A Very Merry Monk Christmas



The best Christmas card I received this year...

Stocking Fillers...

A special Christmas treat. Festive themed stories (written in no more than ten minutes) by my far more talented friend and my own paltry effort.

Christmas Crackers

Crackers are a necessary component of any Christmas table spread. Perched in between plates, one to each, they perch and await opening. The brilliance of crackers is in their ability to immediately stimulate Christmas cheer. Opening crackers is a sociable event, which brings a deal of confusion and... Well, excitement is too strong a word, so let's say motion, to any given table. Now, I come with a theory. My theory is that crackers are essentially designed to promote cheer, from every angle. First of all, there's the opening. Maybe no laughs yet, but a good deal of movement – a nice start point. Then there's the confusion of working out who “won” each given cracker pull, and picking out the junk inside them. This is important. Again, participants need exchange objects, move things around, and generally try to make right out of mess. Once everything is established, Christmas 'hats' firmly on heads, there comes the meat of the crackers. The joke.

Now, you may not think the joke important. Meaningless and silly, even. However, they're integral to my theory. The jokes are inevitably the same as the previous year, so people will remember them. Either that, or they're so predictable that at least one person at the table will blurt out the answer before it's revealed. The crucial role that these jokes – along with the toy or whatever else – plays is this; they make people feel good about themselves. “What a stupid joke!” one man might yell, while a lady rolls her eyes about Sherlock Bones, the skeletal investigator. These jokes are so poor, that people will easily make more witty and elusive gags about and around them. It's a perfect set-up to hearty table discussion.

Some might imagine the writer of these jokes as a dunce, flicking through a book of unoriginal puns and scribbling down obvious ones, eager to get it done. Perhaps they have a more realistic image, of a lone marketing worker copying down a list from an archive. Regardless, they were all written a long time ago. Myself, I like to imagine a weathered old man with a great long beard, a cheeky twinkle in his eye as he pictures tables full of people mocking his gags. This old man doesn't mind when you call him an idiot. He doesn't mind because that just means you've got the joke, and he's laughing with you.

*     *     *

Head ducked against the bitter wind he moved quickly across the icy street. Brown slush collected in piles where mud and melting snow mingled together. His haste caused him to lose his footing momentarily on the treacherously broken cobbles and his breath misted before his eyes in a grunt of surprise. Once his boots had again found safe purchase he glanced up at the faint candle glow coming from the houses that lined the street. They flickered contentedly in the early evening gloom. There was only one house that he was looking for though. One candle, one window and one welcome. His feet were damp, the cold long ago taking away all feeling from his toes, yet a warm feeling stirred in his heart. As he continued forward his careworn face eased into a smile and swollen, reddened fingers rapped on a wooden door. It creaked open slowly at first before finally being swung back impatiently. He found himself engulfed by sudden warmth. A fire crackled within the room merrily, soft arms reached out embracing him, and a gentle voice whispered in his ear, “Merry Christmas, my love.”

A Work In Progress

I am currently drafting the next instalment of Death to Palaeography, in which things get a little hairy for our palaeographer.

“Good God girl! Are you good at nothing?!”He exploded.
“Actually I’m quite a good harpist.” She replied indignantly.
The corners of his stern mouth twitched with amusement.

It seems however a little like tempting to fate to post something in which ‘death’ and ‘palaeography’ feature together in the same week that I have my own palaeography exam. *Gulp* Wish me luck!

Everywhere Peace, Everywhere Serenity

After a stressful week of cramming Latin nouns and verbs into my tiny brain, and with the knowledge that the next few weeks hold equally as much deadline-fuelled fear, I remember with fondness the self-contained, quiet isolation of the Cisterican monks. Where hidden away in the peaceful beauty of the Yorkshire countryside was Byland Abbey, which a handful of monks once called their home.

Byland Abbey, West Front with rose window.

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.

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.

The Raindrop...

When I dream, I dream of a raindrop. A single, solitary raindrop caught amongst sable hair. It flashes in its multicoloured glory before my eyes. A spectrum of colours glittering as vivid as any stained glass. For a moment it pauses in its perfection and I admire it. But too soon it is dashed away by heavy fingers, cast aside unheeded. As it crashes to the ground a thousand of my memories splinter with that drop across the damp earth.

Broken fragments of another lifetime. The sound of breathless laughter. The faint scent of rosemary. And that one, flawless, raindrop.

I open my eyes and once more I am a girl again.

The sun is high in the summer sky, burning a trail across the field and the bridge of my nose. As I lie in the grass, my fingers playing with the textured strands, I gaze up at the wide canvas. My hand reaches out and I paint the firmament. There a queen with a trailing gown. There a dog fetching a stick. There a – 

                “-What’s that?” My companion asks with amusement. I turn to him, crushing the verdant carpet beneath my moving body.

                “Clouds. Pictures in the clouds. Can you not see them?”  A wry smile crosses the familiar face,

                “I’ve no imagination. I’m a pig-headed solider. Barbaric in fact.” I laugh with him, unable to remember when or why I had been angry enough to say those words. “But you’re a wild thing. Untamed. More at home out here than in any castle or church.” My heart beats erratically, feeling uncomfortable within my chest, and I am suddenly shy beneath his steady gaze.

                I take the flower that I hold clenched between my fingers and push it behind his ear. My hand rests on his face for a fraction of a second longer than it needs to. Leaning back I giggle at the image he presents. So stern and fierce and proper. I want to paint him too. Hold him in this moment.

                This is our goodbye. And I feel a strange sense that this moment is important. But it passes, just like the clouds that cover the sun momentarily. The wind lifts my hair from my face, capturing the lingering fragrance of rosemary. He draws closer and I know he can sense it too. Our eyes hold for an instant in the silence, until my gaze is drawn to the single raindrop that balances upon his dark head.

                The single drop becomes two... three... four...five. I tip my face up, enjoying the refreshing coolness of the water against my sun-warmed skin. Laughter rises within me and I grab his hand with mine, pulling until we are both standing and then we are running.

                I feel reckless and free like a bird finally taking flight. My feet bare, the grass stroking gently at my skin, my hair tangling madly behind me. Breathless we rest beneath a tree, sheltered from the slow but insistent rain. I feel reckless and free so I hold him close. His hands seek my face, rough fingertips tracing my features. A raindrop drips from his hair and it slides down my face like a tear. My eyes flicker closed and I feel him bending his head to mine.

My eyes open and he is gone.

The dream ended as quickly as it had begun.

I dream of that raindrop often. The water blurs his face now, when once it was as familiar as my own. I’m forgetting a lot of things now though. They say I did not know my own son when he visited me last week. But this is one memory, one dream, which I refuse to have taken from me. I may have to live out the remainder of my life in this remote priory, an old sick woman of no use to anybody, but I shan’t give him up.

When I dream, I dream of a raindrop. A single, solitary raindrop caught amongst his sable hair. He leans that dark head toward me and holding my hand he walks beside me across the field that leads to home.

The Strongest Kind Of Monks

Is it a monk or is it a friar? There seems to be some confusion as to the distinction between these two different words. A monk was generally a man living in a religious community apart from society, whilst a friar was a man who could live within society preaching and teaching. These are of course very imprecise definitions because there was much overlap and change during the medieval period.

Monastic orders included the Benedictines, Cistercians and Carthusians.

Cisterican monks at work,
Cîteaux, 1111, Bibliothèque Municipale, Dijon, MS. 170, f.59r.

Mendicant orders included the Dominicans, Franciscans, and Carmelites.

Dominican friars seated with the Luttrell family,
The Luttrell Psalter, England, fourteenth century, British Library, Add. 42130, f. 208r.

To make matters even more confusing there were also canons, such as the Augustinians. Monks, friars and canons made up the ‘regular clergy’ of medieval society. (They were called regular because they followed a rule of life).

The Benedictines, and most other monastic orders, based their rule of life on that written by St Benedict of Nursia in the sixth century. He described in Chapter 1 the basis of Benedictine monasticism “those who live in monasteries and serve under a rule and an Abbot”. The Dominicans and Augustinians followed the Rule of St Augustine, whilst the Franciscans followed the rule written by their founder, St Francis of Assisi.

There were of course more similarities between the various religious orders than there were differences. The various orders were often referred to by the colour of their habits, so the Benedictines became the Black Monks and the Cistercians the White Monks.

The important questions to bear in mind when deciding between the label of ‘monk’ and ‘friar’ are time and location:

• The friars were a thirteenth century phenomenon, so before 1200 it’s safer to presume that they’re monks.
• If they lived in the centre of a town or city they’re more likely to be mendicant friars, because whilst monks desired isolation, the friars wanted to reach a maximum lay audience with their preaching.

[This is NOT meant as a foolproof guide or an exhaustive study into the religious orders. Consider it more of an exceedingly brief introduction].

Through The Looking Glass

If I asked you what came to mind when I say ‘medieval glass’ you might reply the stained glass at Chartres Cathedral, or perhaps the inner casing of a holy reliquary, or maybe even an elaborate goblet set on a royal dais; but it is quite unlikely that you’d think of a urinal.

Urinal, 1400s, Musuem of London

Glass was an important material in medieval medicine and science. Glass flasks were used because of their transparency and because they did not contaminate their contents by corroding. Glass instruments were used in alchemy to prepare acids, to distil alcohol, and in medicine for uroscopy.

Uroscopy was the diagnosis of a disease through the examination of the colour of a patient’s urine. The urine flask became one of the symbols of the physician’s trade, and a doctor can often by identified in illuminated manuscripts by their possession of a glass flask.

Physician teaching students, Paris, 1300s,
(British Library, Harley 3140, f. 32v).

Physicians often owned charts that catalogued the different colours of urine and the illnesses to which these could be linked. For example, blue urine was associated with indigestion and black urine was meant to indicate death.

Diagnostic chart, England, c.1406,
(British Library, Harley 5311).

It is important to remember the smaller, everyday objects and not just the glamorous and glittering jewels of medieval life. But perhaps the worlds of stained glass and urinals were not so distinct from each other. In the Becket Miracle Windows at Canterbury Cathedral physicians were depicted consulting their urine flasks, but the message was to rely not upon your physician but rather on the healing power of the saint, even in those cases when your urine was black.

Chartres Cathedral,
Constantine has leprosy and consults a physician.

Superstitions Part II...

Today's post was quite obviously not written by myself, but rather by my far more talented and handsome friend. It might not be medieval themed, but who really cares, it's just too good to be sitting neglected in my inbox. So I encourage you now to sit back, tuck into a box of biscuits, and enjoy...

Now listen folks, and I'll tell you a story about superstition. But first, I've got to introduce you to our hero. His name was John. Ever such a nice fellow, but with an unfortunate and curiously persistent relationship with misfortune.

Our friend John, he'd tell you that he didn't trust one bit in all that. Didn't like the idea that life was influenced and guided by strange obscure rules and regulations. But that's not to say he dismissed it entirely! Some people can hear about a rumour or a myth, and purge it completely from their minds, never to be thought of again. John was, quite unfortunately for him, not one of those people. You see, John would deny being superstitious – loudly, at times – until the day he died, but he'd always have – at the very least – the nagging thoughts tucked up real nice and secure in the back of his mind. That's just the kinda guy John was. How he was made, and how he lived. Wouldn't be John otherwise.

So when in his childhood, our friend John managed to break a mirror during class, he wasn't all that swayed. I don't know why they had mirrors, maybe it was a science experiment. It's not important and it's irrelevant to the story. He broke the mirror by mistake, that's what matters. Then he quietly collected up the shards, and disposed of them responsibly. What a guy, taking care of his own business even at the young age of thirteen! No yelling for a teacher, no clueless expression, just right down on his hands and knees and cleaning up the mess. But anyway, he wasn't bothered by it. Until, that is, his classmates caught wind of what he'd done. John had broken a mirror, and they weren't quickly going to let him forget the years of ill fortune that would certainly lie ahead of him. Seven long years, John, and how about that! Quite a predicament, and all from what was a practically harmless mistake! Our friend remained stoic however, and tried not to let his jeering peers get the better of him. But alas, this day really had quite a lasting impact on him, even if he wasn't always consciously aware of it. Poor chap.

Every time things didn't seem to go quite his way, or he felt the odds stacked against him, there was always something in the back of his mind that wouldn't let him forget that mirror. This occurred with unfortunate frequency, or so John thought. While his life wasn't especially good by any means, it wasn't particularly bad either. I'm certain that nobody could really tell, even with all the data right there in front of them, whether he was blessed or cursed. It's just not possible to know, okay? Our pal John just seemed to be a normal guy! Unfortunately, even when he wasn't paying it full attention, his mind was always working overtime with the concept of luck, cross referencing it with every experience. Thus, he accumulated some serious superstitious baggage.

The first thing he figured out was a method of avoiding bad luck. That doesn't mean first chronologically for John, by the way – I couldn't tell you that. Anyway, this requires a little explanation. John, cursed as he believed himself – much as he'd deny it if you asked him – considered himself in a natural state of “bad luck”. So rather than seeking good luck, as any normal person would, John sought instead for little breaks of “average luck”. Or, as he thought it, avoiding bad luck. Back to the story. John's method of avoiding bad luck was the do things in specific number sets. Fours, sevens or tens, to be more precise. Quite where he came up with these peculiar numbers I'm not sure, but it obviously made sense to him. When working in fours, sevens or tens, John emanated a certain... Let's call it “gusto”, that simply wasn't there otherwise.

I'd tell you more, and there most certainly is more to tell, but there wouldn't be enough time to explore all the bits and pieces, so we'll leave it at that. Let's just take it as a given that our John was a superstitious guy to the core, and get to the main event. Where are my manners, to ramble out so much back story? Onto the main event.

John was out one day, feeling real chipper. Reason being was that his seven years – remember those? – were about up, if not done with on that very day. Maybe he acknowledged it, maybe he didn't, but he was looking forward to some comparatively good fortune, after years of suffering. So stroll he did, over towards the shops, to see where his mind may take him. He decided, by complete chance, to take a different route. Perhaps fate guided him. On one of these unfamiliar roads, he happened across a skip, within which he couldn't help but notice a mirror, haphazardly heaped upon other discarded furniture. Looking in the mirror as he strolled by, he caught a glimpse of a black cat grooming itself somewhere behind him. Poor John, he fixated on this stuff something fierce! He might have even imagined it! His smile – which was somewhat goofy, if we're honest – faltered, and he spun, trying to find the cat, source of potential prolonged bad luck. John didn't like cats on the best of days, and today the sight triggered something akin to a fight or flight instinct. He lashed out with his foot at a piece of rubble which had fallen from the skip, and it flew... Straight over to a nearby tree, before rebounding with an awful crash straight into the skip. Oh dear. John didn't even look back, bless him, but set off for home with such an expression, you'd think he'd seen a ghost. If he had chanced to glance back, he'd have seen that it wasn't the mirror he broke, but a discarded television set beneath it. He fled, subjecting himself unconsciously to another seven years of trouble, even though he'd done nothing to deserve them. And you know what? He went through life like that. Misfortune led to misfortune, simply because he believed in it. How about that for a moral?

Superstitions...

“There was a certain wealthy man who, as it later transpired, had been given over to sinful behaviour, died and was buried. However, with Satan’s help he kept emerging at night from his tomb and wandering here and there to the sound of loudly barking dogs. Every night he was the cause of great terror to the townspeople before his return at daybreak to the tomb.” William of Newburgh (1136-1198), Historia Rerum Anglicarum.

It was not until she had drawn the last bolt across the door that her heart rate returned to normal. Emma de Lacy leant her slender body against the thick wood with some finality and breathed a soft sigh of relief. Brushing thoughtlessly at the strands of chestnut hair that stuck to her clammy forehead, Emma turned to gaze at the maid servant who stood paralysed with fear in the corner of the room.

                “Agnes is everyone inside?” The girl’s face was ashen and her eyes wide as she cried,

                “Oh Mistress we’re all going to die! That horrible creature out there will kill us all!” Crossing the room Emma grabbed her maid impatiently by the shoulders and spoke with gentle authority,

                “Hush. There is no creature. It is but a phantasm created by idle minds. The dead cannot walk. Remember we went to Walter’s funeral and we saw him buried with our own eyes.” A loud crash sounded from outside and a woman’s piercing scream filled their ears. Agnes trembled violently beneath Emma’s stern grasp. “It is no dead man that is causing this commotion but living people panicking and rioting. If we stay inside tonight we shall all be safe. I promise you.” Agnes’ eyes flew to the staircase, guilt flashing across her face.

                “Master Thomas... he’s...he’s not in his room. I couldn’t find him.” Fear for her younger brother threatened to choke Emma, but she bit her lip, determined not to vent her frustration on the terrified girl.

Unclasping the maid she moved back towards the door that she had locked only moments before. With firmness she did not feel Emma pulled back the thick bolts and instructed calmly,

                “I shall go back out and find him. Now lock this door after me and do not open it to anyone but myself or Tom. Do you understand?” Agnes gave a tremulous nod. Grasping a small wicked blade with cold fingers Emma breathed a swift prayer for the safety of her brother and home before darting back out into the night.

                The late summer twilight was unbearably humid as she moved cautiously through the village. Privately Emma thought that this latest spell of madness was caused more by the oppressive heat and sun-burnt crops than it was a corpse reanimated by Satan. Many of the younger local men were unemployed due to the unseasonable weather and so were causing trouble, but it was the old who had exacerbated the violence by spreading their superstitions of the walking dead.

Yet it was not the dead who had set the village ablaze, and Emma gasped in dread as she saw the wind licking the flames steadily closer to more homes. Suddenly she doubted the promise she had made to Agnes, staying indoors might not be enough protection from this summer madness.

Desperation made her search bolder and Emma began peering up amongst the lofty branches of trees knowing that her brother was a keen observer. Catching a glimpse of blue cloth amongst rustling leaves she headed instinctively towards the wide oak.

                “Tom, I need you to come down. I know it’s you up there.” There was more rustling before she heard his voice brash and loud with excitement,

                “Come up here Em, you can see everything. They’re digging up old Walter’s grave and they’re lighting fires and...”

                “Tom! Come down right now.” With her focus fixed above her on the small body she could now make out amongst the dark leaves Emma did not notice the men who approached her from behind.

                “Em!” Tom’s young voice called out in alarm, and Emma turned to see four men armed with knives. Her own hand reached for the blade at her side, but her fingers were clumsy with fear and it dropped into the long grass. Unarmed she stumbled backwards, hitting the tree and provoking mocking laughter from the men. Her hands scrabbled across the bark as she sought something to fight with. Launching forward she threw wooden shards into her attackers’ faces and ran, drawing them away from her brother.

                Concentrating on the sounds of their lumbering pursuit from behind Emma ran blindly into a solid wall of muscle. Warmth pervaded her body where large hands caught and steadied her and she felt herself relaxing into the stranger’s encircling strength. But as she heard the approach of her pursuers she began cursing and scratching at his iron hold in desperation.

He caught her furled hand in one of his own and she stilled as he swept a calloused thumb tenderly across her palm. Her eyebrows furrowed at the spark of recognition, but the stranger’s face remained shrouded in deep shadow. Her panic ebbed as she became entranced by the lazy journey of his touch across her skin.

The sound of snapping twigs heralded the appearance of her pursuers and the stranger turned swiftly his hands easily spanning her waist as he placed her safely behind him. Though she knew she ought to continue her escape Emma was rooted to the spot unable to tear her eyes away from the tall stranger who confronted the four men. Despite being outnumbered he easily fought off the other men, their daggers no match for the deadly arc of his broadsword.

The glow of a nearby fire glinted off the shining blade suddenly highlighting the stranger’s profile. Emma started, heat suffusing her face. Despite the recently healed scars that mutilated one side of his face she finally realised exactly who she had been pressed so intimately against.

A Medieval Tile Picture Gallery

Tiles are the the unsung heroes of medieval art. Trampled underfoot by tourists gawping at vaulted ceilings these tiles are ignored and neglected. To rectify this situation I present here a selection of beautiful tiles that should not be overlooked...

Thirteenth-century tiles, Winchester Cathedral

Inlaid tiles, St Augustine's Abbey, Canterbury

Reconstructed thirteenth-century tiles,
Fountains Abbey

Mosaic tiles, Rievaulx Abbey

Inlaid tiles with inscription reading 'Ave Maria',
Rievaulx Abbey

Original glazed tiles, Byland Abbey

Thirteenth-century tile with griffin design,
Winchester Cathedral

Mosaic floor and marble zodiac roundels,
Trinity Chapel, Canterbury Cathedral

Thirteenth-century Gothic motif tiles,
Winchester Cathedral

Inlaid tiles featuring lions rampant,
Winchester Cathedral

Return Of The Beard!

Beards were the surprising topic that featured frequently in my university reading lists, much to mine and a friends amusement (for what about a ‘friendly mutton chop’ is not giggle provoking?). Whether it was the ‘Renaissance Beard’ a study of masculinity in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries or the attribute of a saint, beards seem to have been everywhere in history. Even excessive hair could be seen as a feature of monstrosity or ‘otherness’, and it was in this form that I encountered beards in an exam.

                Gerald of Wales was a late twelfth-century author, royal clerk and ecclesiastic. He was born of an English father and a Welsh mother, so knew firsthand what it was like to be on the edge of society.

He travelled to Ireland several times and recorded his observations in The History and Topography of Ireland. He wrote that “for just as the marvels of the East have through the work of certain authors come to the light of public notice, so the marvels of the West which, so far, have remained hidden away and almost unknown, may eventually find in me one to make them known even in these later days.”

                In Mappa Mundi, such as the famous Hereford Map, Britain was placed on the edges of the world along with the monstrous races in the south and east. In revealing the ‘wonders of the West’ Gerald was effectively redrawing the edges of the world and increasing England’s centrality whilst marginalising Ireland.

                Gerald described many ‘wonders’ and ‘miracles’ that he saw in Ireland or was told about, such as bestial relations between men and animals, werewolves, and women with beards. In BL, Royal MS 13 B VIII, written whilst he was probably living in Lincoln, Gerald described a woman with a beard and a mane on her back.

The Bearded Woman of Limerick,
BL, Royal MS 13 B VIII, f. 19.

 “Duvenaldus, the king of Limerick, had a woman that had a beard down to her waist. She had also a crest from her neck down along her spine, like a one-year-old foal. It was covered with hair. This woman in spite of these two deformities was, nevertheless, not hermaphrodite, and was in other respects sufficiently feminine. She followed the court wherever it went, provoking laughs as well as wonder. She followed neither fatherland nor nature in having a hairy spine; but in wearing her beard long, she was following the custom of her fatherland, not of her nature.”

                Gerald’s attitude to these ‘wonders of the West’ was quite different to contemporary writers such as Matthew Paris. There was no loud condemnation of the bearded woman or any additional Christian moralisation of her ‘monstrosity’. It has been said that in writing The History and Topography of Ireland, Gerald reinvented the ethnographical genre, as he sought to describe the customs and characteristics of different cultures.

Beards and hair however continued to be a defining attribute of the medieval character.