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...

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

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.

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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)