If you want to take a decent photograph of the west front of
a medieval abbey, priory or cathedral then the only time to do it is on a long
summers evening. When the sun dips low, shines directly onto the stone face of
the building, chasing away all the oblique shadows of the day. To capture all
the details of the architecture, to pick out all the tiny nuances of the
medieval masons, it has to be a long summer evening. Which is why, a few
evenings ago, I was to be found at Binham priory in north Norfolk.
The west front of Binham priory, for all its faults, is
absolutely sublime - and by far and away one of my favourite medieval buildings
anywhere in England. The design is massively important in the history of
English medieval architecture, for reasons that I simply won't bore you with
here, and it really was, for its time, utterly revolutionary. However, as you
will see, today it is far from perfect. The great west window, designed as the
centrepiece of the whole priory, eventually failed - leading to it being
bricked up in several stages in the late C18th and early C19th. Having said
that, what is left today is still a masterpiece. The detailing of the arcading,
the crocketed capitals and the dog-tooth decoration, are some of THE very best
examples of the Early English style to be found in the country - and it was
these I was there to photograph.
As the sun behind me sank lower and lower in the sky I took
picture after picture, watching as the light changed as it played across the
stone. Finally, as the light turned to an orange glow, I called it a day, packed
up my camera equipment, and turned around to face the setting sun. Or 'suns'
rather. For there in front of me, instead of one great orange sphere, there
were two. Two suns in the sky. Quite unmistakably. For a few seconds I simply
gazed in absolute wonder, faced with this strange, alien, reality. Two suns
hanging low in the west...
The two suns in the sky is a rare atmospheric occurrence, or
so modern science tells us, known as 'parhelion'. It is caused by the
refraction of the sunlight in ice crystals or water droplets high in the
atmosphere, and most usually occurs when the sun is low in the sky - at either
dawn or dusk. In many cases the full effect is seen as three suns - with a
'copy' either side of the actual sun itself. The phenomenon is sometimes known
as 'phantom suns', 'mock suns' or 'sun dogs'; the last term perhaps relating to
Norse mythology, where it was thought that they were the dogs of Odin riding
through the sky with their master. And these 'phantom suns' most certainly turn
up throughout folklore, superstition and mythology all over the world, and
throughout history. Though rarely seen their appearance was most certainly
noteworthy, and like many celestial events, their appearance is linked to great
and momentous events.
Perhaps one of the most famous instances of this phenomena
appearing in English history dates back to 1461, and the Battle of Mortimer's
Cross during the Wars of the Roses. As the battle began the troops of Edward of
York were reportedly terrified by the apparition of three suns hanging in the
sky, taking it as an omen of ill fortune. However, Edward convinced his men
that, rather than predicting their doom, the three suns were a symbol from God.
The three suns represented the holy trinity, and were a sign that they were
blessed by the Lord, and about to win a great victory. Heartened by his words
the Yorkist troops hastened into battle and, just as Edward had predicted,
routed the Lancastrian forces. Edward himself, it was said, was so deeply moved
by the three suns in the sky that he later adopted the sunburst symbol as part
of the Yorkist livery.
The English have, it has long been reported, always been a
nation that put great store in such signs and omens. Writing in the seventeenth
century Bishop Sprat noted that belief in such omens and portents was something
that the English, in his opinion, were more than usually vulnerable to. The
English were, he believed, a superstitious and credulous nation. And the omens
were many and various. Putting aside the celestial phenomena of parhelion,
eclipses and comets, there were strange sightings of battles in the sky, great
swarms of unusual birds , earthquakes - and even, according to the report of two country women in 1651,
flights of angels of 'a blueish colour and about the bigness of a capon'. The
medieval and early modern world, it would appear, was a world of omens and
portents - and none of them were good.
That is the thing about omens and portents. No matter
whether they are blue-chicken-sized-angels or multiple suns in the sky, the
chances are that they are going to be interpreted as the harbingers of doom.
None of these omens ever appear to have been interpreted as foretelling 'a
reasonably nice day next Wednesday', or even 'generally pleasant things will
befall the beholder'. Oh no, that just won't do. Instead all of these omens are
clear signs of extreme displeasure by (insert deity of choice), who is sending
this sign as a way of informing the world that it is very shortly in for a
damned good smiting... and no mistake.
And this is the thing about the medieval ideas of faith and
belief. Whilst there are the little things that can be beneficial - the charms,
talisman and just plain 'lucky' objects - all backing up the unquestionably
beneficial prayers of holy mother Church - the large portents and omens are
concerned with ill fortune and disaster. Whilst the successful harvest and good
health can be ascribed to general good fortune and the rewards of a devout
life, the all too common disasters and setbacks, the unexpected floods and the
sudden onset of disease were there as a punishment. A punishment for a life
lived not as it should be. As Keith Thomas highlights, many people prayed
regularly out of fear for what would happen to them, or their loved ones, if
they didn't. Therefore, with fire, robbery, tempest, death or fearful accidents
an all too common occurrence the medieval church, and the faith of the parish
community, was one underpinned by fear.
And it is this fear that we find on the walls of our
churches, laid bare in the graffiti etched deep into the stones. We don't find
the angels, but we do come across the demons. We find the marks of protection.
The physical symbols that hoped to reinforce the prayers of the church, in an
all too often vain attempt to keep away the forces of ill fortune. We find the
marks of desperate hope. A hope that briefly burned in the breasts of an entire
community; all of whom are long since turned to dust. A community for whom two
suns hanging in the sky before the west from of a priory were something to be
dreaded and feared rather than gazed upon in wonder...
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