The Domesday survey was King William's way of ensuring that a permanent record was made of who held what land, how many men worked it, what it produced, and, most important to the King, how much it was worth to him. Astonishingly, the entries for Middenshire survive. They were ripped from Great Domesday in 1415 at the time of the ostracism, and subsequent rebindings had eradicated any trace of their former presence. It is almost certain, therefore, that the Domesday entry was one of the documents salvaged by Geoffrey Thuck. Here, by way of example, is the entry for Pendlebury:
Gervase Vert holds Pendlebury from the King. In lordship 3 ploughs; 30 villagers with 15 ploughs; 3 smallholders with 2 ploughs; a mudder 1 virgate. Harold the Saltmaker had 3 virgates before 1066, now nothing. Then, 18 slaves, now 20. Elmo holds 1 hide which belongs to the church. Value before 1066, 25s, later and now, 15s.
Not surprisingly, the King demanded services other than the collection of taxes from his lords. The following is a list of all the manors of Middenshire, the names of those to whom they were granted, and the services required to be rendered. Incidentally, the words in brackets denote the names of the manors as spelt in Domesday:
Pendlebury (Pendelberge)Sir Gervase Vert, granted the manor of Pendlebury on condition that, when doing homage at Court, he should always be ready to wipe the Royal Nose with his sleeve.
Puckworth (Bugeurde)Sir Rollo de Prycke, required to present to the King two pigs and a silver vomiting basin at Michaelmas.
Lower Thuckworthy (Dugwrde) Sir Geoffrey de Veau, to play practical jokes on those barons whom the King had identified as toadies or lickspittles.
Thuckham (Tucham)Abelard de Ville, to represent the King at the annual pie eating contest in Aix en Provence every September.
Middenbury (Medburg)The Abbot of Middenbury, Roger de Rambert, to supply the Royal Household with personalised stationery from the abbey scriptorium, and one small duck every 7th of April.
Round Island (Iselrunda) Guy de Tougere. The island was small, muddy and uninhabited. No service was attached to this grant, but de Tougere, a man who, even in those days, was regarded as "ripe," having bad breath, body odour and "Fermage dez Pedz" (literally 'cheesy feet'), was required to swear an oath that he would always stand downwind of the King.
The Domesday record certainly seems to bear out the fact that Middenshire was poor; the total value of the Shire (i.e. the combined annual receipts of the six manors) was only four pounds seventeen shillings, broken down as follows:
Pendlebury: fifteen shillings; Puckworth: twelve shillings; Lower Thuckworthy: fourteen shillings; Thuckham: six shillings; Middenbury: fifty shillings; Round Island: nothing.
The lords of Middenshire ruled their provinces on the whole benevolently, but sometimes by force of arms or taxation as the fancy took them. Abelard de Ville, the gluttonous lord of Thuckham, combined his gourmandish hobby with taxation by creating a Food Rent. On collection day, he and his obese lieutenants would descend on the villagers in his thrall and eat everything they had.
The Lord who, at first glance, had seemed the unluckiest, de Tougere, was soon found to be by far the most fortunate. On Round Island was found a particularly rich silt which came to be known as Lucky Mud. It was good for crops, the complexion, absorbing odours, earth closets, and was a superior daub at a time when wattle and daub was a popular building method. Thus he was able to sell his Lucky Mud to other manors. It was rumoured that he even started an illegal mud trade with the mainland; illegal in the sense that he failed to pass of a proportion of the profits to the King.
William the First was succeeded by his younger son. This second Norman king, named (with a startling lack of originality by his father) William, was quickly given the nickname "Rufus," allegedly in recognition of his shock of red hair. However, it is far more likely to have been from the embarassment of an incident which occurred in Middenshire shortly after the start of his reign. As a goodwill gesture to his people, and in an attempt to persuade the Almighty to overlook his father's faults and speed him on his way to Heaven, he gave substantial gifts to church and people. Every large foundation was given ten gold marks and every smaller house, six. Parish churches were given sixty shillings each, and the enormous sum of £100 went to every shire for distribution to the poor. Not surprisingly, perhaps, Middenshire was totally forgotten in this share out. Abbot Roger travelled to Portland to petition a very minor clerk to the King's Exchequer about this oversight, but gained nothing. Rather, he was the poorer as a result of the encounter, since the clerk borrowed half a mark (six shillings and eightpence) from the cleric. Ultimately, the complaint filtered through to the King, who was spending Christmas 1087 in London, but by this time the Royal Coffers were all but empty. All the Middenites received was a formalised letter of apology from the King and the half mark owing to Abbot Roger. A short time later, William increased taxes, and further burdens were placed on the populus by another heavy round in 1096. Not surprisingly, the people of Middenshire had very little time for the King after this. William Thuck believed that the death of William Rufus, which occurred four years later, was no accident. The arrow fired by Walter Tyrrell on that ill fated hunting expedition of 2nd August 1100 was, according to Thuck, a "contract" killing, planned by Middenites and paid for in ducks, there being little in the way of currency available. Whatever the truth of the allegation, the late, but hardly lamented Rufus was succeeded by his younger brother, who became Henry the First.
Information about the Twelfth century onwards was far more accessible to William Thuck and he was able to write with greater authority. Therefore, all further historical information will be contained within the body of his great tour of the island shire.
Friday, 1 October 2010
Monday, 23 August 2010
The Normans - Part 1
Shortly after the Battle of Hastings and his installation upon the throne of England, William the Bastard (later, the Conqueror) granted land to the retainers who had fought at his side against the Saxons. In some cases, the grants were unconditional, but in most, they were in return for services which the grantee was required to render to the King. Shortly after his coronation, William conferred upon Sir Geoffrey de Mandeville, one of his most trusted friends, the entire county of Middenshire. This was, of course, in addition to the many other lands granted to Sir Geoffrey in other parts of the realm.
Sir Geoffrey visited the county in December 1068, staying only long enough to burn down a couple of villages. He then returned to the King, who was at that time in Winchester, and said that, having seen the county, he really didn't want it. Far from being consumed with anger, William was probably secretly pleased, for it enabled him to divide the county amongst a number of minor retainers and clerics, who had somehow been forgotten when lands were apportioned after the conquest. Thus, men who had never before held land became tenants in chief, answerable only to the King, and William was absolved of his guilt at giving them nothing previously. For six men, Christmas came early in 1068. An additional gift was that of a Shire Reeve, to oversee the six manors and help the Middenshire lords to adapt to their new role.
The new Lords of Middenshire had little contact with the rest of the Kingdom. Living as they did in a poor shire where few people were above the subsistence level, they made a conscious decision to distance themselves from the greed and infighting which was rife between rival barons in the rest of the kingdom. The causeway made the shire easy to defend, always supposing any more powerful magnate had decided to indulge in some land grabbing. But, there was no reason for them to worry. The truth was that no one wanted anything to do with Sir Geoffrey de Mandeville's cast offs. So, these Middenshire Lords, on the lowest rung of the Norman Ladder, made the most of what little they had. After all, poor land was better than no land at all.
The Annals of St. Peter's tell us that the Lords set up a feudal system in Middenshire, modelled as closely as possible on that operated on the mainland. In this, the native English were held by the Normans in varying degrees of freedom or slavery. First were the freemen, who had their own land, but were still required to lend a helping hand with the Lord's crops at busy times of the farming year. Next came the villeins, who held 20 to 30 acres each of arable land, scattered in small strips about the common fields. They paid rent to the Lord (often in grain, animals or vegetables early on in the period) and were bound to spend two or three days a week working in the demesne, or Lord's fields. In practice, this meant gathering the manorial crops while their own rotted. A similar position was occupied by craftsmen, such as smiths and (in Middenshire) mudders, but their land allocation was rather less and there were less demands on their time by the Manor. Lastly, and at the bottom of the pile, were the serfs, or slaves. They held no land, were required to work the whole time on the Lord's own holdings, and were forbidden from leaving the village. There were a number of other restrictions on the lives of the people in general, which they must have found galling. They were forbidden from grinding their own corn at home, being required instead to use the lord's mill and pay for the privilege. In 1102, Ergot of Rye, Abbot of Middenbury, ordered all privately owned millstones to be seized from the serfs on his manor, and used them to re pave the floor of his tithe barn, but not before he and his monks, in a rare moment of relaxation from the rigours of monastic life, 'played at millstone rolling within the cloister upon the day of St. Gug.' Not content with making money from this, the lord also insisted that peasants baked their bread, at a price, in the Manorial Oven near the manor house. Perhaps this was not such a bad idea after all. The use of a roaring bread oven in the middle of a village made almost entirely of wood and straw would not have been a particularly sensible idea. The Annals record that in 1087, the entire village of Gargley was 'razed to the ground by a fierce and tempestuous fire, blame for which rested on a villein and a bunlet he had been unlawfully baking in his hovel.'
In overall charge of the villiens, and responsible for the work they did on the manor, was the Reeve. He could be free or bond, and was usually chosen by his fellows. He had to make sure that peasants rose early enough to work; supervised ploughing, sowing, reaping and all other farm work; kept an eye on the bone idle or careless; and presented wrong doers to the manor court. Basically, he was required to be 'a verray peyne in al mennes arses,' and could make life very difficult for those in his charge. He could also be corrupt. When, in 1290, the Reeve of Lower Thuckworthy was sent to Portland with £6 to buy new millstones, neither he nor the money ever returned. The manor court records describe the incident as 'A grave and strange mystery, and one for which there appears to be no answer.' Three years later, the Mystery of the Lost Reeve was still being talked about on the manor. Not all Reeves disappeared; most just used their office to their own private advantage and managed to cover up any irregularities when the Exchequer's men carried out their periodic audits. To their credit, Reeves were usually scrupulously fair they deceived and cheated everyone equally.
During the early years, there is no evidence of protest or rebellion by the native Middenites against their new masters. When faced with the question, 'Why not?', the Chronicler of the now Norman run Middenbury Abbey, who is clearly not a Norman himself, provides us with an answer of sorts:
These cruel men would stop at naught to gather such riches as were available from the people. Not an ear of corn, a nugget of dung, nor a single duck escaped their notice. Any man fool enough to make feeble entreaty to mercy was cowed by terrible frowns and cluckings.
So it seems that Middenshire was subdued not by violence, but by a few lower order Lords looking ratty and tutting a bit. The new owners probably wore mail coats and iron caps, which added to their fierce appearance, and got into the habit of baring their teeth and grasping their sword hilts in a martial manner if any dirty Saxon got a little too close. They were trying to live up to a reputation they had gained by the defeat of the Saxons at Senlac. In fact, they probably just wanted a quiet life, and the killing of peasants must have come very low down their list of Things To Do In Middenshire. In any case, their armed retinues were very small, as were the number of peasants at their disposal, and it would have seemed pointless to slaughter the very people they relied upon to work their land. Again, it should be remembered that these men were not experienced in causing misery on a grand scale, unlike some of their mainland counterparts. The past master of mayhem was, of course, the King himself, who laid waste huge areas of the North of England in the twenty years after the Conquest, in an effort to bring the native English to their knees in submission. The Middenites were unaware of their overlords' lack of experience in peasant management, and knew nothing of this murder and mayhem. They simply accepted the change. It is more than likely that they couldn't have cared less about the conquest, believing, rightly or wrongly, that a Norman Lord was no worse than any other. In any case, the system was not totally alien to the Middenites. Most of them had been subject to the authority of some individual more powerful than themselves, even prior to the conquest, so they were already quite accustomed to being treated like dirt; it was their lot in life. The Middenshire Lords were, on the whole, benevolent, and took pains to assure the people that the manorial system was nothing personal.
In the next post, we'll take a look at Domesday.
Sir Geoffrey visited the county in December 1068, staying only long enough to burn down a couple of villages. He then returned to the King, who was at that time in Winchester, and said that, having seen the county, he really didn't want it. Far from being consumed with anger, William was probably secretly pleased, for it enabled him to divide the county amongst a number of minor retainers and clerics, who had somehow been forgotten when lands were apportioned after the conquest. Thus, men who had never before held land became tenants in chief, answerable only to the King, and William was absolved of his guilt at giving them nothing previously. For six men, Christmas came early in 1068. An additional gift was that of a Shire Reeve, to oversee the six manors and help the Middenshire lords to adapt to their new role.
The new Lords of Middenshire had little contact with the rest of the Kingdom. Living as they did in a poor shire where few people were above the subsistence level, they made a conscious decision to distance themselves from the greed and infighting which was rife between rival barons in the rest of the kingdom. The causeway made the shire easy to defend, always supposing any more powerful magnate had decided to indulge in some land grabbing. But, there was no reason for them to worry. The truth was that no one wanted anything to do with Sir Geoffrey de Mandeville's cast offs. So, these Middenshire Lords, on the lowest rung of the Norman Ladder, made the most of what little they had. After all, poor land was better than no land at all.
The Annals of St. Peter's tell us that the Lords set up a feudal system in Middenshire, modelled as closely as possible on that operated on the mainland. In this, the native English were held by the Normans in varying degrees of freedom or slavery. First were the freemen, who had their own land, but were still required to lend a helping hand with the Lord's crops at busy times of the farming year. Next came the villeins, who held 20 to 30 acres each of arable land, scattered in small strips about the common fields. They paid rent to the Lord (often in grain, animals or vegetables early on in the period) and were bound to spend two or three days a week working in the demesne, or Lord's fields. In practice, this meant gathering the manorial crops while their own rotted. A similar position was occupied by craftsmen, such as smiths and (in Middenshire) mudders, but their land allocation was rather less and there were less demands on their time by the Manor. Lastly, and at the bottom of the pile, were the serfs, or slaves. They held no land, were required to work the whole time on the Lord's own holdings, and were forbidden from leaving the village. There were a number of other restrictions on the lives of the people in general, which they must have found galling. They were forbidden from grinding their own corn at home, being required instead to use the lord's mill and pay for the privilege. In 1102, Ergot of Rye, Abbot of Middenbury, ordered all privately owned millstones to be seized from the serfs on his manor, and used them to re pave the floor of his tithe barn, but not before he and his monks, in a rare moment of relaxation from the rigours of monastic life, 'played at millstone rolling within the cloister upon the day of St. Gug.' Not content with making money from this, the lord also insisted that peasants baked their bread, at a price, in the Manorial Oven near the manor house. Perhaps this was not such a bad idea after all. The use of a roaring bread oven in the middle of a village made almost entirely of wood and straw would not have been a particularly sensible idea. The Annals record that in 1087, the entire village of Gargley was 'razed to the ground by a fierce and tempestuous fire, blame for which rested on a villein and a bunlet he had been unlawfully baking in his hovel.'
In overall charge of the villiens, and responsible for the work they did on the manor, was the Reeve. He could be free or bond, and was usually chosen by his fellows. He had to make sure that peasants rose early enough to work; supervised ploughing, sowing, reaping and all other farm work; kept an eye on the bone idle or careless; and presented wrong doers to the manor court. Basically, he was required to be 'a verray peyne in al mennes arses,' and could make life very difficult for those in his charge. He could also be corrupt. When, in 1290, the Reeve of Lower Thuckworthy was sent to Portland with £6 to buy new millstones, neither he nor the money ever returned. The manor court records describe the incident as 'A grave and strange mystery, and one for which there appears to be no answer.' Three years later, the Mystery of the Lost Reeve was still being talked about on the manor. Not all Reeves disappeared; most just used their office to their own private advantage and managed to cover up any irregularities when the Exchequer's men carried out their periodic audits. To their credit, Reeves were usually scrupulously fair they deceived and cheated everyone equally.
During the early years, there is no evidence of protest or rebellion by the native Middenites against their new masters. When faced with the question, 'Why not?', the Chronicler of the now Norman run Middenbury Abbey, who is clearly not a Norman himself, provides us with an answer of sorts:
These cruel men would stop at naught to gather such riches as were available from the people. Not an ear of corn, a nugget of dung, nor a single duck escaped their notice. Any man fool enough to make feeble entreaty to mercy was cowed by terrible frowns and cluckings.
So it seems that Middenshire was subdued not by violence, but by a few lower order Lords looking ratty and tutting a bit. The new owners probably wore mail coats and iron caps, which added to their fierce appearance, and got into the habit of baring their teeth and grasping their sword hilts in a martial manner if any dirty Saxon got a little too close. They were trying to live up to a reputation they had gained by the defeat of the Saxons at Senlac. In fact, they probably just wanted a quiet life, and the killing of peasants must have come very low down their list of Things To Do In Middenshire. In any case, their armed retinues were very small, as were the number of peasants at their disposal, and it would have seemed pointless to slaughter the very people they relied upon to work their land. Again, it should be remembered that these men were not experienced in causing misery on a grand scale, unlike some of their mainland counterparts. The past master of mayhem was, of course, the King himself, who laid waste huge areas of the North of England in the twenty years after the Conquest, in an effort to bring the native English to their knees in submission. The Middenites were unaware of their overlords' lack of experience in peasant management, and knew nothing of this murder and mayhem. They simply accepted the change. It is more than likely that they couldn't have cared less about the conquest, believing, rightly or wrongly, that a Norman Lord was no worse than any other. In any case, the system was not totally alien to the Middenites. Most of them had been subject to the authority of some individual more powerful than themselves, even prior to the conquest, so they were already quite accustomed to being treated like dirt; it was their lot in life. The Middenshire Lords were, on the whole, benevolent, and took pains to assure the people that the manorial system was nothing personal.
In the next post, we'll take a look at Domesday.
Tuesday, 17 August 2010
Saxon Middenshire - Part 2
In 688, King Ine of Wessex succeeded to the throne. At this time, he decided to remove Earl Cyppa from Middenshire and take it for himself, probably as a result of some mistaken belief in its richness. However, standing in the wings was Nobba the Squeamish, Ine's half-brother and blood-kin to Cyppa. Nobba's claim to the throne of Wessex was, in reality, much stronger than Ine's. Although he was essentially a peace-loving man, Nobba decided to do battle with Ine for the Kingdom of Wessex. But, as he dressed himself in battle array, Nobba snagged a fingernail on a loose thread on his tunic, and promptly fainted. Ine sent a war band to kill Cyppa, then confronted Nobba. Having discovered that Middenshire was not the rich land he had expected, King Ine:
With contempt, decreed that Nobba should be King of Middenshire, this being the only kingdom over which he was worthy to rule. Accordingly, Nobba's men set upon his head a royal crown and proclaimed him ruler.
Thus, Middenshire became a separate kingdom. One might have thought that Ine would have taken the Shire for himself, as its position just south of Dorset would have rendered it of strategic importance. However, Ine discounted this, since any would-be rival to the throne of Wessex, attempting entry to the kingdom by sea, would have seen the Shire as little more than an enormous mud bank surrounded by treacherous shallows, and would have looked elsewhere for a safer place to land. This was, of course, to Nobba's advantage. It meant that he and his retainers were left in peace.
There is no doubt that Nobba's subjects adored him, but there is equally no doubt that he was not really suited to kingship, especially in those times. His nickname, originally coined by his father, was certainly apt. His fainting fit after the incident of the snagged fingernail was but one example of many. His delicate constitution knew no bounds. He became sick at the sight of seaweed, and slimy mud likewise caused his gorge to rise. He was a terrible sailor, and wine and rich food caused him agonies of indigestion. He was also known to turn pale in the mead-hall as the bards sang their sagas of past blood feuds and disembowellings. On one occasion, in an effort to prove to his subjects that he was not omnipotent, he sat in his throne upon the beach and commanded the waves to retreat (now, where have we heard a similar tale before?) His chair sank into the mud, and Nobba, heaving fit to burst, ran from the beach and hid from his people for a full month.
King Nobba died in 702. His subjects buried him in a great ship, surrounded him with wine jars and fine foods, and raised a great barrow over his head. Small wonder, then, that Nobba found no rest in death. His ghost could often be seen at sunset on top of his barrow, one hand clapped firmly over its mouth, condemned to retch and heave for all eternity in an everlasting attack of biliousness.
In 726, King Ine renounced the throne of Wessex and his kinsman Aethelheard "received the kingdom." The then King of Middenshire, Hwalig, hoping to bring to an end the enmity between his kingdom and that of Wessex, sent 'a gift of fine Middenshire mud to King Aethelheard, who received it graciously, but with much puzzlement.' One can just imagine the curiosity which attended the arrival of what was probably a huge iron cauldron, filled to the brim with glutinous silt. Fortunately, it appears that the gift was accepted in the spirit in which it was intended, and Aethelheard must have found some use for it, for in the following year, the so-called Treaty of Middenbury was signed. The two kings acknowledged each others' sovereignty, and Hwalig agreed to supply his Wessex counterpart with enough mud annually to re-daub the royal palace. In exchange, Wessex would never again lay claim to the Shire, but would supply military aid in times of dire need.
An attempt was made by King Hwalrus to produce a more solid alliance when he succeeded to the Middenshire throne in 747. He felt that the Treaty alone was insufficient, and thus made the traditional gesture of offering his sister in marriage to the House of Wessex. His proposal was treated with derision by his own Witan, who described her as 'a pig in a shift,' and, fearing that such a move might actually provoke war between the two kingdoms, the idea went no further.
In 754, Enig the Miserable succeeded at the age of 40. He was 'much troubled by sorrows, melancholy and great darknesses of countenance, so that many detriments were caused to the kingdom.' In other words, he suffered from severe depression, and found it impossible to think about anything except his own mortality. As a consequence, he never made a decision. In 777, he was suffocated in his sleep by his advisers who, tired of hearing him speculate on the time and nature of his death, had decided to put him out of his misery. They installed Eagnog, his ambitious son, who had no love for his father and had long yearned to wear the crown. At a ceremony of fealty after his coronation, Eagnog asked those who had 'released his father from a sorrowful life so that he might go forth to glory' to step forward. Expecting some reward, they did so and Eagnog had them summarily hanged.
Much of what has been related here is gleaned from The Annals of Saint Peter's, part of which survived and found its way into Thuck's cannon. A fair proportion of the document is dull in the extreme, but here are a few of the entries; those in italics are direct translation from the Latin:
777 In these days, Pussa came to the Shire, wishing to usurp Eagnog. He stood upon the causeway, calling to Eagnog and his Earls, 'Why do you not come forth and fight, or do your tails wind about your legs? Come forth now, if men you be.' And Eagnog did not hear, for his Mead Hall was far away. Pussa took up a horn, and blew a great blast, and still Eagnog did not come forth to answer his challenge. So Pussa went forward to the Mead Hall alone and demanded entry. But the King and his company were hunting in the East of the Shire. Pussa turned about and left the Shire. He reached the causeway once more, and the waves washed him therefrom, and he returned wet to his own Mead Hall.
793 In this year were seen terrible portents and omens. There were storms of rain, hail and snow; disastrous gales and grim waterspouts; the earth shook and swallowed up a herd of pigs. Great blasts of lightning split trees asunder, and a dreadful rain of ducks afflicted the land. And it was at this time that Bihtwihc suffered from dire rumblings in the bowels.
816 King Bihtwihc passed away, and his son Wucca received the Kingdom.
818 It was in this year that Wucca received baptism from the holy Cuffa, and gave land at Mede Burgh for the building of a house for the monks. And also in this year Cuffa was hallowed first bishop of the Shire.
838 Abortive raid on Middenbury Abbey by Vikings.
840 Ealdorman Aethelhun and the men of Dorset fought the Danes at Portland and lost. The Danes sailed from there to Round Island and set up an encampment.
841 Bishop Cuffa went to Round Island to preach to the heathen Danes.
844 Ailric received the Kingdom and ruled wisely and well for five years; but he was always afflicted with some gross disorder of the face. At first as a youth, his suffering was brought by sanguine blotches, and then at the end of his life by the white itch beneath his beard. In this same year the good Bishop Cuffa entered the Kingdom of Heaven.
845 Bishop Weonga, troubled by the behaviour of the people, which he still considered heathen in many ways, produced a list of penances and punishments for 'Idolatrous and unclean practices'. This gives a fascinating insight into the workings of the churchman's mind:
If anyone eats something which a mouse has defiled, he is to fast for seven days.
If a monk gives another a bowl of liquor in which a mouse has been drowned, he is to sing 100 psalms.
If a man break wind whilst receiving the Sacrament, he is to fast for five years, the first three years on bread and water.
If any man indulge in abominable practices in the shadow of a heathen stone, he shall do penance by battering his head against the North wall of the House (i.e. Middenbury Abbey) whilst saying the Our Father.
The making of detestable charms is utterly abhorrent, and shall be punished by the maker kneeling before Our Lord's altar for 40 days whilst scourging himself with the skin of the scaly worm. (This was most likely the Middenshire Rough Snake.)
This last item is interesting, since amulets and 'scaly worms' form part of another manuscript preserved by William Thuck. Entitled 'Leechdoms, Charmings and Glamours,' and written in Old English, it contains a large number of spells, charms and remedies for various ailments. One of these involved the beating of a lunatic with the skin of a Rough Snake to cure him; another, the eating of a small wheaten biscuit with the names of the four Evangelists written thereon to relieve toothache; and yet another, the drinking of a cup of ale brewed on a Monday, and containing seven worms, seven woodlice and seven spiders, to cure 'A morbid dread of crawling things.' One wonders in the last instance whether the cure was actually worse than the disease.
In 1016, Cnut became King of England and resolved that no part of the land should fall outside his rule. He and his men made their way to Middenshire, expecting heavy resistance from the Middenites who, his Witan said, had tails and communed with Satan. He was therefore rather surprised when he was met by King Codda, ten men and a dog. In the event, only the dog put up a show of resistance as Codda gave up his kingdom in exchange for an ornamental cloak pin and a handful of nuts. This done, Cnut began a royal progress of this newest part of his kingdom. One thing which quickly became clear was that, if the Middenites were in league with the devil, they had gained nothing from the alliance, since the only things of value he found were a silver coin and a phenomenally large pig. The animal, too dangerous to approach, was killed by burning down its sty. The carcase was rescued from the flames before it was consumed, and it was then butchered and sent as a gift to allies in Denmark. They quickly developed a taste for smoked pig meat; a previously unknown fact which may explain the present day Scandinavian industry which produces bacon both for home consumption and export.
In the next post we'll hear about the Normans in Middenshire.
With contempt, decreed that Nobba should be King of Middenshire, this being the only kingdom over which he was worthy to rule. Accordingly, Nobba's men set upon his head a royal crown and proclaimed him ruler.
Thus, Middenshire became a separate kingdom. One might have thought that Ine would have taken the Shire for himself, as its position just south of Dorset would have rendered it of strategic importance. However, Ine discounted this, since any would-be rival to the throne of Wessex, attempting entry to the kingdom by sea, would have seen the Shire as little more than an enormous mud bank surrounded by treacherous shallows, and would have looked elsewhere for a safer place to land. This was, of course, to Nobba's advantage. It meant that he and his retainers were left in peace.
There is no doubt that Nobba's subjects adored him, but there is equally no doubt that he was not really suited to kingship, especially in those times. His nickname, originally coined by his father, was certainly apt. His fainting fit after the incident of the snagged fingernail was but one example of many. His delicate constitution knew no bounds. He became sick at the sight of seaweed, and slimy mud likewise caused his gorge to rise. He was a terrible sailor, and wine and rich food caused him agonies of indigestion. He was also known to turn pale in the mead-hall as the bards sang their sagas of past blood feuds and disembowellings. On one occasion, in an effort to prove to his subjects that he was not omnipotent, he sat in his throne upon the beach and commanded the waves to retreat (now, where have we heard a similar tale before?) His chair sank into the mud, and Nobba, heaving fit to burst, ran from the beach and hid from his people for a full month.
King Nobba died in 702. His subjects buried him in a great ship, surrounded him with wine jars and fine foods, and raised a great barrow over his head. Small wonder, then, that Nobba found no rest in death. His ghost could often be seen at sunset on top of his barrow, one hand clapped firmly over its mouth, condemned to retch and heave for all eternity in an everlasting attack of biliousness.
In 726, King Ine renounced the throne of Wessex and his kinsman Aethelheard "received the kingdom." The then King of Middenshire, Hwalig, hoping to bring to an end the enmity between his kingdom and that of Wessex, sent 'a gift of fine Middenshire mud to King Aethelheard, who received it graciously, but with much puzzlement.' One can just imagine the curiosity which attended the arrival of what was probably a huge iron cauldron, filled to the brim with glutinous silt. Fortunately, it appears that the gift was accepted in the spirit in which it was intended, and Aethelheard must have found some use for it, for in the following year, the so-called Treaty of Middenbury was signed. The two kings acknowledged each others' sovereignty, and Hwalig agreed to supply his Wessex counterpart with enough mud annually to re-daub the royal palace. In exchange, Wessex would never again lay claim to the Shire, but would supply military aid in times of dire need.
An attempt was made by King Hwalrus to produce a more solid alliance when he succeeded to the Middenshire throne in 747. He felt that the Treaty alone was insufficient, and thus made the traditional gesture of offering his sister in marriage to the House of Wessex. His proposal was treated with derision by his own Witan, who described her as 'a pig in a shift,' and, fearing that such a move might actually provoke war between the two kingdoms, the idea went no further.
In 754, Enig the Miserable succeeded at the age of 40. He was 'much troubled by sorrows, melancholy and great darknesses of countenance, so that many detriments were caused to the kingdom.' In other words, he suffered from severe depression, and found it impossible to think about anything except his own mortality. As a consequence, he never made a decision. In 777, he was suffocated in his sleep by his advisers who, tired of hearing him speculate on the time and nature of his death, had decided to put him out of his misery. They installed Eagnog, his ambitious son, who had no love for his father and had long yearned to wear the crown. At a ceremony of fealty after his coronation, Eagnog asked those who had 'released his father from a sorrowful life so that he might go forth to glory' to step forward. Expecting some reward, they did so and Eagnog had them summarily hanged.
Much of what has been related here is gleaned from The Annals of Saint Peter's, part of which survived and found its way into Thuck's cannon. A fair proportion of the document is dull in the extreme, but here are a few of the entries; those in italics are direct translation from the Latin:
777 In these days, Pussa came to the Shire, wishing to usurp Eagnog. He stood upon the causeway, calling to Eagnog and his Earls, 'Why do you not come forth and fight, or do your tails wind about your legs? Come forth now, if men you be.' And Eagnog did not hear, for his Mead Hall was far away. Pussa took up a horn, and blew a great blast, and still Eagnog did not come forth to answer his challenge. So Pussa went forward to the Mead Hall alone and demanded entry. But the King and his company were hunting in the East of the Shire. Pussa turned about and left the Shire. He reached the causeway once more, and the waves washed him therefrom, and he returned wet to his own Mead Hall.
793 In this year were seen terrible portents and omens. There were storms of rain, hail and snow; disastrous gales and grim waterspouts; the earth shook and swallowed up a herd of pigs. Great blasts of lightning split trees asunder, and a dreadful rain of ducks afflicted the land. And it was at this time that Bihtwihc suffered from dire rumblings in the bowels.
816 King Bihtwihc passed away, and his son Wucca received the Kingdom.
818 It was in this year that Wucca received baptism from the holy Cuffa, and gave land at Mede Burgh for the building of a house for the monks. And also in this year Cuffa was hallowed first bishop of the Shire.
838 Abortive raid on Middenbury Abbey by Vikings.
840 Ealdorman Aethelhun and the men of Dorset fought the Danes at Portland and lost. The Danes sailed from there to Round Island and set up an encampment.
841 Bishop Cuffa went to Round Island to preach to the heathen Danes.
844 Ailric received the Kingdom and ruled wisely and well for five years; but he was always afflicted with some gross disorder of the face. At first as a youth, his suffering was brought by sanguine blotches, and then at the end of his life by the white itch beneath his beard. In this same year the good Bishop Cuffa entered the Kingdom of Heaven.
845 Bishop Weonga, troubled by the behaviour of the people, which he still considered heathen in many ways, produced a list of penances and punishments for 'Idolatrous and unclean practices'. This gives a fascinating insight into the workings of the churchman's mind:
If anyone eats something which a mouse has defiled, he is to fast for seven days.
If a monk gives another a bowl of liquor in which a mouse has been drowned, he is to sing 100 psalms.
If a man break wind whilst receiving the Sacrament, he is to fast for five years, the first three years on bread and water.
If any man indulge in abominable practices in the shadow of a heathen stone, he shall do penance by battering his head against the North wall of the House (i.e. Middenbury Abbey) whilst saying the Our Father.
The making of detestable charms is utterly abhorrent, and shall be punished by the maker kneeling before Our Lord's altar for 40 days whilst scourging himself with the skin of the scaly worm. (This was most likely the Middenshire Rough Snake.)
This last item is interesting, since amulets and 'scaly worms' form part of another manuscript preserved by William Thuck. Entitled 'Leechdoms, Charmings and Glamours,' and written in Old English, it contains a large number of spells, charms and remedies for various ailments. One of these involved the beating of a lunatic with the skin of a Rough Snake to cure him; another, the eating of a small wheaten biscuit with the names of the four Evangelists written thereon to relieve toothache; and yet another, the drinking of a cup of ale brewed on a Monday, and containing seven worms, seven woodlice and seven spiders, to cure 'A morbid dread of crawling things.' One wonders in the last instance whether the cure was actually worse than the disease.
In 1016, Cnut became King of England and resolved that no part of the land should fall outside his rule. He and his men made their way to Middenshire, expecting heavy resistance from the Middenites who, his Witan said, had tails and communed with Satan. He was therefore rather surprised when he was met by King Codda, ten men and a dog. In the event, only the dog put up a show of resistance as Codda gave up his kingdom in exchange for an ornamental cloak pin and a handful of nuts. This done, Cnut began a royal progress of this newest part of his kingdom. One thing which quickly became clear was that, if the Middenites were in league with the devil, they had gained nothing from the alliance, since the only things of value he found were a silver coin and a phenomenally large pig. The animal, too dangerous to approach, was killed by burning down its sty. The carcase was rescued from the flames before it was consumed, and it was then butchered and sent as a gift to allies in Denmark. They quickly developed a taste for smoked pig meat; a previously unknown fact which may explain the present day Scandinavian industry which produces bacon both for home consumption and export.
In the next post we'll hear about the Normans in Middenshire.
Monday, 16 August 2010
Saxon Middenshire - Part 1
After the Dark Ages, Britain was subjected to a number of invasions; the history books are full of descriptions of the Angles, Saxons and Jutes, who ultimately settled in this country and, after intermarrying with its existing inhabitants, contributed to the rich diversity of peoples we have today. We are mainly concerned with the Saxons, the names of whose kingdoms are still familiar to us; Wessex, Mercia, Northumbria, and so on. However, until now, the Kingdom of Middenshire has remained unknown, and it is time to redress the balance.
The Saxons began to arrive on our shores in the middle of the 5th century. It is likely that Middenshire was one of their first points of entry, but there is no firm evidence of this. What does seem evident, however, is that the native population did not welcome these new arrivals with open arms. The chronicler Ninnius, writing in the 7th century, records that in about the year 500:
The Leader Arsor or Arsorius, son of Mumbus the Usurper, did battle at the place known as Bedum, and killed many of the invaders that had come ashore, and he was victorious. And the chieftain of the invaders and his thanes went to Arsor, and reviled him for his attack. For, they said, Arsor was superior in numbers, and he had gone forth to do battle before the invaders were prepared. And Arsor slew them and made a great pile of their heads.
The likelihood is that Arsor was a Briton, probably, of mixed British and Roman blood. It is interesting to note the similarity between 'Arsor' and 'Arthur,' the supposed King of the Britons, and the closeness of 'Bedum' to 'Badon,' the scene of one of Arthur's battles which has not as yet been identified. Little is known about Arsor, other than what is recorded by Ninnius. He claims that 'Arsor used magic to defeat the Saxons at the battle of Goidoc, Making himself and his men like unto trees, he returned to human form as the foemen approached and slew them.' It is more likely that he and his men just hid behind a few trees and then leapt out from behind them as the Saxons approached. Ninnius also claimed that Arsor had a magic club, called Froc the Brow-Beater, from one blow of which a man would be killed. This was probably just an extremely heavy club which, if wielded with sufficient force, was bound to kill its owner's adversary. Like most of his contemporaries, Ninnius seemed to have problems coping with apparently simple concepts. For example, his manuscript describes elsewhere the 'Wonders of the country' (i.e. Middenshire), and mentions 'A miraculous tree, hung with leaves of the deepest green which are as sharp as needles and fall not, even when the season of the snows is upon the land.' He was talking about a pine tree.
Whoever Arsor was, and however stern his resistance, he was doomed to fail in his bid to keep Britain British. In 530, so the Anglo Saxon Chronicles tells us, the Saxon Cerdic and his son Cynric, who had first reached Britain some 35 years before, seized the Isle of Wight. Four years later, Cerdic died, and the island was given to his kinsmen Stuf and Wihtgar (after whom, presumably, Wight is named.) Hereafter, the Anglo Saxon Chronicles are silent regarding Stuf, but this omission is rectified by the Annals of Saint Peter's, the Abbey in Middenbury (albeit they were written many years later), which state:
In this year (543), Stuf and a number of his kinsmen arrived in Middenshire and set up an Earldom with the leave of the King. (i.e. Cynric of Wessex).
At the time Stuf was given the Shire, it had already acquired the name 'Mede Scire,' 'Meduscire' or 'Meod Scire,' which may translate as 'The Mead Shire' or 'The Shire of Honey.' (Albeit 'hunig' was the more usual word for 'honey'.) It may well be that in the time between the arrival of the first Saxons and the creation of Stuf's Earldom, someone named 'Meoda' or 'Medda' gave his name to the county. If the 'Mead Shire' idea is correct, it could well be that we are privy to a 1,400 year old joke, since William Thuck makes specific mention of Middenshire honey and its unpleasant taste.
From 543 until about 580, little is known about the Shire. Then, in the year 580, the pagan Saxons, used to worshipping Woden and their other gods, came face to face with Christianity in the shape of Saint Borroc.
St.Borroc the Indomitable
St. Borroc the Indomitable, born in Ireland in the middle of the sixth century, is credited with having reintroduced Christianity to Middenshire after its disappearance during the Roman occupation. Thrown out of Ireland for being too voluble about his beliefs, he allegedly sailed to Middenshire in a stone coffin with nothing but a small bag of shamrock for sustenance. A violently devout Christian who took every opportunity to proclaim his faith, on reaching the shire he waded ashore and fell to his knees in gratitude for his safe deliverance. He immediately built himself a small cell in a secluded spot and, relying only on the bounty of the hedgerows and seashore, set out to convert the local warlike Saxons. He would hide behind a roadside bush and leap out in front of groups of armed men, yelling, 'Hear me, oh you heathens! There is only one true God!' and then rush madly away, only barely managing to dodge the spears hurled after him. He was a great believer in the positive power of prayer, and often inscribed blessings on small spherical rocks, which he then threw at passing Saxons. More often than not, the recipient knew nothing of the purpose behind the stone which struck him on the head and rendered him unconscious. (N.B. It is interesting to note that the word 'Borroc' passed into the Middenshire dialect as the name for any small round stone or other spherical object.)
Eventually, Saxon spies ascertained Borroc's name and purpose, and organised themselves to combat his attacks. Any Saxons travelling through wooded ways would post a lookout. On seeing any unusual movement or hearing anything from the undergrowth, he would shout, 'Hwaet! Borroc! Borroc!' The men would then form a circle facing outwards, and fire their bows in all directions. It was on one of these occasions that the holy man lost his life. Slowed down by his diet of nuts and limpets, he failed to avoid the lethal volley. Thus, with arrows feathering his saintly bottom, he died.
So it was that Christianity once more disappeared from the Shire, but on this occasion, the disappearance was for a much shorter period. In 597, St. Augustine began his mission to Britain, and St. Wenticus, one of his disciples, ultimately found his way to Middenshire. The holy man appeared before Earl Dybba, dressed all in white, chanting, and holding a wooden fish, as a tangible representation of the traditional Christian symbol. Dybba immediately ordered that Wenticus be strangled with a great eel, and then seized and ate the fish. When, a few days later, Dybba died in agony, his men took it as a sign that they should renounce their pagan beliefs. They destroyed all totems and idols and set up altars to their new God. However, the pendulum swung this way and that over the next hundred or so years, most Earls wishing to "hedge their bets" and worshipping before both pagan and Christian altars.
Here ends the first part of Saxon Middenshire.
The Saxons began to arrive on our shores in the middle of the 5th century. It is likely that Middenshire was one of their first points of entry, but there is no firm evidence of this. What does seem evident, however, is that the native population did not welcome these new arrivals with open arms. The chronicler Ninnius, writing in the 7th century, records that in about the year 500:
The Leader Arsor or Arsorius, son of Mumbus the Usurper, did battle at the place known as Bedum, and killed many of the invaders that had come ashore, and he was victorious. And the chieftain of the invaders and his thanes went to Arsor, and reviled him for his attack. For, they said, Arsor was superior in numbers, and he had gone forth to do battle before the invaders were prepared. And Arsor slew them and made a great pile of their heads.
The likelihood is that Arsor was a Briton, probably, of mixed British and Roman blood. It is interesting to note the similarity between 'Arsor' and 'Arthur,' the supposed King of the Britons, and the closeness of 'Bedum' to 'Badon,' the scene of one of Arthur's battles which has not as yet been identified. Little is known about Arsor, other than what is recorded by Ninnius. He claims that 'Arsor used magic to defeat the Saxons at the battle of Goidoc, Making himself and his men like unto trees, he returned to human form as the foemen approached and slew them.' It is more likely that he and his men just hid behind a few trees and then leapt out from behind them as the Saxons approached. Ninnius also claimed that Arsor had a magic club, called Froc the Brow-Beater, from one blow of which a man would be killed. This was probably just an extremely heavy club which, if wielded with sufficient force, was bound to kill its owner's adversary. Like most of his contemporaries, Ninnius seemed to have problems coping with apparently simple concepts. For example, his manuscript describes elsewhere the 'Wonders of the country' (i.e. Middenshire), and mentions 'A miraculous tree, hung with leaves of the deepest green which are as sharp as needles and fall not, even when the season of the snows is upon the land.' He was talking about a pine tree.
Whoever Arsor was, and however stern his resistance, he was doomed to fail in his bid to keep Britain British. In 530, so the Anglo Saxon Chronicles tells us, the Saxon Cerdic and his son Cynric, who had first reached Britain some 35 years before, seized the Isle of Wight. Four years later, Cerdic died, and the island was given to his kinsmen Stuf and Wihtgar (after whom, presumably, Wight is named.) Hereafter, the Anglo Saxon Chronicles are silent regarding Stuf, but this omission is rectified by the Annals of Saint Peter's, the Abbey in Middenbury (albeit they were written many years later), which state:
In this year (543), Stuf and a number of his kinsmen arrived in Middenshire and set up an Earldom with the leave of the King. (i.e. Cynric of Wessex).
At the time Stuf was given the Shire, it had already acquired the name 'Mede Scire,' 'Meduscire' or 'Meod Scire,' which may translate as 'The Mead Shire' or 'The Shire of Honey.' (Albeit 'hunig' was the more usual word for 'honey'.) It may well be that in the time between the arrival of the first Saxons and the creation of Stuf's Earldom, someone named 'Meoda' or 'Medda' gave his name to the county. If the 'Mead Shire' idea is correct, it could well be that we are privy to a 1,400 year old joke, since William Thuck makes specific mention of Middenshire honey and its unpleasant taste.
From 543 until about 580, little is known about the Shire. Then, in the year 580, the pagan Saxons, used to worshipping Woden and their other gods, came face to face with Christianity in the shape of Saint Borroc.
St.Borroc the Indomitable
St. Borroc the Indomitable, born in Ireland in the middle of the sixth century, is credited with having reintroduced Christianity to Middenshire after its disappearance during the Roman occupation. Thrown out of Ireland for being too voluble about his beliefs, he allegedly sailed to Middenshire in a stone coffin with nothing but a small bag of shamrock for sustenance. A violently devout Christian who took every opportunity to proclaim his faith, on reaching the shire he waded ashore and fell to his knees in gratitude for his safe deliverance. He immediately built himself a small cell in a secluded spot and, relying only on the bounty of the hedgerows and seashore, set out to convert the local warlike Saxons. He would hide behind a roadside bush and leap out in front of groups of armed men, yelling, 'Hear me, oh you heathens! There is only one true God!' and then rush madly away, only barely managing to dodge the spears hurled after him. He was a great believer in the positive power of prayer, and often inscribed blessings on small spherical rocks, which he then threw at passing Saxons. More often than not, the recipient knew nothing of the purpose behind the stone which struck him on the head and rendered him unconscious. (N.B. It is interesting to note that the word 'Borroc' passed into the Middenshire dialect as the name for any small round stone or other spherical object.)
Eventually, Saxon spies ascertained Borroc's name and purpose, and organised themselves to combat his attacks. Any Saxons travelling through wooded ways would post a lookout. On seeing any unusual movement or hearing anything from the undergrowth, he would shout, 'Hwaet! Borroc! Borroc!' The men would then form a circle facing outwards, and fire their bows in all directions. It was on one of these occasions that the holy man lost his life. Slowed down by his diet of nuts and limpets, he failed to avoid the lethal volley. Thus, with arrows feathering his saintly bottom, he died.
So it was that Christianity once more disappeared from the Shire, but on this occasion, the disappearance was for a much shorter period. In 597, St. Augustine began his mission to Britain, and St. Wenticus, one of his disciples, ultimately found his way to Middenshire. The holy man appeared before Earl Dybba, dressed all in white, chanting, and holding a wooden fish, as a tangible representation of the traditional Christian symbol. Dybba immediately ordered that Wenticus be strangled with a great eel, and then seized and ate the fish. When, a few days later, Dybba died in agony, his men took it as a sign that they should renounce their pagan beliefs. They destroyed all totems and idols and set up altars to their new God. However, the pendulum swung this way and that over the next hundred or so years, most Earls wishing to "hedge their bets" and worshipping before both pagan and Christian altars.
Here ends the first part of Saxon Middenshire.
Sunday, 15 August 2010
Middenshire under the Romans
The Britain in which the Romans found themselves was divided into tribal kingdoms. Most people have heard of at least one or two of these; the Brigantes, the Cornovii, and, probably the most famous, the Iceni, whose Queen Boudica (erroneously named Boadicea by the Victorians) very nearly overpowered the Romans in her revolt of 61 AD. The existence of these tribes is well-documented, but the deliberate removal of Middenshire from the annals of British history in the fifteenth century meant that up until now, the tribe of the Thicii, and their warrior queen, Vicii, have remained in total obscurity. No more than brief facts are available; Thuck's description of the tribe is a "tenth generation" document. The original, probably dictated to a Roman scribe, was copied and re copied during the intervening years, no doubt being embellished on each occasion. For this reason, the 'facts' may not be wholly reliable.
Vicii of the Thicii
Queen Vicii was a contemporary of Boudica and, like her more famous counterpart, had two daughters. For some reason now unknown (since the Romans were almost universally hated and reviled) Vicii took a fancy to Caius Libidinus Naso, the prefect of the region, and attempted to win him by making sacrifices to the Thicii god of carnality, Bubotostis. Naso was appalled, since she and her daughters were of repulsive appearance and had awful table manners. He attempted to nip the problem in the bud by having her whipped and thrown into the River Medder, but this was a terrible mistake. Vicii, roused to fury, mustered her tribe and, mounting her battle sledge (It was not possible to operate a chariot, with or without the scythes that writer Pomponius Mela claimed British tribes had access to in the muddy conditions which prevailed), rode at their head to Naso's villa. Standing on the steps of his house, she delivered her ultimatum - either he took her as his wife, or she would massacre the Roman garrison. The sight of this screaming harridan, stripped to the waist and anointed with battle mud, was too much for the already terrified Naso. He retreated into his villa and threw himself upon his sword, choosing to die by his own hand rather than submit to the amorous advances of a woman who would have been regarded as a paragon of vileness, even if she had been a man.
The distraught Vicii realised too late that she had destroyed the only man she had ever loved. She had not realised (says William Thuck) that Roman courtship was more delicate than that dictated by Vicii custom. The latter involved the woman (since the society was matriarchal) indecently exposing herself, howling like a wolf, and inviting the man of her choice to take her in a muddy puddle. In her grief, she embarked upon an orgy of rape and murder. Her palace guards captured and held down the more handsome members of the Roman garrison until they could be 'dealt with' by the queen. Most died of shame within a few minutes; those who did not were handed over to Vicii's daughters, who soon finished them off. At the conclusion of this terrible banquet of ritual slaying, the Thicii made a huge pile of their enemy's kneecaps (they believed the soul resided in the patellae) and then boiled and ate their sandals. Vicii abdicated in favour of her elder daughter, married Carrac the Sightless of Dumnonia, and the word 'bath' was not mentioned in the Shire for many years.
Thus was the light of civilisation extinguished in Middenshire. Then, 150 years after these events, (around 208 AD) troops of the Emperor Severus crossed the causeway, demolished the mud wall erected by tribal leaders and quickly overran the shire. There was some brief resistance when the more warlike elements of the Thicii escaped to the Floody Plain. However, a Roman legion, specially trained to fight on short stilts, forced its way into the boggy wastes and slaughtered the tribe in a particularly unpleasant manner by force feeding them with live frogs, washed down with muddy water. The Romans were eventually able, by their ruthlessness, to overawe the native dwellers. But not for long. The Brito-Middenites began a campaign of civil disobedience. They refused to speak Latin, wore their togas back to front, and did unspeakable things in bath houses. The Romans made a valiant effort to combat the unco-operative attitudes of the natives, by building ingenious aqueducts, hypocausts, and settlements with the streets laid out in "grid" patterns, but it was no use. They gradually became more and more disillusioned, and the initially strong system of Roman government in the shire began to collapse. By the time Emperor Constans (337-350) visited Britain in 343, things were far too free and easy for his liking; in fact, Thuck claimed that the Emperor's risky winter Channel crossing was mainly for the purpose of restoring firm rule in Middenshire.
It seems that Constans was responsible for the building of a fort near Pussing as part of the so called "Saxon Shore," a defensive measure against the Saxon raids. He also stationed three cohorts of Legio XXXIV Canis Magnus in the shire, but, within ten years, many of the soldiers, used to much warmer climes, were so depressed by the rain, the mud and the cold that they made away with themselves. Those who were left gradually died from self neglect until, in 360, the Emperor Julian's representative in the shire, Publius Aurelius Gallo, installed a cohort of barbarians. If Gallo thought that the auxiliaries from Germania would grind the Middenites into the mud, he was mistaken. The Germani and the natives possessed such similar characters that they struck up a firm friendship, which even included intermarriage of the two. This situation lasted until all troops were withdrawn around 401. Once more, the shire vanished into the mists of oblivion, a period aptly named "The Dark Ages."
Vicii of the Thicii
Queen Vicii was a contemporary of Boudica and, like her more famous counterpart, had two daughters. For some reason now unknown (since the Romans were almost universally hated and reviled) Vicii took a fancy to Caius Libidinus Naso, the prefect of the region, and attempted to win him by making sacrifices to the Thicii god of carnality, Bubotostis. Naso was appalled, since she and her daughters were of repulsive appearance and had awful table manners. He attempted to nip the problem in the bud by having her whipped and thrown into the River Medder, but this was a terrible mistake. Vicii, roused to fury, mustered her tribe and, mounting her battle sledge (It was not possible to operate a chariot, with or without the scythes that writer Pomponius Mela claimed British tribes had access to in the muddy conditions which prevailed), rode at their head to Naso's villa. Standing on the steps of his house, she delivered her ultimatum - either he took her as his wife, or she would massacre the Roman garrison. The sight of this screaming harridan, stripped to the waist and anointed with battle mud, was too much for the already terrified Naso. He retreated into his villa and threw himself upon his sword, choosing to die by his own hand rather than submit to the amorous advances of a woman who would have been regarded as a paragon of vileness, even if she had been a man.
The distraught Vicii realised too late that she had destroyed the only man she had ever loved. She had not realised (says William Thuck) that Roman courtship was more delicate than that dictated by Vicii custom. The latter involved the woman (since the society was matriarchal) indecently exposing herself, howling like a wolf, and inviting the man of her choice to take her in a muddy puddle. In her grief, she embarked upon an orgy of rape and murder. Her palace guards captured and held down the more handsome members of the Roman garrison until they could be 'dealt with' by the queen. Most died of shame within a few minutes; those who did not were handed over to Vicii's daughters, who soon finished them off. At the conclusion of this terrible banquet of ritual slaying, the Thicii made a huge pile of their enemy's kneecaps (they believed the soul resided in the patellae) and then boiled and ate their sandals. Vicii abdicated in favour of her elder daughter, married Carrac the Sightless of Dumnonia, and the word 'bath' was not mentioned in the Shire for many years.
Thus was the light of civilisation extinguished in Middenshire. Then, 150 years after these events, (around 208 AD) troops of the Emperor Severus crossed the causeway, demolished the mud wall erected by tribal leaders and quickly overran the shire. There was some brief resistance when the more warlike elements of the Thicii escaped to the Floody Plain. However, a Roman legion, specially trained to fight on short stilts, forced its way into the boggy wastes and slaughtered the tribe in a particularly unpleasant manner by force feeding them with live frogs, washed down with muddy water. The Romans were eventually able, by their ruthlessness, to overawe the native dwellers. But not for long. The Brito-Middenites began a campaign of civil disobedience. They refused to speak Latin, wore their togas back to front, and did unspeakable things in bath houses. The Romans made a valiant effort to combat the unco-operative attitudes of the natives, by building ingenious aqueducts, hypocausts, and settlements with the streets laid out in "grid" patterns, but it was no use. They gradually became more and more disillusioned, and the initially strong system of Roman government in the shire began to collapse. By the time Emperor Constans (337-350) visited Britain in 343, things were far too free and easy for his liking; in fact, Thuck claimed that the Emperor's risky winter Channel crossing was mainly for the purpose of restoring firm rule in Middenshire.
It seems that Constans was responsible for the building of a fort near Pussing as part of the so called "Saxon Shore," a defensive measure against the Saxon raids. He also stationed three cohorts of Legio XXXIV Canis Magnus in the shire, but, within ten years, many of the soldiers, used to much warmer climes, were so depressed by the rain, the mud and the cold that they made away with themselves. Those who were left gradually died from self neglect until, in 360, the Emperor Julian's representative in the shire, Publius Aurelius Gallo, installed a cohort of barbarians. If Gallo thought that the auxiliaries from Germania would grind the Middenites into the mud, he was mistaken. The Germani and the natives possessed such similar characters that they struck up a firm friendship, which even included intermarriage of the two. This situation lasted until all troops were withdrawn around 401. Once more, the shire vanished into the mists of oblivion, a period aptly named "The Dark Ages."
Wednesday, 11 August 2010
Prehistoric Middenshire
Before commencing upon our perambulation with William Thuck, it would perhaps be useful to look at a condensed history of the county.
The 'bare bones' of Middenshire were laid down during the Jurassic period (c. 136-195 million years ago), when local erosion and subsequent deposition created the Kimmeridge Clay Beds. Over the course of time, numerous fluctuations in the sea level resulted in the creation of new overlying strata. However, due to the exposed position of our embryonic shire, these later deposits were almost entirely eroded away, except in the area closest to the Isle of Portland. Major changes to both climate and sea level during the Pleistocene era (about 2 million years ago) resulted in the exposure of the old clays, and thus was born Middenshire as we know it. Once the county was high and dry, the somewhat sluggish currents around its coastline began to lay down the deposits of mud, sand and silt for which Middenshire became famous (or infamous).
Because Middenshire was swallowed up before the advent of archaeology as we know it, it comes as no surprise that details of its prehistoric inhabitants are somewhat sketchy. William Thuck and his university contemporaries did at least attempt to record details of ancient monuments in the shire, but their efforts, although well meaning, were rather unscientific, and in any case virtually all of their papers are now lost. Lemuel Thuck, William's brother, who was given the nickname 'terracotta' by his contemporaries, was also a noted antiquarian, but his talents did not lie in the systematic excavation of graves or other ancient sites. Rather, he would employ local labourers to dig into the centre of burial mounds in the hope of finding gold, jewels, pottery, or any other artefact that would provide an interesting talking point for him and his friends. Sadly, he made no written records of his finds, preferring to leave such technicalities to his brother. Because, once again, these papers are lost, our knowlege of prehistoric Middenshire is reduced almost to zero. But we should not use hindsight as a stick with which to beat Lemuel Thuck. His method was an accepted practice at that time, and it was not until the nineteenth century (and here one calls to mind the excavations of 'Troy' by Schliemann in the 1860's) that those investigating the past discovered the value in minutely recording every find. Those few "facts" (and here I use the word with care) that still survive exist in a small pamphlet, written and published by William Thuck, entitled, 'Homo Brutalis; or ye Rude and Nakyd dwellers of Midenshire; together with an discription of their Religion, customes and tooles.' This apparently authoritative title belies the pamphlet's contents. William has handed down to us a work of almost complete speculation on the lifestyle of Middenshire Man, based on nothing more than the odd bone needle, arrowhead and potsherd. This aside, it is worthy of paraphrasing here as an example of the workings of the seventeenth century mind, if nothing else.
According to William, home would have been a rude hut, constructed of mud and animal dung, and surrounded by a wickerwork fence to contain the inhabitant's herb and vegetable garden. Inside the hut, all furniture was made of pottery, covered with the skins of the Middenshire Vole (their staple diet, eaten raw) for comfort. Thuck says that, despite the weather being much colder in those times, the men and women were not intelligent enough to realise that, by covering their nakedness, they would be warmer. He was sure that they had discovered fire by accident fairly early on, and used it to deter wild beasts from entering their houses and temples. It was not until many thousands of years later that their descendants discovered its additional uses - cooking and warmth. The nakedness of these first Middenites led Thuck to believe that birth rates were very high. As he pointed out,
When menne and women have no cloathes, the which to cover their nakydness with, it doth followe that those lewde passions, which in clothed men are held prisoner, doe rise up in one lackyng ye same.
Although early man in Middenshire did not understand the concept of clothes, he did at least understand the use of tools. Lemuel Thuck excavated huge numbers of bone needles, arrowheads and scrapers, which points to the fact that there was no naturally occurring flint in the shire. A few, rather badly worked flints were found, which shows that here must have been some trade with the rest of the country. One particularly interesting tool, which consisted of an antler with one of the branches sharpened to a point, was probably a pick, or some kind of rudimentary plough. William Thuck described it as a 'Heade opener, an instrument of torture, or of sacrifice, for to make a hole in ye heade.'
Mention of sacrifice brings us to the vexed subject of tribal rituals. Thuck thought that the people must have had some kind of religion, probably revolving around mud worship. He believed that the Mud Monday ceremony (of which more later in this blog) was a kind of race memory of early man's activities, mainly for the purpose of ensuring the fertility of the land, but also to provide some respite for the female tribe members from the incessant demands of their menfolk. He thought the rites probably took place at the summit of one of the shire's barrows (most of which, at that time, would probably not have existed!) and involved human sacrifice.
At sun rise ye inhappetants dyd commence a foule and debauchyd daunce, howlyng and moveing their limbes in a wilde manner. The priest, holdyng a parcell of leaves, beats the folke and singeth the laye of some ungodlie songe. Anon, a sacrifice was chosen who, beyinge anoynted with mudd and stucke about with leaves, was readie for ye seaven folde death. Firstely, he was stranguled by seven ropes about his necke. Secondly, his throte was cutt seven tymes. Nextlie, his head was open'd with the head opener, in seven spotts. Forthlie, he was plounced intoe a brooke or streame as many times. Fifthly, his bellie was ript asunder and the seven vital parts therin pulled forth and et. Sixthlie, his seaven extreames, viz, hys eares, nose, hands and legges, were cutt off. Seventhlie and laste, if the sacrifice dyd still live, hys fundament woulde be stuck with seven arrowes and fired.
Thuck also thought it possible that there was a main place of worship and sacrifice. He had heard of Stonehenge in Wiltshire and, mindful of the fact that Middenshire was somewhat lacking in the Stone Department, put forward the concept of Mudd Henge, a circular temple, constructed of tall pillars of mud, with a kind of sacrificial mud altar or sump in the centre. He believed that the structure would have been aligned to the movements of the heavenly bodies, most likely the sun or moon. One thing he did not consider was that the whole structure, if it ever existed, would have needed rebuilding every few months as the mud pillars, saturated with rainwater, would surely have become excessively glutinous and started to disintegrate.
Time marched on. Britain (and, no doubt, Middenshire) was visited by the Beaker People from central Europe, so named because of the distinctive shape of their drinking vessels. It is likely that these visitors drank a form of ale, made from fermented grain, and could therefore be credited with the invention of the hangover as well as the beer mug. Judging by some of the pottery artefacts sketched by Thuck, it seems that some settled in Middenshire, and probably became the ruling class by dint of their prowess with pottery and metals, especially copper. From these beginnings, the Bronze Age evolved, and a good many items from this period were found in the shire's few round barrows. Thuck had in his possession 'The heade of an axe, wrought of copper and tinne alloyed.' However, when he experimented with this axe and attempted to cut down a small tree in his garden, he noted that 'This nearuppon coste me one of my thumbes, having forgott to move ye same from the pathe of the moveinge blade.'
For the next few hundred years, Middenshire vanished into obscurity, and nothing is known until the arrival of the Romans.
The 'bare bones' of Middenshire were laid down during the Jurassic period (c. 136-195 million years ago), when local erosion and subsequent deposition created the Kimmeridge Clay Beds. Over the course of time, numerous fluctuations in the sea level resulted in the creation of new overlying strata. However, due to the exposed position of our embryonic shire, these later deposits were almost entirely eroded away, except in the area closest to the Isle of Portland. Major changes to both climate and sea level during the Pleistocene era (about 2 million years ago) resulted in the exposure of the old clays, and thus was born Middenshire as we know it. Once the county was high and dry, the somewhat sluggish currents around its coastline began to lay down the deposits of mud, sand and silt for which Middenshire became famous (or infamous).
Because Middenshire was swallowed up before the advent of archaeology as we know it, it comes as no surprise that details of its prehistoric inhabitants are somewhat sketchy. William Thuck and his university contemporaries did at least attempt to record details of ancient monuments in the shire, but their efforts, although well meaning, were rather unscientific, and in any case virtually all of their papers are now lost. Lemuel Thuck, William's brother, who was given the nickname 'terracotta' by his contemporaries, was also a noted antiquarian, but his talents did not lie in the systematic excavation of graves or other ancient sites. Rather, he would employ local labourers to dig into the centre of burial mounds in the hope of finding gold, jewels, pottery, or any other artefact that would provide an interesting talking point for him and his friends. Sadly, he made no written records of his finds, preferring to leave such technicalities to his brother. Because, once again, these papers are lost, our knowlege of prehistoric Middenshire is reduced almost to zero. But we should not use hindsight as a stick with which to beat Lemuel Thuck. His method was an accepted practice at that time, and it was not until the nineteenth century (and here one calls to mind the excavations of 'Troy' by Schliemann in the 1860's) that those investigating the past discovered the value in minutely recording every find. Those few "facts" (and here I use the word with care) that still survive exist in a small pamphlet, written and published by William Thuck, entitled, 'Homo Brutalis; or ye Rude and Nakyd dwellers of Midenshire; together with an discription of their Religion, customes and tooles.' This apparently authoritative title belies the pamphlet's contents. William has handed down to us a work of almost complete speculation on the lifestyle of Middenshire Man, based on nothing more than the odd bone needle, arrowhead and potsherd. This aside, it is worthy of paraphrasing here as an example of the workings of the seventeenth century mind, if nothing else.
According to William, home would have been a rude hut, constructed of mud and animal dung, and surrounded by a wickerwork fence to contain the inhabitant's herb and vegetable garden. Inside the hut, all furniture was made of pottery, covered with the skins of the Middenshire Vole (their staple diet, eaten raw) for comfort. Thuck says that, despite the weather being much colder in those times, the men and women were not intelligent enough to realise that, by covering their nakedness, they would be warmer. He was sure that they had discovered fire by accident fairly early on, and used it to deter wild beasts from entering their houses and temples. It was not until many thousands of years later that their descendants discovered its additional uses - cooking and warmth. The nakedness of these first Middenites led Thuck to believe that birth rates were very high. As he pointed out,
When menne and women have no cloathes, the which to cover their nakydness with, it doth followe that those lewde passions, which in clothed men are held prisoner, doe rise up in one lackyng ye same.
Although early man in Middenshire did not understand the concept of clothes, he did at least understand the use of tools. Lemuel Thuck excavated huge numbers of bone needles, arrowheads and scrapers, which points to the fact that there was no naturally occurring flint in the shire. A few, rather badly worked flints were found, which shows that here must have been some trade with the rest of the country. One particularly interesting tool, which consisted of an antler with one of the branches sharpened to a point, was probably a pick, or some kind of rudimentary plough. William Thuck described it as a 'Heade opener, an instrument of torture, or of sacrifice, for to make a hole in ye heade.'
Mention of sacrifice brings us to the vexed subject of tribal rituals. Thuck thought that the people must have had some kind of religion, probably revolving around mud worship. He believed that the Mud Monday ceremony (of which more later in this blog) was a kind of race memory of early man's activities, mainly for the purpose of ensuring the fertility of the land, but also to provide some respite for the female tribe members from the incessant demands of their menfolk. He thought the rites probably took place at the summit of one of the shire's barrows (most of which, at that time, would probably not have existed!) and involved human sacrifice.
At sun rise ye inhappetants dyd commence a foule and debauchyd daunce, howlyng and moveing their limbes in a wilde manner. The priest, holdyng a parcell of leaves, beats the folke and singeth the laye of some ungodlie songe. Anon, a sacrifice was chosen who, beyinge anoynted with mudd and stucke about with leaves, was readie for ye seaven folde death. Firstely, he was stranguled by seven ropes about his necke. Secondly, his throte was cutt seven tymes. Nextlie, his head was open'd with the head opener, in seven spotts. Forthlie, he was plounced intoe a brooke or streame as many times. Fifthly, his bellie was ript asunder and the seven vital parts therin pulled forth and et. Sixthlie, his seaven extreames, viz, hys eares, nose, hands and legges, were cutt off. Seventhlie and laste, if the sacrifice dyd still live, hys fundament woulde be stuck with seven arrowes and fired.
Thuck also thought it possible that there was a main place of worship and sacrifice. He had heard of Stonehenge in Wiltshire and, mindful of the fact that Middenshire was somewhat lacking in the Stone Department, put forward the concept of Mudd Henge, a circular temple, constructed of tall pillars of mud, with a kind of sacrificial mud altar or sump in the centre. He believed that the structure would have been aligned to the movements of the heavenly bodies, most likely the sun or moon. One thing he did not consider was that the whole structure, if it ever existed, would have needed rebuilding every few months as the mud pillars, saturated with rainwater, would surely have become excessively glutinous and started to disintegrate.
Time marched on. Britain (and, no doubt, Middenshire) was visited by the Beaker People from central Europe, so named because of the distinctive shape of their drinking vessels. It is likely that these visitors drank a form of ale, made from fermented grain, and could therefore be credited with the invention of the hangover as well as the beer mug. Judging by some of the pottery artefacts sketched by Thuck, it seems that some settled in Middenshire, and probably became the ruling class by dint of their prowess with pottery and metals, especially copper. From these beginnings, the Bronze Age evolved, and a good many items from this period were found in the shire's few round barrows. Thuck had in his possession 'The heade of an axe, wrought of copper and tinne alloyed.' However, when he experimented with this axe and attempted to cut down a small tree in his garden, he noted that 'This nearuppon coste me one of my thumbes, having forgott to move ye same from the pathe of the moveinge blade.'
For the next few hundred years, Middenshire vanished into obscurity, and nothing is known until the arrival of the Romans.
Tuesday, 10 August 2010
Let's go to Middenshire
So, what happened to the inhabitants of Middenshire? Having fled their now drowned homeland, they eventually managed to blend in with the mainland population, changing their names to avoid the ridicule of the general population. Middenshire names were nothing if not distinctive, and to admit to their origins, especially in those parts of Dorset where the shire's existence (or rather, former existence) was still widely known, would have been as unwise as us admitting a spell in a psychiatric facility. This explains the name 'Throcke' found on Thuck's gravestone; the name was not the result of anomalous spelling, but rather that of deliberate concealment. There must now be many thousands of people with Middenshire ancestry as a result of this migration. Who knows, there might even be a descendant of William Thuck, living somewhere in the West Country, blissfully unaware of his now famous precursor.
Once all the manuscripts and books had been briefly examined, Dr. Mowbray published a short paper entitled, 'Middenshire - an England in Miniature.' Primarily intended as a scholarly work, the paper was not intended for public consumption. Apart from a full list of the contents of the cannon, much of Mowbray's treatise was concerned with Middenshire politics, the operation of the Manorial System, and other serious socio-economic issues. This narrow brief, of necessity, ignored the treasury of anecdotes, folklore, humour and social comment that Thuck had included in his diary and printed works, especially the Perambulacion. I came across Mowbray's paper a few years ago quite by chance in the British Library whilst I was researching medieval cures for an article I had intended to submit to a history magazine. Some of Thuck's printed material seemed both relevant and useful to the topic I was looking at, so I contacted Dr. Mowbray with a view to gaining access to Thuck's books and notes. The ever-generous Dr. Mowbray granted me unlimited access to the Thuck papers. However, at that time I was holding down a full time career in London, and spending sufficient time on the papers was out of the question. Now, however, I find myself free of work and, following a move to the south coast, somewhat closer to the archive where Thuck's papers are stored. Thus it is that I am able to introduce Middenshire to a wider public, and the current popular method of blogging seemed an ideal medium in which to do so. Unlike Dr. Mowbray, it is not my aim to tell the reader how many oxen were held by each Manor, how much tax was paid in 1350, or what ordinances existed to ensure the town ditches were kept scoured. I am sure he or she would rather hear about the penalty for stealing cowpats; about the farmer who paid part of his tithe in urine; and about the astronomer who saw stars of a different kind when he failed to spot one of the ditches.
So, come with me, if you will, back through the mists of time, as we prepare to explore England's forgotten corner. And, by the power of the pen, I shall attempt to restore to life all those men and women, so long dead, who lived, loved and breathed, and who made up that rich, but not terribly well-executed tapestry that was Middenshire.
Once all the manuscripts and books had been briefly examined, Dr. Mowbray published a short paper entitled, 'Middenshire - an England in Miniature.' Primarily intended as a scholarly work, the paper was not intended for public consumption. Apart from a full list of the contents of the cannon, much of Mowbray's treatise was concerned with Middenshire politics, the operation of the Manorial System, and other serious socio-economic issues. This narrow brief, of necessity, ignored the treasury of anecdotes, folklore, humour and social comment that Thuck had included in his diary and printed works, especially the Perambulacion. I came across Mowbray's paper a few years ago quite by chance in the British Library whilst I was researching medieval cures for an article I had intended to submit to a history magazine. Some of Thuck's printed material seemed both relevant and useful to the topic I was looking at, so I contacted Dr. Mowbray with a view to gaining access to Thuck's books and notes. The ever-generous Dr. Mowbray granted me unlimited access to the Thuck papers. However, at that time I was holding down a full time career in London, and spending sufficient time on the papers was out of the question. Now, however, I find myself free of work and, following a move to the south coast, somewhat closer to the archive where Thuck's papers are stored. Thus it is that I am able to introduce Middenshire to a wider public, and the current popular method of blogging seemed an ideal medium in which to do so. Unlike Dr. Mowbray, it is not my aim to tell the reader how many oxen were held by each Manor, how much tax was paid in 1350, or what ordinances existed to ensure the town ditches were kept scoured. I am sure he or she would rather hear about the penalty for stealing cowpats; about the farmer who paid part of his tithe in urine; and about the astronomer who saw stars of a different kind when he failed to spot one of the ditches.
So, come with me, if you will, back through the mists of time, as we prepare to explore England's forgotten corner. And, by the power of the pen, I shall attempt to restore to life all those men and women, so long dead, who lived, loved and breathed, and who made up that rich, but not terribly well-executed tapestry that was Middenshire.
Sunday, 8 August 2010
How Middenshire met its end
Years passed, and the responsibility for the Middenshire archives remained with the Thuck family until, at last, the duty fell to our William. He took his task very seriously, spending much of his adult life collecting information on every aspect of his home, its history, settlements, people, flora, fauna and customs. This blog is largely based on a perambulacion which Thuck undertook in 1664, and during which most of the descriptions, customs and stories that have found their way into this volume, were obtained. Apart from being an archivist of squirrel-like intensity, he still found time to carry on the business of a full time printer/publisher (of which more later), keep an extensive diary, write books on any number of subjects, and indulge his hobbies of producing engravings and woodcuts. Throughout his long incumbency as County Remembrancer, Thuck often bemoaned Middenshire's ostracism. Although he entertained the wish that the Monarch would one day discover the truth of the business that had condemned Middenshire to oblivion, he was realistic enough to realise that there was little likelihood of this. As time wore on, Middenshire passed out of mind. It was only in the immediate area, and particularly in those coastal parts of South Dorset from which the muddy, sprawling county could be seen, that its existence remained common knowledge. It became the butt of many cruel jokes. Thuck, a veritable magpie, collected the lot.
I have not yet spoken of the 'dreadfull day of Doome' mentioned in Thuck's letter. The time has now come to explain Middenshire's vanishing act. The answer is very simple; it was swallowed up by the sea. This disappearance should not be seen as anything very surprising, or indeed, unique. There are many examples throughout Britain of towns and villages being inundated by the sea; witness the fate of Lyonesse, the land that lay between Cornwall and the Isles of Scilly; and, more recently, the disappearance of Dunwich in Suffolk. Even today, despite our ingenuity in the face of hostile nature, many areas of East Anglia are still fighting a losing battle with the sea. In common with these present day areas, the Shire was fairly low lying. From the open sea it resembled nothing so much as a half submerged green whale. Much of its coastline was made up of deposits of mud and silt, and the land behind it was in some cases below sea level. These parts were subject to frequent flooding, being described as 'bogsome and marishy,' and of little or no agricultural use. Throughout the centuries, enterprising local engineers had constructed ingenious dykes, sluices, drainage channels and sea defences, in an attempt to keep the ravages of the tides at bay. Until the end of the seventeenth century, they enjoyed some measure of success. However, in 1692, (a year which, some pointed out, was ill-favoured, since its numbers added together totalled 18, or 'thrice six, the marke of the beaste') there was a major disaster in the eastern (and more low lying) part of the shire. An undersea earthquake (possibly related to the one which flooded Framlingham in far distant Suffolk) caused a great east to west surge in the English Channel, a surge which was made even worse by a storm. This by itself would have been sufficient to swamp the coastal areas of the shire. However, coupled with the fact that the earthquake also caused the almost instantaneous lowering of the land by several feet, the eastern part of Middenshire was utterly destroyed by the encroaching sea, with only a handful of survivors from Winkwood Pisham and Gargley left to tell the tale. Continuing the tradition of looking after their own, the West Middenites (whose own buildings suffered severe damage, but who fortunately sustained only light casualties) made land available to their dispossessed neighbours and helped them to rebuild their shattered lives. But the end was clearly in sight. Many saw the inundation as a punishment for past misdeeds, and were convinced that the next great storm would spell the end of both West Middenshire and their own lives. Submerging their suspicions about the world beyond the Causeway, they began to leave the shire. At first, the exodus was small, but that trickle of refugees soon became a flood.
When, in 1697, a great storm arose at the time of a spring tide, the shire's remaining sea defences were at last breached and what was left of Middenshire sank beneath the waves. When the end finally came, there were only a few souls left in Middenbury and Pendlebury. Unfortunately, Thuck's diary, otherwise so rich in detail, (he tells us he was the last person to leave the shire before it disappeared, on the back of a donkey called Gideon) does not tell us the actual date on which his home was swallowed up by the sea. We can only conjecture that it occurred on the 26th of November 1697, the day upon which Isaiah Stone's hat blew off in nearby Portland.
I have not yet spoken of the 'dreadfull day of Doome' mentioned in Thuck's letter. The time has now come to explain Middenshire's vanishing act. The answer is very simple; it was swallowed up by the sea. This disappearance should not be seen as anything very surprising, or indeed, unique. There are many examples throughout Britain of towns and villages being inundated by the sea; witness the fate of Lyonesse, the land that lay between Cornwall and the Isles of Scilly; and, more recently, the disappearance of Dunwich in Suffolk. Even today, despite our ingenuity in the face of hostile nature, many areas of East Anglia are still fighting a losing battle with the sea. In common with these present day areas, the Shire was fairly low lying. From the open sea it resembled nothing so much as a half submerged green whale. Much of its coastline was made up of deposits of mud and silt, and the land behind it was in some cases below sea level. These parts were subject to frequent flooding, being described as 'bogsome and marishy,' and of little or no agricultural use. Throughout the centuries, enterprising local engineers had constructed ingenious dykes, sluices, drainage channels and sea defences, in an attempt to keep the ravages of the tides at bay. Until the end of the seventeenth century, they enjoyed some measure of success. However, in 1692, (a year which, some pointed out, was ill-favoured, since its numbers added together totalled 18, or 'thrice six, the marke of the beaste') there was a major disaster in the eastern (and more low lying) part of the shire. An undersea earthquake (possibly related to the one which flooded Framlingham in far distant Suffolk) caused a great east to west surge in the English Channel, a surge which was made even worse by a storm. This by itself would have been sufficient to swamp the coastal areas of the shire. However, coupled with the fact that the earthquake also caused the almost instantaneous lowering of the land by several feet, the eastern part of Middenshire was utterly destroyed by the encroaching sea, with only a handful of survivors from Winkwood Pisham and Gargley left to tell the tale. Continuing the tradition of looking after their own, the West Middenites (whose own buildings suffered severe damage, but who fortunately sustained only light casualties) made land available to their dispossessed neighbours and helped them to rebuild their shattered lives. But the end was clearly in sight. Many saw the inundation as a punishment for past misdeeds, and were convinced that the next great storm would spell the end of both West Middenshire and their own lives. Submerging their suspicions about the world beyond the Causeway, they began to leave the shire. At first, the exodus was small, but that trickle of refugees soon became a flood.
When, in 1697, a great storm arose at the time of a spring tide, the shire's remaining sea defences were at last breached and what was left of Middenshire sank beneath the waves. When the end finally came, there were only a few souls left in Middenbury and Pendlebury. Unfortunately, Thuck's diary, otherwise so rich in detail, (he tells us he was the last person to leave the shire before it disappeared, on the back of a donkey called Gideon) does not tell us the actual date on which his home was swallowed up by the sea. We can only conjecture that it occurred on the 26th of November 1697, the day upon which Isaiah Stone's hat blew off in nearby Portland.
Saturday, 7 August 2010
Middenshire sinks into obscurity
The King appointed a group of 'Scavengers' to ensure Middenshire's obscurity would be complete. These scavengers were charged with the removal of the shire's name from all government records and other archives. Thus, Court Rolls, letters patent, land grants, deeds, bills of sale and even personal letters, were gathered up, and conveyed to 'Ye Kinges Pype', a huge furnace adjacent to the Tower of London, used for the destruction of unfit food and the belongings of people who had died from infectious diseases. In this furnace, much of the history of Middenshire turned to smoke and ash, and all would have been lost, but for the quick wittedness of William Thuck's ancestor, Geoffrey. One of the few literate laymen in the shire, he was asked to accompany Bigot to London in order to record the exchanges between the abbot and the King. He was able to bribe his way past the guards, and by a further bribe of six marks (a very large sum of money) was able to rescue a stack of doomed parchments. Geoffrey took them back to the Shire and placed them in one of the huge, iron bound chests which lay in the Muniment Room of Middenbury Abbey. As the lid of the great chest boomed shut, plunging its contents into darkness, Geoffrey no doubt mused on the shadow which had fallen across his beloved County. In recognition of his quick thinking, and the considerable sum of money he had expended, Bigot appointed him 'County Remembrancer,' charging him with the preservation of Middenshire's history. Bigot did not know whether he had the right to make this appointment, but, in the absence of any higher authority at that time, he thought the decision reasonable. It is to Geoffrey that we should be indebted for much of what is written in this introduction. King Henry (and all subsequent monarchs) demanded that all business relating to Middenshire should be dealt with off the record; this explains the absence of any mention of the shire in the Curia Regis rolls of the period, and thereafter.
It will be remembered that part of the King's decree mentioned the removal of Middenshire from the map. All known existing maps were destroyed, and the country's foremost cartographers, who prided themselves on their accuracy, dared not show the county on their maps. Any new maps produced tended to be based on information found on older ones, so subsequent cartographers were largely unaware of Middenshire's existence. Any map maker ignorant of the decree, and brave enough to carry out a survey in the area, would be given the answer 'Mudde and Shitte' when he asked what lay east of the Isle of Portland. If he subsequently went ahead and actually included the county in his map, the mistake was soon rectified by the Royal Cartographer General, and the usual result was the snipping off of more than just the offending part of the map, and that without benefit of a trial.
When Bigot conveyed the news of Middenshire's ostracism to the people, reactions were predictably mixed. Some howled with anger, some in disbelief, and some, as always, were too drunk to notice. However, the majority of the population regarded it as a blessing. They held the view that 'outsiders' had meddled in their affairs for far too long, and believed they would be better off without mainland interference. Although the land was not fabulously fertile, it was sufficient to sustain the small number of inhabitants above subsistence level. No one in the county was more than a few miles from the English Channel with its plentiful supply of fish, and the people were hardy enough to be able to live without the kind of luxuries on offer on the other side of the causeway. So it was that Middenshire turned its back on the outside world. There were, of course, a few Middenites who ventured into Dorset and beyond, and, equally, a small number of explorers who found their way from the mainland and into Middenshire; but the Royal decree was never far from their minds and the name of the shire was never mentioned in their diaries or journals.
In the next post, we meet William Thuck, and discover how Middenshire met its end.
It will be remembered that part of the King's decree mentioned the removal of Middenshire from the map. All known existing maps were destroyed, and the country's foremost cartographers, who prided themselves on their accuracy, dared not show the county on their maps. Any new maps produced tended to be based on information found on older ones, so subsequent cartographers were largely unaware of Middenshire's existence. Any map maker ignorant of the decree, and brave enough to carry out a survey in the area, would be given the answer 'Mudde and Shitte' when he asked what lay east of the Isle of Portland. If he subsequently went ahead and actually included the county in his map, the mistake was soon rectified by the Royal Cartographer General, and the usual result was the snipping off of more than just the offending part of the map, and that without benefit of a trial.
When Bigot conveyed the news of Middenshire's ostracism to the people, reactions were predictably mixed. Some howled with anger, some in disbelief, and some, as always, were too drunk to notice. However, the majority of the population regarded it as a blessing. They held the view that 'outsiders' had meddled in their affairs for far too long, and believed they would be better off without mainland interference. Although the land was not fabulously fertile, it was sufficient to sustain the small number of inhabitants above subsistence level. No one in the county was more than a few miles from the English Channel with its plentiful supply of fish, and the people were hardy enough to be able to live without the kind of luxuries on offer on the other side of the causeway. So it was that Middenshire turned its back on the outside world. There were, of course, a few Middenites who ventured into Dorset and beyond, and, equally, a small number of explorers who found their way from the mainland and into Middenshire; but the Royal decree was never far from their minds and the name of the shire was never mentioned in their diaries or journals.
In the next post, we meet William Thuck, and discover how Middenshire met its end.
Thursday, 5 August 2010
The ostracism of the Shire
These are the facts surrounding Middenshire's disappearance from history.
Middenshire's archers were once considered the finest in the land. Being mindful of this, King Henry the Fifth ordered the county to supply 'xxx bowe menne at ther owne coste' for the French Wars in early 1415. It appears that the messenger charged with delivering this order became lost somewhere near Croydon and (so Thuck tells us) was murdered by Surrey outlaws. As a result, no Middenshire bowmen were forthcoming, and the king, angered by what he believed to be the Shire's defiance of his direct command, issued the following decree. Henry was, incidentally, the first monarch to use English as his 'official' language since the ill-fated Harold Godwinson:
I wolle that henceforwarde ye nayme of thys covntie of Miden Shere shal be stryken from mappe and boke, nor shal yt be uttered abroade by anie manne, on peyno of forfyt of hys gignytors, whych shal be ysnippen off wyth ye blounte sheares and then somtyme brent yn ye fyre.
Thus, Middenshire ceased to exist, becoming terra non grata by Royal order. It is, perhaps, predictable thatwhen the decree was issued, the only part of the realm that was not informed was the shire itself. The Middenites only realised that something was wrong following a visit to the mainland by Roger Bigot, abbot of Middenbury. Passing through Chipping Blandford (now Blandford Forum), he and his riding companions received inexplicable treatment from its inhabitants. There were dark mutterings and whisperings. At the inn, they were jostled, cursed, and one of the group was violently assaulted with an ale-mug. The angry Bigot confronted the High Sheriff of Dorset concerning his treatment, and received with dismay the news of the King's decree. Bigot decided to make the difficult and dangerous journey to London to petition the King. He arrived only a few days before Henry was due to set sail for Normandy, and was given audience at once.
Middenshire's archers were once considered the finest in the land. Being mindful of this, King Henry the Fifth ordered the county to supply 'xxx bowe menne at ther owne coste' for the French Wars in early 1415. It appears that the messenger charged with delivering this order became lost somewhere near Croydon and (so Thuck tells us) was murdered by Surrey outlaws. As a result, no Middenshire bowmen were forthcoming, and the king, angered by what he believed to be the Shire's defiance of his direct command, issued the following decree. Henry was, incidentally, the first monarch to use English as his 'official' language since the ill-fated Harold Godwinson:
I wolle that henceforwarde ye nayme of thys covntie of Miden Shere shal be stryken from mappe and boke, nor shal yt be uttered abroade by anie manne, on peyno of forfyt of hys gignytors, whych shal be ysnippen off wyth ye blounte sheares and then somtyme brent yn ye fyre.
Thus, Middenshire ceased to exist, becoming terra non grata by Royal order. It is, perhaps, predictable thatwhen the decree was issued, the only part of the realm that was not informed was the shire itself. The Middenites only realised that something was wrong following a visit to the mainland by Roger Bigot, abbot of Middenbury. Passing through Chipping Blandford (now Blandford Forum), he and his riding companions received inexplicable treatment from its inhabitants. There were dark mutterings and whisperings. At the inn, they were jostled, cursed, and one of the group was violently assaulted with an ale-mug. The angry Bigot confronted the High Sheriff of Dorset concerning his treatment, and received with dismay the news of the King's decree. Bigot decided to make the difficult and dangerous journey to London to petition the King. He arrived only a few days before Henry was due to set sail for Normandy, and was given audience at once.
Roger Bigot, Abbot of Middenbury
King Henry, the Fifth of that Name, by the Grace of God King of England, was a great and dignified ruler, by Abbot Bigot had chosen a bad time for his appeal. Henry was still white with anger from the discovery of the plot against his life and, in his anger, accused the shire of being implicated in the intrigue. Bigot tried to explain that the Royal Messenger had never arrived, but his explanations fell on deaf ears. Even when, two days after this meeting, the body of the messenger was found in a Carshalton thicket and was brought, bloodied and still clutching the conscription order, to Court, the King would have none of it. He insisted that the men of Middenshire had arranged the murder and were in league with Scrope, one of the plotter's against the King's life. Even if this evidence had preceded Bigot's visit, it would have been useless for the abbot to plead any further. Even if the King had been swayed by the arguments and the evidence brought before him, it would have been impossible for him to rescind the decree without a massive loss of face. Such a situation would have been playing straight into the hands of the French Court. If Henry's courtiers had any doubts about the guilt of Middenshire, they kept these doubts to themselves.
In the next post, I'll explain how the King wiped Middenshire off the map, and how the shire dealt with its change in circumstances.
Tuesday, 3 August 2010
Middenshire - the island county
In his Perambulacion, Thuck produced a map, placing the county in context with part of the south coast of England. This map it crystal clear that the county no longer existed, since the area it occupied is now nothing but sea. Albeit seventeenth century maps were not known for their cartographical accuracy, it indicated that Middenshire was an arrow-shaped piece of land, the point facing east, lying in the English Channel off the coast of Dorset. It appears to have been about 18 miles long by seven and a half at its widest point, and joined by a narrow causeway at its western extremity to the Isle of Portland. This causeway was, according to Thuck, negotiable only at low tide, so, to all intents and purposes, Middenshire was an island. Its insularity was not merely physical, however. Thuck's book suggets that a kind of 'island mentality' existed in the county, its people tending to regard anyone from the mainland as 'foreign,' and warranting deep suspicion. The Dorset people likewise regarded Middenites (a term coined by one of the many fringe religious groups that at one time inhabited Middenshire) as alien, inbred, superstitious and stupid. It has to be said that some, or more truthfully, many, of the documents preserved in the cannon tend to add credence to this view. Thuck, in a number of pen portraits of fellow countrymen and women that echo John Aubrey's Brief Lives, attempted to show that the county did produce people of intellect and ability who, but for the accident of being Middenshire born, could have risen to true greatness. However, one thing that becomes apparent to us in these more cynical times, is that most of these people's achievements seemed flawed in some way. By a cruel twist of fate, they seemed doomed to fail in what even enterprise they undertook. The greatest failure of all - possibly the only one in its history to which the population of Middenshire did not contribute - occurred in the fifteenth century and wiped the name of Middenshire from the map.
The details of this 'failure' and its consequences I will relate in the next post.
The details of this 'failure' and its consequences I will relate in the next post.
Monday, 2 August 2010
Middenshire?
The team decided initially to take the letter at face value. William Thuck, who calls himself a 'Remembrancer' (a kind of record keeper or archivist), planned to take documentary evidence of 'Middenshire' (wherever that was) to God on Judgement Day, in order to counter an alleged act of treason supposedly perpetrated by the men of Middenshire against Henry the Fifth, who had made some decree concerning Middenshire's obscurity. This bald interpretation didn't help very much. What was the 'Dreadfull day of Doome' that Thuck had witnessed? What was this decree of Henry the Fifth? And where on earth was Middenshire?
Fortunately, the teams did not have to wait long for the answers to these questions. One particularly fat oilskin packet contained a thick unbound book, covered in handwritten notes, jottings and containing primitive woodcut illustrations. This book was entitled (using that economy of words for which the seventeenth century was justly famous):
A Perambulacion of ye entire countie of Midenshire, with a trew Historie of that place from ye earlyest dayes, and divers observacions concerning ye People, Townes and Antiquities therof, by Willm. Thuck, Printer.
The team could hardly believe what they were reading. Middenshire was an 'entire Countie', hitherto unknown. A quick perusal of the long and rambling introduction to the Perambulacion provided information on its location, and the reason why it was totally absent from every map and, indeed, from every single book on English history.
Fortunately, the teams did not have to wait long for the answers to these questions. One particularly fat oilskin packet contained a thick unbound book, covered in handwritten notes, jottings and containing primitive woodcut illustrations. This book was entitled (using that economy of words for which the seventeenth century was justly famous):
A Perambulacion of ye entire countie of Midenshire, with a trew Historie of that place from ye earlyest dayes, and divers observacions concerning ye People, Townes and Antiquities therof, by Willm. Thuck, Printer.
The team could hardly believe what they were reading. Middenshire was an 'entire Countie', hitherto unknown. A quick perusal of the long and rambling introduction to the Perambulacion provided information on its location, and the reason why it was totally absent from every map and, indeed, from every single book on English history.
Sunday, 1 August 2010
The cannon's contents revealed
Judi Flowers takes up the story:
"As the end of the barrel fell away, we peered inside. The whole thing was stuffed to the gunwales with pouches made of a kind of oilskin, so tightly packed that we could hardly remove them. I managed to pull out one pouch, which was dark brown in colour and about the same size and shape as those cardboard tubes you get in the middle of a kitchen roll. I carefully undid the leather tie securing it and opened the pouch. I took out a sheet of vellum that seemed to be in remarkably good condition and, as I unrolled it, I almost fell off my chair. There before me was a page of illuminated manuscript, apparently thirteenth century, of the kind one sees on display at the British Museum. There were several more sheets in the pouch, so well preserved that they might have been executed the day before. Once the team and I had all stopped saying 'Wow!', we realised that we had, potentially, the find of the century and very quickly called in the experts."
Judi contacted Victor Bellamy, head of the Western Manuscripts department of the South Coast Museums Service. Although he was currently on leave, Judi's excitement was so infectious that he was at the scene within the hour. He advised against removing anything else from the cannon at the scene, and arranged for it to be moved to a controlled environment at the Service facility. Once there, he and a small group of assistants began the task of unpacking the contents of the cannon. Bellamy was astonished by the variety of material inside this most unusual of time capsules. The oilskin packages contained ecclesiastical manuscripts, letters, diaries, maps, manor court records and journals. There were also proof copies of printed books and pamphlets, dated between about 1490 and 1695. All showed the name of the printer as 'Thuck' - either William or, presumably, some ancestor of his - and each was printed 'At the Signe of ye Blew Boare, Middenburie'. Bellamy and his team had to admit that they had no knowledge of the Thuck printing dynasty, nor of any of the books or pamphlets found in the cannon. The late William Thuck appeared to have anticipated this, however. One of the manuscript finds was, in effect, an open letter, the poignancy of which cannot be ignored:
I, Willm. Thucke ye Remembrauncer, a witness to that Dreadfull Daye of Doome, and knowing that Other Daye of Doome be close at hande, doe hearbye fulfill my Obligacions in sealyng upp ths peece of ordinaunce to preserue the documents and estuffamentum wch were putt yn my truste.
Ye decre of Ye Fift Henry, wch dyd so vnjustlie Sentance us toe perpetuall Obscuritie, and dyd make us lyke unto Nought, resolved me to keepe and preserve all suche Informacion of oure Deedes as can bee stored herin. Thys I doe yn esperaunce that at ye Laste Trumpe, when sw shall all stande before the Lorde, He may discerne the suposyd Treasons of oure Progenitors were not soe, and shall open wide the dores of Heaven for ye men of Middenshire.
Wm. Thucke
Ye 26 daye of Novembre 1699
Yet another team meeting was convened, with a view to making head or tail of Thuck's letter.
"As the end of the barrel fell away, we peered inside. The whole thing was stuffed to the gunwales with pouches made of a kind of oilskin, so tightly packed that we could hardly remove them. I managed to pull out one pouch, which was dark brown in colour and about the same size and shape as those cardboard tubes you get in the middle of a kitchen roll. I carefully undid the leather tie securing it and opened the pouch. I took out a sheet of vellum that seemed to be in remarkably good condition and, as I unrolled it, I almost fell off my chair. There before me was a page of illuminated manuscript, apparently thirteenth century, of the kind one sees on display at the British Museum. There were several more sheets in the pouch, so well preserved that they might have been executed the day before. Once the team and I had all stopped saying 'Wow!', we realised that we had, potentially, the find of the century and very quickly called in the experts."
Judi contacted Victor Bellamy, head of the Western Manuscripts department of the South Coast Museums Service. Although he was currently on leave, Judi's excitement was so infectious that he was at the scene within the hour. He advised against removing anything else from the cannon at the scene, and arranged for it to be moved to a controlled environment at the Service facility. Once there, he and a small group of assistants began the task of unpacking the contents of the cannon. Bellamy was astonished by the variety of material inside this most unusual of time capsules. The oilskin packages contained ecclesiastical manuscripts, letters, diaries, maps, manor court records and journals. There were also proof copies of printed books and pamphlets, dated between about 1490 and 1695. All showed the name of the printer as 'Thuck' - either William or, presumably, some ancestor of his - and each was printed 'At the Signe of ye Blew Boare, Middenburie'. Bellamy and his team had to admit that they had no knowledge of the Thuck printing dynasty, nor of any of the books or pamphlets found in the cannon. The late William Thuck appeared to have anticipated this, however. One of the manuscript finds was, in effect, an open letter, the poignancy of which cannot be ignored:
I, Willm. Thucke ye Remembrauncer, a witness to that Dreadfull Daye of Doome, and knowing that Other Daye of Doome be close at hande, doe hearbye fulfill my Obligacions in sealyng upp ths peece of ordinaunce to preserue the documents and estuffamentum wch were putt yn my truste.
Ye decre of Ye Fift Henry, wch dyd so vnjustlie Sentance us toe perpetuall Obscuritie, and dyd make us lyke unto Nought, resolved me to keepe and preserve all suche Informacion of oure Deedes as can bee stored herin. Thys I doe yn esperaunce that at ye Laste Trumpe, when sw shall all stande before the Lorde, He may discerne the suposyd Treasons of oure Progenitors were not soe, and shall open wide the dores of Heaven for ye men of Middenshire.
Wm. Thucke
Ye 26 daye of Novembre 1699
Yet another team meeting was convened, with a view to making head or tail of Thuck's letter.
Tuesday, 27 July 2010
The Thuck Code
A subsequent examination, carried out by the team's forensic archaeologist, revealed that William Thuck was around five feet six inches tall, had a shock of red hair and a small 'goatee' type beard. He would have walked with a slight stoop, been plagued by arthritis, and probably the occasional headache as a result of a hairline skull fracture. However, none of this was apparent at the time of the exhumation. It was merely noted that the skeleton was of middling height, wore a gold ring on the middle finger of its left hand, and a gold chain about its nect, attached to which was a large and somewhat corroded copper disc. This was at first thought to be some kind of religious token, but there was great excitement when, upon subjecting the disc to a preliminary clean, the following cryptic message was found on its obverse side:
1:19 2:9 2:16 3:8 3:12 4:6 5:21 5:36 6:7 7:4 8:28 9:22 10:19 10:29 11:3 11:32 12:17 13:3 13:4
And upon its reverse side, the following words:
The mouth is stopt, the roar is still'd, with wood and iron the throat is filld
Mowbray and his team had clearly stumbled across a three hundred year old mystery. An informal meeting was held later that day to try and decipher the message. The general consensus seemed to be that the numbers were a code of some kind, the first number of each pair referring, perhaps, to a page in a book, and the second to a line, word or letter number. The poem on the disc was probably a clue, or confirmation of the coded message. If the code was designed to be deciphered at some time in the future, the team came to the conclusion that the most likely key lay in the Bible. A brief look at the King James Bible revealed that there were three books with thirteen chapters (thirteen being the highest pre-colon number in the 'code'). The Book of Nehemiah in the Old Testament was checked, as were 2 Corinthians and Hebrews in the New. In each case, the first number was held to denote the chapter, and the second either a word or letter position. Which ever way the team looked at the problem, the message produced was total rubbish.
A further brainstorming session was held after a break for tea, at which, following some quite bizarre suggestions, one of the genealogists casually mentioned the fact that Thuck's tombstone inscription was thirteen lines long. This theory was duly put to the test. This time there was no mistake. Their reward was this message:
O LORDE BELOW ME SEEK IT
This, coupled with the poem on the disc, led to only one conclusion; something was buried below Thuck's coffin. Mowbray immediately re-started the dig and, only a few minutes later, struck a solid object. As the soil was cleared away, he recognised the familiar shape of a cannon.
A seventeenth century cannon was possibly the last thing Mowbray and his team expected to find. It was fortunate that one of his colleagues, Dr. Judi Flowers, was an expert on historic ordnance. She was given the job of examining the piece once ithad been lifted. The two things she immediately noticed were that the touch-hole (that part of the cannon where the powder is ignited) had been filled with lead, and the muzzle stoppered by the insertion of an oversized ball, which appeared to have been hammered into place. It was obvious that the weapon had been sealed with the intention either of concealing, or preserving, something therein. Subjecting the cannon to x-ray photography would have been pointless and, since the piece was in no way unique, she decided to cut it open. She obtained specialist cutting gear, and the rest of the team waited with great anticipation while the end of the barrel was removed.
In the next post, the contents of the cannon are revealed.
1:19 2:9 2:16 3:8 3:12 4:6 5:21 5:36 6:7 7:4 8:28 9:22 10:19 10:29 11:3 11:32 12:17 13:3 13:4
And upon its reverse side, the following words:
The mouth is stopt, the roar is still'd, with wood and iron the throat is filld
Mowbray and his team had clearly stumbled across a three hundred year old mystery. An informal meeting was held later that day to try and decipher the message. The general consensus seemed to be that the numbers were a code of some kind, the first number of each pair referring, perhaps, to a page in a book, and the second to a line, word or letter number. The poem on the disc was probably a clue, or confirmation of the coded message. If the code was designed to be deciphered at some time in the future, the team came to the conclusion that the most likely key lay in the Bible. A brief look at the King James Bible revealed that there were three books with thirteen chapters (thirteen being the highest pre-colon number in the 'code'). The Book of Nehemiah in the Old Testament was checked, as were 2 Corinthians and Hebrews in the New. In each case, the first number was held to denote the chapter, and the second either a word or letter position. Which ever way the team looked at the problem, the message produced was total rubbish.
A further brainstorming session was held after a break for tea, at which, following some quite bizarre suggestions, one of the genealogists casually mentioned the fact that Thuck's tombstone inscription was thirteen lines long. This theory was duly put to the test. This time there was no mistake. Their reward was this message:
O LORDE BELOW ME SEEK IT
This, coupled with the poem on the disc, led to only one conclusion; something was buried below Thuck's coffin. Mowbray immediately re-started the dig and, only a few minutes later, struck a solid object. As the soil was cleared away, he recognised the familiar shape of a cannon.
A seventeenth century cannon was possibly the last thing Mowbray and his team expected to find. It was fortunate that one of his colleagues, Dr. Judi Flowers, was an expert on historic ordnance. She was given the job of examining the piece once ithad been lifted. The two things she immediately noticed were that the touch-hole (that part of the cannon where the powder is ignited) had been filled with lead, and the muzzle stoppered by the insertion of an oversized ball, which appeared to have been hammered into place. It was obvious that the weapon had been sealed with the intention either of concealing, or preserving, something therein. Subjecting the cannon to x-ray photography would have been pointless and, since the piece was in no way unique, she decided to cut it open. She obtained specialist cutting gear, and the rest of the team waited with great anticipation while the end of the barrel was removed.
In the next post, the contents of the cannon are revealed.
Monday, 26 July 2010
The inscription
It took three days to clear the site of trees and other vegetation. At this stage, Dr. Mowbray called in members of the local amateur genealogical society to record the inscriptions on the gravestones. Their findings, published in the Dorset Genealogical Quarterly, make fascinating reading, not least because of the rich supply of epitaphs that came to light. One such marked the last burial in 1699, the recorded year of the parish amalgamation. This final interment was commemorated by a stone bearing the following inscription:
Beatus vir qui timet Dominum
Good people as ye do pass by this place
Please pray I do besech
For one who hopes for grace
For once like thee I livd begott and breathed
But now lie still in death
My soule to God bequeathed
Remember ye that life doth pass away
Thou livest now but death may have his way
His fatal dart will pierce thy flesh anon
Therfor enjoy thyself ere life is gone
Guillielmus Throckus
Obit 1699
The simple sentiments and typically dire warnings of the epitaph caught the imagination of Mowbray and his team. Remembering the old belief (still current in some parts of the County of Dorset) that the last person buried in a churchyard was doomed to watch over it for all eternity, they decided to exhume William Throck's coffin (Guillielmus Throckus was, of course, a Latinized version of his name), the quicker to speed him to his final resting place.
The coffin, found at a depth of seven feet, was in remarkably good condition, considering its three centuries in the ground. It was of plain lead, with the letters 'W.T.' stamped on the lid. It was carefully raised using portable lifting gear and taken to a tent, erected nearby, for the purpose of examination. When the lid was removed it was discovered, incredibly, that another lead coffin lay inside. This casket was also marked on the lid, but this time with the name 'William Thuck'. This was no great surprise to the team. Seventeenth century spelling was nothing if not haphazard, and it was not unknown for even the well-educated to spell their names in four or five different ways. The inner coffin was duly opened, and the team came face to face with the mortal remains of Master William Thuck.
Beatus vir qui timet Dominum
Good people as ye do pass by this place
Please pray I do besech
For one who hopes for grace
For once like thee I livd begott and breathed
But now lie still in death
My soule to God bequeathed
Remember ye that life doth pass away
Thou livest now but death may have his way
His fatal dart will pierce thy flesh anon
Therfor enjoy thyself ere life is gone
Guillielmus Throckus
Obit 1699
The simple sentiments and typically dire warnings of the epitaph caught the imagination of Mowbray and his team. Remembering the old belief (still current in some parts of the County of Dorset) that the last person buried in a churchyard was doomed to watch over it for all eternity, they decided to exhume William Throck's coffin (Guillielmus Throckus was, of course, a Latinized version of his name), the quicker to speed him to his final resting place.
The coffin, found at a depth of seven feet, was in remarkably good condition, considering its three centuries in the ground. It was of plain lead, with the letters 'W.T.' stamped on the lid. It was carefully raised using portable lifting gear and taken to a tent, erected nearby, for the purpose of examination. When the lid was removed it was discovered, incredibly, that another lead coffin lay inside. This casket was also marked on the lid, but this time with the name 'William Thuck'. This was no great surprise to the team. Seventeenth century spelling was nothing if not haphazard, and it was not unknown for even the well-educated to spell their names in four or five different ways. The inner coffin was duly opened, and the team came face to face with the mortal remains of Master William Thuck.
Sunday, 25 July 2010
The lost County
On the 26th of November 1697, Isaiah Stone, gent, of the village of Southwell on the Isle of Portland, recorded in his diary:
Much winde. Much raine. My hat was blowne off.
This bald statement is the only record we have of a fierce storm, coupled with an unusually high spring tide, that is believed to have raged along the south coast of England on that day. And it was this storm, I think, that saw the final inundation and destruction of the County of Middenshire.
If you haven't heard of Middenshire you're in very good company. Until just over twenty years ago, no-one knew of its existence. Then, in 1988, a chance discovery by a group of archaeologists roused a flurry of excitement in the normally calm world of historians and geographers. The unlikely source of the excitement was the overgrown and disused churchyard of a forgotten place of worship in Dorset. The ruined remains of the church of St. Uncumber, patron saint of bored housewives, was deep in undergrowth near the village of Osmington. Its existence was, of course, known about, but it had not previously been the subject of historical or archaeological research. The church, built around 1430, was the religious hub of the smallest parish in Dorset, if not in England. In its heyday, its priest ministered to the inhabitants of nine houses, the tithes of which were valued at two shillings and fourpence annually. It took almost 270 years (and a turnover of almost as many priests) for The Church to do the sensible thing, and amalgamate St. Uncumber's with the neighbouring parish. Even then, this was only because the last priest went mad, and his two predecessors were convicted of smuggling, and all because of the beggarly living they had been given. By the middle of the twentieth century, the only access to the church was via land that belonged to an eccentric recluse, who resisted all requests from Dorset archaeologists to allow them to cross his property. When he died in 1988, allegedly from a surfeit of beef dripping, the land was passed to his only living descendent, who knew nothing about the ruins. He set about obtaining planning permission for a housing estate on his newly acquired land. The details of the plans came to the notice of Dr. Steve Mowbray, senior archaeologist with the South Coast Museums Service, who contacted the owner to advise him of his legal obligation to allow the site to be excavated prior to any work taking place. The new owner having readily agreed to this, Mowbray petitioned the Church Commissioners for permission to carry out a survey and some superficial excavation of the church. In fact, he was given a great deal more. The Commissioners, having no plans to restore the church, entered into an agreement to hand over the church and the parcel of land on which it stood to English Heritage, who obtained for it Grade 1 Listed Building status. The Commissioners made arrangements for the church to be de-consecrated, and the bodies buried in the churchyard to be moved. Then, in an almost unprecedented step, they gave Dr. Mowbray permission to examine the contents of the coffins at the time of their exhumation.
In my next post, I'll tell you what the archaeologists found.
Much winde. Much raine. My hat was blowne off.
This bald statement is the only record we have of a fierce storm, coupled with an unusually high spring tide, that is believed to have raged along the south coast of England on that day. And it was this storm, I think, that saw the final inundation and destruction of the County of Middenshire.
If you haven't heard of Middenshire you're in very good company. Until just over twenty years ago, no-one knew of its existence. Then, in 1988, a chance discovery by a group of archaeologists roused a flurry of excitement in the normally calm world of historians and geographers. The unlikely source of the excitement was the overgrown and disused churchyard of a forgotten place of worship in Dorset. The ruined remains of the church of St. Uncumber, patron saint of bored housewives, was deep in undergrowth near the village of Osmington. Its existence was, of course, known about, but it had not previously been the subject of historical or archaeological research. The church, built around 1430, was the religious hub of the smallest parish in Dorset, if not in England. In its heyday, its priest ministered to the inhabitants of nine houses, the tithes of which were valued at two shillings and fourpence annually. It took almost 270 years (and a turnover of almost as many priests) for The Church to do the sensible thing, and amalgamate St. Uncumber's with the neighbouring parish. Even then, this was only because the last priest went mad, and his two predecessors were convicted of smuggling, and all because of the beggarly living they had been given. By the middle of the twentieth century, the only access to the church was via land that belonged to an eccentric recluse, who resisted all requests from Dorset archaeologists to allow them to cross his property. When he died in 1988, allegedly from a surfeit of beef dripping, the land was passed to his only living descendent, who knew nothing about the ruins. He set about obtaining planning permission for a housing estate on his newly acquired land. The details of the plans came to the notice of Dr. Steve Mowbray, senior archaeologist with the South Coast Museums Service, who contacted the owner to advise him of his legal obligation to allow the site to be excavated prior to any work taking place. The new owner having readily agreed to this, Mowbray petitioned the Church Commissioners for permission to carry out a survey and some superficial excavation of the church. In fact, he was given a great deal more. The Commissioners, having no plans to restore the church, entered into an agreement to hand over the church and the parcel of land on which it stood to English Heritage, who obtained for it Grade 1 Listed Building status. The Commissioners made arrangements for the church to be de-consecrated, and the bodies buried in the churchyard to be moved. Then, in an almost unprecedented step, they gave Dr. Mowbray permission to examine the contents of the coffins at the time of their exhumation.
In my next post, I'll tell you what the archaeologists found.
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