Blurred Boundaries: magic, graffiti, and the medieval church

"Two households, both alike in dignity, in fair Verona, where we lay our scene, from ancient grudge break to new mutiny, where civil blood makes civil hands unclean."

Well, to be totally honest, it was Waterstones cafe in Norwich rather than Verona, and the two households were a pair of forty-something mums, accompanied by two teenage girls who may, perhaps when I was looking elsewhere, have looked up from their phone screens. They were probably messaging each other about the horrors of having to be seen in public with a 'parent'. We've all been there.

I was only there by accident anyway, my favourite coffee venue - the Little Red Roaster* -  being stuffed to capacity, so I fell back on a Waterstones pot of tea for one, and their rather good cake selection. See, I can be civilised. The mums and teens were on the next table, so I do have an excuse for overhearing their conversation. Not many of us on the tables in that vicinity had much of a choice as it turned out.

What followed was a discussion. I use the term 'discussion' in this context rather loosely. The discussion became, at times, almost heated - or at least animated enough to make at least one of the teenagers briefly glance up from their phone. It had begun in the teenage literature section of the store, with one of the mums finding fault with the popularity of fiction that appeared to involve vampires, werewolves, and the supernatural. She wasn't even keen, it transpired, on Harry Potter. It would, she appeared to firmly believe, send the wrong message to the young adults reading such books, and legitimised the occult and ideas of magic. It was definitely not the message she wanted to send to her daughter (slight raised eyebrows in front of a phone screen). The other mum was of the opposite opinion. Anything that got young people reading, and away from their phones, was a good thing. Anyway, she argued, it was all harmless, and none of it was real. However, the discussion only really got intense when she pointed out that Christianity was pretty much the same. It was just another form of 'magic' and 'superstition', and the fact that it was seen as acceptable by mum number one, whilst Supernatural and Harry Potter were not, was just a matter of perspective.

The actual shock and outrage of mum number one was palpable, and I get the feeling that the rest of Saturday's shopping trip may have been 'strained'. It may not have been an 'ancient grudge', but 'new mutiny' was most certainly not far from the surface.

***

So really it is all down to the definition of what does and does not constitute 'magic'? Not a new argument I'll admit. Just about everyone who has ever written about the areas that sit outside the orthodox beliefs of the medieval church has felt the need to try and define exactly what magic really is. That this is the case is really perhaps fundamental to any analysis of magic in the pre-reformation era. The exact definition of what constituted magical activity is by no means set and standard, and varies greatly depending upon which area, era, or which evidence, you choose to study. And the same that is true now was also true at the time. Cases that found themselves before the church courts dealing with what we may generically term 'magical activities' were often there, not to bring down the might of the medieval church and hand out just retribution, but were rather brought before the learned authorities of the church to decide whether any wrongdoing had actually taken place? Had the activities of the individual brought before the court actually crossed the boundary between what was theologically acceptable, and that which was not? It was most certainly the argument of many a defendant that their activities had been lawful within the eyes of the church, and that they had been acting not against the church or the will of God, but, if not with His overt blessing and collusion, at least within the loose frameworks of theology and belief accepted by the Church.

For the early Church the definition of magic was, at least on paper, fairly straightforward, and typically hostile. As Ronald Hutton makes clear, the church authorities regarded 'all attempts to wield spiritual power to achieve material ends as demonic unless deployed by its own accredited representatives'. The situation would appear straightforward, giving, in the simplest of terms, a complete monopoly on spiritually influencing the material world to the church and its appointed officers. If such activities lay outside the church then they were coming, not from God, but from the devil. This overriding position encompassed all forms of magical activity - from formal ritual magic, to charms, scrying and divination - at least technically. However, whilst the 'official' position of the Church as an entity was exceedingly clear, the realities of the day-to-day, particularly at a parish level, were often very different.

Whilst all levels of the church may condemn 'maleficium', essentially the acts of witches and witch craft, what might be considered less harmful acts, such as healing charms and divination, were clearly tolerated at a parish level. Although this undoubtedly altered from parish to parish, and there were unquestionably instances when even the most benign wise woman or cunning man found themselves facing accusations or inquisition from the church authorities, it creates a deep seated ambiguity when examining medieval attitudes towards magic. All magic was formally condemned, and yet some magic was tolerated, but there were no definite forms or guidelines that would indicate when the line had been crossed from one to the other, and a realism that, even were there clear lines of demarcation, they could shift from one time or place to another.

The situation became more ambiguous still when these acts of what might be termed petty magic were discovered to have been carried out by the priests and officers of the church itself. Where records do survive, and they are admittedly relatively few and far between, it is clear that one of the main categories of individual who find themselves facing inquiries into their magical activities are actually parish priests and other members of the clergy. Those who should have been staunchly upholding the official church position that all forms of magic were unlawful, were the very people being accused of carrying out such acts.

The gatehouse of St Benet's Abbey. Watercolour by David Killick.

In some cases the misdemeanours of those in holy orders was on a scale far beyond the casual and everyday charms and incantations, and may relate specifically to the act of summoning demons and spirits. The case of William Stapleton in the early sixteenth century is perhaps one of the most complete and enlightening. A full account of Stapleton's activities, and 'all things committed and done by me', were detailed in a long letter that he wrote to Thomas Cromwell, chief minister to Henry VIII. Stapleton was, by his own admission, a monk of St Benet's Abbey in Norfolk. Whilst residing at the abbey Stapleton was brought two books relating to the summoning of spirits, the Thesaurus Spirituum and the Secreta Secretorum, by one 'Denys of Hofton', who had had them in turn from the vicar of Watton. From the other instruments supplied by Denys it is clear that Stapleton was intent on undertaking a campaign of 'treasure hunting' with the aid of spirit guides. Such activities were not wholly uncommon in the period, and usually involved digging into ancient sites, barrows, and burial grounds in the hope of finding precious metals.

Stapleton was obviously not wholly happy with his vocation as a monk, having fallen foul of his superiors due to his tardiness and general failure to carry out his duties in the church. He therefore applied to buy his freedom from his vows, possibly becoming a solitary hermit instead, but was refused due to his poverty and inability to raise sufficient funds. However, the Prior was not wholly without sympathy, or perhaps just desiring to see the back of such a lacklustre example to his fellow monks, so granted him a six month leave of absence in which he could attempt to raise sufficient funds to buy his freedom. If he failed to raise the money, at the end of the six month period Stapleton was to return meekly to his cloistered life.

Stapleton's next few months were characterised by what can be termed feverish activity. In association with a number of ever changing individuals he set out on numerous expeditions across Norfolk and Suffolk, working for himself or a variety of patrons, to search for hidden treasures. He was almost wholly without any form of success, with the exception of his earning a rather lavish reward of £46 for carrying out an unspecified act that he did not care to talk about - but appears to have been not directly related to his treasure hunting activities. However, Stapleton's abject failure to locate hidden treasures is perhaps of less interest than the community of magical practitioners that it brought him into contact with, and which he documented in detail to Thomas Cromwell. Whilst Stapleton's account is at times fragmentary, and obviously glossing over areas that he would rather not discuss, what is very clear is that a large number of those individuals involved in his immediate circle of practitioners were in holy orders. These included the parson of Lesingham, the parish priest of Leiston, the parish priest of Gorleston, and the parson of Wanstrowe, several of whom were clearly already engaged in these activities, and had access to further magical volumes.

Stapleton's account is by no means alone. I could talk of the reverend John Betson who, in 1564, was ordered to hand in to the church authorities books which he had used in ceremonies to help his parishioners recover stolen goods. The three Norfolk priests who, in the same year of 1586, were all accused of 'conjuring'. The list goes on. However, what makes Stapleton's account so informative is that it goes beyond just the, never dry, accounts of the church courts. It isn't just a list of who did what, with whom, and which animal was involved, but gives a glimpse into the diversity of these networks that sat upon the fringes of the church. The men of religion who dabbled with things that sat outside what might be thought of as their own realms. They didn't delve deliberately into the dark arts, but they most certainly tried their luck in a good variety of grey areas. They operated on the boundaries, in more ways than one.

These boundaries between the formal teachings of the church, and the informal beliefs of the medieval parish, are an area I have become familiar with. It is my area of study. The ritual protection marks, taper burn marks, concealed items, of the late medieval and Tudor church. The 'ritual' of the medieval parish that sat outside anything you will find in the Bible or Book of Common Prayer. The actions, ceremonies and rituals for which evidence will be lacking to historians who study only the formal texts, but evidence for which is writ large on every church and cathedral that survives from the Middle Ages. The acts of the 'other'. The evidence is carved into the stones, the glass, the timber, and the lead - all there to be read by anyone who cares to look. However, these areas of ritual - or worship - do not sit outside the confines of the church, they are not separate from the prayers of the parish priest, but rather a physical manifestation and reinforcement of those prayers and offerings. They are complex, they are nuanced, they are sometimes indecipherable, but they are most certainly no more outside the beliefs of the church than Stapleton's prayers to God before he attempted to summon spirits to his aid. They are not even superstitions, but rather what happens when orthodox theology meets lay piety and tradition head on. The result is not a chaotic crash, and violent mangling of beliefs, but rather a pragmatic compromise and assimilation. A mingling of beliefs. The early church should at least be familiar with THAT concept. Waterstones sells books on the subject.

*shameless plug in the hope of a free cup of coffee

After all, it is only graffiti...

Over the last eight years St Mary's church at Troston in Suffolk has received a fair amount of media attention. Whilst the church was already known for its really quite spectacular medieval wall paintings, much of the new media attention has been focussed upon the regionally significant collection of early graffiti to be found on the walls. Today was the turn of TV presenter and generally sound chap Clive Anderson, who was there to film a short section for a new documentary. You may not all rate him as a presenter, and you may not all find him funny (although his take-down of Piers Morgan to his face still ranks as one of the high points of modern television in my eyes), but you have to admire his courage - for today he was subjected to four hours in a cold church, listening to me rant on about how wonderful the medieval graffiti there really is. And the graffiti at Troston REALLY is that good. It has everything. Animals, people, faces, ships, dates and demons. Lots of demons. It really is rather special.

However, it soon became apparent on today's trip that not everything was well with the Troston graffiti, and that something very serious is taking place at the junction between the tower and nave. These two images show the same wall only two years apart - the image on the left having been taken this morning. The fifteenth and sixteenth century graffiti inscriptions (as well as later examples) are literally crumbling to dust, and flaking from the walls. Having survived for over five centuries something has changed, apparent by the very obvious damp levels rising through the stonework. The result is a mass of mineral salts leaching from the stonework, and some very serious delamination of the stone of the tower arch on the north side.

Luckily the graffiti at Troston is well recorded, and has been previously published - but that is all that will soon be left of this regionally significant collection of medieval and Tudor graffiti. The published record.

The problem of course is that this isn't just happening in Troston church, but at dozens of other sites across the region. These inscriptions are being lost at a fantastic rate. Some are being lost to development, where the church undertakes 'improvements' without first surveying for significant graffiti. Others are lost due to changes in the church environment, often the result of poor maintenance and lack of funds to repairs the churches. Sometimes the losses are just through carelessness.

However, it is wrong to blame the churches and churchwardens. In most cases they are underfunded and over worked - with many churches now looked after by a tiny team drawn from a tiny, and shrinking, congregation. They are largely doing what they can with the resources that they have available to them.

In terms of getting their graffiti recorded, particularly prior to building works or renovations, a lot of churches have never even considered the concept. It simply isn't on their radar. And why would it be? They aren't experts in church archaeology, or buildings surveyors. They are just a bunch of good people doing what they think is best - and they'd be as horrified as anyone else out there if they thought they were doing long term damage to the buildings they so very clearly love. So where then does the blame lie - because it really is finger pointing time. Because I'm fed up with walking into churches to find our history literally falling from the walls. I'm fed up with picking up the fragments of the past from the floor; fragments that didn't have to be there in the first place. I'm fed up with the look of horror on the churchwarden's faces when you have to break it to them that their own parish past is literally slipping through their finders, and that what they now see before their eyes will be lost long before their own grandchildren ever have a chance to see it for themselves.

So where then do the problems lie? Well, if we are honest here, the main problem (and it certainly isn't the only one) lies with the planning process. A lot of people may not realise it, but historic churches don't actually have to follow the traditional planning process. Unlike us mere mortals they don't have to apply for planning permission via the local authority, and follow national planning legislation. Instead, due to an agreement drawn up way back in the mists of time, churches have to submit their plans to their local Diocese Advisory Committee (DAC), who will, if they are satisfied, issue a document known as a 'faculty' (essentially the equivalent of planning consent issued by a local authority). As part of the faculty process the DAC should also issue guidelines and conditions - such as mitigation measures based upon the likelihood of things like medieval wall paintings being present. Unfortunately, even after nearly a decade of ranting on about the importance of historic graffiti, you won't find too many DACs that give any thought, let along conditions, relating to historic graffiti.

Now don't misunderstand me here. We do have some wonderful DACs across the country, full of technical experts who really do their utmost to preserve the historic environment. However, we have some really shockers too. Truly. Horrifyingly corrupt. DACs that include barely any archaeological representation, yet are loaded instead with architects. No doubt they are good architects, with many years experience of working on churches, but these are also the same individuals who are working with local parishes to draw up plans and schemes that are eventually submitted to the DAC for approval. The same DAC that they sit upon. The same DAC that all their architect mates sit upon. You'd be amazed at the percentage of their schemes that get passed and have a faculty issued. Or maybe you wouldn't. Indeed, there are a number of DACs across the country that need completely disbanding - quite possibly with an axe - and being reformed. Preferably with new members who don't have a financial interest in passing their own, or their mates, schemes.

Sadly though it isn't just the DACs that are the problem. The blame also lies slightly higher up the ladder, with those statutory organisations who are meant to be issuing guidelines and advice when dealing with historic fabric. There are guidelines issued for just about everything in the historic environment - the care of wall paintings, care of monuments, care of stained glass, etc, etc. Lots and lots of guidelines. You might think then that, after nearly a decade of me and others banging on about historic graffiti, and half a century after Pritchard published 'English Medieval Graffiti', someone out there might have noticed that we have a rather massive corpus of early and often unique material scattered across the walls of our churches and cathedrals - and that it is at risk. That it is in danger of literally falling from the walls. That some form of guidelines might be in order.

The reality is that historic graffiti, for however many reasons, still isn't seen as a mainstream historic resource. It isn't seen as something worth issuing guidelines for. It isn't seen, by the powers that be, as important. Indeed, it can be argued that it just about the only area of true heritage at risk in the UK that isn't receiving any special attention whatsoever. There is no risk register, no guidance on protection, and certainly no money available for recording or even archiving purposes. If a bat decided to crap on it, that might be a different story, but as it stands any builder, churchwarden, or even architect, can destroy it, or allow it to be destroyed, at will.

Think about that for a moment. If this had been a medieval wall painting that was falling off the wall, or that someone (God forbid) had tried to repaint, then there would be an outcry. There would be guidelines and processes, and quite possibly funding (I did say 'possibly'), to actually do something about it. In this case there isn't even a process. It is, after all, only graffiti.

Messing about in church: the sublime AND the ridiculous

North west Norfolk. You tend not to expect too much from churches in this small corner of the county. There are undeniably some real masterpieces, and a good number of truly pleasant churches, but the closer you tend to get to the Sandringham estate the more likely it appears that the churches will have been heavily restored. Restored to death. Like Sandringham church itself, they suffer almost from too much attention. Too many well meaning restorations. Too much money lavished on the gilding and stained glass. They almost glow in the dark, and in many of them even the most modest medieval survivals are a bit of a novelty.

I am sure that it was - and is - all very well meant, with many dozens of private benefactors spending vast wads of cash purely to glorify God etc. I am also sure that it is entirely a coincidence that it largely only takes place in these few churches clustered around the Queen's Sandringham estate, and not in the many hundreds of other churches across the county. Churches that would be only too grateful to accept a hefty donation or two, in the hope of keeping the rain from entering through the roof, or replacing an ageing bell frame. Instead this small pocket of churches does seem to have rather a large proportion of the country's gilding on show. Quite possibly the country's.

It is therefore a really quite refreshing change to walk into a church like Wolferton, only a stone's throw (gilded stones are optional) from the Sandringham estate. The outside of the church is typical of this area of the county, with liberal use of the gingerbread coloured carrstone, and the well tended churchyard that just begs to be visited by royalty. It all feels just remarkably 'neat'. It is therefore a wee bit of a surprise to wander in through the porch and find a church that still has so much of its medieval past on show - amongst which are some truly remarkable items.

Wolferton. The repainted doom. Just put down the paintbrush, and step away from the wall with your hands where I can see them...

Admittedly the church has been restored in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century's, and many may find some of the Victorian fittings a little heavy and cumbersome. The church may also be the perfect lesson in exactly why you shouldn't let early restorers of medieval wall paintings actually try their hand at full restoration, and the repainted Doom above the chancel arch is truly a sight to behold - if not entirely for all the right reasons. However, even this has a certain charm, having been recreated so many decades ago that now, as the colours begin to fade a little, it doesn't even feel 'too' out of place. Okay, it does - but I'm trying to be nice here. Even the Victorian font cover is a fairly good pastiche attempt at recreating a medieval marvel, and if you don't look too closely it really has a charm of its own. You might have to squint a bit.

However, as restorations go, I have seen far, far worse. They may have 'embellished' - and how they did love that word - but they didn't feel the need to create a clean slate upon which to build. What was of value from earlier times they tended to leave alone, or at least repair as best they could. A few things may well have been embellished, but not overly so.

The true secrets of this church take a little time to discover, and most are concealed in the woodwork. Close examination of the carved timbers in the roof is a good way to while away half an hour, and although there has been much restoration done even here, it has been done sympathetically and with a certain style. The timber screens though are what the guidebooks will direct you to examine - and rightly so. In the chancel arch are the remains of what was once a very fine fifteenth century rood screen, with the painted figures of saints - now sadly bedraggled - still clear to make out. To the north of this is another very fine fifteenth century parclose screen, that once separated off the east end of the north aisle as a separate chapel. The carving is still crisp and clear even after more than half a millennia, and although the pigment has now all but gone, it still feels an imposing sight as the sunbeams highlight the intricate carvings.

Wolferton. South aisle parclose screen.

However, in my eyes, the real hidden gem of this church lies not in the north aisle, but to the south. Here can be found yet another parclose screen, that separates the eastern end of this aisle off to form yet another chapel. Although the church records suggest that the man who created this chapel died in the opening years of the sixteenth century, the screen was already well over a century old by that time. It's exact date is unknown, but the style of decoration and carving would suggest the middle two quarters of the fourteenth century - a fifty year span bitterly and irrevocably divided by the terrible destruction and human decay known today as the Black Death. My own feeling is that it sits in the two decades after the coming of the pestilence; when church decoration and manuscript illustration reacted to the near destruction of the known world with an outburst of ingenuity, humour, quirkiness and, upon occasion, elements of downright blasphemy.

Wolferton parclose screen detail.

And that is what is captured in this screen. A moment in time - when a resigned population took stock of what God had sent their way, and what the church had failed to protect them from, and carved, painted and gilded their own reactions to events in the very fabric of the church itself. A stark irreverence combined with open elements of humour and parody. Fat friars and stupid priests, lecherous monks and harlot nuns, green men and grotesque beasts - all thrust into the very body of the church. Gone is the quiet reverence, and instead flows out a stream of self expression that obliquely questions the very structure of the church and the society in which they lived.

Wolferton. Laughter and misery?

All of this is captured in the parclose screen at Wolferton, in minute detail, but you have to look for it - and once you start to see it you simply can't stop. The more you stare at the screen, and its truly exquisite and tiny carvings, the more you become aware that the screen itself - or at least the dozens of leering faces that are hidden away in its decoration - are staring right back at you. Tiny imps carved into the head rail, green men with protruding tongues where ball-flowers might usually rest, leering grotesques of faces peering through the tracery. The screen is alive with a vibrant community of tiny faces. A chubby cheeked man rolls his eyes and pulls a face high up on the screen, whilst a near neighbour side-eyes the grinning demon carved a few inches to the right of him. It is the world made small, and a canvas for a wood carvers caricatures. It is, in my own humble opinion, a masterpiece - and the craftsman or craftswoman who made it a complete genius.

Wolferton. Parclose screen detail.

Exactly who they were we will probably never know, as no records relating to the screens construction survive. They are lost to us. I have only seen one other screen that is, without question, the work of the same craftsman - and that is to be found over thirty-five miles away in the south aisle of Mattishall church. It too is a work of art, but it lacks the humour and humanity of the carvings at Wolferton. For me the person who carved this screen is someone I'd really like to get to know. Someone I'd be happy to spend some time with. They were, in my own humble opinion, a wee bit good.

Wolferton. Parclose screen face, top rail.

You may be able to tell, but I rather rate this screen. The fifteenth century screen in the north aisle is good - a technical achievement of symmetry and rather orthodox carvings - but the screen in the south aisle is a thing of wonder. It has life. It has passion. It has humour. It has the story of an entire community, and entire congregation - the good, the bad, and the downright daft - locked within its tiny carvings. It tells a tale, and who, after all, doesn't like listening to a good tale. And yet, it may not be a tale that really belongs in Wolferton.

Wolferton. Parclose screen, top rail. I know how this one feels.

The thing is nobody quite knows where this fourteenth century screen comes from. It certainly shouldn't be from Wolferton itself, as the church suffered a devastating and massive fire in the fifteenth century, with the deep pinking of fire damage still evident on many of the stones. And it was a very big fire indeed. The upper levels of the south arcade still show bright pink, where the stones have been superheated, whilst the piers below, including that which the screen now abuts, were so badly damaged as to require almost complete replacement. If the screen had been in the church at the time it would have been turned to nothing more than a heap of ashes - unless of course this master craftsmen also managed to make his screen, not only sublimely beautiful, but fireproof as well. I expect even he had his limits though.

Oh, and there are also some nice mason's marks and a few compass drawn bits of graffiti there too. Just saying.

The Voynich manuscript: medieval secrets left in plain sight

It is one of the great mysteries of the medieval world. A beautifully illustrated manuscript that has survived over five centuries of being passed from owner to owner, before finally ending up in one of the greatest university libraries in the world. It has survived wars, famines and natural disasters. It has at times been locked away from public view, and at other times pored over by the world's leading scholars. It has been the focus for academic debate, and heated controversy. It is, quite probably, one of the most studied medieval manuscripts in existence. It is undoubtedly one of the most frustrating. For even after almost a century of intense scrutiny, by many of the world's leading medievalists, nobody has yet been able to actually decipher the text. It is, quite simply, unreadable.

Today this book is usually known to academics by its rather clinical and wholly unremarkable library identification number - Beinecke MS 408. However, to the wider world it is known simply as the 'Voynich Manuscript', after the late nineteenth century eastern European collector, bibliophile and book dealer Wilfrid M. Voynich; the individual first credited with identifying the strange volume.

The manuscript itself is made up of 234 pages of high quality vellum, split into six very distinct sections. The first section is made up of 130 illustrations of plants, often referred to as being similar to a medicinal herbal manual. The strange looking plants are shown with their roots, leaves and flowers, but although a few vaguely resemble recognisable varieties, none have ever been positively identified. These crudely executed images are surrounded by sections of text in an unknown and unidentifiable language. The second section of the book comprises of a small collection of unusual fold-out pages showing circular diagrams that have been interpreted as astrological charts. The third section is perhaps more unusual still, being made up of quite poorly executed illustrations showing individuals bathing naked in a variety of ponds and pools, again accompanied by the mysterious and unreadable script. The fourth section contains further fold-out astrological charts, whilst the fifth section returns to the theme of the strangely unidentifiable plants. The final section contains no illustrations whatsoever, consisting of twenty-three closely written pages of the strange unreadable text. There is, quite simply, no other surviving medieval manuscript quite like it.

Beinecke Rare Book & Manuscript Library, Yale University

Although the manuscript is today clearly associated with W. M. Voynich, it has quite unusually been possible to trace its ownership back several centuries prior to his acquisition of the piece. It has been established that the book was once amongst the collection of the seventeenth century Italian Jesuit thinker, Athanasius Kircher. Kircher had in turn acquired the book from Johannes Marcus Marci, a physician from Prague, who had claimed that the whole manuscript was a 'lost' work of the English Alchemist Roger Bacon (1214/1220–1292?). Marci had also stated, according to a letter dated 1665 that Voynich had discovered tucked between the pages of the book, that the work had once been purchased for the library of the Holy Roman Emperor Rudolf II (1552-1612), although Marci himself is believed to have bought the work from the alchemist Georgius Barschius, who we know was in possession of the manuscript in the 1630s.

The association between the manuscript and Rudolf II was an obvious one for Kircher to make, particularly if he was trying to sell the book and capitalise upon its strangeness. Rudolph II's interest in the occult, alchemy and the sciences were well known, leading to his court becoming the focus for numerous individuals involved in what might today be considered 'fringe' research, as well as more traditional forms of investigation. Alongside leading astronomers and mathematicians, such as Tycho Brahe and Johannes Kepler, individuals such as Dr John Dee were drawn to  Prague to undertake their own research. Dee was resident at the court for some years, attempting via his 'conversations with angels' to establish the earliest language of creation, that would have been used by Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. Rudolph was a great patron on the arts and sciences, but was himself obsessed with the art of alchemy, and the search for the philosopher's stone; an obsession that led to him subsequently being dubbed the 'Alchemist Prince'.

Beinecke Rare Book & Manuscript Library, Yale University

If Kircher was attempting to sell the book as an ancient magical treatise then the court of Rudolf II would have be the most perfect of provenances. However, Kircher's attempt to link the Voynich manuscript with the court of Rudolf II might not have been entirely self-serving and spurious at it might at first seem. Although invisible today unless under ultra-violet light, a signature on the flyleaf has been identified as that of Jacobus Horcicky de Tepenee - official pharmacist at the court of the Emperor Rudolf.

To be able to trace the ownership of a single manuscript from the early seventeenth century to the present day is unusual enough, but to be able to trace such a manuscript through multiple owners and across several continents, is nothing short of a bibliographic miracle. However, by the time we first come across the work in the early seventeenth century the manuscript was already ancient. If this strange book was ever at the court of the strange emperor, then it was already well over a century and a half old. Recent examination of the manuscript involved highly accurate radiocarbon dating of fragments of the vellum itself, which revealed that the materials used to create the book all dated to around the third decade of the fifteenth century - incidentally ruling out the possibility that the whole was a modern forgery, an accusation that has been leveled at it more than once.

Today the manuscript resides in the Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library at Yale University, where it has become one of the most viewed of all the treasures within one of THE great treasure houses of medieval manuscripts. The mystery surrounding the work, and its recent exposure to public scrutiny, has meant that the lately digitised version of the book is now actually responsible for over fifty percent of all the on-line views of the whole library collection. It is even said that the author Umberto Eco, when lecturing at Yale and offered the opportunity to view any of its medieval riches, asked only to see this one manuscript. It has, in short, become legend.

Beinecke Rare Book & Manuscript Library, Yale University

It has also become the focus for intense academic debate, and perhaps more sadly, the centrepiece in numerous discussions concerning the 'lost' mysteries of the Middle Ages, ancient hidden 'secrets', and the 'truth' behind the manuscript. Since as far back as the seventeenth century some of the owners of the book have been convinced that the unintelligible text it contains is actually a devious code designed to disguise its true nature. Kircher himself attempted to recruit individuals to decipher the work, and centuries later even Voynich was convinced that the text was a cipher that could be broken. What lay concealed by the coded pages was anyone's guess - but it was certainly deemed to be both important and worth the effort of decryption. A hidden manuscript of lost medieval science was amongst the favourite suggestions, with Dr Dee's ancient language of the angels also a consideration. Whatever it was, the efforts made to conceal its true nature must, it was thought, reflect the value of the information it contained.

With the donation of the manuscript to Yale university library interest in the secrets apparently lodged within the pages of the book actually increased exponentially. Many of the world's finest minds, cryptographers and code-breakers, have set themselves the challenge of mastering its secrets. More recently still, supercomputers and code-breaking algorithms have been employed to attempt to decipher the mysterious text. All to no avail. A few have claimed success, but all such claims have fallen apart upon closer examination. Frustration has indeed become the key word associated with any studies into the manuscripts origins and function. If it isn't a code to be broken, then academia isn't quite sure what it actually is? The scientific analysis has generally ruled out the concept of a modern forgery, leaving scholars to grasp at terms such as 'hoax' and 'fantasy'. Indeed, one of the most popular modern approaches to the work is that it was created as an elaborate medieval hoax. A purely specious work that never really had any true meaning or function. As Eamon Duffy has suggested, a fraud designed by a swindler whose 'derisive laughter peals down the centuries'. A unique practical joke from the past. (For a fuller account of the ownership of the manuscript, and modern attempts at decryption, see Eamon Duffy's recent article in The New York Review of Books - here)

With such a unique manuscript, and with no known parallels, what other interpretations are there? Excepting of course that there are parallels, and the manuscript is unique only in the fact that it is a book. A complete work. A closer examination of the world from which this mysterious work originated - the world of medieval magic - shows us that the enigma that is the Voylich manuscript actually isn't that enigmatic. It really isn't that strange. Indeed, when looked at in the context of late medieval belief and the physical manifestations of those beliefs, the work takes on a whole new meaning. The arcane becomes the mundane.

***

Examples of strange and unreadable text are to be found in several areas of late medieval and early modern studies, and in almost all cases are linked to the practice of what might be termed 'folk magic'. The contemporary attitudes to such activities were ambiguous to say the least, with the church officially condemning acts of what it termed 'witchcraft' on numerous occasions, whilst documentary records indicate that the populace as a whole took a far more ambivalent attitude. Magic that caused harm was to be protected against and condemned out of hand. However, magic and charms that came to peoples aid, cured illness and recovered stolen property were seen as just another aspect of everyday life. The magic of the 'wise woman' and 'cunning man' was, after all, simply a logical extension of the 'magical' protections offered by the Church. Indeed, in the relatively rare cases where the use of such low level charms and folk practices find themselves scrutinised in the law courts, a high percentage of those carrying out such activities are shown to be parish priests and those in religious orders.

Take for example the case of William Stapleton, monk of St Benets Abbey in Norfolk. In 1528 Stapleton took leave of his religious vocation, following a dispute with his Prior over his inability to get out of bed to attend religious services on time. Instead Stapleton decided to carve out a new career searching for ancient buried treasure, aided by magic books that had come into his possession, and the demons that he intended to summon using the secret arts detailed in the books. The magical books had come to Stapleton from their original owner, the vicar of Watton, and during his relatively short, and spectacularly unsuccessful, career as a treasure hunter he had interactions with a large number of other priests all involved in similar activities. The parson of Lesingham, we are told, had bound a spirit called Andrew Malchus into another magic book that Stapleton was keen to acquire.

The line between officially sanctioned magical acts of the church, and those of 'superstitions' was a fine one; and one that many a priest found it simply too easy to unwittingly cross. It was therefore totally acceptable to carry the consecrated Host around the parish to ward off thunderstorms, but apparently crossed the line if you scattered the Host across the village fields to drive off evil and ensure fertility. In 1564 the Reverend John Betson was ordered to hand over to the Church authorities certain magical books that were in his possession, and that he had been accused of using to help his parishioners recover stolen goods. And in one single year, 1586, no less than three individual Norfolk vicars found themselves charged with acts of 'conjuring', and in 1606 the Royal College of Physicians was forced to act against the Reverend John Bell for supposedly supplying 'cures' to his congregation in the form of written charms.

The use of written charms, by all levels of medieval and early modern society, was extensive and commonplace. Often written on small scraps of parchment these charms could take many forms and have many functions. In many cases they were designed to effect a cure, or protect from evil influences, and were as applicable to livestock as they were human beings. Some were designed to be worn, or secreted in clothing, whilst others were to be hidden away within structures such as houses, barns or stables. Their production most usually fell to the local wise woman or cunning man, and they could be purchased for a relatively modest fee, with particular individuals known to have specialised in charms for particular ailments and conditions.

Norfolk Record Office

The charms themselves often took the form of a mixture of symbols and text, such as the seventeenth century example designed to protect from witchcraft, and now preserved in the Norfolk record office. However, in many cases both the text and the symbols could be ambiguous. Many of the post-reformation written charms contained elements of medieval Latin, sometimes from orthodox prayers or the psalms, much of which had become corrupted by time and, in some cases, he obvious copying of ancient and faded originals. However, whilst many of the written charms follow clearly established forms and patterns, just as clearly many of the charms also contained text that had never made any sense, and was never meant to be intelligible. It was quite simply 'mumbo-jumbo' - nonsense phrases and sentences that were designed to look mysterious and magical to the intended audience, but which had no actual meaning at all.

And alongside the undecipherable and unintelligible texts, these written charms often contain symbols, amulets and imagery. In some cases the symbols are recognisable astrological or astronomical characters, carefully created or copied down from better known manuscripts. Complex astrological charts, set within compass drawn circles representing the celestial spheres. However, many of the amulets and sigils are from less traceable sources, and a large number of them appear simply to have been invented for the purpose. It was recognised that traditional ritual magic involved the use of outlandish sigils, so strange sigils there must be - whatever their source. This practice appears to have extended beyond the simple written charms into a number of well studied manuscripts on magical practices. Whilst many of the motifs, seals and amulets set down in Thomas Agrippa's early sixteenth century 'Three Books of Occult Philosophy' clearly have logical and classic antecedents, many other works include far greater flexibility when it comes to the origins of the material they included. The Tudor necromancers manual attributed to Paul Foreman (Cambs. Add. Mss. 3544) contains numerous seals, sigils and bizarre motifs that have no obvious provenance. And whilst many of them contain overtly religious imagery, such as the symbol of the trinity or the Holy Monogram, just as many of them appear to have devised by, or contain significant elements, that came from the author's own imagination.

Norwich cathedral graffiti curse

And such nonsense text and invented symbols aren't even solely confined to parchment charms and paper books, being also discovered in large numbers amongst the medieval and Tudor graffiti inscriptions in English places of worship. Such an association between aspects of ritual magic and church buildings can hardly be considered surprising, given the role priests and clerics appear to have played in popularising the activity, and the perceived enhancement of the power of any charm by it being associated with a spiritually significant site. Whilst some of these inscriptions follow the classical tradition, such as the graffiti 'curses' located in Norwich cathedral, or the 'magic square' on the walls of Alphamstone church in Essex, other are far more informal in nature. Strange pseudo astronomical talisman litter the walls at churches such as Worlington in Suffolk, unintelligible text snakes across the stones at Lidgate church in Suffolk, accompanied by images of devils and demons.

Worlington church graffiti, Suffolk

These are the everyday tools of the trade for the medieval and Tudor 'conjurer'. The overtly theatrical props of the wise woman and cunning man. Texts, symbols and documents that are designed to project an air of obscurity; a semblance of mystery and ambiguity. Their function was to hide the very greatest secret of all; the secret being that they had no meaning whatsoever - beyond being part of an elaborate set-dressing for the charlatan.

***

So perhaps that then is the answer? The indecipherable text of the Voynich manuscript was designed to serve one purpose, and one purpose alone - and that was to be indecipherable. There is no hidden message. There is no secret code. It was devised as a manuscript that was never meant to be read. The strange other-worldly text and ambiguous imagery were created to project a sense of mystery; a physical rendering of the arcane. The mysterious message of the manuscript is a simple one, and one that its audience throughout the centuries have never failed to grasp. Here, on these pages of creamy vellum, lies true mystery. No hoax - no fraud - and it does exactly what it was always envisaged as doing. It creates an air of the ineffable, an illusion of the unknowable. You, the audience, are not meant to understand this book. For understanding and interpretation you must look to the individual who possesses this work. Only they have the key to its secrets, and with it the secrets of the universe, which - undoubtedly for a price - they might share.

Was this manuscript then, like the nonsense text of many medieval and early modern written charms, and the inscriptions on countless church walls, simply an elaborate prop for the cunning man and public magician? A book of mystery and wonder, a blend of indecipherable text and astrological symbols, designed to gull even the most wary? Well, if that is the case, then it was certainly a most expensive prop. A valuable commercial tool for the mountebank of medieval mysteries. It is admittedly no great work of fine art, and yet its production cannot have been cheap. The quality of materials used is high, as is quantity of vellum used in its production, and it would have taken hundreds of hours to complete. It most certainly isn't the cut-price disposable written charm, scribbled upon a scrap of re-used parchment, but a major project undertaken by a single individual. Its creation must have been regarded as either a long-term investment, or aimed at a specific purpose. An initial purpose that we might never know.

Its connection with the court of Rudolf II, and his pharmacist's name that was once visible on the flyleaf, certainly support its links to the 'court of magic', but these links were only forged a century or so after the manuscript was actually created. The mysterious original maker of the book would have undoubtedly already been long dead. Returned to the dust from which the manuscript is even today so arduously protected in Yale University library. Indeed, perhaps the very reason the book eventually found itself at the court of the magic obsessed Emperor was that it was already being viewed as an object of mystery? A puzzle to be solved? A container that held the secrets of a bygone age?

And who then was this creator of one of the most elaborate magical and mysterious showman's props of the later Middle Ages? What can we say about he, or even she? In truth, very little. They were wealthy enough to have created the volume, and they were most certainly well versed in the writing arts and manuscripts, which suggests a relatively advanced level of education. They were also well enough acquainted with other 'magical' texts and herbals to have the knowledge to create their own pseudo version. However, beyond that the manuscript itself holds few clues, and it's early history prior to the seventeenth century is largely unknown. Without the discovery of parallel manuscripts, or elements of manuscripts,  their identity is unlikely to ever be firmly established. It would appear that the real mystery of the Voynich manuscript may remain forever unsolved.

(Further information and images from the Voynich Manuscript can be viewed on the Yale University website - here)

Why Witch Marks aren't just for Halloween...

So all the signals are telling me that Halloween must be fast approaching. How can I tell, you might well ask? Is it the sudden proliferation of bright orange and totally inedible pumpkins wherever you look? Perhaps it's the sudden filling of every available supermarket shelf with cheap bags of high-sugar-content snacks and sweets - only available in day-glow colours and in sizes that scream 'MEGA', 'BARGAIN' and 'Fun-Sized'. Could it perhaps be the grins on the faces of the manufacturers of cheap glow-in-the-dark costumes, designed to last for one evening only, and invariably shed more glitter around the house than you thought humanly possible? All subtle hints that Halloween might be approaching it must be said. However, for me, the sign that Halloween is upon us once more is the sudden deluge of media enquiries and requests for images. interviews and articles on... yep, you guessed it, 'Witch Marks'.*

In the last few years it would appear that the linking of witch marks and Halloween has become almost as commonplace as Christmas and Coke adverts, Boxing Day and the DFS sales. They have become the fallback of any journalist who wants a bit of a heritage twist to a story, and can't find a good killer clown exclusive. They'll be the usual 'Witch Marks Discovered in (insert building here)' story. The heritage organisation asking the public to 'Record their own Witch Marks'. The tabloid double page exclusive on how 'Immigrants stole my Witch Marks'. (nope, I've no idea what that means either - but it looked really good when I wrote it...)

However, the thing is, that 'Witch Marks', otherwise known as 'Ritual Protection Marks' or 'Holy signs', have absolutely nothing to do with witches per se, and certainly nothing at all to do with Halloween.

A variety of typical ritual protection marks

These marks are symbols and motifs that were applied to buildings and objects, and were deemed to be 'apotropaic' in nature (it's from the Greek - go look it up). In essence, they add a layer of spiritual protection to a physical object, and are designed to 'ward off' evil. In some respects it can be easiest to think of them as acting as the opposite of a curse. Whereas a curse is designed to bring down misfortune, an Apotropaic Mark was designed to do just the opposite - and keep an object, space or individuals safe from harm. Exactly what the harm these marks protected you from is open to question. In many cases it appears to be a non-specific evil, such as the ever-present 'Evil Eye', in others there are clear links to the activities of Demons, whilst certain symbols in certain specific locations 'may' have been to deter the activity of witches.

The six petal rosette or 'sexfoil'

The ancient origins of many of these symbols are very unclear, and there is most certainly evidence that their meaning and function changed or evolved over time. Take for example the 'Six petal rosette', one of the most common type of compass drawn designs that we come across amongst medieval church graffiti. Some claim, albeit without much in the way of evidence it must be said, that the symbol was originally a symbol associated with the sun. What we can say for certain is that, during the Roman period, the symbol was in popular usage - and it is the single most common symbol found amongst the ancient graffiti at sites such as Pompeii and Herculaneum. Exactly what it's meaning was to the Romans is unclear, but from its usage on items such as altar stones it most certainly appears to have had a spiritual significance. What is also not disputed is that, by the  early Norman period, the very same symbol had become very clearly linked with the Christian rite of baptism, with the six petal rosette motif being the most common single symbol found on early fonts in English churches.

C12th font, Toftrees, Norfolk

It also appears that this early association with baptism, and perhaps the spiritual safeguarding of the font and the infants baptised within, continued well into the later Middle Ages. In terms of church graffiti there are a number of sites where mass concentrations of compass drawn designs are to be found solely in the area around the font, and in cases like Bedingham, Wighton and Tittleshall (all Norfolk) where the designs have been etched into the font itself. In the wider medieval church the six petal rosette can be demonstrated to have been used as an occasional alternative to, and replacement for, the cross of crucifix - the most powerful apotropaic symbol of the Christian church. The cross could drive out the devil, keep people safe from harm, and make places and spaces immune to evil forces. As an alternative to the cross, the six petal rosette can be found used on many burial slabs (cross slabs), and even occasionally as a painted church consecration cross. It gets about.

In the post-medieval period these designs and motifs continue in use, and commonly appear in a domestic setting. Whilst it's often said that they are generally located around entranceways to a structure, such as doors and fireplaces, lending protection to areas that might be considered 'vulnerable' to evil, there is virtually no surface or object to which they were not applied. Furniture, in the form of chests, coffers and beds, were liberally decorated with these designs - echoing what we see on parish chests with the medieval church - and where early plaster survives in a structure then they can be found there too.

And they continue in use long, long after the more general fear of witchcraft had all but died out (except in Suffolk obviously... but they've always been a bit odd) - and once again their meaning and function appears to evolve. Whilst they are still regarded as symbols of protection, any direct links with formal religion and baptism appear to vanish, leaving them just to be regarded as symbols to 'avert evil' or even simply bring good luck. It can even be argued that their continued use owes more to habit and tradition than to a belief in any spiritual protection they might offer.

The other thing about these markings, at least many of the more common examples such as the 'VV' symbol, is that it is pretty easy for the inexperienced to mistakenly identify other types of graffiti as witch marks. The VV symbol does, after all, look pretty much like a 'W' - which as all good children know, is one of the most common initials used until very recent centuries. It turns up a lot.  It may even be a letter 'W' - rather than a pair of 'V' letters - as that is how it was often written until very recent centuries. It's therefore all too easy for inexperienced students to get all over excited about Victorian tourist graffiti in the mistaken belief that they are some form of 'witch mark'. The usual give away of course  is the presence of other initials. If it says 'W C' - it should usually just be flushed down the pan of graffiti research.

And then of course there is context. Context in any archaeological investigation is important. Context is everything. Therefore, if you come across a 'VV' symbol on a bottle of wine in Tesco, the chances are it isn't an apotropaic marking. A really useful example for the unwary to bear in mind is somewhere like Creswell Crags in Derbyshire. The cave walls are literally covered in graffiti, and there are certainly a lot of 'VV' symbols present, but none of these have been shown to be anything other than relatively modern tourist graffiti. Again context is key.

The caves themselves came to the attention of archaeologists in the late nineteenth century, when they realised that they contained evidence of early human activity, and a large number of fossilised animal bones. To extract this valuable information the archaeologists had to conduct excavations on what, even for the times, was a quite monumental scale. The caves were filled with thousands of years of rubble, debris and soil, all of which had to be removed. In the case of Robin Hood Cave the debris filled the chamber to within a few feet of the roof - to a depth of eight or nine feet. Eight or nine feet of debris that completely covered the walls, therefore making it impossible for anyone, from the last ice age until circa 1865, to leave their mark.

Cross section of Robin Hood Cave, Creswell Crags,
showing the level of infill prior to the 1865 excavations.

What is very obvious is that all these ritual protection marks have a long history of belief and use associated with them - stretching back over two thousand years in some cases. They didn't always mean the same thing, they weren't always used in the same way, but they continued in use as 'spiritually significant' motifs. Some of them, such as the 'VV' symbol, crossed over into more orthodox usage within the lexicon of church symbolism, whilst others, such as the early christian symbol of the pentangle, fell away to become only associated with the 'dark side' - much to the love of young Goths and manufacturers of cheap silver jewellery everywhere. However, the fact that they were such a universal belief throughout the Middle Ages and beyond means that we cannot treat them lightly. They were the physical symbols of people's belief and fears. They marked the boundary between the everyday reality of the physical world, and the potential harms and evils of the realm of spirits. In some cases they were the first line, perhaps even the only line, of defence against the unexpected, the malign and the malignant.

So just remember folks, like puppies and Christmas, Witch Marks aren't just for Halloween...

*and if you think I get grumpy about Halloween - just wait until Christmas...