Siena - part 1. The lost voices of the crypt.

I landed at Pisa airport, Italy, in the late morning, in the very last days of January 2020. Miles to the north of me a few hundred people had begun to cough their guts out, and a few medics had begun to become concerned at a strange new disease that appeared to be spreading quite rapidly - and killing people. I didn't know any of this at the time. None of us did. And it would be weeks before I understood that I had just walked in to a biological war-zone. I was happy just to be in northern Italy, despite it being the depths of winter, and with the prospect of some seriously interesting archaeology in front of me.

A few hours and a slow train ride later I had left the coast and headed inland, up through the Tuscan hills to the medieval city of Siena. If this were a travel blog it's at this point I'd start getting all overly descriptive; telling you about the picturesque medieval buildings, the wonderful plazas, fine restaurants, and beautiful accommodation. I'd wax lyrical about the famous 'Palio' - a twice annual horserace that verges upon the insane - the stunning museums and galleries, and undoubtedly mention that the entire city centre is a Unesco World Heritage Site. I would tell tales of late night wanderings through narrow medieval streets, overhung by balconies. Balconies from which, only two months later, the locked-down residents would nightly serenade their own beloved and Covid besieged city. I'd also undoubtedly include an implausible and amusing anecdote concerning a local, or a lavish description of a meal in some hidden-away gem of an eatery. However, this isn't a travel blog, so I won't.

So we will skip all of that. You can go and look for yourself someday I hope. I was heading instead for one of the most intriguing medieval buildings in a city. A place packed full of medieval wonders. The cathedral, or Duomo - a masterpiece of Italian Romanesque/Gothic architecture that dominates its own quarter within the city.

The guidebooks will all tell you that the sumptuous façade of the Duomo was completed about the year 1380. However, as with all these things, that is a bit of a simplification. Like just about every cathedral or great church ever built the Duomo was a constantly evolving building. Changes in fashion and the requirements and aspirations of the population mean that these structures were never the static artefacts that would, if it were true, make an architectural historians life just a little too easy. Instead they grow, they shift, they alter, and they evolve. And as they evolve little pieces of space, small fragments of a specific moment, become fossilised in the architecture.

There are few religious buildings that demonstrate this more clearly than the Duomo. In the late fourteenth century there were plans to expand this already impressively large structure, with the creation of a massive eastern transept. If completed it would have made the Duomo the largest basilica of its time. However, as is so common with big building projects, the ambitions of the locals were larger than their pockets were deep, and the lack of funds in the wake of the Black Death and local conflict brought a halt to the construction. Only the outer two arcades were built, leaving a massive area of the plaza enclosed by the outline of a building that never was. A phantom structure whose soaring empty arches scream thwarted ambition, and now a useful place to park your car.

Despite the many and varied wonders of the Duomo - and I could ramble on for many hours about those (buy a guidebook if you are interested) - I was there to look at the graffiti. I know. Boringly predictable. The Duomo is covered in ancient graffiti, both inside and out. Deeply cut inscriptions and coats of arms sit alongside sketched lines of music, and vibrant little caricatures of knights on horseback. On the outside can be found carved a rare ROTAS square, and pelta designs just litter the stonework. Indeed, there are probably more pelta designs on that one building than have so far been recorded in the whole of the UK. And the graffiti covers all periods, from the ancient to the very recent, from visitors of all ages to the site - some of whom were far more welcome than others.

In terms of medieval graffiti the real value of Siena isn't inside the main building itself, but rather beneath it, in an area described today as a crypt, but originally a series of chapels. The crypt is actually a relatively new discovery, only being found by archaeologists in 1999, and not opened to the public until 2003. It is believed that it was first built in the second half of the thirteenth century, but was subject to extensive changes and alterations associated with the enlargement of the cathedral in about 1317, before finally falling completely out of use at around 1355. The main body of the crypt was then filled with sand and sealed - as it remained until 1999.

When excavated the walls of the crypt were found to be covered in wall paintings, which have been tentatively dated to the 1280s. And what stunning wall paintings they are! Having been in use for only a few decades before being filled with sand, the crypt paintings are in an incredible state of preservation. The colours really are almost as bright as the day they were painted. There really is nothing like it in the UK. And from my perspective what is really special about the crypt is the fact that those same wall paintings are absolutely covered in graffiti. Hundreds of examples of graffiti. And that makes the crypt very, very special indeed.

The graffiti in the crypt represents one of the handful of examples of graffiti having been created in a sealed and securely dated context. Any graffiti cut through those paintings HAS to have been created between the 1280s - when the paintings were made - and the 1350s - when the crypt was sealed and filled with sand. It is unquestionably medieval graffiti. It cannot be anything else. So, whilst it may not be from the UK, it does give an indication of the subject, scale, and quantity of graffiti that was being created within a highly regulated religious environment during a very short and precisely defined period in the later Middle Ages.

The most obvious feature of the graffiti in the undercroft is just how visible it is. Cut through the medieval pigments to reveal the pale plaster beneath, it stands out white against the bright colours of the religious scenes on the walls. It is obvious to anyone who walks into the room. The biblical scenes and their borders, lovely though they may be, are covered in graffiti. There really is no getting away from the implications of this.

The most obvious thing is that the graffiti is still there. Still very visible. It hasn't been painted over, and no attempt has been made to cover it in any way. Coupled with the fact that a vast amount of the graffiti there is religious or devotional in nature, it all rather confirms the concept that these inscriptions were not only tolerated, but were accepted and acceptable. A physical manifestation of the piety displayed by those who visited these spaces. It also gives a clear indication of how the walls of our own English parish churches would have once looked. No naughty choirboys creating graffiti in dark corners - but masses of highly visible inscriptions literally leaping out at you as you entered the church.

There were other insights too. The way in which many of the numerous heraldic inscriptions utilised the coloured borders of the paintings, adding pigment and a colour scheme to heraldry that we normally only encounter in the UK as bare and empty outlines. Carefully placed on boundaries between pigments, the little shields allow the walls to take on the form of a crude Roll of Arms. Can this too then be translated to English church walls, where the medieval pigment has long since been lost? Can we in fact use the graffiti to outline and identify these areas of lost pigment? A reversal of the usual trend.

Perhaps most importantly the graffiti in the crypt is a sealed little moment in time. A fragment of the past - a few brief decades of peoples hopes, dreams, and fears - that have been fossilised in the graffiti. They didn't leave their names, so we will never know who they were. We will never know if they were knight or priest, cleric or commoner. We will never know if they went on to have long and happy lives, or died weeping and alone in the agony of a plague year. But what they have left us is what they deemed important enough to leave behind them. What they cared about most - whether it be a prayer, an echoing fragment of music, or just the briefest of outlines that tell us the most important message of all - 'once upon a time I was real - I lived, I loved, I made this mark - and I was here...'

'Witch marks' are just SO last decade... now carpenters marks are cool.

It's already mid October, Halloween is just around the corner, plague doctor masks are outselling just about every other costume on the internet, and my inbox is filling up once again. No, that isn't a euphemism. Stop smirking.

At this time of year the subject line of most of the emails is pretty much guaranteed to read 'witch marks', or some variant upon it. The tabloid media wanting images or, more usually, emails from the public wanting to know if the strange markings they have found on their house are indeed 'witch marks'. Firstly, I have to state that all the emails are welcome - unless they are from the Daily Mail obviously. They can go and do one. I try to reply to all the messages - eventually - and give an indication of the meaning of the markings they've discovered. At the very least it may heighten their interest in, and understanding of, their own house. They may look at it in a different light, and think about the generations who have called it home for centuries before they were born.

However, the replies always begin the same way.

"Many thanks for the message and attached images ('and apologies for the delay in reply to you' - optional depending upon how busy a month it has been). We tend not to use the term 'witch mark' these days, as it is both misleading and factually incorrect. The term itself was invented by a journalist only a couple of decades ago, and is sadly one we don't seem to be able to shake off. An actual 'witch mark' is the marking found upon the body of a witch (third nipple etc), that was thought to be the physical manifestation of their pact with the devil.

The markings in the images you sent are today more usually known as 'apotropaic' marks, or 'ritual protection marks', and in parts of northern Europe they are still called 'holy signs' - which is perhaps an altogether more descriptive name. The marks themselves have no direct links to witches, and were thought to ward off evil spirits and malign influences. Most of them have their origins in the imagery of the medieval church, and can best be thought of as 'anti-witch marks'." This is usually followed by a reading list.

Never let it be said that my replies don't give good value for money...

The thing is, nine times out of ten, the images I get sent aren't ritual protection marks at all. Anything but in fact. On a fairly regular basis I still receive images showing a large, deeply cut, 'broad arrow' design, which still appears to mystify a lot of people. These are usually the easiest to explain, as they are Ordnance Survey Benchmarks - the marks created by the good people of the Ordnance Survey to act as datum point when undertaking map-making surveys. They are usually to be found on permanent structures, such as churches or houses, and are nationwide, so it is easy to understand why people may be curious about them. You can read more about them here - https://www.ordnancesurvey.co.uk/benchmarks/

https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=493066

However, almost all the other images I get sent (those that are in focus enough to see anything at all) are most usually 'Carpenters Marks'. You can almost feel the disappointment as they read my reply, and I do feel a bit sorry for them sometimes. It's like kicking a puppy. Not ritual, or protective, in any way. However, these marking are - I try and tell them enthusiastically - incredibly useful to a buildings archaeologist! They can tell us just SO MUCH about a building's construction history! In many ways they are EVEN BETTER than ritual protection marks!

They rarely fall for it obviously...

So what exactly are Carpenter's Marks? Well, it is all pretty straightforward really (this is a convenient lie). These are the marks made during the construction process of a timber building. The carpenter's would build their timber frame, and cut all their joints, most usually on the ground in an area sometimes known as a 'framing yard' - just to make sure it all fitted together perfectly. They would then mark each timber and joint with an individual marking - one on each of the timbers that formed the joint - so you would end up with a pair of markings. In this way they could ensure that when it was all taken apart again, and reassembled in its final position, everything ended up where it should be. Joint A to Joint A, joint B to joint B - just like a giant model kit. 

On stone or brick buildings they tend to be confined to the roof structure, or floor frames, but they can also be found on partition walls or similar. On fully timber framed buildings they are likely to be everywhere. They can also take a wide variety of forms, some being scratched, others cut neatly with chisels, and there are no completely set patterns - just some things that are commoner than others. 

Most usually the early examples are loosely based upon Roman numerals - XII, VIII, IX, etc - as these are easily made using a chisel. However, there are a few examples known about where Arabic numerals were used - even quite early on. The markings also often follow a numerical sequence, so you can actually work out which end a house was built from by working from the lower numbers towards the higher ones across the structure.

Having said that, if you go hunting for these marks don't expect to find nice neat Roman numerals all over your roof timbers. When I said they were often 'loosely' based on Roman numerals I really did mean loosely. At a recent survey of a sixteenth century floor frame at Oxburgh hall in Norfolk I recorded a lovely set of carpenter's marks that were set as typical Roman numerals. That is until you came to number nine, which instead of marking as IX (which can be mistaken for XI when viewed upside-down), they had substituted it with a broad arrow marking. Very much a case of 'this way up'.

In a symmetrical building, where the same joints appear on opposite sides of the frame, you will sometimes find that one side displays carpenter's marks in the form of Roman numerals, whilst the opposite side will have the same numerals, but each with an extra little 'tag'. A way of differencing the left from the right of the frame, or the front from the back.

You also quite commonly get examples that are a mixture of lines and circles - the circles being created with a carpenter's raze knife - and these are the ones most likely to get mistaken for ritual protection marks, even by some supposed 'experts'. And then there are the really rare markings. Those marks that appear to be confined to a single building, and have yet to be discovered anywhere else. Returning to Oxburgh hall again, a small number of the surviving medieval rafters of the western range - dating to somewhere between 1437 and 1463 - are marked with a semi-circular punch or moulding chisel. One punch for rafter one, two for rafter two, and so on.

Okay. So not quite as straightforward as I may have suggested a few paragraphs ago, but hopefully you get the idea.

And I wasn't exaggerating when I said that these markings are incredibly useful to a buildings archaeologist. Ritual marks may be a bit of a giggle at Halloween, but carpenter's marks are where the real fun is at. As mentioned above, they can give you a chronology for how a house was actually built - what came first, and how the builders tackled the project. They can even tell you a bit about the carpenters themselves. Are they the same type of mark throughout, or are multiple carpenters working on the project? They can even tell you quite a lot about what has happened since the house was first built. Are the markings all still in situ, and in the right order, or has the structure been altered, re-ordered, or repaired. They are, as you can see, incredibly useful little marks.

So this Halloween, whilst everyone is going on about bloody 'witch marks', spare a thought for the humble carpenter's marks. The marks left by honest craftsmen as their construction blueprints, and their own modest legacy to history.

Just how many archaeologists are there then?

Firstly, I should say, if anyone is expecting anything in this post about historic graffiti - you are going to be sadly disappointed. Best move on now. There's probably something good on the telly anyway.

So, the question has arisen - again - about how many people in the UK actually work in archaeology. This shouldn't be a difficult question to answer in many professions, but given the diversity of archaeology as a discipline, and the shocking way in which many commercial archaeologists are treated, it has traditionally caused a few issues. The result was a series of studies entitled 'Profiling the Profession'. In depth analysis of exactly how many people are employed by the sector, and how those patterns change over time. Even as it stands the study most usually doesn't make pleasant reading.

However, I recently made a somewhat rash statement on Twitter, replying to someone else's tweet, that caused a little bit of a stir ('Surely not?' I hear you cry...). A tiny bit of an upset in certain quarters. So - all I actually said was that most archaeologists do NOT work in commercial archaeology. A harmless enough statement you might think. However, it caused a few hackles to be raised. And why would that be? Well, because it flatly contradicts the figures published in the 'Profiling the Profession' report.

So did I make the statement just to cause a bit of trouble on Twitter? As you all know, that would be just SO unlike me... No, the reason I said it is because it's true - and based upon a very large, and really boring, piece of unrelated research I undertook about 18 months ago. It wasn't published at the time because it was suggested it might ruffle a few feathers. However, as feathers already appear to be ruffled... Sod them. I'll publish the outline anyway.

According to the latest 'Profiling the Profession' figures there are approximately 4792 individuals working in archaeology - you can read the full report here - https://landward.eu/wp-content/uploads/2013/10/Archaeology-Labour-Market-Intelligence-Profiling-the-Profession-2012-13.pdf

Of those 41% work in non-commercial archaeology - leaving the other 59% working in the commercial field (estimated at 2812 individuals). You can see the full breakdown in the chart below - which I handily swiped from the report itself.

So what the problem? Well it's a simple one. The report MASSIVELY and demonstrably underestimates those working as archaeologists in the academic sector. The report estimated that the actual number of archaeologists working in academia at 690. According to my own research the figure is somewhere between 1600 and 1900. And that is probably on the low side.

So, a few caveats to begin with. I used the same definitions for someone working in archaeology as the 'Profiling the Profession' analysis did. So it doesn't include volunteers, hobbyists, metal detectorists, etc - just those who receive financial remuneration for working within one of the many different facets of the discipline. With regards to academia - I also didn't include honorary positions, emeritus posts (unless they were specifically teaching), or 'associates'. Nor did I include the many postgrads who actually undertake paid teaching within the discipline. By the definitions of the 'Profiling the Profession' report I probably should have - even though they usually are only part-time etc. However, had I included those individuals the final figure would have been at least twice as high.

I would state that I also didn't get data from all the universities, hence the variable figure above, but publicly available staff and teaching lists are accessible for approximately three quarters of UK institutions. This data is also out of date now, by about 18 months. I also concentrated almost solely upon archaeology departments, so missed most of those archaeologist working in other departments - such as history or museum studies. I also probably missed a lot of those working in departments associated with the science of archaeology. Sorry! The data from the 'Profiling the Profession' report was from 2012/13, whilst mine was mainly from 2018. However, I'm pretty sure academic archaeology didn't see a nearly threefold increase in those working in the area in the intervening five years. Just the opposite in fact.

To begin with, there are currently approximately 130 universities in the UK. I say approximately, as that also includes some University Colleges - but 130 is the generally accepted figure. According to the 'Profiling the Profession' report these 130 universities employ only 690 archaeologists. That's an average of 5.3 archaeologists per university. Sound credible anyone? Really? So lets look at a few examples then.

Firstly, the university of Cambridge Archaeology Department. Current staff role (not counting admins, emeritus, honorary, or associate staff) is 216. At any one time there are also approximately 150 post-grads - but we aren't counting them.

A similar story at Oxford, although not quite as many, with 92 on the staff roll (the same exceptions apply).

Then what about UCL? Well, leaving aside those working in the commercial wing as Archaeology South-East, and including only the emeritus staff who also teach (but again excluding post-grads, associates, etc.), we get a total also of 92.

So, between those three universities alone we reach a total of 400 of the 690, without even having to look at the other 127 UK universities. But we are going to look at them anyway. In no particular order -

Liverpool - 52

Exeter - 29

Birmingham - 28

Winchester - 10

Newcastle - 63

Lancashire - 8

Leicester - 33

Kent - 20

Worcester - 20

Glasgow - 22

Southampton - 55

Durham - 34

Reading - 33

Bishop Grosseteste Uni - 3

York - 70

Sheffield - 28

Queens University Belfast - 27

Manchester - 36

Nottingham - 39

Bradford - 24

Cardiff - 21

Edinburgh - 16

Chester - 15

Bournemouth - 25

Canterbury Christchurch - 6

Swansea - 14

Lincoln - 16

So that takes us to a nice round figure of 30 UK universities. 30 out of the approximately 130, and we have already reached a grand total of 1147 archaeologists. Rather a lot higher that the current estimates of 690 for the whole of UK academia. And the list goes on. But I hear you say that not all UK universities teach archaeology, so not all the UK universities will employ archaeologists, so although the estimate may be wrong, perhaps it isn't that wrong?

Wrong.

Take a university I know really quite well. The University of East Anglia. The only archaeology really taught there these days is in the Sainsbury Centre, yet the university still employs well over a dozen archaeologists, who teach in areas from landscape archaeology and church archaeology, to African archaeology and anthropology. It's the same at most universities. Archaeologists tend to get about a bit.

So, my own research (which is admittedly a couple of years out of date, and wasn't able to access the staff lists for every UK university), indicated that archaeologists employed in academia to undertake archaeology in one of its many forms, numbered between 1600 and 1900, rather than the 690 estimated in the 'Profiling the Profession' report. Give or take.

So what does that adjustment do to the overall figures for the profession? What percentage of archaeologists actually work in the non-commercial sector? Well, if we take even the lowest figure indicated by my research for the numbers working in academia (1600), things look rather different. Suddenly there are 2888 archaeologists working in the non-commercial sector, as opposed to the 2812 in the commercial sector. Very roughly 50/50. Take the higher figure of 1900 working in academia and it's 3185/2812 (53%/47%). I am also absolutely sure that these figures err on the side of caution, as most universities don't publish details of archaeological technicians etc., so the actual figure is probably higher. As I said at the beginning, if I had also included the post-grads who are paid to teach in all the fields of archaeology (who would qualify as 'tutors' under the 'Profiling the Profession' definitions), the number would probably be more than double that.

So where does that leave the debate? Well, I think the main point here is a simple one. IT SHOULDN'T BE A BLOODY DEBATE. Get over yourselves. We are, after all, meant to be working together, in the same profession. Surely it benefits no one to distinguish between what is considered to be 'real archaeology' or assume that commercial archaeology is representative of everyone engaged in the field. 

The girl in the glass...

It is the eyes that are hard to forget. Heavily lidded, and almost sleepy, they stare past you at something sitting a few inches over your shoulder. They never look at you, and if I was asked to describe their colour I couldn't. I'd probably suggest a deep, rich brown, but with no element of conviction in my voice. For the colour has been drawn more from my imagination than from the reality before me. Oh, the hours I have spent staring at her form. Slowly caressing each tiny line of her face, admiring the full lips, and tracing the soft curve of her throat with my eyes.

And she is always there. Waiting for me, or so I like to think. Always there, and always perfect. I have stared at this beauty as the years have passed, in many a church. As I grow older, and fade from this world, she remains the same. Her beauty never fading. Timeless in the light.

She is the girl in the glass.

Wiggenhall St Mary Magdalen

I can't say exactly when I first saw her. It was many years past, and I forget the exact moment. She sits high in the windows of the north aisle of the church of St Mary Magdalen, Wiggenhall. A small fragment of what was once a far larger scheme of medieval glass that would have once filled these great spaces with coloured light. A quiet reminder that, despite the building feeling as though its ancient stones have remain unchanging and resolute, these old walls have seen more than their fair share of comings and goings, of alterations and transformations. For five centuries the girl in the glass has looked down on an ever changing, and eventually dwindling, congregation, whose brief lives must have seemed like mayflies in her eyes. Brief flashes of vitality across the flagstones, before they too were planted outside amongst their ancestors. Yet there she has remained, through reformation, civil war, famine and pestilence. A small fragment of painted glass with a story to tell.

The glass here belongs to a stylistic group known today as the 'Norwich school'. East Anglia is rightly famous for its medieval stained glass, and given the zeal of the iconoclasts in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, the amount of examples we have left - that have survived the stones and hammers of those who would smash their pale faces from the walls - really is something of a little miracle. There are several almost complete windows, such as the magnificent Toppes window in St Peter Mancroft church in Norwich, or the great expanse of glass in the east window at East Harling church - both repaired - but both unquestionable masterpieces. Scattered across the region you will also come across dozens of other churches that still proudly display their medieval glass - Warham, St Peter Hungate, Cley, Elsing, Stratton Strawless, Mileham, Ketteringham - to name but a handful. In some cases the medieval glass has been re-set within more modern restoration schemes, in others, such as at Colkirk, windows have been created from a surviving jumble of fragments, creating a mosaic of light that hides a wealth of charming, and sometimes disturbing, details.

Sir Robert Wingfield, East Harling church, Norfolk.

The glass that can be attributed to the Norwich school is distinctive, and contains a number of elements and characteristics that set it well and truly apart from other English glass of the period. The most obvious are the angels. Angels with curling golden hair, and suits of feathers - mimicking, some claim, the suits worn by those taking part in mummers plays of the period. The angels are more than distinctive, and are often shown playing a variety of medieval instruments, and are to be found at multiple churches across the region. Indeed, so alike are these angels that it is even possible to superimpose an angel from one site with an angel from many miles away. Copied from the same pattern-book, or drawn by the same hand. The faces of the angels are generic. Pleasing most usually, but of a generic 'type'. And I'm not even going to begin to discuss their earlobes.

Norwich school feathered angels, Hungate, Norwich.

These are the glorious Norwich school angels. A motif and style that appear so often that they are the generic tell-tale amidst many fragments of reformed glass. The marker of a single school, workshop, or even craftsperson.

Norwich school feathered angel, Bale, Norfolk

It isn't just the feathered angels with their generic that make the Norwich school distinctive. It is also the other faces they captured in the glass. The faces of the saints, and of the sinners. Faces that display the distinctions of reality upon them. Dark lines in the glass, capturing the essence of the individuals; their orbits marked out in the finest of brushstrokes, a loose curl of hair escaping from beneath a veil, and pale shadows showing depressions of their chins. These are, you cannot help but feel, images of real people. Portraits captured for centuries in the thinnest of fragile glass. These are, perhaps, the faces that they saw around them every day. The population of late medieval Norwich, fossilised in the glass of the furnace. Are these in fact the very crafts men and women of the Norwich school itself, or perhaps their friends and family, or the face of the girl they passed each day in the street?

In the most general of terms we really know very little about individual medieval artists and craftsmen. Unless they worked for the very elite echelons of society, including the major aristocracy or royal household, their names are generally lost to us. They only rarely signed their work, and it is unusual to be able to link and individual craftsperson to an individual piece of work. Their testaments are the works of sublime art that they left behind them, and their fame is often limited to being described, not by their own name, but as the 'Master of...'.

Warham St Mary, Norfolk.

However, this isn't quite the case when it comes to the late medieval stained and painted glass associated with the 'Norwich school'. Thanks to the work of scholars such as David King, and the Rev. Charles Woodforde, we actually know far more about the artists and craftsmen of the Norwich school than about almost any other group of craftsmen operating in late medieval England. We know, to a certain extent, how they operated from day to day, where some of their physical workshops were located, and even about the family relations involved within certain groups. We know some of the sites they were specifically commissioned to work on, and can link the names of individual craftspeople to actual surviving works of art.

For example, we know of the glazier William Moundford, a Dutchman who came to Norwich in the middle decades of the fifteenth century, where he was a glazier in the workshop of John Wighton. Moundford married a local woman called Helen, who is one of the few female glaziers of whom there is a record, and together they had a son called John - perhaps named for his Godfather and father's employer? When John Wighton eventually passed away, his own son Thomas took over the workshop, eventually reaching the esteemed height of Alderman within the city corporation. When Alderman Thomas too passed on, it was the young John Moundford who appears to have continued the work of them all, as is most probably the individual responsible for the stunning east window at East Harling. We know too of William Heyward, a glazier who is also known to have created monumental brasses, and that he became a freeman of the city in 1481. We know of his extensive property dealings, the fact that he had both Robert Balys and John Trenche as his apprentices, and that he too rose through the ranks to become a city councillor, constable, and eventually chamberlain and alderman.

Warham St Mary, Norfolk.

However, despite all we do know about these individuals and their work, there is still a far greater number of things that we do not - and probably never will. Like the re-set glass in the windows of many East Anglian churches, we are merely piecing together broken fragments to try and make sense of what was once a glorious whole.

So how does all this tie in with the glass in Magdalen church, and the enigmatic girl portrayed in the glass? Can it indeed shed some light on, if not who she might have been, but upon the individuals who created her? Whose muse may she have once been?

Rose and sunburst motif, Colkirk, Norfolk

The medieval glass there is most certainly of the Norwich school, and our familiar feathered angels with generic faces are evident high in the tracery. There are also fragmentary remains of the 'rose and sunburst' motif to be found amongst the glass, a symbol of the royal house of York. This suggests a likely date for the creation of the glass of between 1461 and 1483, when the Yorkists were in the ascendency, and a time when the Moundford family were at their busiest within the Wighton workshop. Glass expert David King has also studied the glass in Magdalen church, and has suggested that it is somewhat unusual in its subject matter. Although not all of the saints can be identified, those that can point to some unusual choices being made, with the inclusion of a number of only very rarely depicted additions, including St Britius, St Leger, St Callistus, and St Romanus. King believes this is due to the fact that the scheme took for its inspiration the Litanies of the Sarum Breviary, and that the glazing scheme was designed to echo the litany, and thereby act as a visual guide for the prayers of the congregation. It would most certainly make it an unusual scheme.

Where then does this leave 'our girl'? Where then does the girl in the glass fit into this cycle of litany and directed prayer? Well, the simple answer is - apparently nowhere. She doesn't fit. She is indeed entirely out of place.

This isn't the point that I launch into an extended monologue upon the litany of the Sarum breviary, you will undoubtedly be pleased to hear. Instead I simply invite you to look at the glass itself. To join me in staring at the girl in the glass, and then comparing her face, her style, her scale, with all the other saints depicted in the windows there, and it soon becomes apparent that she is indeed slightly out of place. Leaving aside the fact that her head is out of scale with the heads of the other saints painted there, the style is very different indeed. The hair and eyes are executed in a very different style, with the girl lacking the shading shown on the other heads, and she has been created with the minimal use of lines. Simplicity even. She stands out from the rest in a way that is clear to even the casual observer.

So where then does she belong? Well, we can't really say for sure. Was she even ever part of the same scheme, or even from the same church? Again we can't be sure. And the reason that we can't be sure is that the glass at Magdalen church has already seen multiple interventions, the most extensive taking place in the 1920s, when major 'restoration' was undertaken by Samuel Cladwell. Cladwell was undoubtedly talented, also working on the glass at Canterbury cathedral, but he also wasn't above moving this around a little to suit his own needs and tastes. A missing pane or panel could be replaced with another taken from elsewhere in the church, or even from somewhere else entirely. So, whilst our girl in the glass clearly doesn't quite fit in the upper reaches of the windows of the north aisle, she may always have found her home in this atmospheric church. Or not.

So I continue to stare up at her. Knowing that I will never truly know who she was, or where she was created for, or whose muse she once was. And as the light fades, and the shadows creep across the church, so too does she fade. Another day of radiant beauty passing into night, only for her to be awoken again by the first faint glimmer of the dawn. But now, in the gathering gloom, she is gone. Lost in shades of grey, as I stare up at the now opaque glass, set high in the cold stonework. I turn to go, the merest hint of an ancient soul standing beside me. A touch upon my shoulder...

Of books, book curses, and the wrath of librarians...

Yesterday I was linked in to a conversation on Twitter about some strange and unusual markings that had been found on the front-piece of a sixteenth century book. The symbols were circular, and one was bisected by a number of lines in the form of a star. I was asked if I had come across anything similar, as the markings seemed to be a bit of a puzzle to those studying the work. The answer was 'yes - all the damned time - and I am sure I've written about it somewhere'. It turns out I had started a blog on the subject, but just never got around to finishing it. As usual. So below is a version of that blog post. I have re-written sections of it to tie in with the excellent blog written by Elizabeth DeBold from the Folger library, and hope that the bits and pieces I have found will enhance and add to what she has been looking at. I have, however, left most of the swearing in.

Since I began the graffiti project about a decade ago it quickly became clear that there were certain symbols and motifs that turned up time and time again. To begin with they were most obvious amongst the graffiti, but as the project received more publicity people started emailing and messaging me with their own findings. In many cases they were intrigued that the marks they were coming across in their own fields of research were the same as those that I and the numerous volunteers were coming across etched into buildings. Years later and the photographs keep on coming. However, amongst some of the first people to contact me were book historians and librarians, who had come across these same markings on books in their own care and were somewhat puzzled as to why they were there, and what they meant? At first it was just one or two images of books, but the numbers soon began to increase, and we all soon realised that 'something' was going on.

Bodleian Library, Ms Rawl. 141

These marks are actually far more common on books than we at first realised, and once researchers have started looking for these simple annotations they really are turning up everywhere. Often as an informal drawing on the fly-leaves, sometimes on the covers, and occasionally even hidden amongst the more formal decoration and illumination. Compass drawn motifs, pelta designs, pentangles - multiple variations upon a theme - and occasionally even combinations of symbols.

A selection of typical 'holy signs' or ritual protection marks found on buildings and objects.

These symbols are exactly the same symbols and motifs that we are finding amongst the graffiti on the walls of our historic houses,churches and cathedrals. Not just similar, but the same. It is a language or canon of symbolism that crosses just about every boundary. They can be found upon buildings, upon fonts, upon parish chests, upon beds, upon seals, upon pilgrim badges, upon jewellery, and as we have seen - upon books. They are quite literally universal in pre-reformation and early modern western Europe. To be blunt, they get bloody everywhere.

Bodleian Library, ms 57-2

So the big questions have to be - what do they mean, and what was their supposed function?

All these signs and symbols are part of a group of markings that are often referred to today as 'apotropaic' marks, or 'ritual protection marks', or more commonly misreferred to as 'witch marks'. Put simply, they are markings that are designed to ward off evil, and offer some form of 'protection'. Today a lot of people tend to class these markings as being part of some sort of superstitious practice - often referred to as 'folk magic' or 'folk belief'. However, over the last decade it has become clear that this attitude is generally a massive over simplification, and that the use of these markings and signs was fundamentally embedded within the everyday practices of the medieval church. They are used by all levels of society, including the parish priest, and turn up on a regular basis amongst the formal decoration of the orthodox church. The use of these symbols was no more a 'superstitious' practice than many of the other traditions of the early church, including the blessing of the farmer's plough, or even, dare I say it, the Mass itself.

A lot of these symbols, if not all, have their origins in the pre-Christian period. Take the six petal rosette, for example, also variously known as a 'daisy wheel', 'hexfoil', or 'geometric'. This familiar symbol is the single most common motif recorded amongst the graffiti inscriptions at the Roman site at Pompeii, where it appears to have been regarded as a symbol associated with the sun. It also turns up on Roman altars, particularly in northern Europe, and on Roman grave markers, where it is to be seen alongside a number of other previously identified spiritually significant symbols. However, the early Christian church was a bit handy when it came to appropriating the myths, legends, and symbols of those who came before, and the six petal rosette was quickly swept up by the early Christians. It's associations with the sun and concepts of rebirth and renewal fitted well with the newly developed Christian message, and most particularly with the rite of baptism. As a result it entered the formal imagery of the early church, and in this chilly little island stuck in the north sea, it became the single most common decorative element that has been recorded on twelfth century baptismal fonts.

C12th font, west face, Sculthorpe church, Norfolk

However, as with all these symbols, such a straightforward interpretation is also usually a far too simplistic interpretation. From the twelfth century onwards in England the six petal rosette is also to be found being used as a substitute or replacement for the more traditional cross or crucifix. At churches such as Eaton near Norwich, and Cerne Abbas in Dorset (and possibly Reigate in Surrey, where only the outline survives), the six petal rosette was actually used in place of the traditional equal armed cross as a church consecration cross. Likewise, there are a whole series of medieval grave markers known as cross slabs, that are found predominantly in the north of England, where the central motif of the four armed cross has been directly substituted by the six petal rosette. In these cases it appears that the symbols associations have gone beyond simple links with baptism, to being regarded as a substitute and alternative to the cross or crucifix. In the West Country the six petal rosette motif was traditionally even known as the 'symbol of the Passion', or 'flower of the Passion', again reinforcing the links between the motif and the cross or crucifix. As such, the motif would carry with it exactly the same potent symbolism, and apotropaic function, as the cross itself. The cross is, after all, one of the most powerful and protective of all Christian symbols and the sign of the cross has long been recognised as having a demonstrable apotropaic function across the Christian world. It is therefore logical to assume that symbols that act as alternatives, or substitutes, for the cross can be regarded as having been regarded as having similar, if not identical, functions. In a number of the Baltic states, where these symbols were still widely used until very recent times, they are known as 'holy signs', and are as much a part of lay piety as any other part of the church's teachings and imagery.

Six petal rosette used as a consecration cross, Eaton, Norfolk

And so, as these markings turn up on just about every other type of structure and artefact, I'd be more surprised if they didn't turn up on books as well. And they do, in quite considerable numbers.

Of particular interest are a whole series of medieval Jewish chronicles, where these motifs - and in particular the six petal rosette - form part of the formal decoration. In these manuscripts the motifs are actually formed of micrography (from the Greek, and literally meaning 'small writing'), where the symbols were actually created using text to form their shape. A mix of reading, writing and imagery, where the devotional text forms an image with spiritual associations. A double whammy as it were.

ms-canon-or-91-307r-v2

So as with the Jewish works, these symbols appear to have been added to the books to offer a form of spiritual protection. You marked your books in the same way that you marked your house, the box in which you held your valuables, the bed in which you slept - in the same manner you marked your child with the sign of the cross during baptism. All of these mechanisms were designed to offer an additional level of protection.

ms-oppenheim-add-4-97a

As with all of these symbols it is impossible to argue that the beliefs associated with them in the twelfth century continued unaltered through into the early modern period. Were people inscribing these same marks into sixteenth century books, or seventeenth century buildings, still thinking of these marks as alternatives and substitutes for the cross? Well, it is impossible to be certain in every case, but we do have some very well documented examples where, over time, the meanings and associations of a particular symbol shifts and evolves - an evolution of belief as it were. The example I always use (sorry!) is the pentangle. Today the symbol is largely associated with magic, witchcraft, and even the modern Wiccan movement. However, we know from the fourteenth century poem 'Gawain and the Green Knight' that in the later Middle Ages the symbol was deemed to be a Christian one, representing the 'five wounds of Christ' and the 'sign of Solomon', amongst other things. So, at some point in the centuries between then and now the meaning of that particular symbol has evolved, until it now actually has almost exactly the opposite associations to that which it began with.

I'm not arguing that this is the case with all these symbols. Some indeed are still used by the church to this day, and have overt religious connotations. However, what appears likely from the evidence is that for many of these symbols the direct religious associations diminished, and they evolved into symbols that were simply regarded as being 'protective', or at the most base level, perhaps even just 'lucky'. What is unquestionable though is that they continued to be used. On bloody everything.

C16th/C17th ring with apotropaic decoration.

The reality is that these strange markings shouldn't even really be regarded as particularly unusual in relation to book history. They are there to offer a level of protection to the book, and are simply another aspect of a concept that book historians and librarians are really already very familiar with - the book 'curse'.

Book curses - you've all heard of them right? Book curses? No? Well, we aren't talking about those weird people who display their paperbacks with the spines towards the wall, so that the multiple colour of the books don't interfere with their pale aesthetic. They probably should be cursed, but this is something completely different. These were written curses that were applied to ancient texts, most usually to deter thieves, or to 'encourage' the return of lost, stolen, or borrowed books.  The wording of these curses often invoked God, suggesting some form of divine retribution for those committing crimes against books and librarianship, and some of the medieval examples also contain an image of the cross for enhanced efficacy and potency. However, book curses carry on well into the post-medieval period, with the most recent that I have personally come across being applied to a book published in 1835. The 'curse' contains the name of the book's owner, 'Sarah Jane Webster', and the rhyme 'Steal not this book for fear of shame, for here you see the owners name. And if I catch you by the tail, I'll walk you off to Leicester gaol'. Powerful stuff for anyone that has visited Leicester... You can read more about book curses here.

The similarity between the better known book curses and these symbols is therefore clear. As many of the symbols themselves are alternatives or substitutes for the more traditional cross, carrying with them the apotropaic functions usually associated with the cross or crucifix, they are simply adding a layer of spiritual protection to the book. But unlike a lock or a book clasp, these motifs and symbols offered a protection that actually invoked God in aiding in that protection. And who would want to annoy God? I've seen him on Twitter, and he can be quite testy at times...