The Sheepheads

In the year 1475, after the fierce Battle of Neuss, Charles the Bold returned from the fields where the men of Lier had fought bravely in his service. The duke, whose name sounded like thunder across Europe, felt inclined toward clemency. He would reward the loyal men of Lier for their sacrifice, their courage, their blood spilled in his name. With a princely gesture he summoned their representatives and offered them a choice: select what you wish from all that my power can grant.

The men of Lier, simple folk of trade and craft, contented themselves in their modesty with something practical. They asked for the livestock market privilege — the right to trade sheep, cattle, and horses at their market. Not to amass wealth, not to seize power, but to earn their daily bread more easily.

When Charles the Bold heard what modest choice they had made, a sigh escaped him that swept through the hall like wind. “Oh, poor Sheepheads,” he whispered — not angry, not contemptuous, but with a mixture of bewilderment and pity. How could they content themselves with so little? The name hung like mist over the city.

Centuries later, another tale would overshadow this first memory. Around the year 1309, according to the more famous account, Duke John II offered the people of Lier a choice that felt like an examination of their very souls. They could choose between the same livestock privilege and something infinitely more precious: a university. A university! A temple of learning where generations of their sons and daughters might sharpen their minds. Yet — and here lies the tragedy — they chose the livestock market privilege once again.

For a second time, a duke’s breath escaped in disappointment. “Oh, those Sheepheads,” said John II, and in those four words lay an entire universe of regret. Did they truly choose wool over wisdom, commerce over the eternal light of learning? The name confirmed itself, spread across the lands, and was immortalised in stone.

Today, in the shadow of the Zimmer Tower, stands the monument of the Sheepheads — a reminder not of shame, but of something deeper. Perhaps the people of Lier were not foolish, but wise in their own way. They understood what a city truly needed: not towers of learning, but roots of commerce; not false glory, but steady sustenance. In their modesty lay a civilisation of the practical, and in their “sheepishness” perhaps lingered a pride of their own.