How St Albans got its Name

            Do you wonder about the history of local towns? I've lived near St. Albans for 18 years, but it was only recently I looked into the origins of this roman settlement. It started life in  AD 43 when the Romans built an encampment beside the River Ver and "Verulamium" was born (later renamed St Albans) – and for a while this was the largest Roman town in England. However, at that time most of the buildings were made of wood and destroyed during Queen Boudicca's rebellion of AD 60 -61.

The view along George St, St Albans
(which also happens to be where one of my all time favourite shops is located)

            Undeterred the Romans rebuilt in stone and then a couple of centuries later erected a wall around the town. It was around this time AD 250 -275 (exact date uncertain) that the man who went onto give his name to St Albans - was martyred.

St Alban's cathedral

            Alban is acknowledged as the first British Christian martyr and an account of his life is given by the Venerable Bede in his Ecclesiastical History. The story goes that Alban was a pagan who gave a Christian priest, Amphibalus, shelter and hid him from Roman soldiers who were trying to capture him. However, during their time together the priest converted Alban to Christianity and when soldiers arrived to arrest Amphibalus, Alban donned the priest’s garments and took his place. A judge recognized the deception and insisted Alban renounce Christianity – and had him savagely beaten when he refused.

A rather grizzly depiction of Alban's execution

            Alban was sentenced to death, but on the day of his execution a number of miracles happened which made the executioner refuse to perform his duty. A second executioner was found who beheaded Alban, along with the first executioner - but then this second executioner was struck blind. Alban’s head bounced down a hill (Holywell Hill) and a stream arose where it landed.  The place of Alban’s execution is reputedly where St Alban’s cathedral stands today.

The shrine of St Alban - housed within
the cathedral that bears his name

            By AD 410 the roman presence dwindled as the army left, and many of their buildings fell into disrepair. The industrious locals reused bricks and stone, incorporating roman materials into their own houses and barns. Indeed, to this day St Albans is a place with a strong sense of history seeping from its stones, including an "Eleanor Cross" – more of this in another post.

The view down Holywell Hill in the late 19th century

The Sinking of the Mary Rose: by guest author, Judith Arnopp

I'm delighted to welcome Judith Arnopp, historical fiction author, to my blog. I've read three of Judith's books (The Winchester Goose, The Concubine's Kiss, and now Intractable Heart) and can heartily recommend them to readers of well-written historical fiction. With impeccable research, Judith's writing immerses you in the Tudor period and excels at making the motivation of the characters believable. 

Today, Judith shares a post about the sinking of the Tudor warship, the Mary Rose (see excerpt at the end of this post to  read the scene in Intractable Heart). Anyhow, enough from me - let me hand over to Judith. 

Grace x
PS For more Mary Rose info click the link.

Judith Arnopp

On July 19th 1545, with the loss of more than 400 lives, the royal flagship The Mary Rose sank beneath the waves, settled into the silt of the Solent and became history. Four hundred years later, in 1982, when archaeologists successfully raised her from the seabed, I was watching. I may have been glued to the television screen 70 miles away from Portsmouth but, in my heart, I was there with the team, experiencing one of the most profound moments of my life.

In the intervening years I have visited the museum several times and closely followed the Mary Rose Trust in its unstinting efforts to salvage not just the wreck, but the thousands of artefacts found alongside it.  For the past nineteen years the timbers of the wreck have been constantly sprayed with polyethylene glycol to preserve and reinforce the structure, but now the time has come to turn off the spray and begin drying her out. It is also time for the wreck and its artefacts to be brought back together and housed in one fabulous exhibition.

The Mary Rose is the only 16th century warship on display anywhere in the world. She offers an invaluable resource for historians, illustrating in minute detail, life as it was on a Tudor warship. Artefacts that, in normal circumstances, would have been lost to us have been preserved for 500 years in the Solent silt. They can now be viewed in situ in a new museum which opens in Portsmouth in May 2013. Visitors to the museum will be able to walk along a central gangway and view the original wreck on one side while, on the other side, see a reconstruction of how experts believe the interior of the Mary Rose may have looked on the day she sank.

 

Mary Rose - gun furniture

Henry VIII’s obsession with France left England a legacy of isolation in Europe, religious conflict, inflation, national penury and social upheaval, and what little gains he did make were short lived. In the 1550’s Boulogne was given back to France, and in 1558 Calais, England’s last possession on the continent, was lost. Today we can see that the one positive outcome of his war with France was the Mary Rose. What was undoubtedly a huge loss to Henry VIII that day but she has now become a gift to us as a nation, and every single person who went down with her did not die in vain. They are not forgotten. The wreck of the Mary Rose provides precious insight into life on a Tudor warship, an aspect of 16th century life that would otherwise be completely closed to us.

 

Mary Rose - carpentry tools

It is not just the salvaged cannon or the armour and weapons that are invaluable, it is the small, everyday things. They have become the greatest treasures. There is no thrill on this earth like looking at a handful of dice last thrown by a sailor in 1545, or a leather shoe last worn by a man defending our shores from French invasion five hundred years ago, or a nit comb still thick with 16th century lice. To me, and other peculiar people like me, those things are rarer, and more thrilling, than the crown jewels.

When I came to write my novel Intractable Heart; a story of Katheryn Parr I could not omit the tragedy of the Mary Rose. We do not know for certain if Katheryn was with Henry as he watched his favourite ship sink but it is not beyond the bounds of possibility that she was. Below is an excerpt from the novel depicting the imagined scene.

19th July 1545 – Southsea, Portsmouth

The King points a finger, indicating where the ships should go next. Beside him, ignoring the squeals of the women, Charles Brandon nods.  It is as if the men are witnessing a life sized game of chess, as if real lives, real husbands aren’t at risk. I remember Henry explaining that there are more than four hundred and fifty men aboard each ship. I try to imagine the squash, the stench and the squalor. It must be like hell on earth.

The king stands proud, hands on hips, his demeanour belying his failing breath, his crippled leg, his lack of virility. He looks out across the sea, his papery cheeks growing pink in the sea air, the white feather in his cap fluttering like a stricken gull. Slowly, the pride of the English navy turns to offer a broadside attack.

It is one of those briny coastal days when the wind is sporadic, with intermittent breezes that extinguish the warmth of the sun. A sudden gust, seemingly from nowhere, lifts the King’s cloak, making him shudder.

“Someone walking over my grave,” he laughs as he wraps it closer to his bulk. He glances at me and I smile dutifully, convincing him of my adoration. And, engaged as we are in this moment of marital insincerity, we both miss the precise moment when the Mary Rose falters.

When we turn back to the panoramic scene, the action is stilled; the flags on the great ship snap and flutter. Like a painting the scene is frozen momentarily, the great ship balanced on the cusp of fate. As if in premonition the king holds his breath, grabs my arm as my heart falters and I send up a prayer. 

But, in a heartbeat, the ship is heeling over, cries of terror as her open gun ports fill with water. We stand amazed as the first sailors fall from the rigging to splash into the sea. On the snapping breeze the screams of the stricken men are borne toward us and my husband’s prowess instantly shrinks. His breath whistles from his lungs, his grip is tight and painful on my wrist.

We watch transfixed as the massive cannon break free, bursting through the sides of the ship, surging into the waves. All around us people are screaming, shouting orders; a crowd surges toward the dockside, the air clamouring with terrified voices.

 On board The Mary Rose the tilting deck is a chaos of fleeing men. They are screaming, leaping from assured death to certain drowning. As they run, they cast off their clothing, kick off their shoes in the futile hope that, although they cannot swim, they will float when the swiftly swelling sea engulfs them.

The end is quick. Henry and I watch in horrified silence while around us on the battlement, women are weeping, wailing, praying. Charles Brandon and Anthony Browne are shouting, waving their arms. Below us in the precinct men are fighting to mount terrified horses, although it is too late for fruitful action; there is nothing to be done.

It is far too late to prevent disaster. Henry knows it in his heart. I know it in my own. Now, so quickly, the only visible sign of Henry’s favourite ship is the top of the mast jutting from the water. Like a great white jelly fish the mainsail is foundering in the waves and only a few survivors are left, clinging to the fighting tops. The balmy sea is littered with the wreckage, and the remnants of his fighting crew are flotsam.

I am suddenly aware of someone sobbing and slowly I turn in a daze to find Mary Carew fallen to her knees. It is only then I remember her husband. Before I can move to comfort her Henry stumps forward and, throwing down his stick, he lifts her up and draws her into his arms.

He wraps his arms about her and over the top of her head his eyes meet mine. There are great shining tears on his lashes, dropping onto his white and sagging cheeks.

“There, there,” he croaks, caressing her shoulder awkwardly with his jewelled hand. “There, there.”

What else can he say?

***

Intractable Heart is available now on Kindle please click here to read a sample.

The paperback edition will be available toward the end of the summer.

Judith Arnopp’s other books include:

The Kiss of the Concubine: A Story of Anne Boleyn

The Winchester Goose: at the court of Henry VIII

The Song of Heledd

The Forest Dwellers

Peaceweaver

All available both in paperback and on kindle.

Judith’s webpage: www.juditharnopp.com

Judith’s blog: www.juditharnoppnovelists.blogspot.co.uk

Pinner Fair

This morning dawned grey and dull – not great weather for Pinner Fair which takes place today. Traditionally held on the Wednesday after the Spring Bank Holiday, Pinner Fair dates back to 1336 and the reign of King Edward III. I remember it well as a child (in the 1970's, I hasten to add, not the 1300's.) This charter allowed the Mayor of Harrow to hold a weekly market and a larger fair up to five times a year. This has survived down the centuries as the annual fair in May.

 

Pinner High Street, 1908 (without the fair present!)

As a child growing up near Pinner, I used to walk into the village with my father to watch the rides being set up. The walk still is very pleasant, especially at this time of year with the trees in blossom, but it is essentially a stroll through suburbia, albeit with neat front gardens and well-to-do houses. Quite different from what met the visitor in the 1830's.

'We used to go across the fields about four miles to Pinner.'

Revd. Henry Torre

 

The Queen's Head in the background

My father and I would walk along Bridge Street and the High Street to watch the lorries being unloaded and the bustle of rides being set up. In previous decades this was regimented by the police and a sergeant would blow his whistle at 6pm, to signal the start of the 'rush-in' to claim the best pitches. The fair people, who were waiting in side streets, would rush to their favourite spot and lay claim to it by sticking a pole in the gutter.

 

The Queen's Head, Pinner

As a child I had two favourite rides; the ponies that ambled up and down the lane outside the Police Station, and the traditional carousel roundabout at the top of the hill beside the parish church. The last time I visited the fair was with my own children, several years ago and although the carousel roundabout survives, the ponies giving rides are no more. Although the relatively innocent stalls of hooking a duck on a stick still exist today, more and more of the rides as noisy mechanical rides designed to thrill and frighten. A lot has changed since those earlier fairs.

 

Pinner Fair in the modern day

'The chief attractions were roundabouts, swinging-boats, single-stick and boxing matches; among the labourers, jumping in sacks, climbing a greased pole for a leg of mutton or a hat on the top, and last but not least in importance a dance at a public house.'

Revd. Henry Torre.  Recollections of School Days at Harrow (1890)

Some of the public houses in Pinner, such as the Queen's Head, and The Victory, date back centuries. Nowadays the publicans are content to make money from visitors to the fair popping in for refreshments, but in past centuries they were more enterprising.  Dancing booths were popular and the local publicans often took advantage of the crowds to organize a dance in a side room.

 

In my day this pub was called The Victory.

'The dancing was in a small room, and the atmosphere, impregnated with the smell of beer and tobacco, and the noise of dancing in chaw-boots, to a merry fiddle were something indescribable. Dancing continued till about midnight, when we walked back to Harrow.'

 

A drizzly day at Pinner fair

Nowadays, there is no dancing, but plenty of eating and drinking. For the one day of the fair the main roads of the High Street and Bridge Street are closed to traffic to make way for the attractions. It must be a sign of my age but the fair lacks the magic it held for me as a child. It just seems noisy, dirty and expensive. So what about you? Do you like fairs? 

The Georgians: And So to Bed

On a recent tour of the Queen's State Apartments at Hampton Court Palace, my attention was taken by a chest / truckle bed in Queen's Guard Chamber.

The cot / chest in which a yeoman guard
might snatch a quick nap.

Apparently, this was where a weary yeoman guard could nap during the long watches of the night. This set me thinking and hence this post about the three beds on view in the state apartments.
The yeoman guard's bed was basically a trunk in disguise. With the lid down, you'd barely notice it as anything other than an underwhelming piece of furniture in the guard room. 

The fireplace in the Guard Room -
Two yeoman guards are featured in the caryatids. 

However, just a few rooms deeper into the royal apartments in the State Bedchamber the contrast with couldn't be greater as the Royal Bed of State is revealed in all its crimson brocade splendour.

The Royal Bed of State.

In a room dripping with opulence and decorated with fabulous paintings portraying the power of the royal family, we find a bed fit for a king...and queen. But just because this is a bed, doesn't imply any degree of privacy. Quite the opposite in fact. A courtier, or petitioner of influence, might be shown into this inner sanctum in order to present his business to the king.

The awe-inspiring ceiling in the State Bedchamber.
Designed to impress!

Fair enough the courtier wouldn't just wander in, he'd need to be sanctioned by the Yeoman Guard and then be escorted through the Queen's Presence Chamber, the Dining Room, the Privy Chambers and Drawing Room in order to reach the State Bedroom - but the principle remains that a person might do business with the king as he dressed.

The view from the State Bedchamber.

The idea is actually quite a practical one. In the 18th century it took an hour or more for the monarch to rise, dress, be coiffured and kitted out in all his royal finery. Neither did the king dress himself, but was attended by trusted servants who attended to his bodily needs as if he were a mannequin.
Deeper within the State Apartments we find the private rooms. It is here, in the Queen's Bedchamber. Heaven's above - this room had a lock on it and was a rare place where the royal couple might seek some privacy.

The Queen's bed within her private rooms

Queen Caroline would have slept here in the company of her husband, George II. Adjacent is a private dining room, a private bathroom and an oratory (prayer room), so whilst their idea of a family life wasn't exactly normal, with a small army of servants coming and going, one can at least hope the courtiers and petitioners didn't intrude this far.

Contrasting places to rest a weary head:
A trunk or state bed.
Which would you prefer? 

And finally...

18th Century Pastimes: Animal Baiting

Just because a sport is popular, is no guarantee of good taste and when it comes to entertainment what appeals to one person can be repulsive to another. This is certainly true of the 18^th century craze for animal baiting, which from the distance of the modern day most right-minded people find disgusting.

The 'sport' of animal-baiting was extremely popular in the past

Baiting involved forcing animals or birds, to fight one another, often to the death. The most ancient form was cock-fighting which has also been suggested as one of the world’s oldest spectator sports, going back over 6,000 years to ancient Persia. Roman mosaics exist that show two cocks squaring up for a winner’s purse. In 17^th century Britain the ‘sport’ was so popular and widespread that the term ‘cockpit’ (the pit in which cocks fought) was in common parlance to mean a place of entertainment or frenzied activity and in Tudor times, Whitehall had its own permanent fighting arena – the Cockpit-in-Court.

Cocks were pitched against each other because of their natural aggression to other males and James Boswell noted in 1762 after attending a fight how the birds fought with ‘amazing bitterness and resolution’ to the end.  It took until 1835 for cock-fighting to be banned but the legislation did not have sufficient ‘teeth’ and amazingly the activity continued in a widespread manner until the 1911 Protection of Animals Act made it illegal to prepare a place for cock-fighting.

The distressing 'sport' of bear-baiting

The bear was another animal used for baiting and the ‘sport’s’ fans included King Henry VIII, who had a special bear pit constructed at Whitehall, as well as Queen Elizabeth I. Tudor attitudes were very different to the modern day when such cruelty is to be abhorred, indeed Elizabeth over-ruled Parliament when they tried to stop bear-baiting on Sundays. Elizabeth’s court favourite, Robert Dudley, Earl of Leceister, regularly hosted bear baitings, one of which is described below by Robert Laneham (1575).

“Thursday, the fourteenth of July, and the sixth day of her Majesty’s coming, a great sort of bandogs [mastiff] were then tied in the outer court and thirteen bears in the inner . . . It was a sport very pleasant, of these beasts, to see the bear with his pink eyes leering after his enemies approach, the nimbleness and wayt [wait] of the dog to take his advantage, and the force and experience of the bear again to avoid the assaults. If he were bitten in one place, how he would pinch in another to get free, that if he were taken once, then what shift, with biting, with clawing, with roaring, tossing and tumbling, he would work to wind himself free from them. And when he was loose, to shake his ears twice or thrice with the blood and the slather about his physiognomy, was a matter of goodly relief.”

These 'gentlemen' are watching badger-baiting

Incredibly, this cruel activity only died out, in the 18^th century, because bears which were extinct in Britain, also became rare in Europe and therefore too costly to import.

            Another example is bull-baiting. The bull was tied to a stake on a tether with a 30 foot radius. The idea of the ‘sport’ was for dogs to immobilize the bull. This was part justified on the rather thin belief that baiting improved bull meat. Indeed, some towns had bye-laws stating meat from a bull could not be sold unless the animal first been baited.

Rat-baiting

            In the early 19^th century social attitudes began to change, but when the topic of banning bull-baiting was debated in parliament, the future prime minister Sir William Pulteney argued that:

‘The amusement inspired courage and produced a nobleness of sentiment and elevation of mind.’

An example of the wide spread nature of bull-baiting is found in the name of the main commercial area of the city of Birmingham, UK – which is called the Bull Ring (or Bullring in the modern day). The ‘ring’ refers to the hoop of iron to which the bull was tethered for baiting prior to slaughter. [It is perhaps testament to the British love of tradition that the 21^st century contraction of Bull Ring to Bullring caused anger amongst the locals who looked on the former as the true, historic spelling.]

A modern nod to the origins of Birmingham Bullring

And finally…the dogs used in the vile activity of bull baiting were bred for purpose and when bull-baiting was banned, the numbers of these dogs fell dramatically. Around 1865 dog fanciers worried about the breed going into decline set about breeding the remaining animals together so as to preserve the breed. It is from these dogs that the British bulldog was derived – that national symbol of determination and fighting spirit! 

"Paradise for Women and Hell for Horses": Sexism in the 17th and 18th Centuries

“[England is] a paradise for women and hell for horses.” Robert Burton 1651

A woman's role was to marry and have children.

            The above quote is from the 17^th century, but the underlying sentiment remains true a century later in Georgian times. Just in case the word ‘paradise’ confuses you – consider that women are being put in the same category as horses, that is, both subject to men, their lord and master. In effect Burton is saying that women should consider themselves jolly lucky to be coddled and generously looked after by their menfolk. Puts a different complexion on the term ‘paradise’ doesn’t it?

            If you aren’t convinced, then consider this quote by Judge Buller, in 1782, who ruled on a point of English law concerning women and concluded:

            “[It is] perfectly legal for a man to beat his wife, as long as he used a stick no thicker than his thumb.”

Wealthy and leisured...but at what price?

 In the upper classes there the prevailing attitude was of men ‘owning’ women – almost as though the men were intimidated and needed to keep women firmly under the thumb! Men subjugated women by linking learning, knowledge, politics and career to a loss of feminine charm. A ‘honey trap’ was created where a woman looked to marriage for security, and if she tried to be independent she was labelled as having loose morals. This is illustrated in this quote written in 1757 by Jean Jacques Rousseau:

            “there are no good morals for women outside of a withdrawn and domestic life …any woman who shows herself off disgraces herself.”

A laundress at work - one of the few 'honest' occupations
open to women

But of course, many lower class women had no choice but to earn a living and there were few jobs were considered 'decent' - and surprise, surprise, they paid poorly. Interestingly, the 18^th century saw the birth of consumerism and some women stepped into roles as seamstresses (helping the wealthy keep up with the latest fashion), writing for magazines and pamphlets (more lofty literary ambition was frowned upon), decorating ceramics and indeed, serving in the new shops. But as for actresses and singers, those females who might consider entertaining for a living were labeled as being sexually available…

A maid at work.

My latest release, The Ringmaster's Daughter, features a heroine, Henrietta Hart, a performer, who has to balance entertaining men without compromising her morals. This is easier said than done, especially when her livelihood depends on pleasing the amorous Lord Fordyce....

Georgian Gambling: Loaded Dice

Thomas Rowlandson: 'A Gambling Table at Cavendish House'

‘A thousand meadows and cornfields are staked at every throw, and as many villages lost as in the earthquake that overwhelmed Herculaneum and Pompeii.’

Horace Walpole.

The Georgian era heralded many changes in society, including the blossoming of leisure activities. It was an era when the aristocracy liked to show off their wealth, to entertain and hold house parties. At the latter, card games were especially popular and the host would set up tables for guests to play faro, quadrille, piquet or whist. But where there was gaming, there were wagers to be made, and money to be won or lost. For those less scrupulous members of society, cheating was one option to get-rich-quick.

 

The Drawing Room in the Queen's State Apartments,
Hampton Court Palace.
Note the gaming table on the right

Dice were an integral part of many games, and key to cheating. Most of us have heard the expression, ‘loaded dice’, meaning that the dice have been tampered with so as to land a specific way up. Also known as ‘gourds’, these were altered dice were the stock in hand of cardsharps or ‘blacklegs’ (more them in another post.) 

To make a gourd, a die was partially hollowed out and mercury added, so that when thrown, the die favored either low, or high, numbers. Dice that always threw a low number were known as low-fullams, and those high, as high-fullams.  The latter term goes back to Elizabethan times and the London suburb of Fulham, where all the most notorious cardsharps liked to gather.

 

A Georgian gaming table

Another method of cheating was with bristle-dice. These involved making a die with a short, firm bristle in one corner, such that when the die was thrown, it couldn’t settle on that corner and tip over. The technique is described in some detail, but Charles Cotton, in The Complete Gamester (1726)

‘By Bristle-Dice, which are fitted for that purpose, by sticking a hog’s bristle so in the corners, or otherwise in the Dice, that they shall run high or low as they please; this Bristle must be stonrg and short, by which means the Bristle bending, it will not lie of that side, but will be tript over.’ 

Are black cats unlucky?
That'a a whole different blog post!