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.