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.