The Devil, The Saint, And The Shoe

I was told in passing a funny little tale earlier in the week during a scholarly lecture. After some confusion I realised that I had in fact read about it before, in a historical novel of all places! So I undertook a little research in order to fill the gaps that my faulty memory had created.

This then is the tale of John Schorn. (And proof that not all historical fiction books are necessarily full of lies).

Lead alloy, fifteenth-century pilgrim badge
depicting John Schorn, The British Museum.

Here is a fifteenth-century metal pilgrim badge, which can be found at the British Museum in London. It depicts a man pushing the devil into a boot.

John Schorn was a late thirteenth-century rector in Buckinghamshire who was popularly venerated as a saint. After his death in 1314 his burial place in North Marston became a centre of pilgrimage. His most famous miracle was the conjuring of the devil into a boot, as shown on this badge. He was never officially canonised by the Church, but his legend did not remain a local phenomenon for long.

St Gregory’s Church in the town of Sudbury is one of the many parish churches in Suffolk to possess a surviving medieval rood screen. (These were wooden screens that separated the nave from the chancel, and were often painted with images of saints). The screen at St Gregory’s indeed has a panel painting depicting John Schorn holding a boot into which a hairy devil descends.

The popularity of John Schorn can be attested by the purchase and rehousing of his relics to St George's Chapel at Windsor in 1481. John Schorn can be associated to a beautifully illuminated early fifteenth-century Book of Hours by a hymn found within. In this John Schorn is invoked to aid the sick. It has been thought by some that a pilgrim who visited the shrine at St George's Chapel owned this Book of Hours.

The Schorn Book of Hours, c. 1430-50

Death To Palaeography...

As she turned the vellum page, with more firmness than was perhaps necessary considering the age of the manuscript, a liberal blanket of dust shifted in protest. In the flickering of the electric lamp the air shimmered as the particles were gently dispersed into an allergy infested web across her face. She wrinkled her nose at the musty smell before sneezing three times in quick succession, finishing with a curse for amateur collectors and a final scowl of annoyance for the Professor.

Yanking her glasses off her head she massaged the pink indentations they had left on her skin, before fishing up her sleeve for a crumpled tissue and blowing her nose rather vigorously. Sighing she stretched back on her chair in an attempt to wake her stiff muscles. She rubbed half-heartedly at the tiredness pricking at her eyes, which only succeeded in causing the remnants of the mascara applied early that morning to crumble in unattractive black clumps around her eyes.

Unnoticing she tilted her wrist towards the light, peering at the small face of her watch, before realising she had taken her glasses off. Reaching for the familiar wire frames she crammed them back on, blinking furiously as her eyes adjusted, and finally groaning at the hour.

The room was a dark windowless box so she had been unable to gage the passage of time. Her stomach rumbled in furious objection to the many frustrating hours she must have spent pouring over the manuscript. At least the owner was not so amateurish as to allow food and drink in his archive. Though at this moment she would have gladly sold her own grandmother if it meant she could have a slice of cake or even a soggy pre-packaged sandwich.

Palaeography, she bemoaned to herself, was quite simply evil. It made her eyes hurt, her head spin, and always made her unaccountably hungry. The Professor, who was supervising her doctorate, had commanded her to visit this small archive in the private residence of some titled and undoubtedly bearded gent. She had been packed off on an early morning train with only a post-it-note with the manuscript number scribbled across it and the mysterious words “it’s said to hide a marvellous treasure.”

As she looked down at the supposed treasure, she decided that the Professor was clearly seeking vengeance for her late and less than adequate submission the week before. The manuscript was in bad shape due to years of mistreatment and visually it was far from impressive. The writing of the scribe hurried across the page in a cramped hand, making her laborious Latin translations even more protracted. The only thing luxurious about it was the paper itself, which did not correspond with the dry, boring and rather unimportant information scrawled upon it.

The stern tirade that was sure to greet her if she returned to the Professor empty handed prompted her to have another cursory thumb through the wretched document. As she turned the page, careful of a second potential dust cloud, she paused to admire the quality and lack of imperfections in the vellum. It was then with the light shining behind the skin that she saw the minute scratches. Something had been written on the vellum, scratched off, and then deliberately and carefully written over as if to disguise the original text.

Hurriedly she grabbed her pencil and notepad and began a hasty transcription. She could not complete all the words and some of the Latin nouns were a nuisance but finally she was able to drop the page and re-read her own writing. Her heat began beating faster as she realised what lay before her and the secrets it exposed.

Grabbing her bag from under the table she stuffed her notebook inside and folding her glasses up tucked them into her cardigan pocket. She needed to get outside and use her mobile. She didn’t need to look to know that there would be no available service in the windowless box. As she stood her chair screeched across the floor, the sound echoing in the silence.

It was only then that she registered the depth of the silence. Where was the archivist? Rationally she realised that he too had probably felt the need for sustenance, but her heart hitched nonetheless as she glanced around her into the dark corners of the room. She had always been afraid of the dark.

Had she imagined that or was that a noise?

“Hello?” She called out shakily as her hand scrabbled in her bag for something heavy. She alighted on her hairbrush. The ridiculousness of the situation made her want to laugh. If there was somebody hidden in the dark, wielding an old brush, with half the bristles fallen off, was hardly going to stop them. “I was just leaving.” She backed slowly towards the door as she continued nervously, “Thank you for the trouble of opening the archive and everything. I hope your employer is not too severe on you.”

She tripped before she managed to reach the door, dropping her phone as she flapped furiously in an attempt to regain her balance. She knelt, blindly searching the floor in the darkness. Her hands came across something sticky and she retracted them swiftly in repulsion. As she stood up she looked at her hands. It was dark and she didn’t have her glasses on but she hoped very much that it was melted chocolate from a contraband snack of a previous academic that darkened her fingertips, and not what she feared it was.

The phone forgotten in her panic she leapt with surprising agility over the object that had caused her to trip and barrelled through the door. Heart pounding painfully in her chest she dashed up the wooden staircase, her heels making a resounding crack with every step she took. When she had said to her friends that palaeography would be the end of her, she had imagined herself slumped cross-eyed with boredom over some antediluvian tome, not fleeing with a bloody secret squashed between her dog-eared Mills & Boon novel and spare socks.

A Discovery

This little discovery has made my day. It manages to combine all the bits and bobs of history that I most love – tiles, monks and old ruins.

The figure depicted on this tile is quite probably a monk. I found it in the minature museum at St Augustine’s Abbey in Canterbury. The tile was produced locally at Clowes Wood. It was made probably in c.1170, though possibly as late as the thirteenth century. The tile had its design incised upon wet clay, painted with white slip and then glazed in a green-yellow colour.

The Confession...

In the name of God Amen. I Eva Blackthorn, wife to no man, being at this time neither sick of body nor unsound in mind, do declare that I am the murderer of Lady Sybil Harcup, wife to Sir Andrew Harcup.

Wait, please somebody. Sir Andrew, please, listen to me. I am not a murderer. I am a healer, a herbalist. You have all been in need of my skills before this day. You know that I speak the truth. I would never harm a patient, let alone a friend.

On the ninth day of the month of October in the year of our Lord eleven hundred and ninety five, in the sixth year of the reign of King Richard, the first of that name, Lady Sybil Harcup lay dead of a death other than her rightful death at mine own hand.

No not at my hand. Please, please just listen. There has been some kind of dreadful mistake. Why would I want to kill her? She was my friend and my patron. I could never use my knowledge to harm another. Sir Andrew please, you know me well, speak for me. You know that I was friends with your wife, that we shared confidences. How could I ever harm her?

I did purposefully bring pennyroyal with me when requested by Lady Sybil to attend her in the solar. This poison I did then knowingly place within her goblet with the intent to kill Lady Sybil’s unborn child.

Pennyroyal? Is that what killed her? Do you think that I am such an incapable healer that I would prescribe a pregnant woman pennyroyal? Yes, that is one of my phials. Yes, that is my hand on the label. Yes, I am quite sure. No wait, please, Sir Andrew, that is not what I meant. Why would I have given it to her purposefully? What ill-feeling could I harbour against the infant?

The aforesaid poison aborted the infant and caused heavy bleeding that ultimately led to the death of Lady Sybil.

You, you Sir Andrew came to me some days ago asking for relief from indigestion. Too much rich food from the previous nights feast you said. I gave you an infusion of pennyroyal there and then. But you asked for more to take back with you. I gave you a phial. Sir Andrew, please, I beg you sir, tell them I speak the truth. No, no, no. Don’t do this. I did nothing wrong. Let me go, please, let me go.

I do confess and thoroughly repent my crime and hereby submit my body for lawful punishment, whilst entreating my soul to God’s forgiveness, as witnessed by Sir Andrew Harcup, Brother John, Henry of Hailes, Thomas fitzMiles, Stephen de Rouen.

It is so dark and cold down here. Why will no one help me? I am innocent. I am no murderer. I did not commit this dark deed. But they shall hang me on the morrow regardless of what I say. Why will no one listen? It is all too neat. It is all too resolved. Surely they can see where the blame truly lies? He who hangs me be the real murderer.

The Vita Merlini

Merlin was back on our screens last night for a fourth series that promised to be darker than ever. (And if Morgana’s (Katie McGrath) make up and costume were anything to go by then they’ve certainly hit their mark).

The Arthurian legend has been reinvented many a time. There’s the courtly romance of fourteenth century France, the Disney’s 1963 Sword and the Stone, and the painfully crass Camelot from earlier this year. Merlin is however my favourite retelling of the tale. It strikes a perfect balance with its tone, making it suitable for a wide ranging audience. It has laugh-out load moments, daring-do action scenes, touching romance, and all dressed up in a medieval costume. What more could you ask from a fantasy series?

By mid-way through series three though I was concerned that Merlin had become too repetitive. How many more times could Arthur (Bradley James) rebel against his father, mean old Uther (Anthony Head)? However after Morgana’s betrayal at the end of the last series Uther is a broken man, showing a more sympathetic side to his character.  Also with Uther incapable of ruling, at least momentarily, new storylines have been opened up for this series.

As always the banter and friendship between Arthur and Merlin (Colin Morgan) were a highlight of the episode. Morgana has finally grown into her character as chief antagonist, no longer is she simply a panto baddy who smirks at the camera. I also particularly like what seems to be the permanence of Sir Lancelot (Santiago Cabrera) in Camelot. His friendship with Merlin, and his knowledge of Merlin’s true abilities, means there is one more person concerned with his well being. Whilst other girls might be swooning over Arthur, all I personally want to do is give Merlin a hug.

The costume department were clearly having a field day though. There was Sir Percival (Tom Hopper) with his thoroughly dashing and yet rather impractical sleeveless chainmail. And then there was Agravaine (Nathaniel Parker) with his entirely black costume crying out his dark intentions to all around. And of course there is Gwen (Angel Coulby). Has anyone else noticed that over the years her hair has gotten longer and her dresses that much more fashionable and form-fitting? But maybe those are requirements when you’re Arthur’s girlfriend.

All in all the opening episode left me wanting more. (Though the preview for the next episode did mean that there was not much of a cliffhanger after all). It set up what looks to be a great series and the potential for the growth of characters old and new.