On This Day: Bones Of Contention

April the 19th is the day of Alphege, who was an Anglo-Saxon monk of Deerhurst near Gloucester. Old Alfie, as I rather irreverently refer to him purely because it’s easier, was made the bishop of Winchester in 984 and Archbishop of Canterbury in 1005. 

When he took the post of Archbishop he took with him the head of St.Swithin, like you do. I would normally just take a book.

When the Danes invaded in 1011 he refused to leave his people, and when held to ransom he refused to let the money of the poor be used to buy his freedom.

A 13th Century stained glass window at Canterbury Cathedral, depicting Alfie’s abduction. Note the Viking stood behind him giving him a Karate chop.

The following year, his captors, not exactly renown for their patience, finally lost it during a drunken feast at Greenwich and pelted him with bones and the heads of cattle. They then killed him with an axe-a noteworthy example of a martyr witnessing to justice rather than faith.

What’s it all about, Alfie? 

He became the first Archbishop of Canterbury to die a violent death. 

Alfie is shown here being asked advice. I would imagine his reply could be: “Don’t bother taking a Saint’s head with you for luck. It’s not worth the effort-and you could instead pack more socks.”

Welsh Odyssey #3

Descending once again the conical hill of Mwnt, I was pleasantly surprised to see a small church below me. Bone-White, sun-bleached, it contrasted sharply with the green field it was situated in. I made a bee line for it.

Unable to resist old churches, and also old cemeteries, the Holy Cross Church ticked all the boxes: the building dated back to the 13th-14th Century, and traditionally a church had stood on this site since the age of the Celtic Saints in the 5th-7th Century. And it was an open, cool oasis in the heat of the day.

I had the church to myself, the only sound was the buzzing of a bluebottle trying to find its way back out into the light. Dust motes span in cobwebbed windows.

The dedication of the church to the Holy Cross is a sign of its antiquity, and just inside was a font from the 14th Century, verdigris-tinged, in need of a scrub. How many babies had been baptised here? From those first, blessed ripples, where did the tide of life take them? Did any of them lie in the cemetery outside these walls?

Also of interest to history buffs like myself was a the remains of a 15th Century timber Rood-screen. The carved heads of what are probably the twelve apostles can still be made out, though the one that I studied looked more like a boxer with a flattened nose and cauliflower ear.

St.Rocky, perhaps?

I sat for a little while, soaking up the atmosphere, thinking of time and wishing for whispers, when the wooden door behind me suddenly opened and my friend entered.

“I just knew that this is where you would be!”

My wife and kids were in the car, and it was time to head back to our caravan. And so I did, but pushed things by having a quick walk around the small, enclosed churchyard first. Luckily, (for my overheating family in the car), there were many graves but few headstones, and of course the old ones were written in Welsh. It seems the graves of the newly dead had conceded their epitaphs to the English tongue.

History; Natural history; this place was a wonder.

 

On This Day: The One-Armed Man

In a list of saints native to the British Isles, today is the day of Nathalan, (?-678), who legend says was a wealthy man who became a hermit near Aberdeen, in Scotland, supporting himself by cultivating his smallholding:

‘which work approaches nearest to divine contemplation.’

Couldnt have had cows, then.

Born into a noble Pictish family, he produced surplus food to help pilgrims and the needy of the area. So far so good. Saintly material.

But, when the crops failed one summer, Nathalan cursed God for the wet weather. (Seems like nothing has changed climate wise in those parts.) Full of remorse, he repented by having one arm chained to his side. The only key to the padlock he dispensed into the depths of the River Dee. He then set off on foot to do penance in Rome. At least he still had one arm free to thumb a lift in case he grew too weary.

Arriving in Rome months later, he bought a fish in the market. When he cut it open, guess what he found inside? Only the key to the padlock on his chained arm. How’s that for a divine sign of forgiveness?

On hearing of this miracle, the Pope had Nathalan made into a bishop (some say the Bishop of Aberdeen). The poor fish is never mentioned again though. Such is the fate of fish throughout history.

He returned to Scotland, (Nathalan, not the fish), establishing a second church at Coull, in the Howe of Cromar, and another at Cowie near Stonehaven.

Cowie Kirk, originally dedicated to St. Nathalan.

 

An old Cowie rhyme states:

‘Atween the Kirk and the Kirk ford,

there lies St. Nathalan’s hoard’

His hoard or treasure is believed wrapped in a bull’s hide, tied with a rope which, according to folklore, will hang anyone uncovering it.

Think I’ll leave the spade in the shed then.

On This Day: Ghosts; Witches; Skeletons; Lions. Who’d Live In A Place Like This?

In a diary that chronicled events and personages connected with the days of the year, I spotted that today was linked with the Christian saint Osyth, who was a minor Saxon Princess who died around the year 700.

She married a sub-King of East Anglia, (who seemed unworthy of being named, at least in the account that I was reading), and founded a nunnery at what is now St. Osyth (funnily enough) in Essex. According to an unreliable biography she was killed by robbers, but if you are of the type who needs substantiated facts, I’m afraid that the famous-as-well-as-venerable Bede does not give her a mention.

Osyth’s nunnery died out, but was re-founded as an Augustine monastery, containing her shrine, in the early 12th century.

I love the old legends that permeate these islands, especially those that concern (perhaps) historical figures partly obscured by the myths and mists of time.

There are various fantastical events surrounding St. Osyth, and some of them are just perfect for this time of year, as the nights draw in and Halloween approaches:

**when she was young she drowned in a stream, but revived after nuns from a local convent prayed for her for three days. (If this was a time-travel story, they would be from the nunnery that Osyth founded in the future. Did Osyth found the nunnery in gratitude to those nuns who resurrected her as a child? Or did the nuns travel back to save the child in gratitude to the adult who established their nunnery? Then again, if she died as a child she wouldn’t have created their nunnery. I’m confusing myself, let’s leave science fiction out of it.)

**she was executed by beheading; where she fell a spring issued forth from the ground. She picked up her severed head and walked to the door of the nunnery where she knocked three times before collapsing. (Knock knock knock. “Who’s there?” “Osyth.” “Osyth who?” “Oh syth down, I’m dead anyway.”)

**her ghost walks along the priory walls, carrying her head, one night each year. (I would guess that would be tonight, then? Anyone up for a vigil?)

The place name of St.Osyth rang some bells for me, so I looked it up.

The village was a focus for witch persecutions in the 16th and 17th centuries, ten local women being hanged. In 1921 the skeletons of two women were unearthed in a garden, one of them claimed to be the first of the women that was tried for witchcraft. I hadn’t heard this story before.

Then I found the source of my familiarity:

In 2012 there were reports of a lion being sighted near the village. After twenty four hours, an armed search was called off.

Is it safe to come out yet?

Beheadings; ghosts; witches; skeletons; lions: I’m packing my bags now. It sounds like a great place to live!

Part of its beach being used for nudist bathing doesn’t come into it.

Must go now, someone has just knocked on my door three times. I’ve looked through the spy hole but cannot see anybody there. At least no-one at head height.

Orkney Odyssey #1: Of Vikings and Saints

I think that I may have mentioned once or twice before that Orkney is my favourite place. It is the remoteness, the history, the wildlife, everything. Even the weather.

In 2011 I visited twice, but I have not posted about it before as I lost all of the photographs that I had saved onto the memory card of my phone. Grrr!!! However, though I went there alone the second time, on the first visit a friend accompanied me, and I have only recently acquired copies of some of his photographs that I can use. It seems that he too has lost some of his photographs. Conspiracy theories, please?

Intending to do an intermittent series of Orkney themed posts, I thought it would be appropriate to start with St.Magnus. I love reading all the old stories connected to the British Isles, be they history or folklore, Christian or Pagan, and today is the feast day of St.Magnus.

Sometimes it’s all about the timing.

St.Magnus

St.Magnus’ story is recorded in Orkneyinga Saga, beginning in 1098.

The Orkney earldom was divided between two brothers, the Earls Paul and Erland.

The King of Norway, also named Magnus but more memorably known as Magnus ‘Barelegs’, arrived unannounced in Orkney and unseated the two joint-ruling earls, making his own illegitimate son Sigurd as overlord of the islands. Paul and Erland were sent to Norway, where both would die before the winter had ended.

Leaving Sigurd to rule, the King then left on a raiding expedition, taking with him 18 year old Magnus, the eldest son of Earl Erland, and also Haakon, the son of Earl Paul, two cousins who often disagreed. Raiding down the west coast of Scotland, as far south as Anglesey, the story goes that Magnus would not join in the fighting with the Welsh. He chose instead to remain on the ship, singing psalms, as arrows passed overhead. The angry King already disliked Magnus, considering him a coward.

Magnus was said to have later left the ship, one night slipping overboard, to stay somewhere in Scotland, remaining there until the death of King Magnus in Ireland in 1102.

Back in Orkney, Sigurd Magnusson had returned to Norway to become joint ruler there, and here in the islands  Magnus’ cousin Haakon was now the Earl. After some representations to the Norwegian throne, Magnus was granted his Earldom, both cousins ruling, as their fathers had done before them, in an apparent period of peace between 1105 and 1114.

But all good things come to an end.

Magnus was said to be the more popular of the two earls, being pious and a man of peace and authority, while Haakon was warlike and no doubt envious of his cousin’s popularity among the people.

Discord grew between them to the extent that, around 1117, followers of the respective leaders arranged a reconciliatory meeting at Easter, bringing them together on the island of Egilsay.

 

The agreement was that both men would bring two ships with a limited, and equal, number of men.

Magnus arrived first, awaiting for his cousin in prayer. When he spied his arrival, complete with eight ships, he must have known what this betrayal of their agreement must have meant. Magnus refused to allow his men to defend him, trying to settle the matter peacefully. Wanting to avoid his cousin being saddled with the guilt of killing him, he made him three offers. He would make a pilgrimage to Rome or Jerusalem, pledging never to return to the Orkney Isles; he would be imprisoned for the rest of his life; or he would be blinded, maimed, and caged forever in a dungeon.

It is said that Haakon was willing to accept the final one of the three offers, but his advisors insisted that his cousin had to be put to death.  Rather than carry out the act himself, Haakon ordered his standard bearer, Ofeig, to kill Magnus, but the warrior refused. Haakon angrily then ordered his cook, Lifolf, to do the deed. Lifolf wept, but Magnus comforted him:

“Be not afraid for you do this against your will and he who forces you sins more than you do.”

Magnus knelt before him. Not wanting to suffer a beheading like a common criminal, he asked that he be struck hard on the head, and told the cook that he had prayed to God for him to be forgiven for this act.

Magnus’ skull was cleaved in two by the blow.

A man stands before you, Magnus.

He is poor. He’s in tears.

The axe shakes in his hands.

The spring morning is very cold.

Put your coat-of-state about him, Magnus.

 

Quick-let the silver cord be loosed.

 

The dark waters rise up into my soul.

Here’s your ship of death, Magnus.

Those bright ones? They ferry you over to the Feast.

 

-from Tryst on Egilsay,

George Mackay Brown

Initially buried on the spot, in what would be the first of three resting places for him, and denied a Christian burial, his corpse was later taken to be buried at Birsay after pleading from his mother.

Then the usual phenomena associated with saints began to occur-miraculous events and  healings , a light appearing above the grave. A cult soon developed among the islanders, and as he grew in popularity soon Magnus was declared a saint by the Bishop of Orkney.

Earl Haakon, now sole ruler, went on to make pilgrimages to Rome and Jerusalem, becoming a peaceful and popular earl.

In 1129 Haakon’s son Paul, was overthrown by the nephew of St.Magnus, Kali Kolson. This new Orkney earl took the name of Rognvald. No doubt politically savvy, he sought the divine assistance of St.Magnus, and promised the people that if he succeeded in his attempt to regain the earldom he would build a great stone church in Kirkwall, on the mainland, and dedicate it to his uncle-the now revered St.Magnus.

This was how St.Magnus Cathedral was founded.

This is a carving, found within the Cathedral, of Rognvald holding the model of the building in his hands.

 

I have visited St.Magnus Cathedral, which now holds the remains, or as they like to put it-  the relics, of both St.Magnus and the (now) St.Rognvald.  I will include surviving (!) photographs in a later post. For now I will leave you with this photograph taken of the red coloured cathedral rooted in the distant heart of Kirkwall.

 

 

Kirkwall photograph by D.Bates