A Rose By Any Other Name

When fashioning a story in my head the names of my characters are often the last piece to fall into place. Not only do you need to find a name that sounds right for the characteristics of a protagonist but also, in the case of historical fiction, one that sounds period suitable. There weren’t going to be too many Sir Brooklyn’s walking around in the Middle Ages.

So where do you turn when you are desperate for inspiration? A quick trawl through a gazillion web pages thrown up by a Google search is bound to happen at some stage in the research process. However, very handily for me, if you have access to some medieval documents or textbooks you can open a random page and see what crops up. This week I came across a gem of a document if you are in search for genuine medieval names.

In a manuscript (CCA-LitMs/D/12) kept in the Cathedral Archives of Canterbury there is compiled a list of names of the monks who entered Christ Church Priory between 1207 and 1534. The document is in Latin, but many of the Christian names are recognisable and are followed by a place name. (Willelmus de London = William from London).

These are just a few of my favourites selected from this list, and who knows, they might well have a walk-on part to play in a story in the near future.

Galfridus poterel

Iohnnes de Wyndchelesee

Dionisius de sancta Margaret

Reginaldus Charlys

Walterus de Castria

Hugo de sancto yuone

Alexander de Bedelyngwell’

Iacobus de Oxne

Nicholaus de Boywyke

Simon de Solis

If Walls Could Talk

Walking around the city wall of Canterbury you might well be disappointed. However if you look closely enough you will be able to discover hidden gems of medieval history.

The walls of Canterbury were standing by c. 290 AD and reached a height of 6 metres. It was topped with crenulations and surrounded by a ditch. The medieval wall ran along the same circuit as the Roman original though some amendments were made, for example to the position of the gates.

Here at Queningate you can see an arch made from a few bricks. This was the blocked entrance for one of the seven Roman gates into the town. This entrance was in use probably until the fifteenth century.

Here at St Mary Northgate you can see how the medieval wall has been incorporated into the north wall of the twelfth-century church of St Mary’s (and then a later building). What is so special about this section of the wall is that it is meant to be one of the most substantial standing parts of a Roman wall in Britain.

The city wall is interesting not only because of these material remains but also because of what it might have represented for the medieval town dweller. It is possible to argue that at the end of the thirteenth century the wall held little function as a means of fortification, but perhaps still could have been thought of as a spiritual defence.

In Revelation St John describes his vision of the Heavenly Jerusalem. “And it had a wall great and high, having twelve gates...On the east, three gates: and on the north, three gates: and on the south, three gates: and on the west, three gates.” (Revelation 21:12-13). This sounds quite familiar, especially when it is paired with manuscript imagery such as this, from the incredibly intricate thirteenth-century Trinity Apocalypse.

Trinity College Cambridge, MS R 16.2 f. 25 v.

It is also possible that the citizens of Canterbury may have compared their town to the Earthly Jerusalem. Itinerary maps intended for pilgrimage, which date from this same period, typically depict Jerusalem as a walled city filled with the holy relics and sites of Christ’s life. It is interesting to speculate how Canterbury may have compared itself, with their cult of Becket, to this idea. Indeed in this image from Matthew Paris’ itinerary, Canterbury is shown as a walled town with the Cathedral (the location of Becket’s shrine) in pride of place.

British Library, London, Royal 14 C VII, f. 2

Ultimately then I think it is possible to think about town walls as symbols of spirituality, pilgrimage and devotion. Not that this is to devalue their use, particularly in the Anglo-Saxon period, as a deadly fortification. For Roger of Hoveden wrote in his chronicle about the siege of Canterbury in 1011, “many were thrown from the walls”.

Death To Palaeography II...

The further misadventures of our hapless palaeographer...

She watched spellbound as it dripped steadily downwards. Continuing to watch as it was painstakingly drained of its life force. And she did not blink as the brownish stains splashed haphazardly across the cooling surface.

Unconsciously she rubbed at her hands like some student actor playing Lady Macbeth. Yet she could not rub out the feeling of that warm stickiness that had stained her fingers red. That poor man, she thought, suddenly forgiving him for his attempts to glance down her top as she signed her name in the archive’s visitor log.

Her gaze drifted upwards away from the cadaverous teabag, to the glinting metal spoon which held it suspended above the china teapot, to the hand which banged the spoon violently against the rim, and finally to the man whose hand it was who was addressing her quietly.

With some effort she focused upon the stern face. The Professor calmly handed her a floral teacup, before sinking into the softly upholstered armchair opposite her own and remarking as if he was casually observing the weather.

“You found something then?” Her face changed chamaeleon like from the white of prolonged fear to a pink stain of anger and she brought the saucer down with a loud unfeeling clank on his antique walnut table.

“Did you know?” She hid her trembling hands in the over long sleeves of the jumper, but she could not hide the wavering of her voice as she repeated, “Did you know?” He watched her silently for a moment with clear unflinching grey eyes.

“Yes.” The single crisp syllable surprised her and she slumped back into the chair defeatedly. “I knew there was something there to be found. Something dangerous. But - ” His voice softened uncharacteristically, “But I did not believe you would be in danger if you went alone. I thought a student researching an essay would be unlikely to draw the gaze of any who might be watching.” He set his own teacup down as if to punctuate his sincerity. “I am sorry for being wrong and for putting you in danger.”

Feeling the inexplicable need to hide from his attentive gaze she reached for the delicate teacup and sipped quietly as she studied him over the rim. When he was not frowning at her in his intimidating manner she decided that the Professor was really almost handsome. His old fashioned manners and casual elegance were befitting of any Austenian hero. She upbraided herself silently for the fanciful path of her thoughts. The shock had clearly scrambled that part of her brain which identified the Professor with some kind of deadline wielding devil and had instead replaced it with a hero of chivalry.

“Please, would you tell me again what happened?” He asked solicitously, drawing her out from the embarrassing reverie. She frowned, for when she thought back she found it hard to recall the exact details of her flight. She remembered but two things with great clarity. The fear. And the blood.

However upon her second retelling of the tale she found herself recollecting several smaller details. Such as when she was legging it down the neoclassical marbled hall she had felt absurdly grateful for compulsory sports days. When her classmates had spitefully entered her into the 800 metres little had they known that they would be saving her life sometime in the future. Dropping out of a ground floor window and rolling across the muddied lawn was hardly the most dignified of exits, but it had enabled her to steal a march on her pursuer.

“I never looked behind me. I would not know him for Adam.” She said forestalling his question. “It was almost certainly a man though, listening to his foot falls on the stairs.” In the moment of quiet that met her statement she suppressed a shudder at the memory of the repetitive thump that had echoed behind her.

“After that I just got on a random bus to find a telephone box, and called you. I wasn’t certain that anyone else would believe me to be honest. And you were the one who sent me there.”She played with the fraying seam of the jumper he had given her to cover her own muddied garments. “It’s not as glamorous as they make out in The Da Vinci Code, is it?” She said with a weak attempt at humour.

“It must be quite a secret that they want to keep hidden.” He mused as he steepled his fingers.

“Oh it is.” He suddenly hunched forward in the chair as he asked excitedly,

“You know what it says then?”

“Yes I wrote it down. Did I not say?”

“You wrote down what it said.” He repeated animatedly. “Can you show me - ”The sound of the brass knocker dropping against the front door cut him off and echoed ominously around the old house. She gave a small cry and leapt out of the comfort of the chair as if Jacob Marley’s ghost itself was waiting politely for her outside the door.

Grasping her cold hand in his, he led the prostrate girl over to his desk. Unlocking a secret compartment with the flick of his wrist the Professor rummaged in the cavernous space before withdrawing a loaded revolver.

“Here.” He said briskly, slapping into her hand. “Try not to shoot me.”

Turning A Page

Currently I am reading Katherine by Anya Seton. This could be considered one of the classics of historical fiction, or at least of medieval historical fiction, and was first published in 1954. I remember trying unsuccessfully to read this book about seven years ago and returning it to the library rather promptly. Recently I decided to pick up a copy and have another go. Much to my surprise I am not gritting my teeth as I plod through it, but am actually quite enjoying it. It has some daft moments of fancy and of course a liberal sprinkling of historical inaccuracies. Yet I am glad that I gave this book another chance. This is then where I have reached so far in this prettily-covered book, a startling page 280.

*

and again, and suffered with his men. Even the French thought this chevauchee a triumphant feat, spectacular as any his brother the Black Prince had ever achieved, and yet in the end there was loss, not gain. The lands through which he marched had bowed under the trampling feet like long grass, and sprung up again when he had passed.

When John had returned to England, embittered, his dream of conquering all France and then Castile once more postponed, he had found himself the target of an angry, puzzled England. For there was unrest everywhere and dissatisfaction with conditions. The people clamoured for another Crecy, another Poitiers, but times had changed. A new and wilier king sat on the French throne, and the once great English king was senile, his policies unstable, blowing now hot now cold, obedient to the greedy whims of Alice Perrers, and caring only to please her.

Yet now there was a truce with France, a precarious amnesty negotiated by the Duke at Bruges last year. The thought of John's months at Bruges brought sharp pain to Katherine, though it was a pain to which she was well accustomed.

John had taken his Duchess with him to Flanders and there at Ghent, his own birthplace, Costanza had been delivered of a son - at last.

But the baby did not live! Katherine crossed herself as she sat on the bench in Kenilworth courtyard and thought, Mea Culpa, as she had when she first heard the news that the baby had died - for shame of the fierce joy she had felt.

My sons live, thought Katherine. She glanced up to the windows of the Nursery Chamber in the South Wing. A shadow passed behind the clear tiny panes, and Katherine smiled. That would be Hawise, or one of the nurses, tending the infant Harry in his cradle, or perhaps fetching some toy to distract little John as he ate his supper - for he was a fussy eater and prone to dawdle. Healthy rosy boys, both of them, golden as buttercups, with their father's intense blue eyes.

A high jeering singsong shattered the peace of the courtyard. "Scaredy cats! Scaredy cats! Cowardy cowardy custard, go get thyself some mustard - Ye dursn't do what I do -" That was Elizabeth of course. Katherine jumped up prepared for trouble and hurried through the arch to the Base Court. Though the Duke's younger daughter was twelve years old and near to womanhood, Elizabeth's reckless enterprises still had to be restrained before they led herself and the younger children into actual danger.