Sunday, June 17, 2018

Editors Weekly Round-up, June 17, 2018

by the EHFA Editors

English Historical Fiction Authors brings you posts every week on different aspects of British history, society, and culture. Enjoy the articles for the week ending June 17.

by Maria Grace

by Kate Braithwaite

by Annie Whitehead

Friday, June 15, 2018

Gloucester Cathedral & the Æthelflæd Connection

By Annie Whitehead

Approach Gloucester Cathedral and the first thing you'll see, long before the building itself, is the beautiful tower.

This place was not originally a cathedral, however, but was a Benedictine monastery, dedicated to St Peter. In 1072, William I appointed as its abbot a Norman named Serlo, and the Domesday survey of 1086 shows that Serlo did a remarkable job of increasing the abbey's fortunes, doubling the value of its pre-Conquest assets. Flushed with success, Serlo built a new abbey in the Romanesque style, and sustained growth in income enabled the building programme to continue over the centuries.

In the thirteenth century a large central tower, the Lady Chapel, and the refectory were added, and in the fourteenth century, funds arising from devotion to King Edward II allowed for further remodelling, while in the fifteenth, the Norman west end was knocked down and rebuilt. The sixteenth century heralded a change in fortunes for the abbey, in the form of Henry VIII and the dissolution of the monasteries.

The Lady Chapel
Gloucester abbey was dissolved in 1540 and the building was re-designated as a cathedral in September 1541.

The eleventh-century Norman crypt can be visited (by arranged tour only) as can the tower. But a visit to the main cathedral brings rewards aplenty and shows the building's royal connections.

A foundation charter, which may or may not be authentic, shows King Osric of the Hwicce (by this time a sub-kingdom of Mercia) as the founder of the abbey:
Æthelred, king of Mercia, [Penda's son] to Osric and Oswald, his noble ministri; grant of 300 hides (tributarii) at Gloucester, Gloucs., to Osric, and 300 hides (cassati) at Pershore, Worcs., to Oswald; Osric's part being used by him for the foundation of a minster at Gloucester. [1]
There is a rather impressive effigy of Osric in the cathedral:

The royal connections don't stop there, however. In the south ambulatory is a wooden effigy of Robert Curthose, [2] Duke of Normandy and the eldest son of William I. Eldest son of a king he may have been, but he was never King Robert, because he was imprisoned by his brother, Henry I, in 1106, having been captured after the battle of Tinchebray. He died at the age of eighty, in captivity at Cardiff Castle, but was buried in Gloucester. I have to say, though, that he looks rather relaxed here! (The crossed-legged effigy may denote the fact that he had been on Crusade.)

You'll recall that I mentioned money amassed from devotion to Edward II. I'm aware of the theory that Edward was not murdered, or even that he died at all at Berkeley Castle, but fled abroad. However, the official version of events is that he died at Berkeley, perhaps suffocated, in 1327 and that his body was brought to Gloucester where it lay in the nave to allow visitors to see it.

After a state funeral, attended by his widow and his son, the king's body was buried on the north side of the presbytery and in 1329 that son, Edward III, commissioned a tomb for his father, built by London stone masons working with alabaster and Purbeck marble.

There are recent connections to the monarchy, too. On display in the cathedral is the processional cross used in the coronation of Queen Elizabeth II in 1953:

As you might expect, the architecture of this building is almost an artwork in itself. The cathedral cloister famously has fan vaulting above all of its four walks. It dates from the fourteenth century and replaced the original Norman cloister.

The stained glass windows are a sight to behold. One of them is the second largest, in terms of area of glass, in any church in Britain. It dates from the fourteenth century and the quire had to be widened to accommodate it.

But this is no historical monument, to be merely preserved and revered. It is a 'working church' and during the entire length of my visit, the organist was rehearsing for Evensong. At around 4pm, the local school disgorged its pupils, many of whom headed straight over to the cathedral for choir practice. One of the guides I spoke to told me that Gloucester is able to boast not just a boys' choir, but a girls' choir too.

At the time of my visit, the whole of this area was gearing up for the celebrations to mark the 1100th anniversary of the death of Æthelflæd, Lady of the Mercians, on June 12th. While I was in the vicinity, I wanted to take the opportunity to visit the spot where she and her husband were buried.

At first, it might be easy to assume that she was buried in the cathedral. We know that she was buried in the church of St Peter, and that the cathedral was dedicated to St Peter. In fact, in order to visit and pay my respects, I had to take a short walk from the cathedral close to what remains of St Oswald's Priory.

This priory was originally dedicated to St Peter, but had its name changed to St Oswald's after Æthelflæd arranged to have the bones of St Oswald (King Oswald of Northumbria, slain in battle by the Mercian pagan king, Penda) translated* from Bardney Abbey in Lincolnshire. A short walk from the cathedral close, the remains of St Oswald's Priory is now a simple stretch of wall, jutting up incongruously on an island surrounded by roads full of traffic. Having reached this spot, it was an emotional moment for me, having written so much about her in fiction and non-fiction. I've often repeated my daughter's comment about me, that I regularly stand around in fields, getting emotional. This much is true. But here was something different again, as I stood as close as I'll ever get to the woman who has taken up so much of my writing life.

Æthelflæd is something of an anomaly; one of the very few women to lead an Anglo-Saxon kingdom, she was the daughter of Alfred the Great, and yet she was never a queen. The only time she is given this title is in the Irish and Welsh annals. Some of the English annals hardly mention her at all. And yet she was instrumental in the fight against the Danish 'Viking' invaders, building fortified towns in strategic areas which enabled the English to arrest the incursions and ultimately to force the invaders into submission. Shortly before her death, she was approached by the men of York who sought her protection and assistance against the Norse raiders too. A formidable woman indeed.

Back in the cathedral close, a short hop through an archway brings the visitor face to face with a completely different kind of history, for here is the shop where the author and artist Beatrix Potter imagined that her little mouse, the Tailor of Gloucester, had his premises.

From the magnificence of the stained glass windows, to the simplicity of the remains of St Oswald's priory, to the delight of finding the shop where the little mouse sewed, this was a joyous visit, made all the more special by being able to connect to closely with the woman whose place in history was celebrated in this, the 1100th year since her death, on June 12.

[1] Charter S 70 from the Gloucester archive, 671 for 679
[2] Curthose = from the Norman French courtheuse, meaning 'short stockings'.

All photographs by and copyright of the author.

* Translated - the movement of saints' relics


Annie Whitehead is an author and historian, and a member of the Royal Historical Society. Her first two novels are set in tenth-century Mercia, chronicling the lives of Æthelflæd, Lady of the Mercians, who ruled a country in all but name, and Earl Alvar who served King Edgar and his son Æthelred the Unready who were both embroiled in murderous scandals. Her third novel, also set in Mercia, tells the story of seventh-century King Penda and his feud with the Northumbrian kings. Mercia: The Rise and Fall of a Kingdom will be published by Amberley in September 2018.

Find out more at

Wednesday, June 13, 2018

Hot-beds of fake news and misogyny? The rise of the Coffee Shop in 17th century London

By Kate Braithwaite

Coffee was not new to England when Pasqua Rosee opened the first London coffee shop in 1652. Coffee houses had gradually spread from the Muslim world in medieval times, finding their first European home in Venice in 1645 and from there to Oxford. But Rosee’s business in St Michael’s Alley in Cornhill, at the heart of the City of London, although probably little more than a stall initially, advertised by a sign portraying a Turk’s head, marked the beginning of an explosion of popular coffee shops across the capital.

Initially coffee shops were hailed as a positive new force in London life. Rosee claimed his brew would cure hangovers, dropsy, gout and even scurvy. Coffee shops predominantly did not sell alcohol and had at least those grounds on which to claim to be healthier than the already well-established taverns and ale houses. A penny entry fee was charged – to keep the poorer Londoners at bay – and a list of rules was displayed in many coffee houses, calling on patrons not to shout, quarrel or gamble. Smoking, on the other hand, was almost compulsory and almost all early descriptions of London coffee shops, describe a fog of pipe smoke hanging in the air. Coffee shops were the province of men only, the sole female presence, likely a woman employed as the “dame de comptoir” with the work of grinding, brewing and serving the coffee being the responsibility of coffee boys wearing long aprons. Patrons sat at long tables to talk and debate with strangers and friends, sharing news, gossip, business deals and more.

Interior of a London Coffee-house, 17th century - Attribution
The diarist Samuel Pepys makes frequent mention of Will’s Coffee House in Covent Garden, where the celebrated poet and playwright John Dryden held court. Often named after their proprietors, coffee shops quickly gathered clique-ish clientele. While literary types chose Will’s, stockbrokers were drawn to establishments near the Royal Exchange such as Jonathon’s and Garraway’s on Exchange Alley in Cornhill. Sir Isaac Newton preferred the Grecian Coffee House in Devereaux Court by the Strand, with its reputation of drawing an intellectual crowd. During the Restoration years after 1660, a time of fomenting political thought and debate, coffee shops were the perfect place for thinking men to collect their letters, read newspapers and pamphlets and share opinions and news. But they were far from popular with everyone.

In 1675, worried that coffee shops were hotbeds of plot and sedition against his rule, Charles II issued A Proclamation for the Suppression of Coffee Houses which, although it had little legal impact or effect, clearly demonstrates the concerns felt in government about the impact of Coffee Shops on London society. They were centres, the authorities believed, for the deliberate spreading of false news and anti-government sentiment. But they were also places where government spies could be placed and whispers of conspiracies and plots could be heard and acted upon. Despite Charles’ frustration, coffee shops continued to thrive but they had already attracted criticism from another part of the population – women.

The Women’s Petition against Coffee, featured here in more detail, claimed coffee made men not only anti-social and unsupportive of their families, but also impotent: “as unfruitful as the sandy deserts, from where that unhappy berry is said to be brought.” The response was swift and The Men’s Answer to the Women’s Petition was direct to a fault. After claiming that coffee rather aided men’s ability to perform under the bedcovers, its author went so far as to claim that coffee increased the chance of fertility, adding “a spiritual escency to the Sperme, and renders it more firm and suitable to the Gusto of the Womb.”

Such criticisms had no effect on the growth of the coffee shop however. In 1681 when the Thames froze from December to February and a Frost Fair was established on the ice, a central feature was Duke’s Coffee Shop a temporary building erected mid-stream. By the turn of the century it is estimated that there were at least 1000 coffee shops in London, vital to the economic and cultural life of the city.

In The London Spy, published in 1703, Ned Ward gives the following colourful picture of typical establishment:
“Come, says my Friend, let us step into this Coffee-House here, as you are a Stranger in the Town, it will afford you some Diversion. Accordingly in we went, where a parcel of Muddling Muck-Worms were as busie as so many Rats in an old Cheese-Loft; some Going, some Coming, some Scribbling, some Talking, some Drinking, some Smoaking, others Jangling; and the whole Room stinking of Tobacco, like a Dutch-Scoot, or a Boatswains-Cabbin.”
Suggestions for further reading:

Life in a 17th Century Coffee Shop by David Brandon

1700, Scenes from London Life by Maureen Waller

Ned Ward, The London Spy, published 1703 text available online at


Kate Braithwaite was born and grew up in Edinburgh, Scotland. She is the author of two historical novels set in the 17th century.  The Road to Newgate, a story of lies, love and bigotry in the time of the Popish Plot, will be published by Crooked Cat Books on July 16th. Kate and her family live in West Chester, Pennsylvania.

Monday, June 11, 2018

Life in the Regency Era Nursery

by Maria Grace

Like so many other facets of society, childrearing also underwent significant changes during the Regency era. Despite growing concern over the influence of servants in a child’s life, many families of means still employed nursery maids, who might be lower class women, maiden aunts or poor female relations, to tend young children. Parents might have very little contact with their children during nursery days.

Traditionally the nursery was a separate part of the household, running on its own schedule. The exact routine varied from household to household and depended on the number of children and servants to tend them as well as the servants' education and beliefs about children.

Customarily, babies would be in the care of the head nurse, while the undernurse had care of the older children. She would awaken the children, typically by 7AM, dress and feed them breakfast, then take them out for air and exercise. Sometime before bedtime (typically around 8PM) the children would be dressed in their best clothes and brought to see their parents for some sort of a visit. Between those times, children would play and might partake in some early lessons, depending on the education of the nurses. Social etiquette would be a major component of those lessons.

But in some, more progressive households, children might be drawn more tightly into the family circle, eating their meals together and even spending time with the family instead of being exclusively separated to the nursery. “The belief was that they would better learn to socialize and grow into better adults by seeing the behavior of their elders and to “practice” with them. But it had the added benefit of keeping the family together and letting the parents and children play a larger part in each other’s lives.” (Olsen 2017).

Children’s health

In an era when child mortality was alarmingly high and many never grew to see adulthood, physicians rarely treated children’s disorders. The reason? Doctor’s remedies were considered too drastic (and thus dangerous) for delicate children. Given their treatments consisted largely of laxatives, bloodletting, and emetics, one can see some wisdom in the strategy.

Instead of physicians, parents often consulted surgeons, who were the hands-on medical professionals, trained through apprenticeship rather than university training. When surgeons were unavailable, undesirable, or unaffordable, parents would look to family members, friends and neighbors for advice, sometimes bringing in very unlikely professionals to assist. For example, sometimes the local blacksmith might set bones for humans as well as animals. (Sometimes it seems a wonder that anyone survived.) (Payne, Health in England).

A unique period of gender equality

During the Regency, parents felt little need to identify a small child’s gender by their clothing. Those who knew the family personally would already know the child’s gender, and for those who did not know the family that well, it was none of their business. Moreover, very young children rarely appeared in public. The age at which children began to be seen outside the house coincided with the age at which they would begin to wear gender differentiated clothing.

The majority of garments for infants and babies, whether swaddling bands for the first few months of life or simple gowns worn thereafter, were typically linen or cotton, either white or unbleached natural colored cloth, possibly trimmed with colored ribbons. These ribbons would be chosen to the mother’s tastes, not restricted to blue for boys and pink for girls as would be seen much later in the 19th century. In wealthier families, babies had some "good" clothes to wear while being shown off to visiting family and friends. Typically these garments would be colored or trimmed in ways that would not stand up as well to the harsh laundry techniques of the day, so they would be worn sparingly.

One unique feature of infant clothing still present in the early 1800’s was leading strings. Leading strings were the fashion decedents of the hanging sleeves of the middle ages. Attached to the back of children’s garments when the child began to move independently, leading strings might be sewn into individual garments when a family could afford multiple sets. For those of lesser means a single set could be pinned onto different garments. In some cases, children’s garments were made with buttonhole like slits through which leading strings could pass when fastened to the child’s corset.

Well into the nineteenth century infants, both male and female, were dressed in corsets. These garments were not boned and cinched like adult corsets might be, but rather made of multiple layers of sturdy fabric, most often corded or quilted cotton or linen. These garments did not shape the body so much as provide warmth and train the child to have good posture, which was considered essential for good health at that time. The sturdiness of the garment made it an ideal one for attaching leading strings.

Once attached, leading strings could be used as reins to guide the child during the process of learning to walk. This approach was most prevalent in the upper classes. Pudding caps, a slightly padded helmet of sorts, were also used to help prevent the bumps and bruises that came with learning to walk.

For middle and lower class women who enjoyed less help from servants, leading strings might be used more as a leash to limit a child’s movement. The strings could be fastened to a bed-post or heavy piece of furniture while indoors or something immobile like a fence or tree while outside. Though this might be an uncomfortable idea to modern parents, in a world where child safety measures were largely non-existent, these methods could help keep a child safe while their mother’s attention was diverted elsewhere. Leading strings were usually removed when they learned to walk well, certainly by age three or four.

Boys in Dresses

Before learning to walk, babies wore long gowns that extended beyond their feet. Once out of infancy (walking age), both boys and girls were ‘shortcoated’, dressed in ankle length dresses. The early 19th century saw almost no difference between dresses for little boys and little girls. Little boys might wear their sisters’ hand-me-downs and vice-versa. Dresses might be made of chintz or printed cottons. They were worn with small white caps, sashes and petticoats or long ruffled pantaloons.

This is William Henry Meyrick
Though it is difficult for the modern observer to wrap their minds around dressing little boys like little girls, the fact was that dresses were considered children’s wear, not little girls’ clothes. Children’s dresses were very distinct from women’s garments, so to the eye of the person in context, it was not a matter of boys in women’s garments. On a more practical note, in the days before disposable diapers and washing machines, dresses were much more practical garments for children who were not toilet trained.

The transition of little boys from wearing dresses to masculine pants was called breeching and marked a major transition in a child’s life.


"Boys' Clothes During the 1800s." Boys clothing during the 1800s. August 27, 2003. Accessed January 07, 2013.

Barreto, Cristina, and Martin Lancaster. Napoleon and the Empire of Fashion, 1795-1815. Milan: Skira, 2010.

Black, Maggie, and Deirdre Faye. The Jane Austen Cookbook. Chicago, Ill: Chicago Review Press, 1995.

Brander, Michael. The Georgian gentleman. Farnborough: Saxon House, 1973.

Brooke, Iris. English Children's Costume 1775-1920 . Dover Fashion and Costumes. Minoela, NY: Dover Publications, 2003.

Davidoff, Leonore, and Catherine Hall. Family Fortunes: Men and Women of the English Middle Class, 1780-1850. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987.

Horn, Pamela. Flunkeys and Scullions: Life below Stairs in Georgian England. Stroud: Sutton, 2004.

Kane, Kathryn . “Regency Baby Clothes: Blue for Boys, ??? for Girls.” Regency Redingote. June 8, 2012. Accessed January 5,2013.

Kane, Kathryn. “Of Hanging Sleeves and Leading Strings.” Regency Redingote. January 20, 2012. Accessed January 5,2013.

LeFaye, Deirdre. Jane Austen: The World of Her Novels. New York: Abrams, 2002.

Lewis, Judith Schneid. In the Family Way: Childbearing in the British Aristocracy, 1760-1860. New Brunswick, N.J.: Rutgers University Press, 1986.

Martin, Joanna. Wives and Daughters: Women and Children in the Georgian Country House. London: Hambledon and London, 2004.

Olsen, Quenby. “How to be a child in Regency England.” Jude Knight. May, 1, 2017. Accessed February 18, 2018.

Payne, Lynda. "Health in England (16th–18th c.)," in Children and Youth in History, Item #166, Accessed February 19, 2018.

Rovee, Christopher. “The Romantic Child, c.1780-1830.” Representing Childhood. 2005. Accessed Feb. 18, 2018. <

Selwyn, David. Jane Austen and children. London: Continuum, 2010.

Stone, Lawrence. The Family, Sex and Marriage in England, 1500-1800. New York: Harper & Row, 1979.

Watkins, Susan. Jane Austen's Town and Country Style. New York: Rizzoli, 1990.


Though Maria Grace has been writing fiction since she was ten years old, those early efforts happily reside in a file drawer and are unlikely to see the light of day again, for which many are grateful.

After penning five file-drawer novels in high school, she took a break from writing to pursue college and earn her doctorate. After sixteen years of university teaching, she returned to her first love, fiction writing.

Click here to find her books on Amazon. For more on her writing and other Random Bits of Fascination, visit her website. You can also like her on Facebook or follow on Twitter.

Sunday, June 10, 2018

Thursday, June 7, 2018

6th Century Britain – Questions without Answers

By Gareth Griffith

In the age of Google, at a time when physicists are unlocking the secrets of the universe, when there are answers to almost every question, it seems churlish of history to present us with what used to be called “The Dark Ages.” Yet, in respect to Britain at least, that description would still appear to be appropriate for the period between the departure of the Romans, in AD 410, and the 7th century.

Particularly sparse is our knowledge of the 6th century, when the native written evidence is confined to Gildas’ The Ruin of Britain. Gildas was a monk and, as it is often said, his purpose was not to write history but to present a moral and polemical tract addressed to the British kings of his time. It is not known exactly when he wrote, although it likely to have been in the mid-6th century. There is controversy over that issue and also about the interpretation of what he wrote, as discussed, for example, by Guy Halsall in Worlds of Arthur: Facts and Fictions of the Dark Ages (OUP, 2013).

Statue of Gildas - Wiki Commons attribution

That is not to say that archaeologists and historians are completely in the dark about this period of British history, but it is to suggest that the speculative theories and histories of the age have the feel of a parlour game about them – where five archaeologists and five historians are sent out of the room and return with 11 theories of the Anglo-Saxon take-over of lowland Britain. Ideas about how certain Angles and Saxons arrived at and settled one area or another – the Hwicce for instance on the Welsh borders – can be amusingly reminiscent of the brilliant Monty Python sketch, Wrong Way Norris.

Relatively little is known, therefore, about 6th-century Britain and much of what is believed to be known is contested. In terms of literary evidence, according to Peter Heather:
“To supplement Gildas, there are a few more or less contemporary references to events in Britain in continental sources, and some very late, wildly episodic materials gathered together in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle.” (Empires and Barbarians: Migration, Development and the Birth of Europe, Macmillan, 2009, p 272) 
There are more questions than answers, some large, others more specific: Why did the Anglo-Saxons not become British? What was the scale of the Anglo-Saxon migration to Britain? Was there a mass migration? Is that process best described in terms of conquest and invasion or more as a transfer of elites, with the indigenous population remaining more or less in place?

Possible 5th-century migration pattern Wiki attribution

In attempting to answer such questions, historians have tended to follow the prevailing fashions of historical analysis. The nineteenth century and beyond leaned heavily on the conquest and invasion model, in some cases as evidence of the superiority of Teutonic peoples over their Celtic counterparts. (B Ward-Perkins, “Why did the Anglo-Saxons not become British?” English Historical Review (2000), pp 513-533) As new aerial archaeological techniques revealed evidence that contradicted that model, the view fell into disfavour after 1945, to be replaced by versions of the elite-transfer theory.

From the view that the Anglo-Saxons basically wiped out or expelled the native British population, the pendulum swung towards the displacement of British landowning classes by an Anglo-Saxon warrior elite, led by those who had served as mercenaries in the Roman occupation of the island. It is a caricature admittedly, but we had replaced blood and iron with something approximating a hippy land-grab. It may be that DNA analysis supports that view, whereby the indigenous population remained in place, merely exchanging one ethnic ruling class for another.

A perennially vexing issue for that account relates to language: as Ronald Hutton writes: “If genetics and landscape studies indicate a basic continuity of population all over Britain…linguistic studies do not.” (Pagan Britain, Yale University Press, 2014, p 295). The contrast with the continent, with France in particular, is profound in this regard. To quote Hutton again:
“Old English replaced both the main languages of Roman Britain – the native Celtic one and the official Latin one – completely in the areas that later became England. It did so, moreover, while taking on virtually no loanwords from either tongue.” (p 295) 
In lowland areas at least, 6th century Britain appears to have witnessed “an absolute and abrupt discontinuity of language and culture,” events which, according to Hutton, are “commonly the hallmark of genocide…” (p 296)

The Aedui chief Dumnorix, Museum of Celtic Civilization, Bibracte
The British may have dressed similarly

Rather than deciding between contrasting viewpoints, Hutton’s main concern is to highlight the problems and discontinuities of evidence and interpretation. Calling it “an extreme state of affairs,” he points out that, in this instance, the material data drawn from archaeology and the textual and linguistic evidence do not fit: “In the case of the arrival of the Anglo-Saxons, the two are at present bewilderingly adrift…” (p 297) One is reminded of the comment made by Nicholas Higham in 1994, in reference to the issue of conflicting evidence, that “it has become obvious that archaeologists are capable of producing an almost infinite succession of models, each of which is more or less incapable of either proof or refutation.” (The English Conquest, Manchester University Press, p 2)

In his 2009 book, Empires and Barbarians: Migration, Development and the Birth of Europe, Peter Heather draws together the known and the probable facts of the matter. Like Hutton, he accepts that the key questions about the extent and nature of Anglo-Saxon immigration are not answered in any straightforward way by either the archaeological or historical evidence. (p 275) Nor does he think that DNA testing is likely to fill the gap. Decisively rejected by Heather is the “ethnic cleansing” model, which in his view was not remotely possible given the probable number of people involved, perhaps as many as three to four million. But then, there is the linguistic evidence to be considered, which leaves the argument “more than a little stuck.” (p 277 and p 297)

From this starting point, Heather proceeds to confront from what he calls “the intellectual impasse between mass migration and elite transfer originally generated by the limitation of the traditional historical and archaeological evidence.” (p 277) Taking a comparative perspective, he draws upon evidence from the migrations of the period on the continent, which leads him to several conclusions. One is that the Anglo-Saxon migration to Britain was a long-term process, a “predatory population flow” that occurred over many generations. A related conclusion is that, notwithstanding the obvious transport difficulties, this gradual migration flow included women and children.

Still, by AD 600 the native British population was likely to have outnumbered the newcomers, possibly by a ratio of around 1:4. With the Frankish model before him, Heather’s argument is that an adequate interpretation of Anglo-Saxon migration must combine elements of mass migration, sufficient to establish linguistic and cultural change, with elements of the elite model, whereby land ownership shifted decisively in favour of the incomers and where the mass of the indigenous population, formerly landed or otherwise, were left to accommodate themselves to these new arrangements of subservience.

Of course, none of this is to maintain that the transformation of lowland Britain was peaceful. It is argued that, from the earliest times, the Britons and the Anglo-Saxons perceived themselves as races apart, with Bryan Ward-Perkins commenting:
“…when both peoples came to summarize their dealings with each other, the picture is straightforward and consistent. Two distinct and hostile peoples fight for the same territory; one of them comes by ship from overseas, and gradually expands its power by conquest; the other resists, with greater or lesser success, and awaits the moment when the invaders can be slaughtered and their defeated remnants driven to their boats and 'sent home' over the sea.” (“Why did the Anglo-Saxons not become British?”, p 516) 
To offer my own historical speculation, it seems likely that the Anglo-Saxon takeover was messy and that it varied from one local area to another, in particular as between what is now south-east and south-west England. Whereas a version of the elite-transfer model may apply to the south-east where the scale of armed resistance from the British may have been minimal in the aftermath of the Roman departure, the story in the south-west may have been quite different, with the Saxon advance being marked by a series of pitched battles until they reached what is now the Bristol Channel towards the end of the 6th century. Admittedly, that account may be disputed. On its behalf, it is at least broadly consistent with the account we find in the traditional interpretation of Gildas and with the admittedly sketchy and episodic entries for the period from the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle.

Replica of the Sutton Hoo helmet, from the earlier period of
Anglo-Saxon settlement. Wiki Commons attribution link

Clearly, not everything in those sources can be accepted at face value. But some things ring truer than others. For example, the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle records a major battle fought in AD 577 just north of modern day Bath. There is no other source for the battle which, if true, broke the land-bridge that existed between the Celtic people of modern day Wales and those of Devon and Cornwall. Possibly, the entry which says that three British kings were killed in the battle, those of Bath, Gloucester and Cirencester, can be discounted as a form of aggrandising propaganda on the part of the West Saxons. It is possible. On the other hand, as Heather acknowledges, it is also possible that these events were recalled with “outlined accuracy.” He writes:
Sometimes, too, the events even make sense against the landscape, notably the battle of Deorham in 577, which is said to have brought Gloucester, Cirencester and Bath under Anglo-Saxon control. A visit to the site, now the grounds of Dyrham Park just outside Bath, is enough to show you why. Set on high ground, it dominates the territory around.” (p 272) 
What is beyond question is that the Britons did not relinquish the western regions of the Island to the Anglo-Saxons without a long struggle. If the details are lost to us, the outline is clear enough. The reported Battle of Dyrham occurred over 150 years after the Romans left Britain, which, if true, suggests concerted resistance on a significant scale.


Gareth Griffith was born in Penmaenmawr, North Wales, and now lives in Sydney, Australia with his wife Sue. His career has encompassed teaching, research and writing, including many years working as the manager of research for the parliament of New South Wales. These days, when Gareth isn’t writing, he enjoys reading, music, dark Scandi film and TV, and Dark Age Britain. Although Gareth left Wales at the age of twelve, Wales never left him, and its landscape and history loom large in his imagination and his storytelling.

Find Gareth on his website:
and on Twitter: @garethgriffith_

Wednesday, June 6, 2018

Sailors and Their Superstitions

by Julian Stockwin

Over two decades of researching my Thomas Kydd series I’ve learned much about the rich sea lore of the seaman. In my latest book THE IBERIAN FLAME the appearance of a mermaid evokes age-old fears of sirens luring sailors to their doom. Those who followed the sea then were far more superstitious than landlubbers. Some notions, such as those about the weather often did have an element of truth in them. And the fabled Fiddler’s Green no doubt provided comfort to sailors that they would not end up in Davy Jones’ Locker as food for fishes but go to a better place.

• The caul

One superstition that borders on the macabre is the reverence in which a birth-related piece of human tissue was held.

The caul, the thin membrane covering the heads of some new born children was believed by mariners to bring good luck, in particular to guard against drowning – the sailor’s great fear.

Those born with the caul were considered immune from drowning. In one story, a baby born with the caul was so powerful ‘that when his mother tried to bathe him he sat on the surface of the water, and if forced down, came up again like a cork.’

In fact the caul was highly prized not just by mariners but by landlubbers as well, and there are references in literature from the bible onwards, even in the works of Charles Dickens. David Copperfield describes feeling uncomfortable and confused at the auction of his own caul. (The winning bid was from an old lady who went on to live to ninety-two, and died in her own bed.)

As long as the individual born with a caul kept it on his person the magical powers remained with him but if the caul was sold its properties passed to the buyer, as in Copperfield’s experience. An advertisement in The Times in February 1813 offered a caul for 12 guineas. Another paper announced the sale of a caul – ‘having been afloat with its late owner forty years, through the periods of a seaman’s life and he died at last in his bed at his place of birth.’

A Punch cartoon of
Davy Jones sitting on his locker
Sailors would often sew their cauls into their canvas trousers. One old sailor with a caul secreted on his person this way was admonished that his amulet was a ‘vulgar error’. He was said to reply: ‘A vulgar error saving me from Davy Jones is as good as any other.’
Cauls were advertised in British newspapers all the way until World War I. One ad, posted in the Bristol Times and Mirror in 1874, appealed specifically to sailors. “TO SEA CAPTAINS: For sale, a Child’s Caul in perfect condition. £5.”

• Mermaids and Mermen

lurer of sailors to their doom
Legends of creatures with the head and trunk of a man or woman and the lower torso of a fish abound. Mermen, often thought to be the spirits of sailors lost at sea, were depicted as ugly old men with straggly black beards and hair. Mermaids, by contrast were young, attractive creatures with long gold hair. It was believed that mermaids longed for an immortal soul but could only attain this by physical union with a human.

Mermaids would sing to sailors, distracting them from their work and causing shipwrecks, sometimes inadvertly squeezing the life out of drowing men while trying to rescue them.

We have a number of recorded historical ‘sightings’ of mermaids, including Columbus who wrote in his log about seeing three mermaids on his first voyage to the Americas. ‘[they] rose high out of the sea, but were not as beautiful as they are represented.’

• Mother Nature

Far more seamen died at sea in storms than in engagement with the enemy. It is not surprising, then, that mariners had many superstitions about the weather.

Sometimes a horse-shoe was nailed upside down to the mast of a ship to avert storms. Nelson was said to have had one on the mainmast of HMS Victory.

Seamen were particularly anxious about squalls. It would certainly bring bad luck not to follow the advice of the old ditty:
‘When the rain’s before the wind, Strike your tops’ls, reef your main ... When the wind’s before the rain, Shake 'em out and go again.’

Under certain atmospheric conditions there is an electrical discharge around the mastheads and yardarms of ships, St. Elmo’s Fire.

Superstition holds that the fourteenth century St Elmo was rescued from drowning by a sailor. As a token of his gratitude St. Elmo promised to send a light to warn those at sea of approaching storms. The appearance of St. Elmo's Fire was thus regarded as a good omen. Its appearance preceding a storm portended that the guiding hand of St. Elmo would be present. However many older mariners believed that if the eerie shimmering light fell upon a man’s face he would die within twenty-four hours.

Among American sailors felines were thought creatures of ill omen: should cats frolic aboard this was a sure sign of a storm; if they washed behind their ears this would bring rain, and if one was seen climbing the rigging the ship was doomed.

A ‘cat’s paw’ is a ruffle on the water during a calm that moves as silently as a cat. On seeing cats’ paws old salts would rub the ship’s backstay, part of the standing rigging, as though stroking a cat, and whistle for a wind to come to the ship.

But whistling at sea when the wind was blowing was banned; it would mock the devil who would retaliate by sending gale-force winds. An exception to this injunction was given to the cook preparing the duff, steamed pudding. He was supposed to whistle while he worked so that he couldn’t surreptitiously pop raisins intended for the sweet treat into his mouth!

• When a Sailor Tops His Boom

Sailors had a number of colourful expressions for death at sea, mostly involving nautical terms. Some sails need a long spar, or boom, to spread their foot. When the boom is topped, the vessel is ready to start the voyage. Sailors adopted the expression ‘to top your boom’ to refer to the journey to the afterlife.

A mariner might talk about meeting Davy Jones, the spirit of the deep, thought to be in all storms and sometimes seen as a being of great height with three rows of sharp teeth in an enormous mouth and blue flames coming from his mouth. The name may be a corruption of ‘Duffy Jonah’, a West Indian sailors’ name for the devil.

Davy Jones’ Locker was the bottom of the sea, a repository for everything that went overboard, from masts to men.

Then there was Fiddler’s Green. This was an Elysium, a paradise populated by countless willing ladies, rum casks that never emptied – and always a fair wind and flying fish weather. To go to Fiddler’s Green the departed sailor first became a seagull and then flew to the South Pole where the entrance awaited him in the form of an open hatch. Sailors had a horror of molesting sea birds, especially the albatross, as they were thought to be the spirits of dead sailors who had not yet found their way to Fiddler's Green.

The albatross, the spirit of a dead sailor

Unless the ship was very close to land, burial was at sea for most sailors. The body was sewn up in the man’s hammock and weighted down with a cannon ball. At the last minute a stitch through the nose confirmed that he was really dead!

Jack Tar was uneasy about having a corpse on board ship, believing it would attract bad luck. If a corpse was carried on board there were some things that could be done to minimise the impact: it must always lie athwart the vessel, never end on, and when the home port was reached it must leave the ship before any member of the crew.

• Women on Board

Female mariners were not common in the age of sail but life at sea was not completely a male preserve. Some wives of standing officers went to sea; they assisted with the care of the sick and wounded and even acted as powder monkeys during battle. However to have a woman on board was generally thought to bring bad luck to the ship in the form of a terrible storm that would destroy the ship and all in her. Curiously, a half-naked woman was believed to be able to charm a storm at sea, hence the practice of figureheads with a bare-breasted female torso.

• Friday Sail, Friday Fail

For a sailor the day of his ship’s departure was important. Wednesday was the best day to begin and end a voyage – possibly because the name derives from the Anglo-Saxon god Woden, a protector of mariners. Friday, however, was to be avoided at all costs. The Temptation and Banishment from the Garden of Eden, the Flood and the Crucifixion were all believed to have occurred on a Friday.

One admiral once remarked: ‘Why, I was once fool enough to believe that it was all nonsense and did once sail on a Friday, much to the annoyance of the men. The consequence was that I run my ship aground and nearly lost her... nothing will induce me to sail on a Friday again!’

And while we are perhaps more sceptical today some of these beliefs linger on in those who venture upon Neptune’s kingdom.

The injunction never to sail on a Friday is known to sailors in today's fleet. I remember during my time at sea that mysterious faults in the engine room were known to develop on Friday that were not rectified until the next day!


The Iberian Flame,
the latest title in
the Thomas Kydd series
Julian Stockwin  has written twenty books to date in his Thomas Kydd historical action adventure fiction series, set in the Age of Fighting Sail. Although they form a series each title can be read as a stand-alone novel. These are in order: KYDD, ARTEMIS, SEAFLOWER, MUTINY, QUARTERDECK, TENACIOUS, COMMAND, THE ADMIRAL’S DAUGHTER, TREACHERY (published in the US as THE PRIVATEER’S REVENGE), INVASION, VICTORY, CONQUEST, BETRAYAL, CARIBBEE, PASHA, TYGER, INFERNO, PERSEPHONE, THE BALTIC PRIZE and THE IBERIAN FLAME. In parallel to the Kydd novels, he is writing a series of standalone novels, based on pivotal points in history. Two titles have been published: THE SILK TREE and THE POWDER OF DEATH. Julian has also written a non-fiction book, STOCKWIN’S MARITIME MISCELLANY. More information can be found on his website Julian also posts to his own blog, BigJules, and is on Facebook, Twitter and Pinterest.

For a chance to win a signed copy of THE IBERIAN FLAME email with 'IBERIAN FLAME' in the subject line. Please include your full postal address. Contest closes June 20, and the winner will be notified by email. Open worldwide. 

Friday, June 1, 2018

Giving it and taking it back - the complicated case of Whilton manor

by Anna Belfrage

In 1264, William de Whelton faced something of a conundrum. He wasn’t alone. England was at war, on the one side Simon de Montfort seemed to be carrying the day, on the other King Henry III and his son, the future Edward I, claimed hereditary right to rule. In between were all those men who were fast approaching a point at which they had to choose sides. Sitting on the fence was not an option, not when the rattling of swords and lances clearly proclaimed the conflict was about to turn bloody. Very bloody.

William lived in Northamptonshire. He was the proud owner of four manors which in this case made sitting things out even more of an impossibility. He was simply too important to be allowed to remain neutral. In William’s region, the flamboyant Earl of Leicester threw the longest shadow and to stand in opposition against de Montfort while surrounded by his allies would likely have resulted in a very short lifespan. Plus, it is probable William agreed with the Provisions of Oxford—even saw Simon as something of a refreshing counterbalance to the weak king, so dominated by his French half-siblings and his wife’s Savoyard kinsmen.

To choose wrongly came at a price. Whoever ended up on the losing side could say bye-bye to whatever manors they might have had. This may be the reason behind William’s decision regarding his manor at Whilton. Maybe he was hoping to safeguard something for the future by granting the manor to his second son. Or maybe it was as simple as William wanting Nicholas de Whelton to have his own land and by granting him the manor in his own lifetime he could bypass the laws of inheritance that would otherwise have seen all his belongings pass to his eldest son.

To ensure his second son had property was also a way to facilitate Nicholas’ search for a bride. At the time, Nicholas had found a bride and as Joyce la Zouche came from a powerful family I imagine her father would have insisted on Nicholas having something to his name so as to safeguard Joyce’s future dower income should Nicholas predecease her.

Whatever the case, in 1264 William undertook a number of actions whereby he transferred ownership of Whilton to Nicholas. In return, Nicholas granted William full rights of usage for the rest of William’s life, i.e. any incomes deriving from the manor would still end up in William’s purse. But formally the manor would belong to Nicholas. Well, it would do once Nicholas had taken seisin of it.

To take possession of land—delivery of seisin—was a rather formal affair. Not so that it required a lot of written documentation. No, delivery of seisin was all about actively doing a number of things. In view of future events, a written document would not have been a bad idea, but in 1264 William saw no reason to have his clerk put quill to parchment. After all, he knew exactly what the next steps were.

First of all, William had to visibly transfer ownership. This was done by a ritual whereby William led Nicholas up to the main entrance of the manor and placed his hand on the door hasp, thereby “giving” him the door and all the contents within. Then he presented Nicholas with a branch of a fruit tree to show that Nicholas now had the right to make use of everything that grew on the manor. Finally, once he’d done this, William waved “bye-bye” to his son (and Joyce, one presumes) and left Nicholas to formally take possession.

Taking possession in this case meant Nicholas remained at Whilton for two weeks or so, very much behaving like the lord of the manor. He burned wood, he took oaths of fealty from the tenants and did some fishing—all of this to show he was entitled to use the land as he saw fit.

Two weeks later, William returned and now it was Nicholas’ turn to grant the manor back to his father for life. After all this seisin stuff the manor was formally Nicholas’ and once William was dead the full use of the manor would revert to Nicholas, not to big brother Roger who, according to the laws of primogeniture that were applied to everything to do with land, otherwise would inherit. As an aside, it is interesting to note that William could never have written a will in which he left one of his manors to Nicholas as this would never have been recognised as a valid transfer of land, not when there was an older brother. But gifting land in your own lifetime was okay.

Anyway: to really seal the deal William then persuaded his eldest son Roger de Whelton to sign a quitclaim, a document in which he accepted his father’s gift to his younger brother. After all this, Nicholas was now safely in possession of Whilton—well, so one would think.

All William’s careful planning proved totally futile after August 1265. At the Battle of Evesham Simon de Montfort was killed and all those fighting for him were branded rebels, their lands forfeited. William and his sons had been fighting for Simon and so the de Whelton family suddenly found themselves without any manors at all. A most dire situation and had it not been for the fact that they were not exactly alone—many, many were the men of noble birth who were suddenly rendered destitute, thereby becoming a potentially dangerous and destabilising influence on society—this story would have ended there.

However, eager to bring peace and stability to his realm, King Henry approved the Dictum of Kenilworth. This allowed for the rebels to buy back their lands with a hefty fine. Yes, things would be tight for some years, but most who could leapt at the opportunity. So did those who did not have the money at the ready but hoped to somehow finance the repurchase of their hereditary lands. Among them was William. Not among them was Nicholas, who had sadly passed away, leaving a young widow and a very young daughter.

Oh, dear. Suddenly, gifting Whilton to Nicholas appeared a very, very bad idea. William never expected his son to die that young—or to leave an infant girl as his heir. This was all very bad for the de Whelton family as Nicholas’ widow, Joyce, could claim a third of the income from the manor for life. And as to baby Felicia, well she was now the ward of William’s overlord (although the lord in this case was a lady) and her two-thirds of the income would end up in the hands of said lord. Instead of setting his son up for life, William had managed to lose control over 25% of his total income.
If we’re going to be correct, at the time Whilton was still under attainder as William had not managed to raise the money to cover the fine. This, however, was just a temporary setback. The gifting of Whilton was a much more permanent setback. The future of the de Whelton family now depended on whether the gift was valid yes or no.

Joan de Stuteville was the overlord of Whilton and thereby automatically became Felicia’s guardian. The baby was whisked away to be raised in Joan’s household and Joyce returned to her father, there to prepare for her next marriage. She was young, she was fertile and in possession of an annual income of 8 pounds or so from Whilton—assuming the gifting of the manor to Nicholas was considered legal.

Joan de Stuteville was all for upholding the gift. After all, this gave her access to Felicia’s inheritance for well over a decade.

In all this upheaval, William de Whelton died, still without having paid the fine. It fell to his eldest son, Roger, to finalise these matters. Roger was short of money and when Joyce’s father approached him with a plan, he therefore listened.

William la Zouche was determined to do his best for his recently widowed daughter. In this case this meant negotiating a good second marriage for her and to do so it would help if Joyce brought a nice chunk of property to her new husband.

La Zouche’s plan was simple: Roger was to claim his father’s grant to Nicholas was invalid. Thereby, Whilton reverted to Roger. La Zouche would lend him the money Roger required to pay the fine and in turn Roger would name William la Zouche his heir for Whilton—and for his other three manors. Effectively, la Zouche was cheating little Felicia out of her inheritance to boost his daughter’s marital prospects. He sugar-coated the offer by throwing in some land which would pass from Roger to “heirs of his body.” If no such heirs existed, this land would revert to la Zouche.

All very complicated, isn’t it? The end result was that Joyce became quite the catch. She’d bring four manors to her future husband rather than a paltry eight pounds a year. Roger would be able to pay the fine, end up with some land and have use of the manors for his life. Felicia would be left disinherited and dependent on the goodwill of her relatives. In view of how they were all acting—her maternal grandfather, her paternal uncle, even her mother—this was not a good thing for Felicia.

One major hurdle remained for Roger. He had to prove his father’s grant of Whilton was invalid. To do so, he examined just what decisions Nicholas took during those fifteen days in which he’d been in possession of Whilton prior to re-granting it to William. Turns out burning wood and taking oaths was not enough. Nicholas should have ordered a field to be ploughed or had a pig slaughtered or fired the reeve. Nicholas did none of this. Had he lived it would never have mattered. Now, however, he was as dead as a rock and the one paying the price for his ploughing negligence was his little daughter.

For years, the dispute was brought before various assizes and juries. The fact that Roger had signed a quitclaim was neither here nor there—unless Nicholas had properly taken possession, the document was irrelevant. For years, Felicia’s guardian defended the rights of her ward against Felicia’s family and stepfather.

In 1273, Joyce remarried. Her new groom was Robert de Mortimer and he was determined to see his wife recognised as heir to those four manors. After all, he hoped she would give him a son, a boy to inherit those nice, fat livings. At the time, Felicia (well, her guardian, seeing as Felicia was at most eight) was in possession of Whilton. Some months later, her representatives were ejected by the Mortimers who now claimed they had seisin of the manor.

The Court of Common Pleas
Once again, the case was dragged before the assizes. One judge gave Felicia the right of it, another ruled in Joyce’s favour. Somewhere along the lines this had become a mother-daughter fight, something which must have soured their relationship permanently. Back and forth went the rulings until, in 1280, the courts handed down a final verdict: Roger de Mortimer and his wife Joyce were to be considered rightful owner of Whilton. Felicia had lost it all: her father, her lands and, one assumes, her mother—and all because her father had been somewhat remiss in claiming possession.

Things did not end here. Once Felicia married, her husband was as determined as de Mortimer to get his hands on Whilton. What then followed is probably the longest ever land dispute in English history, stretching all the way from 1264 to 1380. Along the way a wife would poison her husband, cousins would marry cousins and one judge after the other would be presented with a case where the stack of documents grew into a huge tottering pile. How it all ended? Well, I am happy to report Felicia’s descendants won out—but that, I think, is the subject for a future post.

All pictures in public domain and/or licensed under Wikimedia Creative Commons


Had Anna Belfrage been allowed to choose, she’d have become a professional time-traveller. As such a profession does not exist, she became a financial professional with two absorbing interests, namely history and writing.

Presently, Anna is hard at work with The King’s Greatest Enemy, a series set in the 1320s featuring Adam de Guirande, his wife Kit, and their adventures and misfortunes in connection with Roger Mortimer’s rise to power. And yes, Edmund of Woodstock appears quite frequently. The first book, In The Shadow of the Storm was published in 2015, the second, Days of Sun and Glory, was published in July 2016, and the third, Under the Approaching Dark, was published in April 2017. The fourth instalment, The Cold Light of Dawn, was published in February 2018.

When Anna is not stuck in the 14th century, she's probably visiting in the 17th century, specifically with Alex(andra) and Matthew Graham, the protagonists of the acclaimed The Graham Saga. This is the story of two people who should never have met – not when she was born three centuries after him. The ninth book, There is Always a Tomorrow, was published in November 2017.

Thursday, May 31, 2018

Margaret Campion, Business Woman

By Lauren Gilbert

Campion Banking House, originally founded 1800
Historically, women had limited options for their lives, and Georgian England was no exception. As any reader of Jane Austen’s novels knows, this situation resulted in marriage being a primary career objective. Lack of education and property laws restricted the ability of many women to support themselves respectably, or even adequately. However, there were always exceptions. Margaret Holt Campion, known as the first Lady Banker in northern England, was one of them.

Margaret Holt was born to John Holt and his wife Martha Storm Holt in 1748, the fourth of nine children. John Holt was a ship owner and tradesman in Whitby. Margaret’s brothers and sisters married local families involved with shipping, banking and other businesses. Margaret married Nathaniel Campion, a ship owner who was also engaged in trade, sailcloth weaving and flax spinning, and as a general merchant (including wine sales.) Available data indicates Margaret worked with her husband and with her own family on business involving ship building and trade. Margaret and her husband had a son Robert, born about 1773. (There is an indication that they also had daughters, but I found no record identifying them.) Around 1790, Arundel House in Whitby was built and at some point became the home of Margaret and Nathaniel and their family.

In 1792, Margaret partnered in building a ship named The Vigilant with her brothers Thomas and William Holt, and her sister Mary’s husband Christopher Richardson. Accounts for this venture were kept by her brother John Holt. As we can see, this was truly a family affair. The Vigilant’s maiden voyage was from Whitby to St. Petersburg, Russia in May of 1792, and she was engaged in trading runs to Russia, Stockholm and the West Indies until she was lost in 1797. (Records of the ship were sold through Bonham’s in 2007.)

After Nathaniel passed away in 1798, Margaret took control of his ships and various business interests. She paid the required fee and became a freeman of the Russian Company in her own right, authorized to trade in the Baltic. (The Russian Company, also known as the Muscovy Company, was a group of English merchants organized in 1555 by the explorer Sebastian Cabot that was awarded a monopoly on Russian trade. Its privileges were revoked by Tsar Alexis in 1649 and it lost its monopoly on Russian trade in 1698, but the company retained some influence and participated in the revival of British-Russian trade in the 18th century.) The Baltic trade was a risky business as illustrated by an episode that occurred in 1800 when Tsar Paul seized British ships and goods, causing significant losses to the ship owners and investors. Fortunately, neither the Campions nor their family connections sustained losses from this action.

In order to facilitate her many business interests, Margaret formed a bank with her son Robert, which opened January 2, 1800. Whitby was the 7th largest port in the United Kingdom, and home to numerous ship builders and other businesses, so banking offered the potential for significant profit. By all accounts, Margaret was a respected and influential business person in her own right. Robert married Jane Smales, whose father was also a ship owner. (Her father insisted that Jane’s portion be settled on her at the time of the marriage.) Robert and Jane had a son, John, born May 8, 1803 at Whitby. Records indicate Margaret and Robert operated Campion Bank and their other business interests successfully, with the Campions becoming one of the most well-to-do families in Whitby. The bank occupied Campion Bank House on Church Street in Whitby, shown above. Margaret died February 15, 1804.

After Margaret’s death, Robert carried on the bank and business interests as sole partner, adding a wine business and expanding certain of the existing interests, including obtaining a patent in 1813 for an invention to prepare yarn for making sailcloth. His son John joined him as a partner in 1817 with the bank, although there is no indication that John was particularly ambitious or active in the family businesses. The bank and businesses continued to be quite successful as, by 1826, Robert was known as a very wealthy man and had started signing his name Robert Campion, Esq. of Bagdale. Robert and John were known for their philanthropic contributions, particularly to abolitionist causes, and built a monument to Captain Cook in 1827. Unfortunately, Robert and John appeared to be more interested in their gentlemanly pursuits than advancing their business interests after this point.

There are indications the businesses were taking on debt. The bank ultimately failed in 1841, greatly encumbered. The records of the Commission of Bankruptcy in 1842 shows the bank and the Campion ship owners in debt to the tune of almost 40,000 pounds, and that Robert and John were also personally significantly in debt. In spite of their precarious financial state, Robert and John maintained their gentlemen’s lifestyles (perhaps in part because John’s father-in-law required that his daughter’s portion be settled, protecting her interests). Robert died on December 10, 1866. At some point after the business failed, John gave up his business career and became a clergyman. (In the directories, he is described as gentleman.) He became a deacon in 1843 and was ordained in 1845. After resigning his living at St. James’ Church, Doncaster in January of 1890 due to poor health, John died May 19, 1894.

Margaret Holt Campion spent her life as a business woman, as well as a wife and mother. She maintained and advanced the business interests left by her husband, and was the senior partner of the bank she started with her son, which was successful under her care. I don’t think it’s too much to say that she was significantly responsible for building the family wealth that allowed her son and grandson to consider themselves gentlemen. Although they managed to keep things going well for 22 years, neither Robert nor John was willing to sustain the effort; nor did they seem to care enough to find competent managers. Sadly, Margaret’s business legacy did not survive.

Sources include:

Dawes, Margaret and Selwyn, Nesta. Women who made money WOMEN PARTNERS IN BRITISH PRIVATE BANKS 1752-1906. 2010: Trafford Publishing, Bloomington, IN. “Arundel House.” HERE “Lot 706 Shipbuilding.” HERE “Muscovy Company.” HERE “Holts of Whitby, Yorkshire, UK 1700-1850” by user, February 25, 1999. HERE Craig, Beatrice. WOMEN AND BUSINESS SINCE 1500: Invisible Presences in Europe and North America. P. 161. 2016: Palgrave (imprint of Macmillan Publishers Ltd.), London. HERE ; Phillips, Maberly. A HISTORY OF BANKS, BANKERS AND BANKING IN NORTHUMBERLAND, DURHAM AND NORTH YORKSHIRE. PP 219-221. 1894: Effingham, Wilson & Co. London. HERE “A Maritime History of the Port of Whitby, 1700-1914” by Stephanie Karen Jones. Thesis submitted to the University College London 1982. HERE

Image: Wikimedia Commons. Campion Bank House by Mike Kirby. HERE


Lauren Gilbert lives with her husband Ed in Florida, where the roses, gardenias and plumeria are currently blooming in the yard. She is a member of the Jane Austen Society of North America. Her first book, HEYERWOOD: A Novel, is available, and her second A RATIONAL ATTACHMENT is due out soon. Please visit her website HERE.