The Monster Mash

When you go down to an abbey today you’re sure of a big surprise...

Perhaps it has become evident from the images I have been sharing that I like to take photographs of strange looking creatures in medieval buildings that the casual observer might overlook.

Ely Cathedral, gallery, south side.

Ignored by early twentieth-century art historians, monsters have increasingly become a popular field of study, as observers attempted to rationalise their presence within illuminated manuscripts and both secular and ecclesiastical buildings.

Reasons discussed by historians have included the idea of trial pieces. Novice stone masons, for example, might practise their skills on pieces that were tucked away from direct view and giving a monster three eyes would be less grievous than giving the Virgin Mary a similar affliction.

Rievaulx Abbey, corbel bracket with carved faces.

Another argument, one which I favour, suggested that monsters could hold a didactic function. Young novices might have been racked by temptation and depictions of men physically been torn or eaten by monstrous creatures could perhaps have helped to visualise and overcome their internal conflict.

St Augustine's Abbey, sculpted human head flanked by biting animals.

Monsters also appeared in floor tiles, a sadly neglected medium in these studies. Floor tiles, and their monsters, were literally beneath the monks and squashed under their feet – was this a kind of re-enactment of Christ trampling the devil?

St Mary's Abbey York, capital and tile depicting similar hybrid creature.

Of course there is the danger of ascribing too much meaning to these images. None of the arguments so far put forward by historians totally explain the presence of monsters in medieval art. As such perhaps they were not meant to be explained at all; perhaps they were simply a form of irreverent or amusing decoration.

Though poor Bernard of Clairvaux failed to see the humour in such images: “What profit is there in those ridiculous monsters...? To what purpose are those unclean apes, those fierce lions, those monstrous centaurs, those half men, those striped tigers...? ...Here is a four-footed beast with a serpent’s tail; there, a fish with a beast’s head. Here again the forepart of a horse trails half a goat behind it, or a horned beast bears the hinder quarters of a horse. In short, so many and so marvellous are the varieties of diverse shapes on every hand, that we are more tempted to read in the marble than in our books.”

The Green Man

Green Man, Chapel of the Nine Altars, Fountains Abbey

A Courtly Romance...

Ever one to take advantage of a theme offered up helpfully by the season, (for Valentine’s Day is just around the corner, in case the copious amounts of heart-and-pink-filled shop fronts have managed to somehow slip your notice), and so I offer here my own little romantic frippery for the occasion.

“God’s blood!” She yelped in pain. A further series of imaginative curses, which probably shouldn’t have sounded quite so well practiced, followed her outburst. With eyes firmly shut she willed the throbbing pain in her leg to disperse and then nearly shrieked in alarm when an unknown voice asked,

“Are you all right?”

“Do I look all right?” She snapped back bad-temperedly, her embarrassment at being discovered igniting immediately into annoyance. From her splayed position across the frozen ground she glared up into a pair of amused green eyes.

Or at least she thought they were green. Even with her eyes now open she was unable to fully be sure. They would definitely be amused though if the rich baritone of his voice was any indication. She had gotten quite good in recent years at reading people’s tone. Her eyesight had deteriorated since childhood, and unless she was right on top of something or someone they were now a simply a blur of colour and movement. Explanation enough perhaps for why she was at this moment sprawled inelegantly across the ice-covered ground.

Drat. She should have realised the previous day’s rain would have turned to ice after the freezing fog had rolled off the mountains. And double drat for she realised that she would probably need to ask this man for help. Yet she held her tongue stubbornly refusing to do so.

“Could I be of any assistance?” He asked as if noticing her inner conflict. He sounded undoubtedly sincere, but still she shook her head defiantly, her voice as wintry as the weather.

“I am quite capable thank you.” It was her mantra she supposed. The words she used to motivate herself when in difficulty. She didn’t want and certainly didn’t ask for pity or assistance from anybody.

Once he had gone she could crawl or stumble or do whatever her bruised body would allow, but she didn’t need an audience for that. So it was with some disbelief that she realised that he had sat down beside her on the freezing ground. Turning her head to him she frowned, hoping that he’d understand and leave her to nurse her wounded leg and pride in peace. Instead he simply smiled and said nonchalantly,

“I hope you don’t mind. The view is excellent from down here.” Gritting her teeth she tried not to show how much this man irritated her. Her fingers and toes were beginning to tingle from their contact with the cold earth and she felt her muscles stiffening in weary protest. Shuffling a bit she tried to covertly put some weight on her leg, grimacing to herself as pain blazed a trail up the limb. She needed to get up and in order to do that she was going to need his help. Curses. Wrestling with her pride and the pain she eventually ground out,

“I can get up but I’m going to need something to lean on. Perhaps if you could kindly shift that rock a little closer it might help.” She felt him stand up and then the next thing she knew he was putting his arms around her body and lifting her. She opened her mouth to object but he simply chuckled and said,

“This is much easier for the both of us. I couldn’t move that rock and you couldn’t get up. So let’s not argue about it.” She stiffened in his arms,

“I am quite capable -”

“- So you said before.” He cut in to her heated protest with quiet firmness. “But you’ve hurt your leg, and I don’t think you understand how serious it is.” Alarm sparked within her and she tried to look down at her legs, but she couldn’t see past the muddle of her woollen gown. It hurt like the devil but she couldn’t tell and certainly couldn’t see from this angle how badly injured she was.

Realisation sparked that this man must be a stranger to her, someone who didn’t know of her affliction, for he had not said that she couldn’t see how serious it was. He had thought her simply stubborn and stupid, not stubborn and practically blind. A tiny flicker of remorse made her chew at her bottom lip. She could be rude and abrasive when she thought people were coddling her for the sake of her condition. He had after all only been trying to help. She softened slightly allowing herself to relax in the comfort of his arms.

She decided against making an explanation that would excuse her lack of awareness. She wished to preserve for as long as possible this semblance of normality. To be treated as others would be was rare indeed and she savoured it. Just as she was also savouring the secure feeling of his arms around her. He made light work of their journey, though she was certainly no waif, and he walked with a calm surety, his thick boots providing a stable purchase for them both on the slippery surface.

“Thank you.” She murmured apologetically. He glanced down at her and as he did so the features of his face finally became defined. Christ’s wounds he most definitely had green eyes. If she were a poet she would write songs about those eyes. She blinked suddenly feeling reticent under his gentle appraisal. She saw now the signs of that amusement writ upon his face, but she also saw masked concern. Concern for her? She waited for the familiar flutter of irritation but alongside it she felt a flutter of something entirely different. Embarrassment and annoyance combined to flush sudden heat across her cheeks under his steady gaze.

These images were borrowed from the incredibly pretty and inspiration-full crafting blog Mollie Makes.

A Cold Act Of Murder...

Murder!
Murder!
Murder!

That single repetitive thought reverberated around his head and merged into a dreadful cacophony with the whooping jeers of the oblates as they pelted one another with snowballs in the abbey garden. Their laughing screams of excitement whipped through the precinct and he trembled as he thought of another discordant scream.

He stood immobile in the cloister, frozen more by fear and indecision than any chill that permeated his habit. His gaze darted from the door of the warming house before sliding back to the church where the scaffold-clad east end rose up like a beacon in the bitter sunlight.

Tiny flecks of snow blew through the traceried canopy of the cloister walk and dusted his tonsure and face. He blinked as they melted and formed wintry tears upon the warmth of his skin. Yet otherwise his expression remained remote, as if instead of the blinding whiteness that covered the cloister garth he was watching some internal conflict.

So absorbed was he that he did not even register the stench that had caused such recurrent comment by the other brothers. The stream which they had diverted to run under the reredorter had frozen many days before, causing the removal of the fetid waste to halt until warmer weather brought with it a thaw. So engrossed was he that he did not even feel the snow that clung to the bottom of his habit. The iced clumps gripped grimly to the wool before slowly resigning themselves to melting into drips that fell uncomfortably into the monk’s boots. So tormented was his soul that he could not even delight in the delicate icicles that glittered luminous amongst the dark stone. Their brightly flashing surface as variously coloured as any stained glass.

Perhaps the monk felt the change in the wind as it sent a wave of snow tumbling off the gable, for he stirred himself. His mind made up he gazed bleakly at the church, unable to see the beauty in the sculptured stone or the snow swathed trees that framed it.

When he moved, he moved with sudden speed, causing little pockets of snow to spray messily across his path. With a firm hand he clasped the handle, the cold of the metal prickling at his skin, and he gave a determined push.

He barged into the warming house his presence and the cold air that swept in behind him muting the cheerful clatter of conversation. Most of the other brothers had gathered in this, the warmest room in the abbey, its large fireplace providing a hospitable welcome during the winter months. The vigour of his entrance had woken even the most senior brothers who slumbered in the corners of the well-appointed room. Standing framed in the doorway the monk knew he was now the unwelcome centre of their attention. His voice was over-loud in the hushed room and he could not disguise the quiver of anxiety in his expression.

“You must come quickly Father Abbot. There’s been a murder.”