A Handmade Year

Here we are again at the end of another year. Last year it was my resolution to write a blog (ta-dah!) and this year it was my resolution to make as many presents by hand as I could conceivably manage. I’m of the old fashioned belief that it is indeed the thought which counts. (Even if those thoughts are often frustrated ones and in fact not at all related to a loved one). From embroidered handkerchiefs to knitted wrist-warmers I’ve finally come to the end of my journey and I wanted to share a few of the highlights. Now all that’s left to do is decide what my resolution shall be for next year.

Wedding Anniversary

Father's Day

Birthday

Christmas-Scarf

Christmas

Festive Treat

A kitchen scene, (Luttrell Psalter, British Library, Additional Ms. 42130, f. 207v).

Ask me my favourite thing about Christmas and I would probably reply: marzipan. I’m one of those terrible people who goes to some trouble to dig out the Christmas Cake so that at the end I’m left with the delicious dual marzipan-icing shell.

Despite its availability to the modern shopper all year around, marzipan remains a quintessential part of a traditional Christmas. This tradition can be traced back right through history, where ‘marchpane’ was a luxury food brought out during the medieval Christmas feast to impress guests. Not only were the ingredients to make marchpane expensive, but the process was time consuming and it was often elaborately decorated – perhaps even with gold leaf. Marchpane remained an important status dish well into the sixteenth century.

And so there you have it, marchpane/marzipan, another reason why the Middle Ages are so marvellous!

A Winter’s Tale

This image seems a particularly apt summary of the past week. I feel especial sympathy for the figure on the far right.

Tres Riches Heures du duc de Berry, 1412-1416, (MS. 65, f. 2v).

Dinner Time

This highly decorated arch, from the Augustinian priory of Kirkham, marked the entrance to the refectory from the cloister. Ornamentation such as this can be used by historians to understand the hierarchy of space within the monastic precinct and the liturgical rituals marked out by architecture.

Captive...

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Clank. Clank. Clank.

He rapped his rhythmic reply against the mildew covered wall. The cold steel clasped his scarred wrists, connecting him profoundly to his environment.

It was at times like these when he felt that it was nature alone that was left to communicate with him. He had lost count of the rising and setting suns, but he guessed now that it had been several months since he saw his captor, since he had been dumped in this pit, since humanity had abandoned him.

He scratched at the lice which crawled amongst his sweat streaked clothing. His skin felt clammy and tight across his bones. He was a pathetic imitation of the man who had cut his wrists to ribbons in one of the many early frustrated attempts to escape. He could feel the straggly ends of his hair brushing his shoulders, damp from the morning rainfall. The length was some indication of how long ago those attempts had been.

He rested his head on his bent knees. His joints had ceased to complain about the natural constraints of the pit’s size, a sign that his body was meekly accepting the longevity of his situation. And where his body led his mind had begun to follow.

It pained him most of all that he was beginning to lose his faculties. The flimsy curtain between reality and imagined was being torn asunder in the darkness of the pit.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Clank. Clank. Clank.

The rhythm eased the delusions, slowed the congested gasps of his lungs, but drew him a heartbeat closer to madness each time. Faith in his release had sustained him for so long, but now all that was left was the final vestiges of rain dripping from the iron grill high above him, corroding his very soul.

The Hat Girl...

One evening this week I was out walking when I tripped, causing my shoe to fly off and my foot to land in a puddle. I cursed my stupidity loudly and then proceeded to make this story up for the remainder of my rather damp journey home.

“Oh fiddlesticks!” She cried, looking downwards at her now sodden foot. A protruding cobblestone had turned her ankle, resulting in her precarious wobble into the offending puddle. It was now that she was once more upright and on two feet that she realised aghast that this small token of clumsiness had cost her the job. The discrepancy in colour between her stockings was far too noticeable to be able to continue her journey onwards. She would have to return home and change. Such a delay would undoubtedly cause her to miss the appointment she had made with Mrs Potts of Mrs Potts’ Fabric Emporium.

Her hat slid wetly to one side as if it too was disappointed in the current turn of events. Tearfully she prodded it back into place with the rusted hat pin. The hat summed up her life really – fraying around the edges and more than a little unsatisfactory. It was a shame that she couldn’t afford something a bit nicer, for she was blessed with a pretty face rendered even prettier when framed with the right hat. The current sodden mess atop her head, which had once believed itself to be a hat, fell askew once more.

Sighing despondently she looked across the street. The warm light and pretty colours of the shop window drew her closer. It was the milliner’s shop and they’d just completed a new display of the latest confections and fashions declared to be popular in Paris. Her eyes fixed longingly upon one creation, a cloche hat in vivid purple. It was of course entirely impractical as well as far too dear for the meagre wage which she had until a moment ago the opportunity of earning. Defeated she turned from the cheerful display and began to limp home, one foot squelching wetly and beginning to go numb from cold.

“Excuse me! Excuse me Miss! Please wait.” She heard with disinterested bemusement the sound of a man calling down the street, before realising with embarrassment that he was in fact calling her. She turned. Good heavens she thought to herself, feeling more than a little flustered by his approach, and wondering whether she’d woken up in a novel. He was tall with a sweep of dark hair and a beautifully tailored suit. He held out his umbrella, sheltering her from the worst of the rain.

“I’m terribly sorry for all this.” He began. “But I noticed you walk past and as soon as I saw your face I knew that you were exactly the girl I’ve been looking for.” Startled by his impropriety she drew back, a hint of fear widening her eyes. She darted small glances around her, but all the other pedestrians on the street were too engrossed in avoiding puddles and dripping eaves. “Oh good Lord!” He exclaimed, realising his mistake and having the grace to colour slightly. “No, never, not that.” He stumbled over his words in a rush of apologetic negation. “It’s more of a job proposal you see.” She did not see at all for he was not explaining himself well. He tried again. “I’m the owner of the milliner’s shop that you just passed by. I’m looking for a girl just like yourself. I was wondering whether you would consider applying.” She stared at him flabbergasted, quite certain in her own heart that he could not want a girl like herself.

“That’s very kind I’m sure. But I really don’t think -”

“Please say you’ll at least consider my proposal.” He interrupted desperately. “Every girl I’ve interviewed in the past week look like they’ve had a dead bird clinging to their heads. Whereas you...” He paused, seemingly uncertain whether it was entirely proper to say the next words. “...whereas you look quite perfect. Even in that frightfully unbecoming hat.” He added with a twinkle of humour.

She touched her hat self-consciously, but was unable to disguise the twitching of a smile, which indicated her ability to laugh at herself. There was something quite appealing about this young gentleman and his earnest looks. He made her feel like she would be doing him a great favour by accepting the job, rather than him rendering her a service. She hesitated despite the fact she knew there was only one answer she could give. The hesitation was born out of natural trepidation that so few and so small a group of words could change her life forever. Gathering every fibre of strength in her character she said with greater gumption than she really felt,

“Alright. I accept.”

Tile Mania

This week I was incredibly lucky to have the opportunity to handle thirteenth-century mosaic tiles. Though these tiles are now merely fragments stored in cardboard boxes it is quite possible that when originally laid they would have created a spectacular design such as this one from Byland Abbey.

Digging For The Future...

“It’ll be magnificent.” The apprentice breathed reverently. The boy’s mind was filled with images of towering piers, painted frescoes and gilded mosaics. They were building a masterpiece, the likes of which had never been seen before on this small and rainy island. His imagination overflowed with the myriad colours and textures of his native homeland. How these drab foreigners would flock to admire such an exotic creation. His dreams took on the colour of gold. The wealth and recognition such an endeavour would undoubtedly bring might just be enough to impress a certain dark-eyed beauty.

“Alessandro...Alessandro!” His master called impatiently, startling the boy from his thoughts. He opened his eyes and regarded the scowling architect with dazed confusion. The tall man cradled the distinctive rolls of parchment in the crook of one arm, whilst in his free hand he held a simple spade. “Stop dawdling boy. The foundations won’t dig themselves.” The boy reached for the spade. With a sigh of disappointment his shoulders slumped forward and he scuffed his feet across the earth. The spade was a painful reminder that he was not an architect yet. His young body was instead well suited to the labour of many hours hard digging. The master turned back to him thoughtfully, a knowing smile creasing his dark face.

“And Alessandro - This building has taken many years to create and will take many more to finish. In time it will be you who will be the architect to complete this great work. Dig well now and you will provide the groundwork on which to create something truly magnificent.” The boy felt purpose filling his very being and with new enthusiasm dashed towards the other labourers, spade resting purposefully over one shoulder.

The Hunted...

There was something curiously attractive about a woman who could knock a man off his feet – and he wasn’t thinking metaphorically.

“Keep down,” came the harsh whisper from the woman who had just sent him sprawling with a carefully positioned foot. From his quick glance at her appearance he was unable to ascertain her age or beauty. He noted only the sharp jut of bones thinly concealed beneath skin and the homespun tunic which flapped expansively about her. She crouched beside his prostrate form, her head slanted to one side as if she were straining to hear something.

“Keep your head down.” She hissed forcibly for a second time as her elbow dug into the back of his neck. There was unexpected strength in her small frame and he found he could not shake her off. With a sigh he accepted the futility of his struggle. As he ceased his frustrated movements he remembered the item he had been carrying. His hand slid surreptitiously to his chest where with some relief he registered that the item still lay concealed amongst his clothing. Finally he heard the not-so-distant conversation of men.

“They’re not your friends here to collect. It’s the King’s Men. So keep still.” Her words did not immediately elicit the suspicion they should have raised, instead he surrendered to her. He no more wanted to be discovered by the soldiers than she clearly did. If she was surprised by his sudden stillness or carefully muted breathing she did not show it. Instead her hand glided to the weapon at her hip, her fingers curling around the hilt. Her muscles were tensed and she looked perfectly ready to spring into action at the slightest indication that they had been discovered.

He wondered idly how much damage she would be able to inflict before they killed her. There were five mounted men passing through the clearing, heavily armoured and at least twice her size. She would perhaps have the benefit of surprise and desperation, but ultimately it would not make a difference. If he were a gambling man, and he regularly was, then he realised that only by working together to stay hidden would they stay alive.

Several anxious minutes lapsed as they waited for the patrol to leave and it was several more minutes after that before either breathed easily again. He flexed his toes in the worn leather of his boots, mildly surprised by the extent of his own unease. Unhindered he stood, replacing the cap on his head in a jaunty angle and brushing the twigs and leaves from his clothing. Despite the unpleasant interlude he began whistling cheerfully when he realised that he still had time to complete his business before enjoying that drink in his local tavern.

He stopped whistling however when he felt the sharp prod of a blade at his back.

“Did you really think I was going to let you go?” She asked softly.

“You can have whatever money is in my purse.” He said quickly. She chuckled quietly to herself. Her free arm encircled his waist and her hand crept upwards over his chest. Startled by the intimate position he forgot for a moment the knife at his back.

“Well if that’s what you really want.” He preferred a woman he could get his hands on but he was always willing to adapt his tastes. Besides she had probably saved his life and so it was his duty really to show his appreciation. His thoughts were interrupted by a gale of loud laughter. The woman shoved him away so that he nearly overbalanced again as he stumbled forward. He looked down at his unlaced jerkin but untouched shirt. He yelled suddenly when he realised what she had done.

“Give it back!” He turned around angrily. She clenched the document in one hand whilst the knife was held in the other.

“Why? It’s not yours anymore than it’s mine.” His eyes narrowed and he took a threatening step towards her. “I really wouldn’t if I were you.” Her soft tone was somehow more menacing than his approach had been.

“My friends will be here soon. You won’t be able to fight us all.”

“Your friends are not expecting you for several more hours and on the other side of the river.” She scoffed. For the first time he began to feel nervous. This was beginning to feel more and more like a trap, and less and less like a chance encounter.

“Look -” He began, trying to sound reasonable and flashing his most charming smile.

“I would seriously consider shutting that pretty mouth of yours, unless you want to find out whether the accusation that I murdered my husband has any truth to it or not.” She seemed totally calm, and the blade remained steady in her hand. He began to wonder whether he would have been safer with the King’s Men after all.

It's A Dog's Life

 

Inlaid tile, Rievaulx Abbey.

The Monk’s Garden Revisited

At Mount Grace Priory (Yorkshire) English Heritage have recreated a cell and garden unit to reveal to the public the daily life of the medieval Carthusian monk. The Carthusians led a very different existence to that of the Benedictine or Cistercians orders, for it was primarily a solitary life. The cell and garden unit allowed the Carthusian monk to pray, work, read and eat alone. It was unsurprising therefore that the cell and garden often reflected the personal choice and taste of the resident monk.

The recreated garden is based upon the archaeological evidence gleaned from the excavations of Cell 8, which revealed some clues as to the garden plan. In the fifteenth century the garden was possibly ornamental, with a feature tree and wide paths. In the sixteenth century the garden perhaps became a vegetable garden with straight beds.

English Heritage have constructed three main areas within the recreated garden. There is a wooden pentice running along the outer wall, leading to the latrine. Against this a bed has been planted with strawberries and other fruits. The central space is paved and divided into smaller beds by hedging. Here herbs such as sage, rosemary and thyme have been planted. On the opposite side to the pentice is a bed with a single ornamental tree.

Recreations of the monastic garden are of course becoming ever more commonplace at heritage sites, but it is here at Mount Grace Priory where you really gain the best insight to the character of the monk gardener.

A Familiar Face

At last count there were at least fifty-seven Green Men around York Minster. How many can you find?

Green Man in the Chapter House.

The Raven Of Smoke And Fire...

The last vestiges of smoke wove amongst the branches creating an indistinct haze through which the riders squinted fruitlessly. The cloying scent of burning and blackened wood caused the horses to shift nervously, pawing at the frozen ground and straining their necks from side to side. The men compensated skilfully with the casual flicker of thigh muscles, their attention remaining carefully attuned to the shrouded forest. They all recognised the increased likelihood of an ambush in this remorseless environment. Their breath misted and combined with the horses’ panting, the only sound in the otherwise unnatural calm.

Each man was veiled against the cold by an assortment of furs and woollen layers. Nobody here wore simply the clothes which they had originally arrived in this land with. Nothing in their previous lives could have prepared the men for the cold bleakness of the northern landscape. They had salvaged what they could from those who no longer had need of the warmth – the dead and buried. A slight, handsome man with a tawny mane of hair pulled his own wool scarf tighter across his face. Hawk’s nose was already pink and his throat was aching from the bite of the frigid air.

“I don’t like this.” He complained in an undertone, his words as much directed to the temperature as to the silence. He glared at his swarthy companion who was one of the last northmen. His head was bared to the elements and yet there was not a trace of discomfort on his face. Raven had been born into the cold of perpetual winter, never knowing anything except the grey and white lace of the snow and ice. Whilst Hawk’s gilded features oftentimes lead to an underestimation of his ruthlessness, nobody could misjudge the threat inherent in Raven’s powerfully muscled frame.

“You Southerners’ are all the same.” Raven rasped with dry amusement. In truth though, they were all the same, even the northman. They had been stationed in the northern garrison some years before. It was a service they all had to complete before they could be rewarded with their freedom. Whilst the others dreamt of one day returning to loved ones in the prosperous south, the northman allowed his resentment of the rape of his homeland to fester. Only the comely southerner managed to deflect the northman’s bitterness. It was a bond forged by the necessity of survival, but respect had been grudgingly earned resulting in a kind of friendship. Neither knew the others true name, for when they came to the garrison they were assigned fresh identities. Great influence could be wrought from the knowledge of a man’s true name and they remained careful to address one another by their new monikers.

Raven came to attention suddenly, all humorous lightness deserting his features. His fingers tingled, and not with cold, as he reflexively gripped the pommel of his weapon. They were being watched. His eyes scanned their surroundings and he silently echoed his friend’s complaint. The cold stillness leant a permanence to the coiling smoke which would otherwise have been swept clean by the slightest breeze. The densely packed forest cast too many shadows, creating a hundred new places for an enemy to hide.

As if a blade had caught the sunlight something flashed bright in the smoke-filled depths. He kicked his horse forward, frowning darkly at the uneasy feeling that lay upon him like a shroud. It was then that he saw the figure standing opposite. It stared directly at him with the watchful, amber eyes of a wild animal. It was impossible that he had not seen its approach. The woman made no effort to conceal herself or the vibrant fire of her long, unkempt tresses.

“Raven?” His friend questioned from across the clearing. The northman realised that in his preoccupation he had been drawn away from the rest of the group. He drew breath in readiness to reply and bring their attention to the solitary figure. Except she had disappeared, as if she had been no more than a wraith or a shape conjured by his imagination from the smoke. Yet he felt certain that she had been real. As he turned back to the other men he could not help but rub his talisman, unsettled by the apparition. She had made no move towards them and could have been carved from stone if it were not for the movement of her lips. They had been repeatedly forming the same set of words again and again. Even from that distance he had known instinctively what she had been chanting.

She had been calling his true name.

One Moment...

A pause, a hesitation, before the crack as shoe met stone. The sound multiplied in the echoing stillness until it became a thousand tiny crack-crack-cracks. A pearl of rain-water rolled downwards, flattening the tendril of cut-grass against the scuffed shoe and darkening the stone under-foot. As if summoned the birds began to jostle one another from their perch high above. They scattered like blotches of ink from a broken nib across the cerulean canvas framed by a lichen covered arch. One, and then two passes of swooping and cawing, until finally all was settled and calm once more.

A House Of Scandal...

I cannot take full credit for this story as the idea was originally thought up by my father. A little over three years later and I have taken it upon myself to expand upon his suggestion.

Oxfordshire, 1929.

“That’s Augustus House, sir.” The chauffeur intoned politely with a nod towards the sprawling residence that had finally come into view. Fleets Lane shifted slightly in his seat in order to gain a better look and then let out a small breath of surprise. The house was imposing in its ugliness. Its stone was weathered to a grim grey and the effect was left unsoftened by a lack of surrounding foliage. Lane was reminded of Shelley’s Frankenstein for as the motor-car drew closer it became clear that the house had been cobbled together from different parts over the centuries. A medieval great hall was sandwiched between neoclassical columns, whilst this was all flanked by great curvilinear wings that were currently the height of fashion.

“It’s not hard to believe that the family will soon be suffering financial woes looking at that heap of bricks.” Lane’s companion remarked quietly. Tyler Hill was a bit of a mathematics genius and Lane had little doubt that his mind had already calculated the cost of each of those bricks and subtracted it from the annual income of the estate. It was perhaps as a result of this analytical approach that Lane could detect none of his own admiration on the young man’s face. Hill saw only the decaying edifice that would slowly bleed away profit margins, whilst Lane was old enough to appreciate the family heritage preserved within each cracked stone.

“How bad have they been affected?” Lane kept his voice low so that their probing of the family’s private affairs was kept from the liveried chauffeur. Lord Bowles, the owner of Augustus House, was an American and only a month before the American stock market at Wall Street had crashed. Hill had calculated that in a worst case scenario the effects would be felt by economies all over the world for at least a decade. For Augustus House and its inhabitants, however, the effect would likely be far worse.

“It’s serious. They’ll probably need to sell the house and estate to recoup their losses.” Lane shook his head, his dark eyes solemn.

“Yet another old family who will be forced to sell their ancestral home. The world is changing.” He murmured more to himself than Hill. He could remember a time before the war, before the world had been turned upside down. Lane had grown up on an estate like Augustus House. On his return from the Front he had gone back, but the farm where his family had lived and worked was gone, along with the family and servants up at the big house. The war had of course changed everything, including the direction of his own life. The injury he had sustained for King and Country ultimately forced him to retire from the police force and to set up his own practice as a private investigator.

“It’s only tenuously an ancestral home now though, sir.” Hill’s logic drew Lane’s attention back to the present. “The current Lord Bowles was a very distant cousin of the late Lord Bowles, and it was the marriage between the cousin and the daughter which meant that the title and the estate could remain intact.” Hill was too young to remember the war and the unreserved respect that had previously been thought owing to the aristocratic class. Despite any youthful inexperience, Hill’s precise reasoning and talent for detecting patterns and connections made him an invaluable assistant to Lane’s investigations.

“The Bowles’ are a relation of Lady Granchester, I believe. We recovered her diamonds last year, which is presumably why Lord Bowles contacted us particularly.” Lane mused as he thought of the terse telegram that had requested their immediate presence in Oxfordshire. Yet there had been no mention of the matter which actually required their professional services. There was, however, little time for any further speculation by the pair for the chauffeur was pulling around the large turning circle.

Lane and Hill had arrived.

Of Monks And Men II

Quite a few weeks ago I posted simply this picture of one of my very favourite medieval images - a rather mischievous monk.

British Library, MS Sloane 2435, f 44v.

The manuscript dates to around c. 1285 and was made in northern France. It contains the text ‘Le Regime du corps’ by the Italian Aldobrandino of Siena. The content of this text is reflected in the other large historiated initials, which include depictions of bloodletting and physicians.

British Library, MS Sloane 2435, f 11v.

In my spare time I have been creating an embroidered version of my favourite image, which when completed will sit proudly on my mantelpiece. I have now almost reached the halfway point and thought I would share a photo of my efforts so far.

My very own monk.

A Perfect Stranger...

He was there again, sitting on the park bench which looked out onto the neat row of Victorian terraced houses. A handkerchief covered the soiled wooden slats and he unpacked his luncheon onto the make-shift tablecloth. His hands tidied the flask and sandwiches into precise patterns. It was an old routine, one his fingers knew by rote, leaving his mind empty and able to drift freely.

All this the woman observed from across the street. Of course she had no idea who this man was and it was hardly her place to comment on the state of his mind, empty or otherwise. Their acquaintance was merely a result of his strange choice to eat his luncheon opposite her house. When exactly he had begun to sit there she couldn’t really say with accuracy. Perhaps no more or no less than a year. Yet it was as if he had always sat there and would always continue to sit there. So much was this the case that she had begun to think, and even speak, about it as his park bench.

There could be, you would suppose, nothing more natural in the world than his sitting on a park bench. Except that it was that park bench. It couldn’t even be truly considered a park bench when there was no park, indeed not even a garden in a mile radius, unless you thought to include the tidy window boxes nestled under Mrs Ashcombe’s bay window. The very existence of the park bench was then a peculiarity, and his sitting upon it was so decidedly irregular that she could not help but steal glances throughout the course of her day to see if he really was there at all.

But there he really was. Always, without fail, arriving at 11.27 before proceeding to lay out his luncheon upon the same carefully pressed handkerchief. When it rained an umbrella joined him or a peaked hat might make an appearance on days when the sun was high and bright. Today a scarf enveloped the top portion of his body and most of the bottom portion of his face. The stick, however, remained a constant companion, resting faithfully against its master’s knee. It wasn’t that he was a particularly old man. In fact his hair looked to her remarkably thick and dark, his face notably unlined and unblemished. Yet his spindly frame was seemingly permanently hunched over itself in an ungainly stoop.

Her gaze wandered to the handsome clock on the mantelpiece before straying back to the man, whose hands rested patiently on his knees. An outlandish urge suddenly over took the woman. A desire to change what had become their bizarre routine. Tentatively, strangely frightened she might upset some cosmic balance, she eased open a window. Her breath expelled a relieved sigh when the universe remained as it was. She finished sliding the window onto its latch with a certain amount of liberated pleasure. Now the action was complete she glanced back towards the clock. Gathering her skirts about her she sat on the stool which had been prepared and flexed her fingers in the rapidly cooling air. It was 11.45 at last. And they could begin.

The notes were coaxed and beckoned by her manicured fingers which sought out the familiar keys. She drew the music from the instrument and allowed it to course through the well-appointed room and out into the open air. She didn’t need to check the window to know that the man would have begun to eat his luncheon by now. Today, for the first time since their peculiar acquaintance had begun, he wouldn’t need to strain and grasp for each lilting note. The music would be as crisp and clear as the autumn air and there was no breeze stirring in the russet trees to carry it away from its audience.

Of course she could not be certain whether he was in fact actually listening. For in truth she had no idea why a perfect stranger would sit there upon that park bench.

When Shall We Three Meet Again; In Thunder, Lightning Or In Rain?

Houseleeks (sempervivum tectorum) are my new favourite plant. Though perhaps not much to look at they are hardy plants which grow well in dry soil and rough conditions. Perfect for rock gardens or even growing on roofs.

In the medieval period houseleeks were believed to protect a building from lightning. They were grown on the roof for this purpose. There is actual historical evidence for this practice. The Capitulare de Villis, a document issued in the eighth century, decreed how the estates within the Carolingian Empire should be run. Within this it stated that “the gardener should grow houseleeks on his house.”

Au Revoir

When you visit a place, for however brief a moment, you take stock of your surroundings. Whether it be admiring the architecture, soaking in the atmosphere, or enjoying the scenery. But when you live in a place these things become merely the backdrop to mundane day-to-day goings on.

For the last four years I’ve been lucky enough to have Canterbury as the setting to my insignificant life dramas. As I pack up my belongings ready to leave I wonder what has changed. When did I stop gazing at the Cathedral in awe every time I walked by, when did my feet begin to navigate between the irritating blockade of tourists. I realise that though the buildings might have stayed the same, my affection and appreciation remaining constant, ultimately it is I who has been changed by my time here.

View of the Cathedral

Westgate

Castle

Canterbury Cathedral

St Augustine's Abbey

Fragments And Broken Dreams...

This past week I have been sorting through the scraps of paper that seem to perpetually appear out of nowhere and congregate on my desk. Buried amongst the long forgotten library lists and discarded train tickets are tiny pieces of past ideas. Even though they didn’t come up to scratch first time around it still seemed a nice idea to gather them together, for posterity’s sake if nothing else.

She held her father’s surcoat close, her fingers playing absentmindedly with the burnt and frayed ends of the fine material.  His image was faded around the edges now, his features a little more blurred, his figure slightly further away in the distance. Broken memories left her with only an old, empty surcoat to hold.

*

So he calls me cold. Well he certainly wasn’t saying that back then when my hand ran up his thigh and he murmured incoherently into my neck. Looking back I suppose there was always a bitterness to our relationship. But then things always have that funny way of seeming so different now, don’t they? It’s not like we didn’t know what to expect. Even I couldn’t have imagined though how he would have turned against me at the end.

*

“Excuse me, I’m looking for Freddie.” The question was addressed to somewhere between her knee and ankle. With a barely concealed sigh of annoyance she looked down from her lofty height upon the ladder. An impatient movement caused a branch to sway dramatically and shed water-heavy blossom onto the ground, and onto the elegant suit of the waiting man. The casual flick of a hand sent the petals careening to the grass to finish their journey. She bridled inwardly at the carless gesture and turned resolutely back to the tree with the loppers.

“Well you found her.” She muttered to the thick trunk.

“I beg your pardon?” He asked, wondering if the woman had misunderstood his question. If he had not still been feeling the effects of jetlag he would perhaps have made a better attempt at politeness. Instead he merely reiterated tiredly.

“I’m looking for Freddie. He’s the head gardener apparently.” The woman turned gesturing towards herself with the loppers.

“As I said. I’m Freddie. And yes I’m the head gardener. What do you want?” She demanded with a frown.

*

The summer storm which brewed that humid night was of little consequence to the man who lay still, his eyes fixed sightlessly on the lightening filled sky.

*

The tear rolled down her cheek, but she didn’t move to catch it. She let it dry on her skin in the warmth of the night air, her body stiff and tense as she watched her slumbering husband. His features were lax in sleep, his mouth slightly open as he blew gurgling bubbles, hardly the image of a rich and dangerous mercenary feared for miles around. Lying sprawled on his front with not even a stitch to cover his modesty she realised that he would never be as vulnerable as he was now. Her hand itched for the thin blade concealed amongst her carefully folded gowns. Imagining him gutted, his blood running between her fingers, caused her tears to cease. Of course she knew she couldn’t do it. She had sacrificed too much already to give up now, but the thrill of the power she momentarily held over him was a sharp bite of pleasure.

*

The tear started small. A quiet huff of breath, a shudder and a splash. But its ripples expanded until the entire bowl of water trembled with her emotion, the waves threatening to submerge her under the swell of sensation.

*

It matched! Flushed with success she slumped back into the unyielding leather chair and attempted to control the spark of excitement which caused her hand to shake. Her loud exclamatory breath had caused several stern pairs of eyes to turn her way. She sent nervous fingers brushing through her fringe before locking her gaze once more on the manuscript before her. It was true. And she had found it. Not even a hundred glaring librarians could contain the little rock of joy that creaked the chair beneath her.

*

“Girls can’t be knights stupid.” This was announced with all the disdain an eleven year old boy, weeks away from becoming a squire, could muster.

*

Sir Godfrey Pulford was dead. Isabel Woodville regarded the body slumped over her table with dismay. Death had not come easily to Sir Godfrey. The abject fear felt at the moment of death was captured in his unblinking pale blue stare. His coarse hands were stretched out across the table, and his fingernails had scored panicked marks in the wooden surface. Isabel stumbled across the threshold of the room towards the body. Sir Godfrey had been in his fifties, and the battle hardened body of his youth had run to fat. His once handsome features had bloated with the effect of regular over indulgence in good wine. It was this weakness that had eventually killed him.

Isabel’s sharp green eyes had taken in the goblet that had been knocked to the floor and spilt its contents over the rushes. She knelt carefully, picked up the goblet and sniffed. She then knew with certainty that it was not a brew that she had served at her table the previous evening. She rose and hesitatingly moved towards the body. Isabel swallowed her disgust and examined Sir Godfrey’s mouth. It, like his eyes, was wide open and she could clearly see tiny red blisters around his lips and inside his mouth. There could be no doubt that Sir Godfrey had been poisoned.

Chapter And Verse

The Chapter House is inexplicably my favourite room within the medieval abbey. Its name derived from its use – the room in which a chapter from the Rule of St Benedict was read each day to the whole monastic community. It was also the room in which daily business was completed, whether it be disciplinary or involving the monastic estates.

The Chapter House is always an intriguing mixture of functionality and superfluous decoration. It was a room that played an important role in the day-to-day running of an abbey, and so was required to have a practical arrangement of seating around the perimeter. Yet it was also, after the church, the most important symbol of the monastic life and thus was often expensively and lavishly decorated with architectural features.

York Minster Chapter House exterior

The octagonal-shaped Chapter House at York Minster was completed by 1286. It is lit by huge stained glass windows and the tiled floor is a mid nineteenth-century installation. There is unusually no central column for the vaulted ceiling; instead the weight is suspended from the exterior dome.

York Minster Chapter House interior

There are forty-four seats surrounding the room where elected canons sat. It was also used by Edward I and Edward II as their parliament during the campaigns against Scotland in the late thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries.

Tiled Pavement

For me, however, it is the extensive carvings amongst the canopies of these seats which give this room its character. From wild pigs seated on the heads of kings, to green men, and eagles gouging out the eyes of a gossiping woman, there is something wonderful to be found in every corner of this very special Chapter House.

Wild Pig

Eye-gouging

Face-puller

Fifty Shades Of Darkness IV...

She did not back down or look as frightened as Harker felt she ought. But then, he had to remind himself, she was not like the average females of his acquaintance.

“What is it that makes me think that you speak from experience?” The intensity of her stare made him feel like he was being pried apart by one of his sharply honed instruments. “You crossed that line once, didn’t you? And you’re regretting it now. That’s why you’re here. That’s why you do all this.” She flapped her free hand vaguely to encompass the street behind them.

Harker met the shocked and probing gaze of the sheriff over Kathryn’s shoulder. Sharply he let go of her wrist. It was the wrong thing to do. Triumph flashed across her face, curving her lips dangerously. Uneasily he could not suppress the feeling that she now possessed information about him that she would exploit to her own advantage in the future.

“We will not be able to investigate Emma’s murder if you interfere.” Rowntree said, saving his friend from further uncomfortable revelations. There was a gradual softening of her features as her eyes flicked to where two soldiers were covering the sad remains of the girl she had cherished as a younger sister.

“Very well. I will not try to involve myself in your investigation.” Her easy capitulation caused Harker to question suspiciously the careful phrasing of her reply. Rowntree was also frowning, but suddenly he was hailed by one of his sergeants who was hurriedly crossing the street towards them.

“Sheriff Rowntree, sir. It’s Master Goldsmith, he -” The sheriff broke him off with the wave of his hand. Harker realised that his friend’s natural mistrust of Kathryn had simply been heightened by her personal interest in the case.

The sheriff stepped out of earshot, though Kathryn’s gaze continued to track his movements as the solider relayed the message. She seemed entirely absorbed in the scene and so her seemingly idle words startled Harker.

“I would watch my back if I were you.”

“Are you threatening me?” As he stepped forward aggressively she leant back, their movements a well timed dance.

“Tut tut.” She mocked, a few wisps of hair escaping as she tossed her head. “It is not me that you need to be concerned with, but the man who is making enquiries about you. I’m merely suggesting that you take a few extra precautions.”

“Who is he? What does he want?” Harker demanded roughly, fighting the urge to physically wring the information out of Kathryn.

“He has only the one agenda.” She answered cryptically. “When you are in need of help, come to me.”

“And why should I trust you?”

“You shouldn’t.” She acknowledged. “But my house is a place of refuge for those who are seeking to escape their past.”

Despite his advantage in height and strength she made him feel strangely impotent. He found his rigidly disciplined self-control tested by her presence. Her enigmatic words and smiles challenged him, whilst he felt constantly wrong-footed by her detailed knowledge of him.

“I don’t like games Mistress Lacy.”

It was only as the sheriff nodded a last instruction to the sergeant that Kathryn finally turned her full attention to the surgeon.

“That is only because you’ve never played mine before.” There was something almost licentious in the way she had twisted his words. Those peculiar pale eyes and changeling face made her decidedly unattractive and yet curiously compelling. Disturbed by his response to her, he made only a non-committal reply, uncertain once more of her exact meaning.

He was struggling to retain his typical cool demeanour when, without even a word of farewell, she simply strolled away. There was a coquettish sway to her hips that he found himself unintentionally watching for half a moment. Eventually he caught himself and turned to face the exasperated disapproval of his friend.

“Did she tell you anything useful?”

“No.” He said shortly, unwilling to divulge just how thoroughly the exchange had shaken him and how close he was to losing everything he had worked for.

Fifty Shades Of Darkness III...

“Her name is Emma Hale.” She continued collectedly. “She fell out of a tree as a child. She has a scar on her left elbow.” Harker realised that the stranger had seen the brutality inflicted on the girl and provided him with another means of identification. He was impressed by her level-headedness and yet he could still feel her body trembling. Self-consciously he removed his hands from her shoulders and then turned, crouching at the side of the deceased girl.

Carefully he examined the limb in question, with first thumb and then eye. He was surprised by the flicker of feeling when he found the scar confirming the girl’s identity. He bowed his head before speaking, his words stark in the morning brightness.

“It is her, your sister.”

“I’m deeply sorry for your loss Mistress Hale.” The sheriff interjected with an appropriate murmur of sympathy.

“Lacy. Kathryn Lacy.” Her reply was thoughtless, too occupied by blinking back the tears which threatened to spill down her cheeks than to pay heed to the words which had already spilt from her lips. The sheriff’s reaction was instantaneous, choler staining his cheeks red beneath the fine growth of a beard.

“You’re Mistress Lacy?” Now she realised what had been said there was pride in her bearing as she enunciated carefully,

“Yes.” The name meant little to Harker, who looked on in confusion at the two sudden adversaries.

“It’s very brazen of you. Turning up like this. Or do you intend to confess?”

“I wouldn’t wish to make it that easy for you sheriff. I confess only that I did not stop to think that you might be here. I heard rumours about the discovery of a body and, fearing the worst, I came immediately.”

“And Emma Hale was one of the girls you helped.” Undisguised disapproval coloured the emphasis upon his final word. Kathryn shifted slightly so that she now addressed the bemused surgeon.

“I take orphans and strays into my home. Anyone and everyone is welcome, no matter their past. I try to help them start again. To make a living.”

“You train children to become thieves and whores.” Anger flared briefly at the sheriff’s remark.

“No. You and the rest of society teach them that well enough. You make the choice for them early on. I simply show them how to survive the system and help them to make the arrangement a beneficial one.” Grief passed like a shadow, replacing the anger, as she continued. “Emma has...had...been with me for a few years. She’s been missing over a week. I’ve been out searching for her, but I suppose I knew there was only one reason why she wouldn’t come back.”

Harker had been watching her closely throughout the exchange. She was younger than he had first supposed and there was a surprising delicacy to her features that belied the coarseness of her livelihood. Her face was mobile and expressive, a face of which any stage-player would be proud. The lines could be redrawn, features redesigned, as she assumed each new character. There was a moment of stillness between these changes in which Harker felt certain he could read weariness in her pale eyes.

“And you expected what exactly? For me to let you leave after you provided this information?” Again her expression shifted, this time to amused arrogance.

“Until just now you didn’t even know what I looked like. My ‘crimes’ are merely rumour and suspicion. And if you thought that was evidence, your friend here,” she flicked a finger towards Harker, “would be locked up himself.” The sheriff looked as if he was grinding his teeth painfully, and the surgeon was astonished that the woman knew so much about him when he had never heard her name spoken before today.

“We should be leaving Harker.” The sheriff said abruptly, stiffly formal in Kathryn’s presence. “We have to record your examination and decide on a course of action.” He was already leaving, ducking between the lopsided houses. As the surgeon moved to follow, Kathryn reached out, slapping a hand against his chest. It left a cold, hard impression against his heart.

“Please.” She beseeched him, her features rearranging into feminine helplessness. Annoyance made him push against the constriction but she tried again. “Please.” Her tone was harder, more sincere. “All I ask is that you do not let your knowledge of me affect the way in which you investigate Emma’s death. She was the kindest soul and hardly fit for the role she played. She deserved better in life and I don’t want to think that she deserved better in death also.” The sheriff overheard and turned back, his face a mask of frozen politeness.

“You can rest assured Mistress Lacy that we will do everything possible to capture this criminal.” She didn’t flinch from the insult. Instead she drew herself up and Harker could almost admire the determined tilt of her chin.

“And you can rest assured gentleman that I will do everything possible to see that this man pays for what he has done.” Harker felt a shiver of danger at the words which fuelled so many of his own memories. He seized Kathryn by the wrist, forcing her to look up at him in a submissive pose. Pain whipped through his voice, causing it to become a sharply barbed threat.

“There is a line. A line between revenge and justice. You would do well to mark it Mistress Lacy and see that you do not cross it. Or one day you will have cause for regret.”

Fifty Shades Of Darkness II...

The sheriff nervously rubbed at his jaw as he considered Harker’s words.

“We cannot make public what we suspect. It would cause mass panic. After all it is only unfounded suspicion. We could be wrong. Sibyl may well turn up, a little ruffled but unharmed, after an ill-considered rendezvous with her young man.” Yet even as he said the words there was a doubtful edge to his voice, and he sounded more desperate to convince himself than hopeful of such an outcome. “We don’t know she is dead. And we certainly don’t know that it was the same person who murdered this poor young woman.”

Harker had been working in silence, drying each of his instruments with a scrap of cloth before returning them carefully to the cavernous bag, but now he turned to his friend with frustration writ across his face.

“The man who did this will do it again. And he has already done it before. This wasn’t a single rash moment of rage to be regretted in the next instant. Here look,” he said, crouching and gesturing towards the body that no one had thought to cover. “There’s no blood on the ground beneath her, which means that she was attacked elsewhere and brought here after death. Why? What’s so important about this location? He could have chosen somewhere more public. But equally why not throw her in the river and be rid of the body? He arranged her carefully, staging her almost. Look at her skirts and the way they are folded. He did that. Why is it so important for us to see her this way?”

He blinked, breaking the intensity of his focus upon the deceased girl. As he glanced up he noticed that his friend was observing him carefully. Rocking back on his heels he attempted to regain his usual detachment. “We need to discover the pattern of his actions. That is the only way that we will be able to find him. There is a reason, an explanation, for why he has done this.”

“You’ve seen this before.” The quiet statement held too much certainty to be a question. Harker stood, brushing the palms of his hands roughly against his thighs.

“Yes.” The word was clipped and invited no further comment. His eyes had darkened, fixed on some unseen point, and tension hardened the lines of his face. Even now the past threatened to seep out from the place where it had been buried and smother him.

“I have never sought to uncover your secrets. I believe in judging a man by his actions and you have been a solid ally and friend this last year. But I need to know anything that might be relevant to this case. Anything that might stop this happening to another young woman.” Harker remained motionless as, caught in a web of deceit, he realised he was unable to divulge that information without unravelling the lie that was his life as Surgeon Matthew Harker.

“Simon I can’t –” The uncharacteristic hoarse plea was drowned out by the clash of raised voices coming from the soldiers stationed at the entrance to the street. There was the sound of a scuffle and then the pounding of feet on beaten earth. A figure burst out from the passage between the lopsided buildings. Rowntree shifted forward, as if to shield the body, but the stranger darted neatly around him. The figure stopped suddenly and the street seemed oddly still and silent in the pause.

Annoyance and suspicion caused Harker to stride forward. He grabbed the surprisingly slight figure by the shoulders and yanked the hood away. The woman flinched back from his hard inspection as he glared down at her. Her plain features would have been unremarkable if it had not been for their expression of intense grief. When she spoke, however, her voice was soft but perfectly controlled.

“It seems you have found my sister.”

Fifty Shades Of Darkness...

I have urgent need of your skills. Come quickly.

The sheriff’s typical scrawl seemed more hurried than usual due to the brevity of the note; and the impression of the seal was faint and blurred as if pressed only fleetingly to the wax surface. Surgeon Matthew Harker clasped a coin tightly between his dexterous long fingers until the messenger had provided him with the correct direction. Quickly dispensing with any plans that he had formulated for the day ahead Harker grabbed the bag which hung ever ready by the door, filled with the tools and instruments of his trade. His solitary existence, with the refusal to even employ a servant, meant that he was always prepared and able to respond with haste to the demands of patients at all hours. There was, however, only one reason why the sheriff would have sent such a message. There had been a murder.

Harker was closing the door behind him within moments of the note’s arrival. This was, after all, not the first time that Simon Rowntree had called upon his services. There had been cases in the past when the sheriff had consulted the surgeon’s intimate knowledge of anatomy, which had been gleaned from the controversial and virtually heretical universities of southern Europe. Generally feared and despised for this dark knowledge, Harker’s expertises were at least valued by Rowntree, particularly when they were used to help apprehend murderers and villains. It was only Rowntree though who wondered at the surgeon’s own private reasons for offering this assistance. Most others assumed he took some unholy pleasure in pawing over the bodies of the recently deceased.

Even now as he strode through the winding streets people drew back from him, retreating to the safe proximity of their homes. The length of his cloak flapped and snarled sharply behind him, his imposing figure swathed entirely in black. He might have been tall and dark, but his features were arranged in too unpleasant an expression to ever be considered handsome. Harker was aware that others considered his soul to be as black as his scowling brow and fierce temper. Whilst there was a grudging recognition of his medical proficiency, it was commonly acknowledged that this was owing to a deal which he had struck with the devil’s winged minions. Through recent accusations of heresy and necromancy, it had been only his friendship with the sheriff that saved the surgeon from a close experience with the gallows.

It was merely a short walk to where the sheriff awaited him. The sun was bright in the clear morning sky, seemingly incongruous with Harker’s mission and what he imagined awaited him. Nodding curtly to the soldiers who guarded the passageway that gave entrance to the street, they eyed him uneasily as he brushed past. Immediately the surgeon noted that the body had not been hidden, aside from the natural seclusion offered by a back street which few persons dared to enter after dark. This brazen display offered to a curious onlooker was perhaps the most revealing detail of the killer’s character. The sheriff stood some distance away from the body. His fair hair pushed back from his forehead by a shaking hand, and his usually placid features were ragged and pale.

As Harker neared the body he understood what had upset his normally composed friend. Crouching beside the deceased his intense gaze and steady fingers catalogued and considered what he saw before him. She had been young, for he observed that her bones and limbs had not grown to their full potential. Perhaps once she might even have been beautiful, but the rigour of death had stolen the lively flash of a smile and the delicate hue from her cheeks. Death had, however, been even crueller to her than most. Her neck and face were grossly disfigured rendering her unidentifiable. Her skirts had been equally ripped and tattered, flung high above her waist, and revealing to the surgeon how she had been cruelly misused.

Collecting up his instruments Harker crossed to where the sheriff had provided the requested pail of water. As he submerged the tarnished metal objects Rowntree stepped towards him, a hand pressed to his mouth as if to stop himself choking on his disgust. His own daughter was barely a year old.

“What kind of monster could do this?” He demanded weakly in a strangled voice. The surgeon froze, his gaze darkening as he replied.

“It is what you still fail to grasp. Men are the monsters. Each one of us has this capacity for violence within us.” As a man who had long ago discovered his own capacity for violence, Harker was much more intimately acquainted with the mind of their murderer than his friend. “Who found her?” He asked brusquely, dunking his tools abruptly back into the water.

“One of my soldiers. I had commissioned several of the men to look out for a missing girl. Unfortunately it seems that they found her.” Rowntree was unable to look towards the body sprawled so deliberately across the ground.

“You believe this is the girl you were searching for?”

“I hoped you’d be able to tell me. Her face is so...” He swallowed convulsively, unable to articulate the brutality which had been inflicted. “Sibyl, the goldsmith’s daughter, went missing last night. She was last seen with a young man heading towards the river in the early evening. At least we know we have a suspect.” Harker frowned as he considered the evidence he had gathered from his examination.

“That is not the girl you are seeking.”

“But it has to be.” The sheriff argued in dismay. “She fits perfectly with the description of the missing girl. She is the same height and age.”

“She has been deceased for longer than your girl has been missing. This is someone else. Have there been any other reports of missing girls in the past week?”

“Can it be a coincidence that two girls, identical in looks, went missing around the same time?” The surgeon sounded trouble when finally he responded.

“I fear you will not like my answer.”