivity.” This ambivalence of values between Stephen’s prudent pragmatism and Koppány’s heroic resistance opened the floor for the widest range of interpretations from the apotheosis of the Kádár-regime (1956–1989) to the coded glorification of the 1956 revolution. The chapter uses articles in the daily press, interviews, and speeches to disentangle the web of contemporary and later responses that go well beyond the construction of Stephen’s myth and tackle fundamental discourses of accommodation or dissidence.

Chapter 3, discussing Stephen’s hand relic, the Holy Dexter, seemingly returns to the king’s tangible remains, but focuses again on the myths constructed around the mummified hand currently displayed in the nineteenth-century Saint Stephen’s Basilica in Budapest. This time the inquiry follows more traditional methods of medievalist research, contrasting various references in the written sources. The most detailed description of the invention of the relic comes from Stephen’s vita written around 1100 by Hartvic, Bishop of Győr and King Coloman’s (1095–1113) confidant. He most likely invented the narrative itself, borrowing the motif from Bede’s description of St. Oswald’s arm relic (pp. 149–151). Like everything connected to Stephen, the Holy Dexter also became subject to political recontextualizations, making the renewed processions showcasing it instruments of “the sacralization of the nation.”

Chapter 4 carries perhaps the heaviest weight, offering a bold overview on the Hungarian Crown, the most complex and controversial artifact of Hungarian history, a royal emblem currently displayed in the parliament of a republic. While serious scholarship agrees that all its parts, let alone its assembling postdate Stephen’s reign, its attachment to the king’s myth, being termed “Saint Stephen’s Crown,” fits neatly Berend’s argument. Navigating between unclear references and argumenta ex silentio for the early period, she credibly demonstrates that the legitimacy crisis around 1292 is the most plausible time for turning the golden headgear into the exclusive royal crown and Stephen’s legacy that it remained until 1916. The chapter’s many merits include the collection of analogies of royal insignia that gained legitimizing significance in several European countries, thus refuting the uniqueness of the Hungarian case, and the careful distinction between the crown’s growing sacralization and the “Doctrine of the Holy Crown” as a modern constitutional ideology colonizing earlier political ideas.

Unusually, the volume does not have a conclusion, just a one-page Epilogue. For those who read the book carefully from its beginning, however, this does not come as a surprise. The four chapters taken together exemplify the book’s main proposition about the constructed character of historical narratives; thus, the first 26 pages act just as much as a conclusion as an introduction to quod erat demonstrandum. Readers of Church History will find relevant details scattered in the volume on medieval religious practices such as coronation, canonization, cult of relics and “holy” objects, as well as real or alleged pagan beliefs. However, there are just as many references to the political instrumentalization of religion from the Catholic restoration under the Habsburgs to the current illiberal regime. Altogether, Berend combines medievalist erudition with critical scholarship on later periods, turning it into a thoughtful and thought-provoking study on what became of (in Pál Engel’s words) “the Realm of St Stephen.”