Masters of Stone: the Medieval Stonemasons

 By E.M. Powell

In our twenty-first century urbanised world, buildings of enormous height and size are all around us and are so familiar a sight that we rarely pay them much attention. We are accustomed to living, working and shopping in them. When a new one is built, we see huge cranes and other heavy machinery employed, with elevators and lifts taking contractors up to where they need to be. 

Canterbury Cathedral
© E.M. Powell

Anybody time-travelling from the medieval world to now would be understandably astonished by what we can achieve. Yet the reverse is also true. We cannot of course travel back to medieval times. But we can stand next to a vast cathedral such as Canterbury and wonder how on earth it could be constructed by people who had only the most basic of tools.  

There has been a cathedral in Canterbury for more than 1,400 years. Saint Augustine consecrated the first cathedral there not long after his arrival in the year 597. There is no trace of the original building, as a fire in 1067 destroyed it and it had to be completely rebuilt. Archbishop Lanfranc oversaw much of the construction, but it was his successor, Archbishop – and later Saint – Anselm, who built the ‘glorious quire’ –of which more later––and the enormous crypt. 

The credit might be Anselm’s but his hands were not the ones that wielded axes, hammers and chisels, and mixed mortar that is still holding up the walls after almost a thousand years. Those people, with their remarkable skill and ingenuity, were the medieval stonemasons. 

Building- Canterbury or Anglo-Catalan Psalter 12th Century
Public Domain- British Library

The stonemasons’ guild, the Worshipful Company of Masons, is one of the ancient Livery Companies of the City of London. It was formed for the purpose of regulating the craft of stonemasonry and ensuring that standards could be properly maintained and rewarded. The earliest available records of regulation from the Court of Aldermen are from 1356.

The preceding two centuries had already seen massive growth in stone construction–royal, ecclesiastical and municipal–and alongside that came major developments in the skill of stone masonry. Stonemasons were by no means a homogenous group. Their skills ranged from the most basic to outstanding artistry, though categories of worker were fluid. Rates of pay varied from job to job too.

Before stone could be used as building material, it first had to be dug from the earth and that was the task of the quarrymen. The records use the term ‘quarrymen’ to refer to those who owned the quarries as well as those who worked in them. While the quarry owners were frequently men of means and high social standing, those who actually worked within the quarries were not. The work was back breaking, digging and breaking stone in poor conditions that led to health problems like silicosis, a lung disease induced by inhaling flinty or siliceous particles. The quarriers also partially or completely worked the stone before it was transported to its destination, as this saved on cost. In addition to providing the supply of stone, the quarries often served as schools where stoneworkers could learn the basics of the craft, before moving on to more skilled employment and better rates of pay. 

Canterbury Cathedral interior stonework
© E.M. Powell

Roughmasons and layers prepared wall stone with scappling hammers and might also hew stone with an axe into the approximate shape required. Fine carving was done with a mallet and chisel and this was the work of the freestone mason. The freestone mason did not simply step in and apply the last artistic flourishes. He would also have had to be an expert stone hewer and layer to ensure that intricate work fitted perfectly and robustly together. Building work was not solely the preserve of men either. The records show women working as masons’ servants and plasterers. 

Overseeing any project was the master mason, frequently assisted by an undermaster or a second master mason. Master masons were not just the most skilled stone workers: they were architects, designers and visionaries as well as capable administrators. They had shared responsibility with the abbey or nobleman who had embarked on the construction project for the financial accounts. These covered every aspect of expenditure: wages, materials and transport. The master masons were involved in the hiring and dismissing of their workers. 

Mason and carpenter, Bruges, 15th Century
Public Domain- British Library

In general, masons were a highly mobile group. They travelled to where the biggest and best-paying jobs were, including from country to country. Quarrymen tended to live locally to their work. 

In order for the best work to be produced, the most suitable materials had to be sourced. Huge quantities of wood went into building a structure like Canterbury Cathedral. But wood is much easier to source and transport than stone. And it could not be just any stone: it had to be soft and easy to carve. Canterbury’s cream limestone came from Caen in Normandy as it could be delivered by ship, rather than trying to move stone along medieval roads. 

Canterbury Cathedral Choir
© E.M. Powell

Such transport was not without risk. An account exists from the days of William I of a flotilla of fifteen ships that were sailing from Caen with cargoes of stone. Fourteen carried stone for the king’s new palace at Westminster and one was full of stone for Saint Augustine’s abbey in Canterbury. The ships foundered in a terrible storm and fourteen were lost. The one with the Canterbury stone was about to suffer the same fate. The master and crew prayed to Saint Augustine himself, bailed furiously and made it as far as the Sussex port of Bramber, where the ship split open and all the stone ended up on the sands. The master got hold of another ship, reloaded his cargo and delivered the stone to the abbey. A delighted abbot paid the master ‘a bonus of some shillings’. A relieved master offered half the money to God and Saint Augustine in thanks for his miraculous escape. 

Speaking of saints and miracles, Canterbury Cathedral’s most famous archbishop is another saint: Thomas Becket, who was murdered there on 29 December 1170. He was slain by four knights acting on one of King Henry II’s legendary outburst of temper. The knights’ original intention may have been to arrest Becket, who had been engaged in a monumental power struggle with the King for several years. But the situation quickly deteriorated, and Becket was hacked to death on one of the altars. The Martyrdom is still maintained in the cathedral and one can stand at the very spot. 

Sculpture of the sword's point at the Martyrdom
- site of Becket's murder in the cathedral.
© E.M. Powell

The miracles quickly began. Word quickly spread and the devotion to Becket the Martyr began, with his tomb becoming a major site for pilgrimage. 

It was a huge stroke of good fortune that the monks had chosen to place Becket’s body in a stone tomb in the crypt while they set about constructing a shrine. For on 5 September 1174, fire broke out in three cottages near the cathedral. Unknown to everybody before it was too late, the blaze spread to the roof of the cathedral. A monk, Gervase of Canterbury, wrote a vivid account of the fire, with its black smoke and scorching flames. Consumed by flames, the roof collapsed into the choir and its wooden seats. The flames rose up ‘a full fifteen cubits, scorching and burning the walls’ and causing terrible damage to the stone pillars. Anselm’s choir was destroyed. Gervase describes the reaction of those who witnessed it. He talks of people overcome with ‘grief and perplexity’ blaspheming at such an event and unable to comprehend that it had happened. 

Notre Dame Fire
Baidax, CC BY-SA 4.0 

A modern reader might dismiss this as an overreaction. But on April 15 2019, fire broke out in the roof of Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris and millions worldwide witnessed a medial cathedral burn in real time.  People’s reactions on social media and on news reports were almost identical to those reported by Gervase eight centuries ago.  

Back in twelfth century Canterbury, the monks were faced with the daunting task of reconstructing their fire-ravaged choir. They commissioned master mason William of Sens, known for his brilliance and technical expertise. Unfortunately for him and for future generations, William fell from faulty scaffolding in the choir in 1178. He was badly injured and never recovered. He was replaced and the work was finished by another mason, William the Englishman. 

Stone conservation work, Canterbury Cathedral
© E.M. Powell

The stonemasons of Canterbury Cathedral continue their work to this day, with a team of over two dozen. Their job is to conserve and to preserve the building. And they work with tools on blocks of stone brought in from a quarry near Caen- just as the masons of a millennium ago did. 

Anselm's Crypt in Canterbury Cathedral, original site of Becket's tomb.
The figure is Transport by sculptor Antony Gormley.
The work is made from nails from the repaired roof of the cathedral.
© E.M. Powell

References:

Foyle, Jonathan, Architecture of Canterbury Cathedral (London: Scala Publishers Ltd., 2013).

Gimpel, Jean, The Cathedral Builders (New York: Harper Colophon Press, 1983).

Guy, John Thomas Becket (London: Viking, 2012).

Keates, Jonathan and Hornak, Angelo, Canterbury Cathedral (London: Scala Publications Ltd., 1980).

Knoop, Douglas and Jones, G.P., The Mediaeval Mason: An Economic History of English Stone Building in the Later Middle Ages and Early Modern Times (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1933).

Urry, William, The Normans in Canterbury: Occasional Papers No.2 (Canterbury Archaeological Society, 1959)

Urry, William, Canterbury Under the Angevin Kings (University of London, The Athlone Press, 1967).

Woodman, Francis, The Architectural History of Canterbury Cathedral (London, Boston and Henley: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1981).

Websites:

The Worshipful Company of Masons

Canterbury Cathedral

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

© E.M. Powell

E.M. Powell’s historical thriller and medieval mystery Fifth Knight and Stanton & Barling novels have been #1 Amazon and Bild bestsellers. The third Stanton & Barling mystery, THE CANTERBURY MURDERS, was released in November 2020. Born and raised in the Republic of Ireland into the family of Michael Collins (the legendary revolutionary and founder of the Irish Free State), she lives in northwest England with her husband, daughter and a Facebook-friendly dog. She’s represented by Josh Getzler at HG Literary. Find out more by visiting her website www.empowell.com or follow her on Twitter @empowellauthor

Where’s the Hill? The Mystery of Abingdon

By Richard Denning

What's in a name?

Well, let's find out.

Abingdon is a small town in rural Oxfordshire that is tucked into the confluence of the River Thames and the River Ock. It is a pretty town of medieval Abbey ruins, half timbered houses and a stone bridge and has a strong claim to be oldest continually inhabited settlement in England with archaeological evidence of an ongoing population here from the Iron Age onwards. Unlike other places which have periods of abandonment, here one period of history seems to blend into the next – Iron Age to Roman, Roman to Saxon (early medieval), Saxon to Norman and on into high medieval period.

Yet in the name of the place there is a bit of a mystery. The name is of Old English in origin and seems to mean ‘Hill of a man named Æbba'

This then generates two questions. Who was Aebba and where is the hill?

You see, Abingdon stands in a valley. It is right next to the River Thames and certainly not on a hill.

So how did the town come by its name? To try and answer this we have to delve into legends, myths and what exist of records relating to the founding of an Abbey in this town as well as to the earliest years of Anglo-Saxon Britain.

Amongst the early manuscripts and charters recorded by the monks of Abingdon several survive in the volumes of the Cotton Manuscripts now in the British Library. Cotton was a 16th to 17th century collector whose Library preserved many of the early documents that are critical evidence in piecing together these earlier years. Many of the Cotton Manuscripts were named after Emperors. One of the manuscripts named after Claudius -Claudius C tells us about the founding of an Abbey at Abingdon in the 7th century.

The Abbey was founded by a certain Hean under the supervision of a sub king of Wessex called Cissa who was uncle to Hean. The Abbey was founded circa 680 A.D. The Abbey was later sacked by the Vikings but then in 954 King Eadred appointed Æthelwold, as abbot. He was a very significant figures in the English Benedictine Reform, and so under his leadership Abingdon became one of the most important Abbeys in England. Here it was that the Chronicle of the Monastery of Abingdon was written in the 12th century. Most of what we know including the Cotton manuscripts comes originally from that chronicle.

The chronicles record the history of the Abbey very well from the 10th century, but the original founding of the abbey and how the town got its name requires us to dig a bit deeper. 

The Treachery of the Long knives

There is a tale recorded in 9th century Historia Brittonum attributed to the Welsh historian Nennius and later elaborated upon by Geoffrey of Monnouth in his 12th century Historia regum Britanniae (The History of the Kings of Britain). The historical reliability of these accounts is debatable – particularly in the case of Monmouth’s work which is basically historical fiction. Never -the-less given the paucity of documentation these are all we have to go on for some of the events. The sections relevant to Abingdon relate to the so called ‘Treachery of the long Knives’ or the ‘Night of the Long Knives’ which was an occasion when Hengist and the first Saxon lords to come to Britain were invited to dine with Vortigern, High King of Britain. The Saxons were invited in peace but each took a knife hidden upon them. When the British were drunk, Hengist called on his men to pull out their blades and the result was the massacre of the nobles and leaders of the British. Vortigern was spared both as he was married to Hengist’s daughter and probably in order to be ransomed.

The traditions of the founding of the Abbey of Abingdon, mostly recorded in the medieval period contain a story that a young man survived the massacre and fled north from the scene of the atrocity (Stonehenge) and up the Thames valley. There he retreated to a hill which became a holy site and according to the legend the beginnings of a monastery. The man’s name was Aebba and so it was that the hill upon which he created the hermitage became the ‘Hill of a man named Æbba”

Another account in another manuscript about the founding of Abingdon Abbey talks about a monastery being founded by an Irish monk called Aben who came to the area “before the Saxons came to Britain”.

Whether our man is a British nobleman or an Irish Monk we have a man called Aebba or Aben coming to the area and setting up a retreat or monastery around the time the first Saxons are coming to Britain – so some time in the 5th century.

What about the Hill?

So if we have the origins of the Aebba or Aben in Abingdon, what then of the hill? Where did that come from? Abingdon lies on a flat valley bottom along the Thames with no obvious hill close at hand. 

In the Cotton Manuscripts (Claudius C) there is talk of land being granted to the monastery officially in the form of a deed. The deed contains the bounds of the land in the form often used in these documents – it literally describes a particular stream, a hollow, a road and a place where two parish boundaries meet at a hill. That hill is called Abbendun. Historians have examined this description and located the spot described. The map below is a suggested location in Biddle, M, Lambrick, G, and Myres, J N L, 1968 The Early History of Abingdon, Berkshire, and its Abbey, Medieval Archaeology XII, 26-6.

It is now believed that a hill once called Abbendum can be identified as Boars Hill some miles north and west of Abingdon. I visited the hill recently. Apparently in the last century or so the formerly bare hill side which afforded great sweeping views across the countryside has become a popular location for building on and along with the buildings have come trees. Thus it is difficult to both see the hill and get an idea what it would have one looked like.

We did locate a mound built on Boars Hill to allow views across the area but alas the view is blocked by trees! It is still pleasant area for a walk on a summer’s day however.

So what happened?

If a man called Aebba came to a hill now called Boar’s Hill in what is now Oxfordshire and made a monastery there and left his name as the name of the hill – Abbendun, how did that become the name of a town a few miles away? This raises another question. What in fact was the settlement called originally?

There is a manuscript (MSS 933) at Trinity College Cambridge which contains entries about the year 688 which refer to the foundation of the Abbey at Abingdon.

This talks about Hean under Cissa’s command bringing the abbey of Abbendun down from a hill to a village called Souekesham.

Can we be sure that Abingdon was once called Souekesham? Souekesham would mean the dwelling of a person called Soueke. There is another other place name in the area with a similar origin – the modern day Seacourt (Old English Seuecurda) – so maybe evidence of a couple of locations named after the same figure. Maybe Soueke was a 5th century Saxon who settled in the area. We know from the archaeology of the Saxton Road side at Abingdon that this place was settled by Saxons as early as the mid 5th century. The Thames river provided an easy route for Saxons to migrate into the heart of Britain and many Thames valley locations show early evidence of this settlement.

The evidence of St Helens

Cotton Claudius C and Cotton Vitellius A tell of the founding of not just a single monastery but a joint monastery and nunnery. Hean was to found the monastery and his sister - a certain Cilla - a nunnery. The name for the site of the nunnery was Helenstowe. Cilla is recorded as having made a small black cross of iron made (from one of the nails from the true cross) and was to be buried with it. Aethelwold’s monks digging in the area of what today is called St Helen’s church in Abingdon were supposed to have found the cross so it seems that Cilla built here nunnery on the spot of what today is the church of St Helen’s and Hean his monastery or Abbey were the medieval Abbey would later stand.

Putting it all together

So the story might go like this – a man called Aebba fleeing from the masacare of the long knives, or alternatively an Irish monk called Aben come to a remote hill in Oxfordshire in the 5th century and found a retreat or monastery. In time it is named after him. Thus Abbendum is named.

Two centuries later a brother and sister are given instructions to found a joint monastery and a nunnery in the area. There is already perhaps a religious community at Abbendum of sufficient significance for Hean to want to use the name. Yet the location is not ideal. A small river side village nearby called Souekesham is far better suited. There is a river for a mill and fish aplenty. There is space for both his sister’s nunnery and his monastery there.

So the existing name was taken and in time Souekesham as a name passed into legend and was forgotten – preserved only in an ancient manuscript in the early records of the Abbey.

Souekesham took the name Abbendum which in that form or as Abingdon is now the name it has been known as for over 13 centuries.

I find these origin stories of places fascinating. Often we walk about seeing names of places and are unaware what the story is behind them. What’s in a name? Often quite a lot.

~~~~~~~~~~

Richard Denning is a historical fiction author whose main period of interest is the Early Anglo-Saxon Era. His Northern Crown series explores the late 6th and early 7th centuries through the eyes of a young Saxon lord. The 5th book in the series, Kith in Kin is now available.

Explore the darkest years of the dark ages with Cerdic.

Richard's Website                                                 

No Reasonable Expectation of Privacy

 by Michael Paul Hurd

A kraamkamer (birth-room). Watercolour. [Wikimedia Commons]
CC BY (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0)

In the United States, the United Kingdom, and other developed countries, childbirth has only recently become a family event. Parents, grandparents, and even future siblings are all involved in the process. Of course, not all of them are in the birthing room without permission from the mother – but less than a century ago, childbirth was a very public event for royal families, especially when the baby would be in the line of succession.

Before the 20th Century, infant and maternal mortality rates were quite high, with little improvement having been realized over the previous several hundred years. It wasn’t until the early 1900s when the medical community began treating childbirth as a medical event rather than “women’s business” that the statistics switched in the other direction and improved survival rates for both mothers and their babies. It was during this time that the childbirth process moved from the mother’s home to a hospital setting, making technology of the day readily available to the attending physician – who was quickly replacing the midwife in most non-rural settings.

Let’s move the clock back several hundred years, to the time of Henry VIII. For commoners, childbirth was a private and dangerous affair. Pregnancy tests and prenatal care were non-existent. Maternal and infant mortality was high, with one in three women dying in childbirth and babies dying before their first birthday a frequent occurrence.

Royals, and especially the wives of reigning monarchs, had a totally different experience with pregnancy and childbirth, most notably in situations where the birth could potentially produce an heir to the throne. Royal or noble women had “pampered pregnancies” and as their postulated delivery date approached, began a period of “lying in.” Sadly, women in the lower social classes did not have this luxury as they needed to work right up until their labor pains started and delivery was imminent.

During the Tudor “lying in” period for royals and nobility, no men were allowed in the Lady’s (or Queen’s) chamber and the expectant mother was only attended by other women. The birthing room was decorated to resemble a womb (darkened and relatively quiet), and a midwife generally cared for the mother unless extreme difficulties arose that required a physician -- whose own knowledge and understanding of gynecological issues likely was limited and nowhere near that of the midwife’s.

Regardless of who assisted with or attended to a royal birth, public speculation likely abounded during Henry VIII’s reign about the royal marriages’ abilities to produce a viable male heir. Henry’s first three wives (Catherine of Aragon, Anne Boleyn, and Jane Seymour) bore only three children who survived to adulthood out of at least twelve pregnancies between them. Repeated miscarriages and stillbirths may have been the foundation for a requirement that English royal births be observed by outside parties to ensure that there was no “baby swap” of a viable male infant for a stillbirth or female child shortly after birth. Unfortunately, there is no written record of this requirement, and was over 100 years and three Civil Wars later before there was any record of a potential heir-producing royal birth being observed in England and elsewhere by outside parties.

It should also be noted that it was also customary for the consummation of royal marriages to be ceremonialized. Most European cultures had a “bedding ceremony” where royal and noble newlyweds were escorted to the marital bedchamber for their first… encounter… as man and wife. It was unlikely that the actual act was observed; rather, that the newlyweds were encouraged to do the deed once the bedcurtains were drawn closed and the well-wishers dispersed. In Germanic traditions, the couple was even expected to return to the wedding celebration after consummation. 

By Simon Pietersz Verelst -
Public Domain - Wikimedia Commons

Mary of Modena, second wife and Queen Consort to King James II/VII, reportedly was on public display in 1688 for the birth of the child that would later become known as “The Old Pretender,” claiming the throne as James III/VIII in the controversial Jacobite line of succession. Of the Queen Consort’s ten previous pregnancies, only one of the children lived past their first birthday. That one child, a girl named Isabel, died before her fifth birthday. James II/VII and his first wife, Anne Hyde (a commoner) already had a record of infant or childhood mortality. She was known to have been pregnant eight times; only Mary and Anne lived to adulthood, both with Anglican upbringing as demanded by their uncle, King Charles II, before his death and James II/VII’s accession.

The June 1688 birth was fraught with scandal in its own right. James II/VII had converted to Catholicism after Anne Hyde’s death, and as long as he produced no Catholic heir, Protestants tolerated his government as a temporary inconvenience. It was the popularly-held Protestant opinion of the day that the baby who would have become James III/VIII was smuggled into the birth chamber as a surreptitious substitute for a stillborn baby – which had some specious merit based on the devoutly Catholic Queen Consort’s gynecological history. However, the birth process was widely attended by over 70 witnesses, and the room was full almost to the point of overcrowding. Among them were the Lord Chancellor, the entire Privy Council, James’s mother, court ladies, and royal physicians. There really was no way that a “baby swap” could have taken place without being observed. The entire situation was extremely embarrassing to the Queen, as all of the Privy Council was reportedly at the foot of the birthing bed in observation.

The birth of a son to two Catholic parents should have excluded the Anglican Princess Mary from the line of succession. However, Mary and her husband, William of Orange, were offered co-regency following James II/VII’s deposition in the Glorious Revolution – and restored Anglicanism as the prevailing religion of England. 

Queen Victoria, Prince Albert and the Royal Family,
By Lytton StracheyArtist F. Winterhalter -
Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons

 
Queen Victoria and her consort, Prince Albert, were lucky in comparison to many of her predecessors. She was pregnant nine times, carrying each of them to term. Victoria made no secret of her enjoyment of the act of getting pregnant, but she seemed to detest everything associated with pregnancy, childbirth, and breastfeeding. By her eighth pregnancy, chloroform had come into vogue for pain relief during childbirth, even with religious opinions to the contrary. Regardless, all nine of Victoria’s births were attended by her husband, Prince Albert, physicians James Simpson and Charles Locock, and nurse Mary Lilly. Outside the birthing room, with the door left open for a good view, were senior British statesmen of the day, including the Home Secretary.

Prince Charles was the last British heir-apparent in direct line of succession, born on 14 November 1948, who was not born in a hospital. The Prince’s birth was a relatively private event: it was the first line-of-succession birth not attended by the Home Secretary since the inception of the Cabinet post in 1782. Even the Duke of Edinburgh was in another part of the palace, reportedly playing squash with his private secretary. By the time Prince Edward was born in 1964, Prince Philip was present in the delivery room – at Her Majesty’s request. She had reportedly become fascinated by the very modern idea of involving fathers in childbirth.

It was actually a carry-over courtier from King George VI’s reign, Tommy Lascelles, who pushed for an end to the archaic practice of outsiders observing line-of-succession births. However, Queen Elizabeth II felt it was important that the Home Secretary be “in attendance” when Charles was born. The issue came to a close when Lascelles offered a counterpoint to the Queen, claiming that the British Dominions (Canada being one) had as much interest in the forthcoming heir as did subjects in the British Isles. Lascelles reportedly argued that if the ritual of observed birth was enforced, there would be no less than seven government ministers sitting in the passage outside the Queen’s bedroom. Buckingham Palace announced an end to the archaic custom that very day; when Charles was born, only the Queen’s medical staff attended.

~~~~~~~~~~

Michael Paul Hurd was born in Michigan in 1959. During his formative years, Michael Hurd lived in Michigan, Virginia, and New Hampshire. Hurd is a veteran of the United States Air Force, serving from 1978 until 1992, and while on active duty, he earned a Bachelor's Degree from the University of Maryland/European Division during an assignment to England. Once honorably discharged, he was employed for another 26 years as a civilian employee of the United States Government and retired in 2018. It is during this time that Hurd developed a love for the written word and work on Lineage started in late 2018 and was completed in February of 2019, with a Second Edition being released in May, 2019. As of October, 2020, three more books have been released in the Lineage series and a fifth book is a work in progress, with publication likely before January 2021.

The Great Plague of 1665 Through the Eyes of Samuel Pepys

By Maren Halvorsen

The Great Plague of 1665, which struck London during the spring and summer before fading away as winter set in, is perhaps more meaningful to us now than it has been for many years. As we move through our own time of worldwide pandemic, we look back at earlier disease outbreaks, most famously the Black Death of 1348. The Black Death drastically reduced the population of Europe, with lasting political, social and economic consequences. But there was also the Great Plague, which victimized London just as it was recovering from the period of the Civil War and Interregnum.  It is estimated that one-quarter to a third of the population of London perished. We ask ourselves: how did people feel then about the threat of the illness, since they did not know what caused it and had no cure? How did they cope, emotionally, with its impact? What role did government play in the control of the epidemic, if any? These are all questions that concern us with our own crisis, but they weren’t, necessarily, the questions that interested these earlier victims.  

Samuel Pepys

The diaries of Samuel Pepys offer an important, if slightly smudged, window on the Great Plague of 1665. They serve as perhaps the most detailed source we have about the epidemic. Pepys was an English government official, a city man who not only had a prosperous career in the Admiralty but a busy social life as well. His diaries, which cover the years 1660-1669, show a man who loved nothing better than an evening out with friends, fine food, theater and music. He was acquisitive, curious, and industrious, and had a keen sense of humor that tended toward slapstick. He loved to play practical jokes on his stuffy colleague William Penn (father of the William Penn). Married happily to his French wife Elizabeth, he nonetheless engaged in frequent dalliances and affairs, usually with women of lower status who did not have much of a choice in the matter. Once a year, he celebrated the anniversary of his successful surgery for kidney stones, a brush with death that heightened his enthusiasm for life. There is a liveliness to his writing that can make him seem very modern; he doesn’t hesitate to describe his fears and flaws, from petty to profound. Because he wrote using encryption, we can wonder who was his intended audience: his code wasn’t broken until a century later, leaving his diaries open, finally, to the public gaze. The authoritative edition of the Diaries is that of Robert Latham and William Matthews, first published in 1972, but there were several earlier versions of varying quality.

The peculiar power of the diaries comes out with Pepys’ encounter with the Great Plague. He is not writing this as a historian, gifted with 20/20 hindsight; he is in the middle of what is happening. He does not know how things will turn out and so his reactions to the events of 1665 are immediate and authentic. From the earliest rumor of disease to the daily encounters with corpses lying in the streets of London, Pepys weaves his descriptions into the more mundane events of his daily life. Inevitably, we want more; we, at this great distance, know how important the 1665 Plague is, and it can be frustrating to read Pepys’ all-too-brief references to the disease before he moves on to his dinner plans and his arguments with his wife. But this is all part of his authenticity: Pepys was simply living his life, and to him the Plague was one of many things happening to him during the summer of 1665. We can watch as his uneasiness grows, from the first warnings of disease to its spread across the city:

Great fears of the Sickenesse here in the City, it being said that two or three houses are already shut up.  God preserve us all.  (Diary, April 30, 1665)

This is Pepys’ first mention of the outbreak. It highlights two key ways of coping with the illness: the city government’s decision to close up infected houses, and the reliance, ultimately, on God’s will. People did understand that proximity to someone with the disease made it likely that they could be infected, though they had no idea about the means of transmission. Infected individuals, and their entire households, were quarantined in their homes for at least forty days, based on the number of days Jesus spent in the wilderness. Given that the source of contamination was the flea population, to sequester people in their homes pretty much guaranteed that they would all get sick and most of them would die.

Bill of Mortality

Pepys’ own reaction was complicated. On the one hand, he had trust in, and obeyed, the government’s policies (including a curfew; a rule requiring the six-day airing out of hackney coaches after use by someone who came down with plague; and fires set towards the end of the epidemic, presumably to clean the air); on the other hand, he also invoked, frequently, God’s will, and thus went fatalistically about his daily business and activities as usual. Pepys was always very social, and continued to host dinner-parties, meet up with friends, and attend to his official duties undeterred by illness. He notes the closure of the theatres (a favorite if self-described frivolous activity of his) and the occasional closure of various public houses, but seems to have been one of the few with the confidence to move about in the city:

The streets mighty empty all the way now, even in London, which is a sad sight.  … poor Will that used to sell us ale at the Halldoor—his wife and three children dead, all I think in a day.  (Diary, August 8, 1665)

Human nature being what it is, Pepys also took note of those who resisted laws put in place to prevent the spread of illness: 

Church being done, my Lord Brouncker, Sir J. Mennes, and I up to the Vestry at the desire of the Justices of the Peace … in order to the doing something for the keeping of the plague from growing; but Lord, to consider the madness of people of the town, who will (because they are forbid) come in Crowds along with the dead Corps to see them buried.  (Diary, September 3, 1665)

Besides the government’s policies, citizens took it upon themselves to find other ways to ward off the illness. This was difficult, since the cause was not known, but everyone had their theory. As much as he relied on God’s will, Pepys did make use of possible preventatives:

This day…I did in Drury-lane see two or three houses marked with a red cross upon the doors, and “Lord have mercy upon us” writ there—which was a sad sight to me, being the first of that kind that to my remembrance I ever saw. It put me into an ill conception of myself and my smell, so that I was forced to buy some roll-tobacco to smell to and chaw—which took away the apprehension.  (Diary, June 7, 1665)  

The idea that somehow the disease moved through the air, a kind of miasma of poison, seemed like common sense to a lot of people at the time. Covering one’s face with a cloth, or holding sweet scents up to one’s nose, were seen as possible prophylactics, going back to the time of the Black Death. Tobacco was held to have medicinal qualities, and rumor had it that no tobacconist died during the Great Plague. This is the only preventative that Pepys mentions in his Diary. Because the disease was linked, somehow, to the body, even after death, social custom fell away in the face of fear:

I went away and walked to Greenwich, in my way seeing a coffin with a dead body therein, dead of the plague, lying in an open close belonging to Coome farme, which was carried out last night and the parish hath not appointed anybody to bury it—but only set a watch there day and night that nobody should go thither or come thence, which is a most cruel thing—this disease making us more cruel to one another then we are [to] dogs.  (Diary, August 22, 1665)

The social costs of the plague are laid out in this passage. It was not unusual for Pepys to run across dead bodies as he made his way across London that summer of 1665. But in this passage he considers the loneliness of that coffin, bereft of mourners, seen as a mysterious but potent agent of infection. The normal, traditional customs of grief were interrupted, out of fear and ignorance. It reminds us of our own pandemic experience, the sick kept separate from their families, with only Facetime to provide some sort of contact as they fight the novel corona-virus. The traditional gathering at the death-bed forbidden, funerals and memorials postponed.

Pepys’ diary is a curious mix of this melancholy alongside pure delight in living. In one passage, he dolefully describes the emptiness of the streets:

But Lord, how everybody’s looks and discourse in the street is of death and nothing else, and few people going up and down, that the town is like a place distressed—and forsaken.  (Diary, August 30, 1665)

Yet within a couple of paragraphs, we have this description of Pepys’ sartorial splendor (a subject he never seemed to tire of):

Up, and put on my colored silk suit, very fine, and my new periwigg, bought a good while since, but darst not wear it because the plague was in Westminster when I bought it.  And it is a wonder what will be the fashion after the plague is done as to periwigs, for nobody will dare to buy any haire for fear of the infection—that it had been cut off of the heads of people dead of the plague.  (Diary, September 3, 1665)

This is a good example not only of Pepys’ frequent pivot from fashion to fear, but of the all-too-familiar blend of rumor and anxiety. There was no real evidence that victims’ hair was being shorn for wigs, nor that anybody could catch the disease via such a route, but the very thought of it was enough to defer purchase. As it turned out, periwigs had a ways to go; it would be the French Revolution of 1789, and not the Great Plague of 1665, that helped to do them in, once and for all.

But Lord, how empty the streets are, and melancholy, so many poor sick people in the streets, full of sores, and so many sad stories overheard as I walk, everybody talking of this dead, and that man sick, and so many in this place, and so many in that.  And they tell me that in Westminster there is never a physitian, and but one apothecary left, all being dead—but that there are great hopes of a great decrease this week:  God send it.  (Diary, October 16, 1665)

This passage was one of the last that Pepys entered having to do with the Plague; it would soon fade from the scene, sent into hibernation by the winter cold. He was fortunate; although his in-laws came down with an illness, it is never clarified whether it was the plague, and his immediate household survived. Every illness in Pepys’ time was grounds for worry; that is why Pepys celebrated the survival of what would be to us a relatively minor surgical procedure. Death was ever-present, and every sickness was a mystery. Agues, fevers, infection, and the perils of childbirth made every day of survival a triumph. In some ways, as ill-prepared as the people of Pepys were in facing the Plague, they were mentally and emotionally well situated for its likely outcome. Pepys himself went on to live a long life of sociability, industry and amusement, with never a backward glance.

[Source used: Robert Latham and William Matthews, eds., The Diary of Samuel Pepys.  London:  Bell & Hyman Ltd., 1972.]

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Maren Halvorsen is a novelist whose most recent manuscript, The Bailiff’s Wife, was a Finalist in the category of historical fiction at the Pacific Northwest Writers Association annual literary competition.  Earning her Ph.D. in History at the University of Washington in 2002, she is a specialist in Medieval and Early Modern Europe.  She currently lives on the Olympic Peninsula in Washington State.  

The Truth About Halloween and Tudor England

by Nancy Bilyeau

I have a passion for 16th century England. My friends and family, not to mention my agent and editors, are accustomed to my obsession with the Tudorverse. Namely, that for me, all roads lead back to the family that ruled England from 1485 to 1603. Could it be possible that Halloween, one of my favorite days of the year, is also linked to the Tudors?

Yes, it turns out, it could.

The first recorded use of the word "Halloween" was in mid-16th century England. It is a shortened version of "All-Hallows-Even" ("evening"), the night before All Hallows Day, another name for the Christian feast that honors saints on the first of November.

But it's not just a literal connection. To me, there's a certain spirit of Halloween that harkens back to the Tudor era as well. Not the jack o' lanterns, apple-bobs and haunted houses (and not the wonderful Christopher Lee "Dracula" movies that I watch on TCM network every October, two in a row if I can). It's that mood, frightening and mysterious and exciting too, of ghosts flitting through the trees; of charms that just might bring you your heart's desire; of a distant bonfire spotted in the forest; of a crone's chilling prophecy.

The Oxford Astrologer

In pre-Reformation England, the Catholic Church co-existed with belief in astrology and magic. It was quite common to attend Mass regularly and to consult astrologers. "The medieval church appeared as a vast reservoir of magical power," writes Keith Thomas in his brilliant 1971 book Religion and the Decline of Magic. Faithful Catholics tolerated the traditions of the centuries-old Celtic festival of Samhain ("summer's end"), when people lit bonfires and put on costumes to scare away the spirits of the unfriendly dead. In fact, an Eighth Century pope named November 1st as the day to honor all Catholic saints and martyrs with an eye toward Samhain.

Soul cakes

Nothing shows the merger of Celtic and Christian beliefs better than "soul cakes." These small, round cakes, filled with nutmeg or cinnamon or currants, were made for All Saints’ Day on November 1st. The cakes were offered as a way to say prayers for the departed (you can picture the village priest nodding in approval) but they were also given away to protect people on the day of the year that the wall was thinnest between the living and the dead, a Celtic if not Druid belief. I am fascinated by soul cakes, and I worked them into my first novel, The Crown, a thriller set in 1537-1538 England. Soul cakes even end up being a clue!

In the early 16th century, Halloween on October 31st, All Saints’ Day (or All Hallows Day) on November 1st and All Souls’ Day on November 2nd were a complex grouping of traditions and observances. Life revolved around the regular worship, the holidays and the feast days that constituted the liturgy. As the great Eamon Duffy wrote: "For within that great seasonal cycle of fast and festival, of ritual observance and symbolic gesture, lay Christians found the paradigms and the stories which shaped their perception of the world and their place in it."

Sculptures smashed at Worcester Cathedral.

Henry VIII changed the perceptions of the kingdom forever when he broke from Rome. A guiding force in his reformation of the Catholic Church was the destruction of what he and his chief minister Thomas Cromwell scorned as "superstition." Saints' statues were removed; murals telling mystical stories were painted over; shrines were pillaged; the number of feast days was sharply reduced so that more work could be done during the growing season. "The Protestant reformers rejected the magical powers and supernatural sanctions which had been so plentifully invoked by the medieval church," writes Keith Thomas. The story in The Crown is told from the perspective of a young Catholic novice who struggles to cope with these radical changes.



My children love Halloween as much as I do. Yet somehow Halloween, the day before All Saints’ Day, survived the government's anti-superstition movement, to grow and survive long after the Tudors were followed by the Stuarts. It’s now a secular holiday that children adore (including mine, who are trying on costumes four days early). 

As for me, I relish the candy handouts, costumes and scary movies—and I also cherish our society’s stubborn fondness for bonfires and charms and ghosts and sweet cakes, for in them can be found echoes of life in the age of the Tudors.

This is an Editor's Choice and was originally published on October 27, 2011.

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Nancy Bilyeau is a historical novelist and magazine editor based in New York. She wrote the Joanna Stafford trilogy, a trio of thrillers set in Henry VIII’s England, for Simon & Schuster. Her fourth novel is The Blue, an 18th century thriller revolving around the art & porcelain world. Her latest novel is Dreamland, set in Coney Island of 1911, is published by Endeavour Quill. A former staff editor at Rolling Stone, Entertainment Weekly, and InStyle, Nancy is currently the deputy editor at the Center on Media, Crime and Justice at John Jay College and contributes to Town & Country, CrimeReads, and Mystery Scene magazine.

For more information, visit www.nancybilyeau.com.

RESEARCHING THE REGENCY ERA: Looking for Her-story

By Lauren Gilbert

Anyone intending to visit an archive or library to conduct research this year has found their plans cancelled thanks to COVID-19. Between travel restrictions and facility closures, access has been suddenly and severely limited. However, all is not completely lost.

When looking for information about people or events in the past, it is astonishing how much material there can be. Many primary sources may now be available on-line, if only temporarily. Various biographies and numerous histories can be found, sometimes written by contemporary authors, more often by authors of subsequent generations. Many of the readily available sources are written by men, although there are currently a number of excellent female historians now writing.

If one is curious about contemporary female perspectives on past events or historical personages, finding materials can be a bit challenging. A female perspective is invaluable, especially when one is looking for information about women in the past. At present, my research is focused on the late Georgian/Regency era in the United Kingdom, and I have found a variety of materials available to me via archives and on-line searches. However, some of the most fascinating were not produced by the individuals themselves, but by their contemporaries. Published memoirs, diaries and collections of letters can be found. Mrs. Harriet Arbuthnot, Lady Frances Shelley, the Comtesse de Boigne and the Duchesse de Dino, all moved in the highest circles, politically and socially, and interacted with the movers and shakers of their day. The diaries and memoirs of these four women give feminine perspectives of the times and places, and frequently make observations about the people and events of their time that give a wider view. In addition to being informative, they have the advantage of being entertaining and easily available, either on-line or by purchase.

THE JOURNAL OF MRS. ARBUTHNOT

Harriet Arbuthnot by Thomas Lawrence-public domain

Harriet Arbuthnot was born on September 10, 1793 to the Hon. Henry Fane and his wife, the former Ann Batson. Mr. Fane was a connection of John Fane, 9th Earl of Westmorland, making her a relation of Sarah Sophia, Countess of Jersey, and member of Parliament. The couple had 14 children, of whom Harriet was second to the youngest. Her father died when she was 9 years old. Her mother received a generous inheritance in 1810, which eased matters for the family.

Harriet Fane married the Right Honourable Charles Arbuthnot on January 31, 1814. She was 20 years old to his 46. He had been and continued to be an active member of Parliament and had held numerous government appointments, including Ambassador Extraordinary to the Ottoman Empire between 1804 and 1807. He was a widower with children when they married. Her family was not pleased with the engagement, due to Charles’ age and to financial considerations. The amount her mother and brother Vere Fane (who worked for Child’s Bank, owned by Lady Jersey) were prepared to settle on Harriet did not please Charles, but the matter was eventually resolved, and the marriage celebrated. Through her marriage to Charles, Harriet became a part of the political and diplomatic world, which was a source of fascination to her.

Harriet formed a close friendship with Robert Stewart, Lord Castlereagh (later Lord Londonderry) which lasted until his death by suicide until 1822. Subsequently, she formed a lasting friendship with the Duke of Wellington, who was also a friend of her husband’s. Although there were suggestions that she was Wellington’s mistress, most sources conclude that she was not his mistress, but a dear and intimate friend who acted as his hostess when needed.

Harriet was only 41 when she died August 2, 1834 of cholera, leaving both her husband and the duke disconsolate. Interestingly, Charles Arbuthnot took up residence with the Duke of Wellington until Arbuthnot’s own death in 1850.

Her journal was edited by Francis Bamford and the 7th Duke of Wellington-supposedly published in their entirety with adjustments for style and readability. Her views were conservative and aligned with the Tory party. In her journal, her primary focus was political. (Although she did have some choice remarks to make about unfaithful wives and various ladies of her acquaintance.) Her journals cover the periods 1820 to 1825 (volume 1) and 1826 to 1832 (volume 2). Volume 2 contains multiple appendices containing various letters and an index to both volumes.

THE DIARY OF FRANCES LADY SHELLEY

Lady Shelley, from a miniature by G. Sanders, 

in the possession of Spencer Shelley Esq.

Lady Frances Shelley was born June 16, 1787 to Thomas Hinckley and Jacintha Dalrymple Hesketh. (Jacintha was a widow with 6 children when she married Thomas, and was the sister of Grace Dalrymple Elliot, a famous courtesan, whom Frances met once.) Frances was the only child of this marriage. Her mother died when she was about 15 years old. She then went to live with her half-brother Sir Thomas Hesketh. She was presented at court in 1805, and became acquainted with Lord and Lady Sefton.

Frances met Sir John Shelley through the Seftons. He was also a particularly close friend of Lord George Villiers (later Earl of Jersey, married to Lady Sarah Sophia Fane, mentioned previously). He was 15 years older than Frances, known as a gambler and a womanizer, and a member of the highest society. He had served in Parliament from 1804 to 1806, so had political acquaintances. Numerous ladies had set their sights on him, including Lady Jersey’s sister. Frances’ brother and family objected to the match. Time and the good offices of Lord and Lady Sefton won out and Frances married Lord Shelley on June 4th, 1807. She was shy and younger than the women in whose society she found herself, and it took time for her to adjust. They had 5 children. Sir John inherited an estate in East Essex, which assisted their financial situation.

Frances met Wellington at Peace Celebrations in 1814. After the Battle of Waterloo in 1815, the Shelleys journeyed to Paris where they became part of Wellington’s circle. She became a close friend of Wellington’s, and a close friend of Harriet Arbuthnot. Sir John Shelley returned to Parliament and served 1816-1831. Frances and the Duke of Wellington socialized and corresponded regularly. Both Wellington and Lord Shelley died in 1852. Frances continued her diary until she made her final entry at age 83. She intended to write an autobiography but did not.

Frances died on the Isle of Wight February 24, 1873.

Her grandson Richard Edgcumbe, who admitted to natural sympathies, and possible mistakes as he attempted to be impartial, edited her diary. She discussed her youth; she was much younger than her husband, and not comfortable with women who had flirted with him in the past. Throughout, she was not above tart comments about many of the women of her acquaintance. The diary contains personal as well as political observations. It was published in 2 volumes. Volume 1 covers 1787-1817, and volume 2 1818-her Last Words at age 83 (1870). There is an end note by the editor in which he concludes with her death. Each volume has an index.

THE MEMOIRS OF THE COMTESSE DE BOIGNE

Portrait of the Comtesse de Boigne by J. Isabey-Creative Commons

The Comtesse de Boigne was born Adelaide Charlotte Louise Eleonore d’Osmond on February 10, 1781, the daughter of the 4th Marquis d’Osmond (whose lineage extended back to the 10th century) and his wife Eleonore Dillon, the daughter of an Irishman. Her mother was lady-in-waiting to Princess Marie Adelaide and baby Adelaide was born and raised in Versailles. After the French Revolution broke out, the family relocated in 1790 to first Italy, then England.

While living in England, she and her family met General Benoit de Boigne, a wealthy man 30 years older than she, in 1797. They were married on June 11, 1798. While the marriage improved her family’s financial status, it appears to have been unhappy from the beginning. He had made his fortune in India, and he apparently neglected to mention that he had a native wife and children there. In 1802, he bought a chateau in his native town of Chambery, Savoy. The couple had no children, and separated permanently in 1804. Madame de Boigne returned to France in 1804, living with her parents in Paris. After the restoration of the Bourbons in 1814, she and her family rose to prominence. Her father became ambassador to Turin, and subsequently to England. She accompanied her family. She became a close friend of Marie-Amelie, wife of Louis-Philippe.

Her father’s assignment allowed her to return to England in the spring of 1816, following her parents. Once back in France, the Comtesse de Boigne established a salon in Paris that became a popular meeting place for politicians and society elite, particularly between 1830-1848. She started writing her memoirs in 1835, although they were not published until 1907. She also wrote 2 novels. Comtesse de Boigne died May 10, 1866 in Paris.

Her memoirs contain her personal recollections of people and events. She seemed as interested in the people as the politics. Volume 2 in particular includes her observations on going back to London after 12 years, comparing her memories to current conditions, as well as her observations on personalities, including the Prince Regent and the leaders of society, and on social customs. I have a set of her primary memoirs in English in 3 volumes: Volume 1 (1781-1814), volume 2 (1815-1819) and volume 3 (1820-1830). Each volume has an index. When available, the complete set in French includes volume 4 which contains fragments from 1830-1839 and volume 5 that includes fragments from 1832-1848 with some unpublished correspondence.

MEMOIRS OF THE DUCHESSE DE DINO

Dorothea von Biron, Princess of Courland, Duchess of Dino, Talleyrand, and Sagan, was born August 21, 1793 to Anne Charlotte Dorothea von Medem, Duchess of Courland and her husband Duke Peter von Biron. (The duke had been married previously and already had three daughters.) The duke acknowledged Dorothea as his daughter. However, it is suggested that her father actually may have been Aleksander Batowski , a Polish statesman. She was the Duke’s fourth and last daughter. She was known as Dorothea de Courland or Dorothea de Dino.

In 1809, Dorothea married Edmond de Talleyrand-Perigord, a French cavalry officer who was the nephew of statesman Charles Maurice de Talleyrand-Perigord, in Frankfurt. The elder Talleyrand had promoted the match. The couple had two sons, Napoleon-Louis and Alexandre. In 1817, Charles Maurice de Talleyrand-Perigord was made a prince and duke by Louis XVII of France. He turned over the duchy of Dino to Edmond, making Dorothea the Duchesse de Dino. The couple legally separated in 1818. They were unsuccessfully reconciled in 1820, finally separating in 1821.

Dorothea’s beauty and charm won the affection of the elder Talleyrand even though he was 39 years older. Accompanying him as his niece, Dorothea was present at the Congress of Vienna in 1814-1815. From 1815 on, Dorothea acted as his hostess at his home in Paris. Her husband, Edmond, died in Italy in 1822. Dorothea had other liaisons (and other children), but remained with Prince Talleyrand he died in 1838. She held Prince Talleyrand’s papers and personal archives, and is supposed to have been involved in the posthumous publication of his Memoirs. Subsequently she spent time living in Paris and finally in Sagan in Germany. Her relationship with Prince Talleyrand was the subject of much speculation. She was his niece by marriage, and gossip also identified her as his mistress. She was aware of this, and acknowledged the rumours in her memoirs. There seems little doubt that she was, in fact, his mistress even though both had other lovers.

The Duchesse de Dino died September 18, 1862 after a long illness.

Her memoirs were edited by her granddaughter, Princesse Radziwill. The Duchesse had told the princess that she was leaving her the materials with instructions and advice, and the princess completed the project with assistance from the late Duchesse’s executor. The memoirs are fascinating reading, consisting of diary entries with annotations and quotes from letters (or even whole letters). They are a fascinating blend of personal and political observations, with references to letters from other people. Her diary addresses events and people in England as well as France.

The memoirs were published in multiple volumes in French. The volumes contain appendices and biographical indices (which provide only brief paragraphs with biographical data). I have a reprint set comprised of volume 1 (1831-1835), volume 2 (1836-1840) and volume 3 (1841-1850), available in English, and pertinent to the periods I am studying. Other editions with volumes covering up to 1862 are available in French. (The numbers of volumes in the complete set seems to vary depending on in which language and edition they were published.) Volume 1 contains her diaries and memoirs of her time in London (starting in 1831). She became friends with Lady Cowper (later Lady Palmerston) and with Princess Lieven, and maintained her friendship and correspondence with both ladies for years.

While these memoirs and diaries do not replace original sources, such as wills, complete correspondence, and so forth, they provide valuable insight to this entire period, and particularly feminine points of view of the people, events and politics of the era. While there are inevitable biases and fact checking is (as always) needed, I found all of these sources to be eminently readable and helpful. In these difficult times when access to original source materials is so restricted, they are invaluable sources of information.

SOURCES INCLUDE:

Ziegler, Philip. THE DUCHESS OF DINO A life of Dorothea of Courland, mistress to Talleyrand. New York: The John Day Company, 1963.

Castlesandcoffeehouses.com “Talleyrand’s Chateau de Valencay. » Author not shown. Posted July 16, 2018. HERE

Chateaudelucy.com “The de Boigne Family » by Antoine de Galbert (no post date).

Guizot.com “Duchess of Dino.” No author or post date provided. HERE

Heritagealive.co.uk “The Iron Duke’s Lady” by HeritageAlive!, posted August 2 (year not shown). HERE

History.blog.gov.uk “Harriet Arbuthnot and the ‘vortex of politics’” by Dr. Stephen Lee, posted January 12, 2015. HERE

marie-antoinette.forumactif.org “Memoirs of the Comtesse de Boigne » by Mme. de Sabran, posted Saturday, April 9, 2016. HERE

thebeaumonde.com “The Journal of Mrs. Arbuthnot” by Cheryl Bolen, first published in The Quizzing Glass, December 2010, posted online with author’s permission January 23, 2012. HERE

VersaillesCentury.com “Born at Versailles: The Author Mme De Boigne” by David Gemeinhardt, posted February 12, 2017. HERE


Illustrations:

Lady Shelley: scanned frontispiece from my personal copy of THE DIARY OF FRANCES LADY SHELLEY 1787-1817.

Others from Wikimedia Commons.

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An avid reader, Lauren Gilbert was introduced to English authors early in life. Lauren has a bachelor of arts degree in liberal arts English with a minor in Art History. A long time member of JASNA, she has presented a number of programs. She lives in Florida with her husband. Her first book, HEYERWOOD A Novel, is still available. Recently released, A RATIONAL ATTACHMENT is her second novel. A long-time contributor to the English Historical Fiction Authors blog, her work is included in both volumes of CASTLES, CUSTOMS AND KINGS: True Tales by English Historical Fiction Authors. She is researching material for a non-fiction work. Please visit her website for more information HERE .

Conquest of England 1066 AD. The battles of Fulford, Stamford and Hastings.

By Garrett Pearson

Prelude

1066 AD Proved a decisive year for Anglo-Saxon England.

King Edward shown on the Bayeux Tapestry

The English King Edward the Confessor died childless on January 5 of that year and failing to nominate an heir created a power vacuum for the throne. The only true claimant was a nephew of Edward’s, Edgar Ætheling. Edgar however, aged only fourteen and residing in Hungary was virtually unknown to the Saxon people and thus devoid of support in England. 

Three forceful claimants sought the crown, Earl Harold Godwinson of England, King Harald Sigurdsson (Hardrada) of Norway and William, Duke of Normandy.  

Each claim was tenuous; Harold’s claim cited a promise given him by Edward on his deathbed. Hardrada’s, based on distant ties to the former Anglo-Danish King Canute, and William by a promise he claimed given to him years earlier by Edward. William also claimed that Harold, whilst a detainee or guest of his in Normandy, had given an oath of fealty to him and promised support in his claim to the English throne. 

Harold was crowned King on January 6 by Bishops Stigand of Canterbury and Ealdred of York with the support of the English Witan, the Saxon assembly of nobles. Harold’s coronation was astonishingly quick, perhaps done before objections could be raised, previous Kings usually taking time to be exposed to their people and Lords.  

Rebellion and invasion

Harold’s estranged and younger brother, Tostig Godwinson, the former Earl of Northumberland and whom Edward exiled before his death, now sought to reclaim his Earldom. After raiding the Isle of Wight and the southeastern coast of England but to no gain and little effect, he looked for greater support against his brother from the other claimants, William and Hardrada. 

Allying himself with Hardrada the pair agreed to meet with their fleets at Tynemouth on the northeast coast of England. Hardrada, abandoning his long and unproductive war against Denmark arrived with three hundred ships and an army of approximately nine thousand men, consisting mainly of Norsemen but supplemented by vassals from Orkney and Shetland and some Scots mercenaries supplied by King Malcolm III. Tostig arrived with twelve ships, and supported by some exiled Saxon retainers and Flemish mercenaries supplied by his brother-in-law, Count Baldwin of Flanders.   

 

Battle of Fulford – September 20

Battle of Fulford - Mathew Paris (Public Domain)

After sacking Scarborough and the northeast coast, Hardrada’s and Tostig’s fleet turned into the river Humber and sailed inland, landing and disembarking at Riccall (Richale) some ten miles south of York (Jorvik). 

Two miles south of York at Fulford, they were confronted by brothers Edwin and Morcar, the respective Earls of Mercia and Northumberland and around five thousand Saxon troops. 

The Earls drew their army up along the north bank of the Germany Beck with Edwin and his Mercians on the right flank by the river Ouse and Morcar and the Northumbrians to the center with marshland to their left. Hardrada’s men were still coming in from Riccall when battle commenced, the Saxons seeking victory before all of Hardrada’s troops arrived. Owing to the high tide on the Ouse, the beck was also in flood forcing the Saxons and Norse to fight across it. With difficult conditions for both armies, Hardrada committed his light troops along the beck hoping they could hold the Saxons until more of his men came up from Riccall. Initially the Saxons enjoyed success, pushing Hardrada’s men back but as the heavy Norse troops arrived and were marched around the riverbank, where the tide had now fallen; they attacked the Saxon right flank driving Edwin and his Mercians off. More Norse pushed around the Saxon left flank, both contingents then turning to attack the rear of the Saxon center, cutting them to pieces. Casualties were heavy on both sides though the power of the northern Saxon army was broken and both Earls managed to escape.

Harald and Tostig marched eight miles east of York to Stamford to await and accept hostages and the surrender of the city, Stamford being chosen as it was a well-known landmark on the boundary of the east and north ridings of Yorkshire.

Battle of Stamford – September 25

With the northern Saxon army destroyed and believing Harold to be in the south watching for William, Hardrada sent half of his troops under his Earl (Jarl) Eysteinn Orri back to their ships at Riccall, the rest relaxing in the meadows by the river Derwent at Stamford.

Harold however, hearing news of the Norse invasion had force-marched north from London, completely surprising the Norse contingent at Stamford. Expecting no trouble, many of the Norse had sent their mail hauberks and shields back to their ships, now, unprepared and with hastily drawn battle lines, they faced the Saxons. The speed of the Saxon arrival suggests that most were mounted but whether they dismounted to fight on foot as traditional or attacked mounted is still a moot point. With Saxon numbers estimated at ten to twelve thousand men, Hardrada dispatched runners back to Orri at Riccall, some fifteen miles away calling for reinforcements.

The Norse were gradually pushed back. Seeking to regroup on more favorable ground, they crossed a narrow bridge whilst a lone warrior with a double-handed axe held it against the Saxons. Buying time for his comrades, he is reputed to have slain between twenty and forty men before finally succumbing to a spear in the groin thrust from beneath the bridgeboards by a Saxon warrior.

During a lull in the fighting, the chroniclers, Snorri Sturluson and Henry of Huntingdon, cite that a warrior approached Tostig and Hardrada offering Tostig his Earldom back. When Tostig asked what terms for Hardrada, the man is said to have replied “Only six feet of English ground or more, as he is taller than other men.” The warrior was reputed to be Harold.

Battle recommenced and Hardrada fell to an arrow through the throat, Tostig was also slain. Jarl Orri and his men arrived in late afternoon having ran the fifteen miles from Riccall. Committing immediately to battle they stalled the Saxon onslaught but succumbing to exhaustion and a foe that sensed victory they were pushed back, Orri being killed in the melee.

Late in the day, Harold offered the remaining Norsemen the chance to leave, never to return, under pain of death. The Norse casualties were so great that only thirty ships were required to take the survivors back to Norway.

Battle of Stamford Bridge & death of Hardrada (unknown artist)

Invasion and the Battle of Hastings 14 October

William’s fleet of some seven hundred ships, a mixture of warships and transports landed at Pevensey Bay on September 28 or 29. He immediately dispatched troops to invest Hastings town and to ravage the surrounding countryside. 

Harold, resting in York when he heard of Williams’s invasion set off south reaching London in four days. At this speed, it is thought he rode ahead with his Huscarls (personal guard) with others to follow on as soon as able.

Harold was urged to wait in London for the men from the north and for more men to come in but being a successful, confident and vigorous commander; he refuted the advice, and marched to meet William. Word was put out for men to assemble by the ‘Hoar apple tree” a well-known landmark, long since lost.

It is surmised Harold’s speed was a plan to catch William unawares, William however stole a march on Harold and the two sides came in sight on opposing hills on the early morning of October 14. William on Telham hill with his papal banner, a gift of support from Pope Alexander the second to aid his endeavours against Harold the ‘oath breaker.’ On Caldbec hill, Harold set his banners of the fighting man and the dragon of Wessex, his brothers Gyrth and Leofwine in support. His men formed up on a hammer shaped ridge at the hill front, above a boggy area called Santlache meaning ‘Sandy Stream’ and punned later by the Normans as Senlac, meaning ‘blood lake.’

William moved to the low ground between the hills expecting Harold to come down off Caldbec hill and fight him, Harold sensibly refused.

Battle commenced at 0900hrs with volleys of arrows from the Norman archers. The Saxons, in dense formation raising their shields against the incoming storm suffered little damage, William then dispatched his infantry uphill in an attempt to shatter the Saxon shieldwall. His men were met by a hail of missiles, arrows, clubs, stones and javelins, the Saxons roaring defiance with cries of ‘Ut, ut, ut’ (out, out, out) after a prolonged struggle and no sign of the wall breaking, William sent his mounted knights in support. However, with the wall unbroken the best the knights could do was ride in and away stabbing with their lances else hurl maces and javelins in an attempt to break the wall. 

With the Saxon wall showing no sign of breaking, the Breton contingent on William’s left flank broke and fled back down the hill, some of the cavalry floundering in the soft ground and a cry went up that William was dead. Some Saxons broke ranks and chased the Norman rout, seeing crisis, William threw back his coif and helmet showing himself alive and rode amongst his men trying to stem the panic. Managing to rally his men, the Normans counter attacked and slaughtered the Saxons on the open ground. 

A break in the fighting had both sides reforming, the Saxons adjusting their shrinking shieldwall and the Normans regrouping for another assault. The battle continued into the afternoon with the Normans again making no headway against the Saxon defence. At the height of a full assault on the shieldwall, the Normans again began falling back down the hill as if in disarray, the Saxons, once more sensing victory and against all commands, broke ranks and gave chase. On the low ground, the Normans turned and easily slaughtered the Saxons, who in loose order were easy prey to the mounted knights. 

With the loss of the men in the low ground, the Saxon shieldwall shrunk again. William, seizing the moment committed to a full assault by all his troops, his archers this time causing casualties in the weakened wall. The infantry forced gaps in the Saxon ranks, the knights riding in to widen and split the defences open, Gyrth and Leofwine both slain as the knights forced through. Harold, the last King of the Saxons was killed alongside his Huscarls, they closing about their King and dying to a man around him, such were the bonds of oath and warrior brotherhood.

Death of Harold depicted - ambiguously? - on the Bayeux Tapestry

The battle had raged since 0900hrs in the morning until sunset, about 1700hrs at that time of year making it the longest fought battle on English soil. The fighting had been fierce, William having three horses killed beneath him.

Estimates of combatants vary widely, the main consensus being the sides were roughly even in number and around eight to ten thousand men on each side 

Did Harold die from an arrow in the eye? The Bayeux tapestry portrays such a scene or is Harold depicted twice, shot by the arrow and then ridden down by a Norman knight? No one can say for certain how he died. Harold’s body was so mutilated that his mistress, Edith Swanneshals, was summoned to identify it, doing so by tattoos that only she would have been privy to.

Battle won; the conquest was far from over. William was crowned King of England on Christmas day 1066 but would be occupied up until his death in 1087 AD dealing with Saxon insurrection, Danish invasion and revolt by his own Norman Lords.

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Interesting questions and thoughts arise from this short but turbulent period:

If Hardrada had triumphed at Stamford, would he have beaten William and England become predominately Norse?

Were the Norman retreats a planned ruse?

If William had lost, English royalty, culture, language and laws would be completely different.

Military experts conclude that, if the Saxons had not moved from the ridge, the battle outcome had to be a win for Harold or at the very worst a withdrawal of the Normans.

~~~~~~~~~~

Garrett Pearson was born and raised in the northeast of England; he is married with two grown sons. Captivated by the long and turbulent history of his homeland he became a passionate student of English history and ancient military history. He is an author of Historical Fiction, a member of the Historical Novel Society and a guest blogger to English Historical Fiction Authors (EHFA). He specialises in Dark Age England and the Saxon/Viking wars as well as the Second Punic War between Carthage and Rome.

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Author’s email is garrettpearsonauthor@gmail.com