Painters And Decorators

“Abbey Beautiful: Our top tips this summer to make your monastery look fabulous”. Okay so it’s unlikely that this will ever grace the cover of a home and lifestyle magazine, but this is not entirely as farfetched as it may seem. 

                Our impressions of churches, cathedrals and abbeys are often informed by what has been left after the passage of time. Drab stone walls and empty shells of (often roofless) rooms suggest that the medieval period was cheerless and ascetic. In fact art and architecture were key ways through which to entertain and inform the general public in an age without mass media.

                Attempts have been made to reconstruct some of the interiors of well known heritage sites in order to show visitors how these buildings may have looked when they were freshly decorated. The keep at Dover Castle, for example, has been ‘redecorated’ to depict as accurately as possible how it may have looked in the twelfth century.

                I support whole-heartedly the motivations behind this re-vamp, but for my own taste it is a little too garish. I enjoy looking for the subtle, smudged and almost hidden clues of the interior-design of medieval abbeys and churches.

Remains of white paint
at Fountains Abbey

Where better to start than the walls of a building. Today they may be weather beaten and green with plant growth, but they were originally painted, just as we paint our living rooms. The Cistercian order, for example, painted both the exterior and interior of their monasteries white. This symbolised the purity and spirituality of their order, and reflected their ‘White Monks’ nickname. The interior was then further painted with thin red lines that created an almost brick like pattern.

Remains of wall painting
at St Augustine's Abbey

Cathedrals and churches often had more complex wall paintings that were meant to inform the viewer of a theological message as well as entertain them during a long service in unintelligible Latin. Wall paintings could also suggest the holiness of a particular place and so can often be found behind an altar, for example in the crypt at St Augustine’s Abbey.

Floor tiles at Byland Abbey

Floor tiles were another form of decoration. Similarly to the wall painting, elaborate tiles were often placed close to altars to emphasise the holiness of the space. Some of the most well preserved tiles can be seen at Byland Abbey. Tiles were not only coloured to make mosaic-style patterns, but they also were decorated with heraldic devices and animal imagery. There are also remains of tiles that contain biblical figures or scenes from Romance. It is not always easy to imagine how elaborate and decorative tiles could have been for the medieval interior, because so often very few survive and those that do are removed individually to museums for conservation. 

Stained glass at York Minster

Medieval stained glass in cathedrals such as Canterbury and Chartres are amazing testaments to the expense and complexity of medieval art. At Canterbury the twelfth and thirteenth-century glass that surrounds the Trinity Chapel were installed as entertainment for the waiting pilgrims, but they were also a method of teaching biblical tales in incredibly intricate typological windows.

Blind arcading at Ely Cathedral

Carved capitals and other smaller architectural details are frequently passed over, but are often highly decorative. In the crypt of Canterbury Cathedral there are a series of carved capitals that depict not only geometric designs, but also a lion, a wolf and the Whore of Babylon. Often positioned high up and noticed only with a thorough eye these features can often add to the impression of simplicity of a Cistercian abbey or the splendour of a Gothic cathedral. 

                It is repeatedly stressed that medieval art had a serious purpose and there has been much scholarly output about the various theological messages conveyed through wall paintings and stained glass. However it should be remembered that these mediums were also quite simply decoration. They were colourful and bright and they symbolised the beauty of the heavenly paradise. For as Abbot Suger of St-Denis famously justified in the mid twelfth century; “Thus sometimes when, because of my delight in the beauty of the house of God, the multicolour loveliness of the gems has called me away from external cares, and worthy meditation, transporting me from material to immaterial things, has persuaded me to examine the diversity of holy virtues.”

The Cat Will Mew, And Dog Will Have His Day...

It was a typical English summer’s day, sitting along the seafront watching the rain steadily beat down, when a friend and I decided to have ourselves a writing competition. The aim was to write in one week a 1,000 word story that featured the words ‘dog’ and ‘egg’. And so here I present the very different results of this quest.

The Holy Land, 1138

The incessant barking of dogs penetrated his wine-soaked sleep and reverberated around his head. With a groan Joscelin de Barry groggily swiped a hand across his stubbled face. He rolled over on the make-shift pallet and encountered the soft body of the whore he had bedded the night before. In the glaring morning light she appeared less exotic than she had in his intoxicated fantasies the previous evening. The kohl that had darkened her sultry eyes was now smudged across her cheek, and her matted hair smelt of stale sweat and wine.

His friend Ralph had managed to lure away the prettiest girl before anyone else had got even a fleeting glimpse of the sable curls that tumbled down her retreating back. Ralph had a peculiar gruff charm that was popular with women and belied his physical defects. He was a great bear of a man, tall and barrel-chested with blunt features and a shaggy mane of red hair. He was also the younger son of a powerful English baron and had been sent to the Holy Land to prove himself capable of command before returning to his responsibilities.

Joscelin and Ralph had become friends after a drunken fight over some tavern dancer. They had swapped tales of their past whilst nursing black eyes and hangovers. While Ralph had no wish to return to the shackles of the homestead, Joscelin sought only to forget the past, and so together they found refuge in riotous living. Though that way of life certainly had its price, thought Joscelin ruefully, as he rubbed his aching head.

Grimacing at the movement he sat up, his hand reaching automatically for the sword that lent against the pallet. He gazed pensively at the curved Saracen blade, a symbol of his own outcast state. As the bastard son of a Frankish crusader and an Armenian woman he did not fully belong with Ralph and the other knights. He was more Saracen than Frank with his dark colouring. And yet he had spent his childhood in the cold and damp of a French castle, disliked and distrusted. He had returned to his birthplace seeking acceptance but had found little. Now he hired his sword to whoever needed his martial skills.

Surrendering to the unremitting growls of the dogs Joscelin stood up, pausing briefly to admire the ample curves of the woman who still lay slumped naked over the bed, before stumbling outside. Squinting and cursing he let his eyes adjust to the piercing sunlight before scanning the horizon. He screwed his eyes up against the harsh glare and finally saw what the dogs had already heard. He broke into a run, yelling a warning at the top of his voice.

Ralph emerged from one of the buildings bleary eyed,

“What the hell Jos?”

“The Saracen’s are making a sortie.” For a moment they were silent but there was an unspoken question in Ralph’s eyes. Why hadn’t Joscelin warned them earlier? However there was no time for recriminations as they heard the first sounds of battle. “Alert the others and quickly. We need every sword out there.” Though the Franks had the superior numbers, the Saracens had the element of surprise, and in a fight Joscelin knew that could be every bit as dangerous.

The battle raged noisy and fierce when Joscelin entered the fray. Everybody yelled their own battle cries until they were hoarse. Some bellowed for God, others roared for family honour. Joscelin added his own voice to the melee, reverting to the tongue of his birthplace. Part Frank, part Saracen he fought for himself and for the friend who he saw in the distance, tall and vigorous struggling against three mounted Saracens. He tightened his grip reflexively, rivulets of sweat making the hilt of his sword slippery. Joscelin swung his blade in a high arc cutting through flesh and sinew as he attempted to clear a path to his friend. But he found himself hemmed in tight and unable to break through the combatants that surrounded him.

With sickening dread Joscelin yelled a warning to his friend, but the sound was lost amongst the clamour of swords. He could only watch impotent as Ralph fought on ignorant of the impending danger from behind. Surprise flew across Ralph’s features as he felt the first bite of the blade. His head was cracked open like an egg under the battering impact of the sword’s edge. His skull split easily, blood and brains running down his face to mingle with the red of his beard. He was dead even before his knees buckled beneath him and sent him sprawling over the sun-baked ground.

Joscelin watched numbly as his friend died before him. He was barely able to parry the blows intended to cripple him as his senses reeled in shock. His body continued to move with practiced ease, his sword striking home with cold unfeeling accuracy. Yet his mind remained remote from his actions, unable to escape the memory of Ralph’s bloody face turning to him with an appeal for help.

He was scarcely aware of the jubilant cries of the Franks as the last Saracens were routed. He broke free of the jeering knights and ran to Ralph’s side. The cloying smell of his friend’s blood caught in his throat, as did the knowledge that he should have protected him. Tortured by regrets Joscelin felt bile fill his throat and his stomach clenched. He retched, collapsing to the floor as his body shook from the force of his emotions. He had drunk too much and bedded a whore when he should have been alert. If only he had been alert. He had failed not only Ralph but all the other broken men that lay still under the remorseless beating of the sun. They had all relied on him to know where the danger was. This time the cost of his failure had been too high.

            Today was a Tuesday. On a Tuesday, Max Power liked to visit his local cafe for breakfast, read the paper, and spend a little time out. Exercise, he told himself, is crucial to old and young alike. An aged man, Max wasn't quite as full of power as he once might have been, requiring a cane to walk any great distance. Today he made the observation on his way out that he seemed to be stooping more than yesterday. An observation he would continue to make until his death.

            On his way out of his apartment, he noted a certain Floyd Levin standing in the small lobby, with an armful of pamphlets. Floyd was a known crazy, spreading his conspiracy theories and inane babble throughout the town. This reputation was a boon to Max, as conspiracy theorists make for more interesting gossip than elderly gentlemen with amusing names. For this Max was thankful, and he believed he shared something of a kinship with Floyd. On his way out, Max greeted him.

            “Good morning, Floyd.” Floyd turned, his eyes lighting up with a queer enthusiasm. He was moderately tall, and dressed almost in imitation of a French revolutionary. Shorts falling beyond his knees, loose shirt, messenger satchel slung over his shoulder and sagging from the weight of its contents, all topped off with a baker boy cap. Here stood a man with a message.

            “Hey Power! Morning man! Listen, you gotta hear this.” Floyd filled with an excited energy.

Max, none to eager to listen, continued to walk through the small lobby – more of a glorified communal porch. But alas, in his old age he could only walk so fast, and thus he was prisoner of the youth. He offered a nod and an ear.

            “This is disgusting man, listen to this. They've bred a dog that can lay fuckin' eggs, and they're using 'em to cheaply supply supermarket chains and shit. Trust me on this, it's all on here.” He gestured towards his stack of pamphlets wildly. Max wanted to scream, yell at Floyd and tell him that there's simply no way that's true. But alas, old and decrepit, he could only continue to shuffle by. “What do you think about that? Disgusting right? Fuckin' scientists...”

            “Very interesting, Floyd.” he mumbled, with obvious forced enthusiasm, as he stepped outside.

            “Tell your friends, man! They gotta hear!” Max Power nodded. He didn't have any friends.

It wasn't so much the swearing, or the enthusiastic advertising of cause that bothered Max. It was the purely nonsensical message. Dogs don't lay eggs, that doesn't happen, that's not possible. He could feel the blood pounding in his ears, partially because of his descent down the apartment stairwell, but mostly because he was entirely enraged. In his youth, he devoted himself to worthwhile pursuits. He would never have spread conspiracy nonsense. He had an imagination, and that was praiseworthy, but that kind of idea was better kept to oneself. There was a place for wild ideas divorced from logic, and it wasn't on pamphlets.

            Unfortunately, Floyd wasn't the only one with an imagination.

            Max arrived at his regular café shortly after opening time. He was the second customer of the day, as there was already a sharply dressed fellow sat near the door, taking great gulps of his coffee while skimming the news. On his commute no doubt, a busy looking fellow like him, thought Max. The owners dog lay beside the counter, dozing. An unusual sight, in a city café, but also a familiar one for regulars.

            “Good morning Mr. Power, the usual breakfast I presume?” said the man behind the counter. Max still didn't know his name, and to his recollection, it had never been important.

            “Yes please. I'll be here by the door. Table 2.” With all the seats and tables visible from the counter, it was a pointless declaration, but Max made it out of habit. He sat down slowly, a satisfying ache settling into his joints as he arranged himself on the chair. He began to look around as he waited, his youthful mind busy at work. His eyes fell on the owner's dog, he was reminded of Floyd's pamphlet. It took a great deal of trained self-control to prevent a frown from settling on his face. He had enough wrinkles already, and there was no sense in providing a catalyst for their development. Unfortunately, his imagination lay down some wicked rails for his train of thought, and he began to consider the logistics. Dogs don't lay eggs, that's not how it works. Dogs are mammals. But a hybrid of bird and mammal? Of reptile and mammal? Could it be possible? His meal arrived, interrupting him.

            “There you are, Mr. Power sir. I've done something a little different to the regular, so just let me know if it's not to your tastes.” Power muttered his thanks, and picked up his knife and fork. Just as he was about to tuck in, it hit him. Seeing the egg on his plate was too much, and he began to have flashes in his mind somewhere between curious imaginings and horrible projections. A great lab, spanning miles. Disgusting membranous eggs, with sorry looking dog foetuses floating inside. His eyes darted over to the sleeping hound by the counter, then back to his fried egg.

            He broke out in a cold sweat. His palms felt slick and soft. He began to tremble and his vision swam at the edges. His breathing grew fast and he could feel his heart pounding...

            Max Power collapsed over his breakfast.

To return once more to matters medieval I leave you with two related facts.

Saint Christopher, who carried Christ across the river, was often depicted in Byzantine art as a cynocephali or ‘dog-head’.

The Anglo-Saxon bishop, Saint Swithun, is most commonly known for the folk tradition of forty days of rain after his feast day (15th July); however his only miracle was the restoration of a basket of eggs that had been broken.

Weeds Are Flowers Too, Once You Get To Know Them

He doubted if there was a finer Benedictine garden in the whole kingdom, or one better supplied with herbs both good for spicing meats, and also invaluable as medicine. The main orchards and lands of the Shrewsbury abbey of Saint Peter and Saint Paul lay on the northern side of the road, outside the monastic enclave, but here, in the enclosed garden within the walls, close to the abbot’s fishponds and the brook that worked the abbey mill, Brother Cadfael ruled unchallenged.

             This is the monastic garden as described by Ellis Peters in A Morbid Taste for Bones. I am clearly not alone, judging by the amount of hits on Google, in associating monastic gardening first and foremost with Brother Cadfael.
            The monastic estates were of course only one of the many different types of garden in the medieval period. There was the earthly paradise, the enclosed garden and the courtly gardens of Romance. But my preference is still for the abbey gardens of the Benedictines or Cistercians.

Betony, MS Ashmole 1431, f. 3v.

            In the monastic garden every plant had a purpose or use. These functions were recorded in herbals, books that documented in word and image the medicinal and culinary properties of herbs. MS Ashmole 1431 is one example of a medieval monastic herbal. It was made at the turn of the eleventh century, between c. 1070 and 1100, at St Augustine’s Abbey in Canterbury. This herbal contained over 150 illustrated descriptions of herbs and many others with unfinished drawings.
            It would be ignorant to assume that just because they were alive several hundred years ago, before the wonders of modern science, that medieval people were incorrect about the uses of many herbs. In fact a herb such as betony, which was used as a cure for maladies of the head, is still used in herbal remedies for headaches and nervous tension today.

Male Mandrake, MS Ashmole, f. 31r.

            There were some plants that held particular importance in folklore or superstition. The mandrake is probably the most well known example. Medieval bestiaries described the mandrake as a powerful healing herb, but warned that its screams could cause death or madness. William Shakespeare wrote in Romeo and Juliet, “And shrieks like mandrakes torn out of the earth/ That living mortals hearing them run mad.” The mandrake presumably attracted such tales due to its hallucinogenic properties, and also its strange humanoid appearance as here described by Karen Maitland in her novel The Gallows Curse.

‘Can it be...is it genuine?’

          But she didn’t need him to answer that question for as soon as she took it in her bare hands she could feel it stirring to life. It was a black and twisted thing, a shrivelled root, shaped like a human with a body, two arms, two legs and face as wrinkled as time itself. A mandrake! A genuine mandrake and here in her own hands. He was right; it was a creature beyond price.

Pennyroyal, MS Ashmole, f. 24v.

Herbs and plants were not only benevolent medicines, but could also if used in the wrong way be poisonous. Comfrey, for example, was used in the medieval period in a poultice to help heal fractures and bruising, but it wasn’t until the late twentieth century that medical studies revealed that the herb if taken internally could be toxic for the liver. There were undoubtedly some herbs that medieval people knew to be poisonous and used them as such. In this fictional example taken from Susanna Gregory’s A Vein of Deceit it is pennyroyal, a species of mint that in high quantities acts as an abortifacient, which is used as a poison.

One of the maids picked up Joan’s cloak, intending to lay it over the body. As she did so, a little pottery jar dropped out. Had it landed on the flagstones, it would have shattered, but it fell on a rug, then rolled under the bench. Bartholomew bent to retrieve it.

            ‘A tincture containing pennyroyal,’ he said, after removing the stopper and sniffing the contents. He poured a little into his hand, then wiped it off on his leggings. ‘Not the herb, but the oil, which can be distilled by steaming. It is highly toxic.’
            Mother Cotton nodded her satisfaction at being right. ‘It is the plant of choice for expelling an unwanted child.’

Rievaulx Abbey in North Yorkshire has recently had a small herb garden planted amongst its ruins. Between Monday 25th July and Monday 29th August English Heritage are running a ‘Monks Herb Trail’ at the Abbey, inviting families to discover the diverse plants that Rievaulx’s monks may have grown and their various uses. I think that these activities and attempts at recreation are important. Empty shells of buildings are often all that is left for the modern visitor to appreciate, and as such it is easy to forget that an abbey was once a living, growing and often vibrant community.

If Music Be The Food Of Love, Play On

Discovering medieval history was a revelation that occurred to me when I was fifteen. Before this bits and pieces had filtered through from family day trips to castles or school fashion projects, but it didn’t become an obsession until I picked up my first medieval set historical novel.
     It is almost humorous looking back to where it all began, for my first foray into the medieval world was at the direction of a historical romance. Yet this is not something I can admit to in academic circles, for I would quite probably invite scorn upon myself.

     There is something faintly embarrassing about romance novels. They have their own section in bookshops and libraries as if they have been shunned by their fellow works of fiction. I wouldn’t really blame them, for romances often have cringe worthy titles such as ‘Surrender to an Irish Warrior’ accompanied by the kind of front cover art that almost always seems to involve a gaggle of naked limbs.

     However I find myself asking why this is the case. Why is romance a genre that no one admits to reading? I suppose there is the stereotype of the romance reader as a middle-aged woman, living alone apart from her cats, and spending her sad lonely life reading trashy novels.

     And so there is almost a sense of shame or guilt when I pick up the occasional romance, as if because I am a young woman of reasonable intelligence I should have progressed past this genre. But there is only so much death, destruction and depression I can take before I need some light relief.

     I was mildly irritated by reading online this week that ‘romance novels are bad for women’. Apparently these novels give women unrealistic conceptions of love and sex, and that books should be put down and reality embraced. I find that as patronising as suggesting that all fantasy fans believe in unicorns. How does romance perpetuate unrealistic fantasies anymore than any other genre of fiction or indeed of film or television? It’s as if researchers or psychologists are assuming that the audience of romance novels are particularly dim witted.

     There are of course many appalling romance novels out there. But I think that is true of many genres. My point is that not all romantic fiction or romance readers need to be ridiculed.

    

 

One of my favourite romance novels is The Winter Rose by Jennifer Donnelly, but it is so much more than simple ‘chick-lit’. It brings to life London at the turn of the twentieth century when women were struggling to become equals.

            “It’s a fight, Mr Malone. A human being – the most beautiful, complex, miraculous machine ever created – against a single-celled parasite. A bacterium. An organism that lacks a mind, a soul, consciousness, purpose and reason. Would you like to be bested by such an opponent? I would not. And will not.”

            Her grey eyes sparked with passion as she spoke. Sid looked into them and for a second glimpsed her soul. He saw what she was – fierce and brave. Difficult. Upright. Impatient. And good. So good that she would sit covered in gore, shout at dangerous men, and keep a long, lonely vigil – all to save the likes of him. He realized the she was a rare creature, as rare as a rose in winter.
            He wanted to tell her what he saw. Wanted to tell her that he had known good people once. A lifetime ago. But he couldn’t. She would think him mad.

The funniest books I own also happen to be romance novels set in nineteenth century England. One of my favourites is What Happens in London by Julia Quinn.

 

            “I have not agreed to dance with you!” She bit her lip. She sounded like an idiot. A petulant idiot, which was the worst kind.

            “You will,” he said confidently.
            Not since Winston had told Neville Berbrooke that she was “interested” had she so badly wanted to strike another human being. She would have done so, too, if she’d thought she could get away with it.
            “You don’t really have a choice,” he continued.
            His jaw or the side of his head? Which would cause more pain?

            “And who knows?” He leaned in, his eyes glittering hot in the candlelight. “You might enjoy yourself.”

            The side of his head. Definitely. If she came at him with a wide, arcing swing, she might knock him off balance. She’d like to see him sprawled on the floor. It would be a gorgeous sight. He might strike his head on a table, or even better, grasp the tablecloth on the way down, taking the punchbowl and all of Mrs Smythe-Smith’s cut crystal with him.

            “Lady Olivia?” 
            Shards everywhere. Maybe blood, too.
            “Lady Olivia?”
            If she couldn’t actually do it, she could fantasize about it.
            “Lady Olivia?” He was holding out his hand.
            She looked over. He was still upright, not a speck of blood or broken glass in sight. Pity. And he quite clearly expected her to accept his invitation to dance.

One of the first medieval set books I ever read was The Falcons of Montabard by Elizabeth Chadwick, which though it could be simply categorised as romance is also a novel about the Crusades.

 

Sounds roared in her ears...hooves thundering and fading, the shouts of men, the screaming of her baby son. Her vision cleared and darkened by turns.

            “Christ, Annais...Annais.” A hand touched her face, her throat, feeling for the life force. She was lifted to a sitting position and cradled against hard, sun-hot rivets. A rim was pressed to her lips and she tasted the appalling burn of Galwegian usquebaugh. Choking, she pushed the drink aside with shaking hands and looked up into Sabin’s face. He had removed his helm and his sweat-soaked hair dripped at his brow. There was a long smear of dust on his cheek and dried blood was caked on one hand and beneath his fingernails. He was kneeling and she was lying against the left side of his chest. Edmund yelled with lusty indignation from the ground between Sabin’s knees. “Annais?”

            She blinked at him. “You are alive,” she croaked. “I saw you shot... I saw you fall...”

            “My hauberk took the blows.... I am not injured beyond a scrape.” It wasn’t entirely true, but it would serve for the nonce, and he was scarcely at death’s door. “It’s all right... everything is all right.”

Romance is then, in my opinion, a long way from being a one trick pony and it should be nothing of which to be ashamed.

Watch This

I would highly recommend tuning into BBC4 at 9pm tomorrow evening to catch the second part of ‘Guilty Pleasures’, a historical documentary written and presented by Dr Michael Scott.

I’m not typically a huge fan of documentaries because I get impatient and irritated by the general level of ignorance assumed of the viewer. However part one of this documentary was intelligent and interesting, and it did help that the presenter himself was rather easy on the eye. His over enthusiasm was occasionally irksome and there seemed to be a lot of justification for the study of history (with clichéd lines such as ‘by understanding the past we can understand our present’), but overall I was impressed.

The first part focused upon the various types of luxuries in Ancient Greece, such as fish, statues and even long hair, and also the different attitudes towards these luxuries. Part two promises to focus upon how luxuries conflicted with the teachings of the medieval church.

I’ve touched on the issue of luxury for the medieval church in the course of my own research. Wealth was one of the central problems for monastic communities and the issue which each new order vowed to eradicate but never quite succeeded in doing. The Cistercians, for example, abandoned traditional Benedictine monasteries to isolate themselves in uninhabited parts of the countryside around Europe. In doing this the Cistercians wanted to provide for themselves through their own labour. However the popularity of the order was to some extent their own undoing and the Cistercians became renowned for their wealth.

Rather than being biographical or focused upon a particular historical event, this documentary is intriguing for presenting a cultural history that spans centuries. At the very least this documentary is worthwhile watching for the beautiful historical objects and settings it showcases.