Early Medieval Stone Monuments: Materiality, Biography, Landscape 1783270748, 9781783270743

Citation preview

Howard Williams is Professor of Archaeology, University of Chester Joanne Kirton is Project Manager, Big Heritage, Chester Meggen Gondek is Reader in Archaeology, University of Chester Contributors: Ing-Marie Back Danielsson, Iris Crouwers, Meggen Gondek, Mark A. Hall, Joanne Kirton, Jenifer Ní Ghrádaigh, Clíodhna O’Leary, Howard Williams.

an imprint of Boydell & Brewer Ltd PO Box 9, Woodbridge, Suffolk IP12 3DF (GB) and 668 Mt Hope Ave, Rochester NY 14620–2731 (US) www.boydellandbrewer.com

(eds) Williams, Kirton and Gondek

Cover image: A rare example of an early medieval stone monument still located in situ: a mid- to late tenth-century monolithic cross slab set in its original base known as Maen Achwyfan (‘Cwyfan’s Stone’) located near Whitford, Flintshire, Wales.  The photograph depicts the richly decorated eastfacing side C, showing the cross-head decorated with roll mouldings and interlace and the upper half of the shaft ornamented with plait and a closed-circuit motif. Photograph: ©Howard Williams, November 2012.

Early Medieval Stone Monuments 

Often fragmented and without context, early medieval inscribed and sculpted stone monuments of the fifth to eleventh centuries AD have been mainly studied via their shape, their decoration and the texts a fraction of them bear. This book, investigating stone monuments from Ireland, Britain and Scandinavia, advocates three relatively new, distinctive and interconnected approaches to the lithic heritage of the early Middle Ages. Building on recent theoretical trends in archaeology and material culture studies in particular, it uses the themes of materiality, biography and landscape to reveal how carved stones created senses of identity and history for early medieval communities and kingdoms. An extensive introduction and eight chapters span the disciplines of history, art-history and archaeology, exploring how shaping stone in turn shaped and re-shaped early medieval societies.

s

Materiality, Biography, landscape

Edited by Howard Williams Joanne Kirton and Meggen Gondek

Early Medieval Stone Monuments

B oy d e l l St u d i es i n M e d i eva l A rt a n d A r c h i t e c t u r e

ISSN 2045–4902 Series Editors Dr Julian Luxford Dr Asa Simon Mittman This series aims to provide a forum for debate on the art and architecture of the Middle Ages. It will cover all media, from manuscript illuminations to maps, tapestries, carvings, wall-paintings and stained glass, and all periods and regions, including Byzantine art. Both traditional and more theoretical approaches to the subject are welcome. Proposals or queries should be sent in the first instance to the editors or to the publisher, at the addresses given below. Dr Julian Luxford, School of Art History, University of St Andrews, 79 North Street, St Andrews, Fife, KY16 9AL, UK Dr Asa Simon Mittman, Department of Art and Art History, California State University at Chico, Chico, CA 95929–0820, USA Boydell & Brewer, PO Box 9, Woodbridge, Suffolk, IP12 3DF , UK Already Published

The Art of Anglo-Saxon England Catherine E. Karkov English Medieval Misericords: The Margins of Meaning Paul Hardwick English Medieval Shrines John Crook Thresholds of Medieval Visual Culture: Liminal Spaces Edited by Elina Gertsman and Jill Stevenson The Marvellous and the Monstrous in the Sculpture of Twelfth-Century Europe Kirk Ambrose

Early Medieval Stone Monuments: Materiality, Biography, Landscape

Edited by Howard Williams, Joanne Kirton and Meggen Gondek

the boydell press

© Contributors 2015 All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under current legislation no part of this work may be photocopied, stored in a retrieval system, published, performed in public, adapted, broadcast, transmitted, recorded or reproduced in any form or by any means, without the prior permission of the copyright owner First published 2015 The Boydell Press, Woodbridge ISBN 978–1–78327–074–3

The Boydell Press is an imprint of Boydell & Brewer Ltd PO Box 9, Woodbridge, Suffolk IP12 3DF, UK and of Boydell & Brewer Inc. 668 Mt Hope Avenue, Rochester, NY 14620–2731, USA website: www.boydellandbrewer.com The publisher has no responsibility for the continued existence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party internet websites referred to in this book, and does not guarantee that any content on such websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate. This publication is printed on acid-free paper A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

In memoriam: Dr John Doran, 1966–2012

Contents

List of Illustrations  List of Tables  Acknowledgements 

1  2  3  4  5  6 

7 

Introduction: Stones in Substance, Space and Time  Howard Williams, Joanne Kirton and Meggen Gondek

ix xiii xiv 1

Locating the Cleulow Cross: Materiality, Place and Landscape 35 Joanne Kirton Walking Down Memory Lane: Rune-Stones as Mnemonic Agents in the Landscapes of Late Viking-Age Scandinavia  62 Ing-Marie Back Danielsson Building Blocks: Structural Contexts and Carved Stones in Early Medieval Northern Britain  87 Meggen Gondek Memory, Belief and Identity: Remembering the Dead on Iniscealtra, Co. Clare  114 Clíodhna O’Leary The Biographies and Audiences of Late Viking-Age and Medieval Stone Crosses and Cross-Decorated Stones in Western Norway 149 Iris Crouwers Lifeways in Stone: Memories and Matter-Reality in Early Medieval Sculpture from Scotland  182 Mark A. Hall



viii contents

8  9 

A Stone in Time: Saving Lost Medieval Memories of Irish Stone Monuments 216 Jenifer Ní Ghrádaigh Hogbacks: the Materiality of Solid Spaces  Howard Williams

List of Contributors  Index 

241 269 271

Illustrations

1.1 1.2 1.3 1.4 1.5 1.6 2.1 2.2 2.3 2.4

2.5 2.6 2.7 2.8 2.9 3.1

Tenth-century cross at Maen Achwyfan, Flintshire. Photo © Howard Williams 2008 The east side (C) of Maen Achwyfan, Flintshire. Photo © Howard Williams 2010 Modern cross at Heavenfield, Northumberland. Photo © Howard Williams 2006 Detail of the north cross from Sandbach, Cheshire. Photo © Howard Williams 2006 The Pillar of Eliseg in its modern landscape context. Photo © Howard Williams 2011 The Pillar of Eliseg looking north during excavations in 2011. Photo © Howard Williams 2011 Round-shaft monuments in Prestbury. Drawn by Joanne Kirton. Base map Crown Copyright/database right 2012. An Ordnance Survey/Edina supplied service Cleulow Cross, Wincle. Photo © Joanne Kirton The mound as viewed from the east. Photo © Joanne Kirton Map of known monuments, earthworks and find spots around the Cleulow Cross, Wincle. Drawn by Joanne Kirton: Base map Crown Copyright/database right 2012. An Ordnance Survey/Edina supplied service Bullstones. Photo © Joanne Kirton Wincle viewshed. Drawn by Joanne Kirton. Base map Crown Copyright/database right 2012. An Ordnance Survey/Edina supplied service Viewshed from the Bowstones, Disley Lyme Handley. Drawn by Joanne Kirton. Base map Crown Copyright/database right 2012. An Ordnance Survey/Edina supplied service Road map. Drawn by Joanne Kirton. Base map Crown Copyright/database right 2012. An Ordnance Survey/Edina supplied service Sutton Cross. Photo © Joanne Kirton The rune-stone Södermanland 106. Source: Wikimedia commons

3 4 5 16 22 23 37 38 40

41 42 45 46 47 49 66



x illustrations

3.2 3.3 3.4 3.5 3.6 3.7 3.8 3.9 3.10 3.11 4.1 4.2 4.3 4.4 4.5 5.1 5.2 5.3 5.4

The rune-stone Södermanland 106. Source: Riksantikvarieämbetets kulturmiljöbild The rune-stones in the eastern part of the Mälar Valley. Source: Larsson 1990, 39. Reproduced by kind permission of the author The runic inscription Södermanland 41. Photo: Bengt A. Lundberg. Source: Riksantikvarieämbetets kulturmiljöbild Södermanland 41 Björke. Photo: Bengt A. Lundberg. Source: Riksantikvarieämbetets kulturmiljöbild The bridge of Jarlabanke, in the work of Johan Peringskiöld (1654–1720). Source: Wikimedia commons Map of the Lake Edssjön. Source: Fornminnesregistret: Swedish National Heritage Board, National Monument Record, 02-072013. ©Lantmäteriet I2014/00601 Uppland 112: the rune inscription on the west side. Photo: Bengt A. Lundberg. Source: Riksantikvarieämbetets kulturmiljöbild Uppland 112: the runic inscription facing south. Photo: Bengt A. Lundberg in late July, 1986. Source: Riksantikvarieämbetets kulturmiljöbild Uppland 112: the boulder in its entirety. Source: Riksantikvarieämbetets kulturmiljöbild Södermanland 175, Lagnö, Aspö parish. Source: Riksantikvarieämbetets kulturmiljöbild; photo taken by Bengt A. Lundberg The Craw Stane Class I Pictish stone and excavations around it. Photos © Cathy MacIver and © REAP Location of key sites discussed in the text. Drawn by Meggen Gondek. Base map: Crown Copyright/database right 2013. An Ordnance Survey/EDINA supplied service Invisible messages: stones and their locations. Redrawn by Meggen Gondek Sunken elements: stones and their locations. Redrawn by Meggen Gondek Thresholds and movement: stones and their locations. Images redrawn by Meggen Gondek Map of Co. Clare. Drawn by Clíodhna O’Leary. Base map: Ordnance Survey Ireland 2013 Plan of Iniscealtra showing main features. Redrawn by Clíodhna O’Leary from de Paor 1997, fig. 2 and Macalister 1916–17, pl. VII Inscribed Group 1 cross-slabs. Drawn by Clíodhna O’Leary A sample of Group 2 grave-slabs. Drawn by Clíodhna O’Leary

64 66 70 71 72 73 74 74 75 78 88 95 96 101 104 114 115 117 125

 illustrations 

5.5 5.6 5.7 5.8 5.9 5.10 5.11 6.1 6.2 6.3

6.4

6.5 6.6 6.7 6.8 6.9 6.10 6.11 6.12 6.13 6.14 7.1

View of the Saints’ Graveyard from the north-west. Photo © Clíodhna O’Leary Plan of the Saints’ Graveyard. Drawn by Clíodhna O’Leary Cathasach’s Cross. Photo © Clíodhna O’Leary Inscribed cross-base, Saints’ Graveyard. Photo © Clíodhna O’Leary Composite burial plot, Saints’ Graveyard. Photo © Clíodhna O’Leary Group 2 grave-slabs with inscriptions of clerical identity. Drawn by Clíodhna O’Leary Group 2 grave-slab with engraved shoe-prints. Drawn by Clíodhna O’Leary Map of southern Norway. Drawn by Iris Crouwers Stone cross, churchyard of Vereide, Gloppen, Sogn og Fjordane. Photo © Iris Crouwers Wooden devotional/mortuary crosses, Herjolfsnes, Greenland. Source: Nörlund, P. 1924. Buried Norsemen at Herjolfsnes. An Archaeological and Historical Study, in Meddelelser om Grønland, LXVII, 1–270 Lost wooden cross, Giske, Møre og Romsdal. Drawing by Jon Skonvig preserved in manuscript A.M. 370 fol. (c. 1626). Copenhagen, Arnamagnæan Institute, AM 370 fol., f. 23r. Photo: Suzanne Reitz. Used with permission Stone cross from Stavanger. Photo © Iris Crouwers, with kind permission of MUST Museum Stavanger, Rogaland Stone cross from Stavanger. Photo © Iris Crouwers, with kind permission of MUST Museum Stavanger, Rogaland Stone cross from Tjora. Photo © Iris Crouwers Stone cross from Tjora. Photo © Iris Crouwers Stone cross, old churchyard of Njærheim, Hå, Rogaland. Photo © Iris Crouwers Map of western Norway. Drawn by Iris Crouwers Runic cross-slab, churchyard of Grindheim, Etne, Hordaland. Photo © Iris Crouwers Stone cross on burial mound, Hauge, Klepp, Rogaland. Photo © Iris Crouwers Stone cross on natural hill, Gard, Haugesund, Rogaland. Photo © Iris Crouwers Rune-inscribed lead cross found in prehistoric cairn. Bru, Rennesøy, Rogaland. Photo © Terje Tveit, Arkeologisk Museum St Madoes cross-slab face A. © Perth Museum & Art Gallery, Perth & Kinross Council

xi

126 127 128 129 135 136 139 150 153

154

155 156 157 158 158 158 159 162 164 165 165 188

xii illustrations

7.2. Inchyra symbol stone. © Perth Museum & Art Gallery, Perth & Kinross Council 189 7.3 Lethendy Cross-slab, upper half of face A. Photo © Mark A. Hall 190 7.4 Detail of blade-strikes on face A of the Lethendy Cross-slab. Photo © Mark A. Hall 191 7.5 Alex Campbell memorial, Kilchoman Parish church, Islay. Photo © and courtesy Dr David Caldwell 194 7.6 Memorial to Lieutenant William Keay Falconer, Kinross. Photo © and courtesy Mark A Hall 195 7.7 Memorial to Captain John Fisken Halket, Greyfriars Cemetery, Perth. Photo © Mark A. Hall 196 7.8 Kilwinning War Memorial, Kilwinning Abbey. Photo © Mark A Hall 196 7.9 Crieff Burgh Cross. Photo © and Courtesy Perth Museum & Art Gallery 198 7.10 The main faces of the Dunning ‘Mercat’ Cross. Photo © and Courtesy Simon Warren, Dunning Parish Historical Society 200 7.11 Forteviot Church banner. Photo © Mark A Hall and Courtesy Forteviot Parish Church Kirk Session 201 7.12 Kettins Cross-slab. Photo © Mark A. Hall 202 7.13 Gask cross-slab, details of modern graffiti. Photo © Mark A. Hall 205 8.1 Hunterston Brooch, reverse with runic inscription. Photo © National Museum of Scotland 217 8.2 Killamery Brooch, reverse with inscription. Photo © National Museum of Ireland 218 8.3 Temple Ciarán, Clonmacnoise. The reused slab was formerly the third of the left door jamb. Photo © +FOJGFS
/Ó
(ISÈEBJHI











220 8.4 Lion Slab from Temple Ciarán. Photo © National Monuments Service, Dept. of Arts, Heritage & Gaeltacht 221 8.5 Cof the Scriptures in front of Clonmacnoise Cathedral, 2004. Photo ©
+FOJGFS
/Ó
(ISÈEBJHI










224 8.6 Cross of the Scriptures, east side. Photo © +FOJGFS
/Ó
(ISÈEBJHI


























































































225 8.7 Base of Market Cross, Tuam, c. 1127. Photo © Jenifer Ní Ghrádaigh 226 8.8 Cross of Muiredach with Adam and Eve scene, c. 900. Photo © Jenifer Ní Ghrádaigh 228 8.9 Cross of Roscrea with Adam and Eve scene, c. 1120–40. Photo © Jenifer Ní Ghrádaigh 229 Disclaimer: Due to copyright restrictions some images are not available in the eBook. To view these images please refer to the printed version of this book.

 tables 

xiii

8.10 Detail of low-relief foliate ornament, chancel arch, Nuns’ Church, c. 1167. Photo: Jenifer Ní Ghrádaigh 8.11 Clonmacnoise Crucifixion Plaque, c. 1050. Photo © National Museum of Ireland 9.1 Ten sub-types of hogback tomb. Redrawn by Howard Williams after Cramp 1984 9.2 Type a hogback, Brompton 17A. © Corpus of Anglo-Saxon Stone Sculpture, photographer T. Middlemass 9.3 W. G. Collingwood’s illustrations of hogbacks. Source: Collingwood 1927, 165 and 168 9.4 Distribution of sites producing hogbacks. Redrawn with additions by Patricia Murrieta-Flores and Howard Williams after Lang 1972–4; 1984: 86. Base map: Crown Copyright/ database right 2013. An Ordnance Survey/EDINA supplied service 9.5 Brompton cross 1A. © Corpus of Anglo-Saxon Stone Sculpture, photographer T. Middlemass 9.6 Type c hogback, Ingleby Arncliffe 4A. © Corpus of AngloSaxon Stone Sculpture, photographer T. Middlemass 9.7 Type k hogback Gosforth 5. Photographs: © Howard Williams 2006 9.8 Type b hogback, Aspatria 6A. © Corpus of Anglo-Saxon Stone Sculpture, photographer T. Middlemass 9.9 Type g hogbacks from Lowther 4 and Sockburn 21. Source: Collingwood 1972, 171 and Lang 1972 9.10  Type g hogback from Heysham. Photo © Howard Williams 2005

234 235 242 244 244

246 248 256 257 257 258 259

Tables

3.1

Natural and cultural categories within a 25 m circumference of rune-stones with known original placing. Source: Klos 2009, 114, author’s translation from German 3.2 Natural and cultural categories within a 100 m circumference of rune-stones with known original placing. Source: Klos 2009, 117, author’s translation from German 4.1 Pictish Class I monuments found in or near structures 4.2 Summary of monuments, iconography and structural associations

68 69 90 93



Acknowledgements

During its evolution, this book has benefited from the suggestions and guidance of many individuals, especially Derek Craig, Tim Grady, Amy Gray Jones, Anna Mackenzie, Andrew Meirion Jones, Keith McLay, Adrián Maldonado, Gordon Noble, Ruth Nugent, Sarah Semple and Victoria Whitworth. We also extend our appreciation to Nancy Edwards, Dai Morgan Evans and Gary Robinson – Howard Williams’s collaborators on Project Eliseg – without whom the confidence and vision to take forward this book would not have been acquired. The publication costs of this book were supported by generous financial support from the Department of History and Archaeology, University of Chester. Each chapter in the book was appraised by the editors and two or three anonymous readers, whose expert appraisals and constructive suggestions we gratefully acknowledge. Special thanks to Boydell and Brewer’s anonymous readers, who appraised the full manuscript at draft stage and at the pass for press evaluation. Caroline Palmer of Boydell and Brewer offered numerous suggestions in refining the book to its present form, including its revised and final title. We are likewise very grateful to Boydell and Brewer’s production team and to Penny Gray Jones for preparing the index. Finally, thanks to our families and friends, without whose support this book would never have been completed. We have dedicated the book to the memory of Dr John Doran: a friend and colleague with a passion for the Middle Ages who is both fondly remembered and sadly missed. Howard Williams, Joanne Kirton and Meggen Gondek

Introduction: Stones in Substance, Space and Time Howard Williams, Joanne Kirton & Meggen Gondek

A

triad of research themes – materiality, biography and landscape – provide the distinctive foci and parameters of the contributions to this book. The chapters explore a range of early medieval inscribed and sculpted stone monuments from Ireland (Ní Ghrádaigh and O’Leary), Britain (Gondek, Hall, Kirton and Williams) and Scandinavia (Back Danielsson and Crouwers). The chapters together show how these themes enrich and expand the interdisciplinary study of early medieval stone monuments, in particular revealing how a range of different inscribed and sculpted stones were central to the creation and recreation of identities and memories for early medieval individuals, families, households, religious and secular communities and kingdoms. Many narratives can be created about early medieval stone monuments (e.g. Hawkes 2003a; Orton and Wood 2007). This introduction specifically tackles early medieval stone monuments as ‘memory work’, material strategies by which selective remembering was orchestrated and mediated not simply by the raising of carved stone monuments but by their use, reuse, translation, reconfiguration and even destruction. This chapter then explores how the chosen themes create fresh avenues for early medieval research. Examples are considered in this introduction to illustrate the wider application and significance of the book’s themes in the study of stone monuments across early medieval Britain, Ireland and Scandinavia. In doing so, we acknowledge that many of the examples and issues addressed have wider import for the investigation of early medieval stones further afield across early medieval Europe and beyond. To begin, we use two case studies – one archaeological, one historical – that together draw out the centrality and interconnections of the book’s three themes. We have deliberately avoided the most familiar monuments from debates in early medieval stone sculpture – such as the interpretation of the Ruthwell and Bewcastle monuments – so as to not embroil ourselves in the minutiae of worthy debates

1

2 

howard williams, joanne kirton & meggen gondek

associated with these monuments that sit outside of the current focus of enquiry (e.g. É. Ó Carragáin 1999; 2003, Orton 2003; Orton and Wood 2007).

A material opening: Maen Achwyfan In a field in north Wales is a relic of the Viking Age: the cross known as Maen Achwyfan (Whitford F12), situated near Whitford, Flintshire (Figs 1.1 and 1.2). The sandstone free-standing cross-slab in its original base now seems to be floating without context in a ploughed field. It bears no text stating its commissioners’ names, who carved it or whom it commemorates, although the place-name can be taken to mean it is a cross dedicated to a saint: ‘Cwyfan’s Stone’ (Edwards 1999; 2013, 366–71; Griffiths 2006). However, there are multiple avenues for interpreting this striking stone monument, which probably dates from the tenth century AD. The cross bears abstract ornamentation and human and animal figures which have received detailed consideration by Nancy Edwards, revealing aspects of its makers’ and commissioners’ networks of influence and ideas, and perhaps communicating wealth, authority and, just possibly, HibernoNorse identity and allegiance (Edwards 1999; 2013). Most striking is the lowest panel on the broad face C, a seemingly naked male figure armed with an axe, spear and sword partly encircled by a serpent. We can likewise situate the monument in relation to a cluster of HibernoNorse place-names and other sculpted stones and artefacts that hint at Scandinavian influence and settlement on both sides of the Dee estuary. This cross is, in turn, part of a broader Irish Sea sphere of influence and exchange showing connections with Ireland, south-west Scotland, Cumbria, Lancashire, the Isle of Man and Anglesey (Griffiths 2006; Edwards 2013, 109–10). However, this cross is made special not simply by its ornamentation and stylistic parallels in the locality and elsewhere around the Irish Sea. Its significance derives also from the strong possibility that this early medieval monument has never been moved since it was raised. The cross appears to represent a rare instance of an early medieval stone monument still situated at, or very close to, its primary location. A plausible context for the monument can be suggested: perhaps it was originally situated beside a church or chapel now long gone, upon a boundary, and commemorating the donation of land to the church at Dyserth a few miles to the west. From the vicinity, monuments of tenth-/eleventh-century date are known: F2 and F3 at Dyserth and F8 at Meliden (Edwards 2013, 351–6; 359–62). It is even possible that the cross was the focal point of an early medieval place of assembly serving surrounding districts (Edwards 2013, 370). Geophysical survey by David Griffiths (2006) revealed that the cross originally sat within a circular boundary, defined to the north and east by the modern roadside hedgerow but originally also encircling the cross to the west and south. Moreover, the location was not only an historic boundary

1 introduction: stones in substance, space and time 

but also upon an ancient route replete in monumental traces of earlier times: six Bronze Age burial mounds survive in the immediate environs. Together, these traces serve to emphasize that the monument was not always so isolated, but may have sat within a complex socio-political and ecclesiastical landscape including a concentration of ancient monuments. The cross may have been a locus suitable for social aggregation and public ceremony, not just an isolated way marker (cf. Semple 2013). In summary, the monument’s fixity and landscape situation are key to its interpretation as much as its form and ornamentation. The Maen Achwyfan cross’s survival in situ, strongly supported by its early first mention in 1388 (Edwards 2013, 366), affords it a distinctive and rare biographical presence in this landscape. Indeed, the Maen Achwyfan cross might have gained new significances as its original or replenished painted surfaces faded and the stone became increasingly worn by the elements. Therefore, time marks itself upon exposed stone crosses and encourages the accrual of stories about their origins and antiquity even in the absence of oral histories or visual and textual clues. Other tempos affect the cross too, including weather conditions, as graphically illustrated by Figure 1.1. Furthermore, possible blade-marks at the base of face C might represent possible weapon-related ceremonial practices at the stone at some time in its history, especially given that these marks are immediately below the panel bearing the depiction of the naked martial figure (as seen in Edwards 2013, 369, plate F12.3; Maldonado pers. ob., see Hall, this vol.). The chipping off of the corners of the cross-shaft might simply represent natural erosion. However, while the wear is found at all heights of the cross-shaft it is most prominent from where the panels begin and up to the beginning of the cross-head. In other words, the chipping is not even,

3

Fig. 1.1 The tenth-century cross at Maen Achwyfan, Flintshire, Wales photographed in heavy snow.

4 

Fig. 1.2 The east side (C) of Maen Achwyfan, Flintshire, Wales.

howard williams, joanne kirton & meggen gondek

but is found on those surfaces which could be readily reached from ground level. In stark contrast, the edges of the entire curving circumference of the crosshead itself are intact, despite its comparable exposure to the elements (Fig. 1.2). This wear or chipping was not progressive; it seems to stop so as to respect the decor­ation. While prosaic explanations might be ventured, a plausible explanation is that fragments off the stone’s edges were incrementally removed between faces to yield stone-chips, perhaps to serve as relics at some unknown point during the life-history of the monument. The heritage management of the site is itself part of this monument’s biography. It is installed within a square of iron railings, with signs upon this fence and (more recently) beside the kissing gate into the field. Votive ribbons have been seen tied to the railings too. Afforded these twentieth- and twenty-first-century dimensions, the recent biography of the monument frames access and interpretation within a strategy of heritage management. More can be said about the location and biography of the Maen Achwyfan cross by foregrounding both the enduring and ephemeral material properties of the stone. In terms of ephemeral dimensions, the cross was undoubtedly originally vividly painted. Furthermore, it required repainting or its surfaces would have increasingly faded. Once faded, the monument was open to new and different treatments and interpretations. It is possible that stones like this were initially intended for repainting on a regular (perhaps seasonal or annual) basis, or they were deliberately daubed and decked with candles and other fittings, to mark particular saints’ days or the passage of the seasons (see Hawkes 2003a). There are certainly hints that this cross had now-lost fittings – perhaps glass or jewels – suggested by the four cusps around the central bosses of the cross-head on both faces A and C (Edwards 2013, 367). In terms of its enduring materiality, the size, shape, and material rendered it a fixed point in the landscape. Originally perhaps vividly coloured and augmented with lustrous materials, the cross was situated for all to see, to remember and possibly to touch and chip away fragments from, perhaps to facilitate healing or as votives to offer at shrines elsewhere. Likewise, although no text survives, the ornamentation and figures of humans and beasts framed an enduring narrative for the monument.

1 introduction: stones in substance, space and time 

5

While the Maen Achwyfan cross may be exceptional in its survival in its original location, it serves to illustrate the many ways in which we can compose narratives around monuments that extend beyond the traditional research foci of ornamentation and form. Interpreting the Maen Achwyfan cross involves considering materiality, biography and landscape together to reveal how it may have evolved in articulating faith, identities and histories of the real or imagined commissioners and makers. Furthermore, over time, and long after the makers were forgotten, it was retained and accrued new meanings, including a saint’s dedication: Cwyfan. So the cross persisted with a saint’s identity and name appended to it, eluded destruction by human or natural agency and escaped prosaic reuse. What survives, therefore, is a monument upon and around which many acts of remembering, forgetting, identity creation and negotiation were performed over the long term.

A textual exploration: Heavenfield A second way of introducing this book’s triad of themes is to look not at a surviving early medieval monument such as Maen Acwyfan but at a monument that does not physically survive but has a key role in an important early medieval text. While this monument was one made of wood rather than stone, this in itself is useful in revealing the interplay of materials that informed the significance of early medieval stone monuments. How many wooden monuments there were is unknown, and written sources for pre-Viking England give us few clues. However, it is likely that there were many more rendered in wood than in stone in the early medieval landscape (Orton and Wood 2007, 177). Bede’s account of the wooden cross at Heavenfield near Hexham, Northumberland, reveals themes complementary to those identified in the discussion of the Maen Achwyfan cross. Go there today and you will see a roadside pilgrim’s wooden cross: a battle memorial citing what the original might have looked like. The site has accrued significance not through the continued presence of the same monument but through an early twentiethcentury reimagining of a monument that survives only in textual form (Fig. 1.3). We have only Bede’s account to tell us its significance and his account is essentially a Christian origin myth for the kingdom of Northumbria (Orton and Wood 2007, 170–72; see also Hingley 2012, 36–50). Writing his Historia Ecclesiastica (III.2), the Northumbrian monk Bede tells his readers that King Oswald of Northumbria won a great victory

Fig. 1.3 The modern cross at Heavenfield, Northumberland.

6 

howard williams, joanne kirton & meggen gondek

against his Welsh rivals at Hefenfelth (Heavenfield). The victory took place in AD 634, almost a century before Bede was writing. Bede indicates that the king’s actions before the battle secured God’s aid and delivered to him victory over his enemies. Oswald had hurriedly raised a wooden cross, holding it with his own hands while his troops raised earth around its base. His whole army then knelt facing the cross and prayed for victory that was then duly given by God. The cross-raising at Heavenfield has been widely discussed, including in a study by the eminent early medieval historian Ian Wood (2006, 3–4; see also Orton and Wood 2007). Wood follows Bailey (1996) in regarding Bede’s account as an attempt to portray King Oswald as an English Constantine, converting ahead of a crucial battle that defined the fate of his realm. Moreover, Wood sees this story as part of a re-creation of a cult for Saint Oswald at Hexham, not necessarily a precise remembrance of the prelude to the battle. Bede’s account was clearly a keystone in the origin myths of the Christian kingdom of Northumbria promoted in his day, and he claims that this was the first cross raised in Bernicia. As an eighthcentury portrayal of seventh-century Christian origins for both church and kingdom, not an accurate record of what Oswald actually did, Bede’s description of Oswald’s cross serves to usefully illustrate this book’s three themes – in particular, how the landscape, biography and materiality of monuments interconnect. Bede emphasized the materiality of the wooden cross at Heavenfield as integral to the narrative of faith, conversion and military triumph that was wrapped about it and the cult it sustained and promulgated. Bede records that, in his time, people and animals were cured of sickness when they were sprinkled with, or drank, water in which splinters of the cross were immersed, echoing the power of the True Cross. Not only was the rough wooden monument of Bede’s day the same (or reconstructed to look the same) as the monument raised before battle, but its wooden construction made it divisible, so that splinters could be distributed widely to perform healing miracles (Sherley-Price 1990, HE III. 2). The wooden monument would have required repeated maintenance and painting, or perhaps even replacing, as would any timber monument exposed to successive British winters and, as Bede suggests, regular whittling down to make relics. Such acts of reconstruction (or replacement) may have reinforced the miraculous preservation and capacity of the cross to perpetually produce relics seemingly without shrinking. The biography of the cross was crucial to its mnemonic efficacy, even if it is unclear whether it was the cross’s actual life-history or one invented shortly before Bede was writing. This biography involved it being carried to and erected on the battlefield and the unfolding sequence of miracles that led to it being ‘held in great veneration’ to Bede’s day. Any cross of this date was itself a material citation of the crosses known to exist at the site of Christ’s baptism (in wood) and the site of the Crucifixion on

1 introduction: stones in substance, space and time 

Golgotha (silver) (MacLean 1997, 81). A further significance of the Heavenfield cross, relating to the themes of both materiality and biography, is that its wooden composition gave it the aura of antiquity and simplicity by the eighth century, a time when crosses were increasingly being sculpted in stone. It also might have encouraged the cross’s skeuomorphic translation and partial replication/elaboration in stone. Whether or not there was a wooden cross at Heavenfield and whether it was the first of its kind in the kingdom, as Bede asserts, by the early eighth century it was certainly present within a landscape increasingly populated with striking crosses, at least in the immediate proximity of major ecclesiastical centres (see Orton and Wood 2007, 170–71). At least some were being rendered in stone as well as wood, as, for example, Acca’s cross from Hexham itself (Cramp 1984, 174–6). The primordial character of the cross may have defined both its persistent significance in the landscape and the inspiration to adapt new crosses into stone, fossilising vegetal themes in their sculpted vinescroll (MacLean 1997). Landscape was unquestionably integral to the significance of the monument. The cross was not placed for arbitrary or prosaic reasons: whether at the site where Oswald had raised it, or an invented association with a place he was thought to have raised it, Bede’s text creates a sense of place through the continuity of the cross at the battle site. It is unquestionable that the same cross placed elsewhere would not have had the same associations; place was key to its commemorative significance. Moreover, in Bede’s account, the site had become a focus of an annual pilgrimage by the monks of Hexham, who had built a church on the battlefield. Hence, the monument was part of a network of sacred places and the creation of stone monuments and architectures linked by embodied ritual performance: processions through the landscape. This commemorative topography – a landscape monumentalized with crosses – is a common theme in early medieval hagiography across Britain and Ireland. Monuments might form components of such landscapes, being erected for a whole host of reasons and in a variety of places. On Iona, for example, Adomnán tells us of crosses set up at the place where the monk Ernán died and also at the spot where Columba was standing at that same moment (Sharpe 1995, 148, VC I.45). Also significant for Bede was the fact that Heavenfield was in the proximity of the truly monumental Roman (Hadrian’s) Wall (Sherley-Price 1990, HE III. 3). Hence, the cross was connected to a turf and stone monument that straddled Britain, the entire width of Northumbria. This was a long-term landscape of conflict between territorial claims north and south, east and west: the Heavenfield cross was part of a landscape of memory peppered with monumental traces of the past and connected specifically with the concept of an ancient military frontier (e.g. Hingley 2012, 35–50). In the context of this book, Bede’s account of the miraculous cross foregrounds how the materiality, biography and landscape context defined the

7

8 

howard williams, joanne kirton & meggen gondek

significance of the monument for an early eighth-century audience. We do not know precisely what the Heavenfield cross looked like; Bede does not convey whether the Heavenfield cross was carved with text, images or ornamentation. What is evident, however, is that details of the form and ornament of the cross, the dedicated focus of most scholarly research into early medieval monuments, was, while not irrelevant, less significant than the material, story and location for the significance afforded to it by Bede in his writing. Given that modern scholarship has often paid limited, and sometimes no, attention to materials, life-histories and spatial contexts of early medieval monuments, just as work by archaeologists at Maen Achwyfan reveals dimensions of the monument’s many dimensions of analysis beyond form and ornament, so this reading of Bede’s story of the cross at Heavenfield offers a resounding call for a shift in the priorities of those studying early medieval stone monuments. Furthermore, it shows that early medieval texts are as much entry points into these discussions as material survivals from the early Middle Ages. This reading of Bede reorientates our perspectives in the study of early medieval stone monuments and the contexts in which they operated. The prevailing discourse on ‘style’ (see Orton 2003; Hawkes 2007) persistently dominates research into early medieval sculpture despite repeated critique and reformulation, and seems completely out of kilter when seen from the perspective of Bede’s account. Early medieval scholars often attempt to reveal how many societies past and present have used monuments to commemorate, whether rough and worked, inscribed and sculpted, large and small, earth-fast or transported, architectural or free-standing. Yet precisely how and why stones operate as tools of remembrance result from complex, historical conditions that go far beyond availability and utility (see Carver 2001). The relationship between memory and monument is complicated, shaped by long-term religious and cultural values and beliefs, and influenced by monuments’ architectural and/or landscape settings and by political, social and economic factors, a situation that the chapters below individually and collectively serve to demonstrate.

Memory work Having introduced this book’s three themes, let us now engage with approaches to social memory in the study of early medieval stone monuments, which is unashamedly rooted in recent developments in archaeological theory and method. Early medieval communities defined themselves through their remembered and imagined histories and mythologies. We propose that stone monuments were a varied but important mechanism for constituting, communicating and reproducing these social memories as well as holding other significances as statements projecting memory

1 introduction: stones in substance, space and time 

in the present and into the future. Yet the relationship between monuments and memory is highly complex in the past and the present. Key to the archaeological approach to social memory is that monuments do not ‘hold’ memories (see Jones 2007). Instead, they are invested with, and shed, memories in a complex and evolving process through practices. Moreover, these practices can be, in part, excavated, surveyed and analysed through archaeological techniques and methods as well as through art-historical and historical research. Memories are not simply inscribed on to monuments through text, image and ornamentation; they are incorporated into them through the ways in which the materials were selected, transported, situated, experienced and reused. The chapters of this book collectively provide a rich range of case studies that explore, refine and extend archaeological investigations into the ‘past in the past’: how past societies and individuals defined themselves and mediated their histories and mythologies through material culture. Certainly, across a range of periods, archaeologists are beginning to realise that these theories and methods provide a strong foundation for considering the variability in how stones make and remake memories. The results of this research are beginning to show how stones and other mater­ ials may sometimes aspire to be permanent mnemonic records of events and/or persons, but they are frequently inherently mutable and contested in their mnemonic significations, subject to human and environmental action and frequently reused in novel contexts for different purposes. The study of memory in material culture research is a growing field with many interdisciplinary dimensions and involving many different categories of monuments, from Neolithic megalithic chambered tombs to the gardens of remembrance of twenty-first-century crematoria. This broad, cross-period body of research on commemoration defines itself through its close attention to context and an emphasis upon what people do to commemorate, rather than static models of what people believe. The application of social memory as ‘memory work’ (see Van Dyke and Alcock 2003; Mills and Walker 2008) provides a valuable framework to approach the past in the past focusing on the ways in which different materials – in this case stone – are deployed and experi­enced. This approach proposes that social memory can be extracted from archaeological data through the theorized and contextual investigation of how routinized activities and ritual performances operate in the making and remaking of social memory through practice (e.g. see Van Dyke and Alcock 2003; Bradley 2002; Williams 2003; Yoffee 2007; Mills and Walker 2008; Mills 2009; Boric 2010; Llillios and Tasamis 2010). Hence, ‘archaeologies of memory’ (Van Dyke and Alcock 2003) or, more precisely, ‘archaeologies of remembrance’ (Williams 2003), focus less on knowledge-storage and the retrieval and reconstruction of knowable past understandings of history and memory (Bradley 2002; Jones 2007) and more on the processes by which pasts of different kinds were generated

9

10 

howard williams, joanne kirton & meggen gondek

and transformed through the interaction of people with material culture, monuments and landscape: memory work. There is now a good range of literature exploring the uses of the past in prehistoric and protohistoric/ancient societies (e.g. Alcock 2002; Bradley 2002; Jones 2007), but these themes have also become prominent in the archaeological investigation of late-historic societies, such as those of the nineteenth, twentieth and twenty-first centuries (e.g. Tarlow 1999, Saunders 2007; Williams 2011a; Burström 2012). Hence, a focus on ‘memory work’ is sensitive to the fact that commemorative practices, and practices of remembrance more broadly, are socially constructed and require an appreciation of contextual strategies. These strategies incorporate both remembering and forgetting, related dimensions of social memory by which communities and individuals assert, imagine, contest, negotiate and suppress pasts, presents and futures. A series of influential applications of this theoretical approach have brought the archaeology of remembrance to early medieval studies (e.g. Bradley 1987; Driscoll 1998; 2000; Devlin 2007; Semple 1998; 2003; 2013; Williams 2001; 2006). This work has shown how a focus on memory and material culture can shed new light on early medieval communities and kingdoms and their perceptions of and aspirations relating to the past, present and future as negotiated through material culture, monuments and landscape. However, much of the existing literature has focused on the reuse of the material past, including the collection and deployment of spolia (e.g. Eaton 2000; Stocker with Everson 1990), or on social memory within the context of mortuary practice (e.g. Williams 2006). Only a few studies have explored the wider range of other material cultures, monuments, contexts and landscapes involved in creating memories and identities, although not with detailed reference to stone sculpture in particular (most notably, see Semple 2013, 101–3). In this regard, carved and inscribed stone monuments are a distinctive category of early medieval material culture that held functions far beyond mortuary practice and as signals of faith and authority. As a medium, stone and its varied uses deserves closer attention as a material component of social memory. Whether by design or through accrued significance, many stone monuments, in a variety of ways, tempos and scales, became media by which worldviews and social memories were constituted, communicated and reproduced for early medieval individuals and communities (Andrén 1993; 2000; Driscoll 2000; Carver 2005). While the various meanings and functions of early medieval stone monuments have been long debated before this book, only rarely have the commemorative significances of inscribed and sculpted stones been investigated focusing explicitly on the triad of themes that constitute this book’s focus (e.g. Edwards 2001a and b; Gondek 2010; Hall et al. 2000; Williams 2006; 2007; 2011b). The study of early medieval sculpture has to date seen few explicit engagements with, and theoretical explorations of, their

1 introduction: stones in substance, space and time 

commemorative significance as a creative and performative process that prehistorian Andrew Meirion Jones has dubbed technologies of remembrance (Jones 2003; 2007). This approach explores not only the design and making of sculpture but also its use and reuse, and the spatial and landscape contexts within which sculpture operates. The aim is not to claim that all early medieval stones were designed and/or became commemorative, but to explore how stones were implicated in the construction, negotiation and reproduction of recalled and imagined pasts and aspired futures for early medieval people (see Williams 2006). This book aims to foreground the hitherto under-played themes by which stone monuments were designed, or become implicated, in early medieval commemorative practice: their materialities, biographies and landscapes.

Studying early medieval stone monuments In developing these approaches for early medieval stone monuments there are numerous challenges not only with the data but also with the complex network of disciplinary specialties that comprise the early medieval studies of inscribed and sculpted stones. Yet there are numerous reasons why carved stones are important for scholars of the early Middle Ages and are ignored by them to the severe detriment of their studies. Stone monuments are a principal surviving medium upon which less permanent and enduring forms of text, image, symbols and ornamentations can survive. Hence, inscribed and sculpted stones are a key source of historical, art-historical and archaeological data for early medieval communities and kingdoms before, during and after their conversion to the Christian faith and at shifting scales of socio-political development. Stone monuments consequently remain one of the largest data-sets of surviving material culture and their potential to inform us of the social and ideological world of their creators and audiences has not been exhausted. Insights can be gained from carved stones through the detailed analysis of stone form and ornamentation (e.g. Hawkes 2002), but also from the interplay of media, contexts and distribution (e.g. Andreeff 2012; Stocker 2000; Gondek 2006a; Griffiths 2006; Rodwell et al. 2008; Sidebottom 1994) facilitated by formal corpora such as those ongoing for England (e.g. Cramp 2006) and recently completed for Wales (e.g. Edwards 2013). For many regions, including Scotland (e.g. Allen and Anderson 1903; Henderson and Henderson 2004), Scandinavia (e.g. Brate 1911; Brate and Wessén 1936; Sawyer 2001) and Ireland (e.g. Henry 1964; 1965; Harbison 1992; Kelly 1991), it could be argued that inscribed and sculpted stones have long captivated scholarly attention and charged the popular imagination because of their enduring and monumental presences in the landscape and the long tradition of antiquarian study attached to them. In other regions, despite detailed research over many decades, it could be argued that familiarity can breed indifference. This might be true of

11

12 

howard williams, joanne kirton & meggen gondek

England, where sculpture has received sustained and detailed study (e.g. Cramp 1984), as well as featuring in broad syntheses on Anglo-Saxon art, culture and society (e.g. Karkov 2011; Webster 2012; Higham and Ryan 2013), yet can still find itself overlooked or relegated within many accounts and collections (e.g. Hamerow et al. 2011). It is important to recognise that data is a challenge for answering even the most seemingly simple archaeological and art-historical questions. In Britain, for example, the demolition or restoration of churches and chapels across the country throughout the nineteenth century un­covered, in the walls and foundations of these buildings, many fragmentary examples of early medieval stone sculpture. For example, the pre-1974 counties of Derbyshire (86.3%), Lancashire (79.2%) and Cheshire (60.0%) all have a relatively large proportion of surviving early medieval monuments un­covered in this manner (Kirton 2015). Consequently, much of the data-set is fragmentary, having being broken and/or recarved to suit later building needs. A chronic problem is the removal of these monuments from their original contexts, which has ensured that dating them is incredibly difficult and is usually dependent on typological sequences. The loss of original context also makes it difficult to interpret their functions and the ways in which people may have engaged with them. Their varied survival has shaped the way they have been studied, the emphasis primarily being placed on their appearance: their form, style and decoration. The rich corpus of early medieval carved stones in northern Europe is also a challenge because of its sheer variability and the regionalism of scholarship resulting from centuries of cataloguing and specialist interdisciplinary regionalism. Hence, it is rare to find a volume such as this that tackles a wide geographic region. Regions of study (e.g. Anglo-Saxon England, Wales, Scotland, Ireland, Norway, Sweden) are often considered within the restrictions of modern political boundaries and, even within these, regionality is highly visible in terms of style, date and monument forms. With this in mind, a synthesis of the history of sculpture studies across the region within an introductory chapter is not feasible. At its most basic, the history of the study of carved stone monuments in all of these regions begins as a hybrid endeavour between art history and archaeology, usually from very early on in each region’s antiquarian tradition. Cataloguing and description was occurring from the early twentieth century (e.g. Stuart 1867; Allen and Anderson 1903; Collingwood 1927; Macalister 1945; Nash-Williams 1950). This remains a key goal of scholarship, perhaps best highlighted in the sweeping objectives of the Corpus of Anglo-Saxon Sculpture, whose first volume was authored by Rosemary Cramp (1984) and which is still working its way through the counties of England. The Corpus of Anglo-Saxon Stone Sculpture volumes, for example, have systematically recorded and synthesized the surviving architectural fragments and monuments of the early medieval period in England. This is particularly important for a data-set that is ubiquitous but largely removed

1 introduction: stones in substance, space and time 

from its original contexts. Providing a catalogue of these monuments, albeit one that largely focuses on the decoration and inscriptions of these fragments, allows scholars to quickly establish what survives, how and where it survives and how it fits with the broader assemblage. Discussions of early medieval art usually include sculpture, but are rarely dedicated to the specific significance of this media (Karkov 2011). Most work is published in specialist corpus volumes, which usually address only specific regions and their connections with others (e.g. Edwards 2007a and b; Bailey 2011), or specialist studies of individual monuments/groups of monuments (e.g. Hawkes 2002), or in conference proceedings and edited collections (e.g. Higgitt 1986; Carver 2003). Most studies, however, focus principally on style, rather than the other components of monumental form and context (see Orton 2003; Hawkes 2007). A superb review of approaches to stone sculpture by Jane Hawkes (2003a) appeared in the edited volume Theorising Anglo-Saxon Sculpture, a volume which tackled approaches to sculpture across the disciplines of archaeology and art history. Thompson’s (2003; 2004) literary perspective on the material evidence for Anglo-Saxon England also deserves note for tackling the challenge of addressing interdisciplinary questions using the Anglo-Saxon corpus. For Scandinavia, Andrén (1993; 2000) has done much to popularise and approach the theorised study of picture stones and rune-stones from an archaeological perspective. Rosemary Cramp (2010) has also recently reviewed the major developments in approach and interpretation. The sheer number of carved early medieval monuments makes syntheses beyond particular categories of monument near impossible (but see Henry 1964; 1965; Harbison 1992; Bailey 1996; Sawyer 2001). Yet paradoxically, this repeated recontextualization of sculpture reveals its mutability and potential for repeated reimagining and reinvention in new social, economic, political and religious contexts, itself a focus of the biographical approach to early medieval monuments.

Materialities in stone It remains difficult to provide a concise definition of materiality, as it is not a methodology, per se, or a monolithic theory of material culture (cf. Ingold 2007, 2). It is, instead, an approach that prioritizes the physicality (material) of objects or sites and examines the relationships between people, objects/monuments and actions, allowing the exploration of social networks and meanings (Mills 2009, 40). The theme of materiality has been extensively explored by archaeologists particularly over the last decade (e.g. Gosden 2005) and has inspired a range of approaches to the properties and aesthetics provided by the colours, textures and multisensory qualities of stones, sediments and substances employed during artefact and monument creation and use (e.g. Cummings 2002; Jones 1999; O’Connor and Cooney 2009; papers in O’Connor et al. 2009; Scarre 2004; Watson and Keating 1999).

13

14 

howard williams, joanne kirton & meggen gondek

These debates have already involved studies in medieval archaeology and art. For example, Giles (2007) has explored the different kinds of visuality by which space and architecture provided means of engaging with the sacred in later medieval England. Moreland (2001) has explored the interaction of word, image and material culture in the material worlds of the Middle Ages (see also Karkov 2011). Still, the attention afforded to the provenance, texture, shape and colour of stone that is prevalent in studies of prehistoric rock art and stone monumentality has not attracted the attention of scholars of early medieval stone sculpture that it deserves; studies of the materiality of stone monuments remain in their infancy. There are many potential applications for the materiality theme. It provides profitable insights into the significance afforded to the patina and ruinous character of prehistoric and Roman spolia reused within building programmes, and the various connotations of Romanitas that they invoked in attempts to create a Christian landscape comparable to that of Rome and Frankia (e.g. Bidwell 2010; Hawkes 2003b; Semple 2013, 133–6). Materiality also has significance for understanding possible motives behind those cases in which stone was moved over longer distances, as revealed by the geological provenance of some sculpted stones (e.g. Jackson 2007). A good example of this is the cross from Llanbadarn Fawr 1 (CD4), which, in stark contrast to most other early medieval stones from south-west Wales derived from locally available stone, seems to have been made of stone extracted by quarry­ing or (more probably) discovered on the surface c. 37 km away, and could only have been moved by human action, partly over land and then over water (Edwards 2007b; Jackson 2007, 23). In this instance, the quality of the stone, its source near the prominent mountain of Cadair Idris and its long procession to its place of sculpting and erection may have been equally central to the monument’s significance in its final form, ornamentation and location. The importance of invoking other materials in the medium of stone has been seen as pivotal to understanding the skeumorphism of crosses in Northumbria, echoing the wooden cross raised by King Oswald ahead of his victory at Heavenfield (Bailey 1996; Cramp 1984, 174–6; MacLean 1997, 81; Wood 2006, 3–4). The widespread identification of skeumorphism from wood and metal into stone, as widely discussed for Irish high crosses (Kelly 1991; see also Fisher 2001, 15), might thus be more than a display of technical and formal influence but also a key mnemonic strategy, enhancing the commemorative efficacy of the monument by connecting it to materials of other scales and settings, including specific famed monuments in other locations or known from biblical and legendary narratives (T. Ó Carragáin 2007, 100). For example, Maddern (2013, 250–52) regards skeuomorphism involving a range of materials – manuscripts, wood and metal – as key to understanding the form, ornamentation and commemorative significance of pre-Viking Northumbrian name-stones. Skeuomorphism of form can be matched by skeuomorphic ornamental

1 introduction: stones in substance, space and time 

components upon many stone monuments, such as inhabited vinescroll and interlace carved into stones such as the eighth-century Ruthwell cross (É. Ó Carragáin 1999), or the incorporation of metal and precious stones into monuments such as the ninth-century Sandbach crosses (Hawkes 2002; 2003a). The potential apotropaic functions of depicted artefacts, beasts as well as humanoid figures, may have been enhanced if we sometimes regard them as little to do with representations of narrative scenes but instead as apotropaic sensing beasts framing and protecting the monument itself (e.g. Hall 2012; 2013; see also Williams, this vol.). The same might apply to certain human figures depicted on crosses: to regard them as simply representations of biblical and mythological scenes overlooks the potential power for an early medieval audience of the sensing presence of living icons (see also Ní Ghrádaigh and Mullins 2013). As with other sacred artefacts bearing figural and zoomorphic art, early medieval stone monuments were truly multimedia and multi-material stone artefacts imbued with personalities and identities of the dead and/or the sacred, rendered striking and memorable through their deployment of colourful, shining, sonorous and tactile materials as much as through their texts and images. This theme is significant because it extends beyond monuments dominated by figural ornamentation and even applies to those lacking figural and zoomorphic representations. These, too, may have contained powerful visual mnemonic devices through their geometric, eye-catching designs, making them both memorable and good to remember with because of, and in a manner enhanced by, their tangible and ‘animated’ quality. This approach helps us to better understand well-preserved memorials that lack figural art and lengthy inscriptions, such as the largely abstract ornamentation upon the Carew 1 (Pembs.) (P9) (Edwards 2007b, 303–10) and Nevern 4 (Ceredigion) (P75) crosses (Edwards 2007b, 396–401). From a materiality perspective, these stone crosses are commemorative and memorable because of their overall striking abstract patterns and the contemplative dimensions they provoked rather than their iconographic apprehension per se (e.g. Pirotte 2001). When stones were deployed undressed or partly dressed, the natural texture, size, shape and ease of working the stone may have themselves been important components in configuring how and where the monument was deployed. This was further enhanced by the selection of colour schemes on stone monuments through the application of gesso and paint, which would have also been key elements in their materiality. Many monuments would have been painted not only to be striking landmarks but also to appear as monumental versions of sacred metalwork and holy texts. Thus the dynamic interplay between stone monuments and precious metalwork and other media (Jansson 1987, 153–61; Hawkes 2003a, 17), which were enhanced by how they were lit and what season and time of day they were experienced, even on relatively simple monuments, were as important as the designs that

15

16 

howard williams, joanne kirton & meggen gondek

were carved upon them. These issues have been clearly revealed by Hawkes (2003a) for the Sandbach monuments. When discussing the North cross at Sandbach, Cheshire, Hawkes has argued that many metalwork elements were incorporated into its design, rendering it ‘deliberately designed as a monumental vision of the precious metalwork crosses used within the churches’ (Hawkes 2003a, 27; Fig. 1.4). This leads us to a further point about materiality: fittings and lighting could affect how the monument was experienced and read, even what time of day it was engaged with. For example, the fragmentary Tarvin cross-head was excavated in 2006 in a seventeenth-century ditch but was originally a tenth- or eleventh-century cross, possibly situated to mark a route or boundary in relation to a nearby church (Bailey 2010, 128–9). A hole on the top of the probable upper cross-arm could have contained a metal fitting for a candle-holder. Therefore, stone monuments were inherently inspired by, and operated in conjunction with, not only their own non-stone components and fittings but also a range of other contemporary media, including textiles, leatherwork, metalwork, ivories and manuscripts. For example, it is tempting to consider how large Pictish cross-slabs such as Nigg, Shandwick and Hilton of Cadboll on the Tarbat peninsula, or the Rosmarkie cross-slabs, were networked to metalwork and manuscripts utilized in the local religious communities in their locality (e.g. Henderson and Henderson 2004, 216–25; see also Cramp 1993, 69). Attention to the materiality of stone monuments also allows new emphases in the study of the textual inscriptions upon them. From this perspective, the act of carving runes and letters, the depth, scale, form and arrangement of images and scripts (Higgitt 1997; 2003; Okasha 2003; Ní Ghrádaigh and Mullins 2013; e.g. Everson and Stocker 1999, 214–16) and texts’ interplay with other forms of ornament (Andrén 2000) should all be taken into consideration together with the selection of words deployed in commemoration. Fig. 1.4 Detail of the crucifixion scene flanked by evangelist symbols and the Nativity scene below Equally important is the context of the upon stone 1dA (middle of broad, east face) of the text and whether it was ever intended north cross from Sandbach, Cheshire (after Bailey for reading in the landscape, for public 2010, plate 265). The pellets are skeuomorphic repreutterance or for song (Devlin 2011). sentations of nails employed in contemporary metalwork (Hawkes 2003a, 27). Conversely, texts might be made overtly

1 introduction: stones in substance, space and time 

obscure through the deployment of cyphers, complex shifts in direction or even by interment with the dead in anticipation of Resurrection (see Maddern 2013). The materiality of texts is also important for considering the relationships between textual monuments. The repeated use of formulae and scripts created a shared textual identity at particular locales, an argument that might apply to the name-stones from monasteries such as Lindisfarne (Cramp 1984, 203–8) and Hartlepool (Cramp 1984, 95–101). Likewise, language and script can mark monuments out as distinctive from their counterparts and predecessors. A number of the chapters in this book tackle the nascent theme of materiality. Kirton addresses the specific materiality of stones where ornamentation, imagery and text are eschewed in favour of clear, smooth surfaces. Back Danielsson considers rune-stones as ‘things’ first and foremost, not simply as backdrops to their ornamentation and runic inscriptions. Gondek is sensitive to the materiality of inscribed stones when incorporated into architecture. Crouwers considers the translation and representation of processional crosses upon a selection of Norwegian cross-slabs: the visual citation of physical artefacts on to stone. Meanwhile, Williams considers the architectural and skeuomorphic affordances of hogback stones as creating implied and perceptible ‘solid spaces’ for the dead to inhabit and pass through. Together, these chapters present new directions in the study of early medieval stone monuments and identify the wider potential for exploring the materialities of early medieval stone monuments in future research.

Biography In contrast to the theme of materiality, exploring the ‘life-histories’ or biographies of artefacts, monuments and landscapes at various scales has a more established pedigree of research (e.g. Holtorf 1996; Gosden and Marshall 1999; Joy 2009; Hingley 2012). These theoretical approaches have begun to be explored in early medieval contexts, investigating the mnemonic associations afforded to old artefacts discovered or curated and subsequently treated in a variety of different ways through their circulation, display, adaptation, transformation and deployment in specific arenas (e.g. Williams 2001; 2005; 2010; Eckardt and Williams 2003; Swift 2006; Caple 2010), as well as the mythological and ancestral meanings of artefacts and assemblages with relatively short biographies but bearing antique designs and allusions (e.g. Filmer-Sankey 1996; Williams 2001; 2011c). There is also a tradition of exploring the reuse of ancient monuments within the early medieval era and the ways in which these earlier monuments, ruined buildings and their locales could become significant as foci for early medieval burial, assembly and other activities as topographies of memory (Bradley 1987; Driscoll 1998;

17

18 

howard williams, joanne kirton & meggen gondek

Semple 1998; 2003; 2013; Williams 1997; 1999; Petts 2002; 2007; Sanmark and Semple 2008). Situated between these approaches to artefacts, monuments and landscapes, and linked to each of them, a number of studies have pioneered the explicit application of the biographical approach to early medieval stone monuments. For example, Eaton (2000) explored not only the widespread reuse of Roman stone within early medieval architecture but also the inspiration these provided for new works of sculpture (see also Hawkes 2003b). Such studies reveal both how memories were created through the act of reuse and also the subsequent display and attempts to replicate these ancient works within the early Middle Ages. St Mary-le-Wigford 6, Lincoln (Everson and Stocker 1999, 214–16; see also Higgitt 2003, 332) is an example of a reused Roman gabled tombstone. The stone has five lines of text within the triangle of the gable. Significantly, the text inverts convention, running from bottom to top, starting with the benefactor’s name bottom left and ending at the top with the name of the saint, Mary, on a line of its own at the pinnacle of the monument. Therefore, the reader’s eye ascends the text, an embodied movement that might be taken to imply spiritual ascension. In these ways, the spatial arrangement of the texts renders it efficacious as a memorial as much as do the words, while the stone is afforded a form of agency through the ‘voice’ attributed to it. The act of reuse is clearly significant, but in this instance so is the precise manner of reuse. A contrasting but related approach is to explore the afterlife of early medieval stone monuments. Stocker with Everson (1990) focused on the reuse of early medieval sculpture particularly in later ecclesiastical structures, highlighting different practices of reuse and the potential for these to inform meanings ascribed to monuments. Cassidy (1992) explored the later history of the Ruthwell cross, Dumfriesshire, while Moreland (1999) has explored the long-term biography of the Bradbourne cross, Derbyshire, and its reinterpretation and reuse through the Middle Ages and during the Reformation, and its rehabilitation through antiquarian study to the present day. Likewise, James et al.’s (2008) study of the Hilton of Cadboll cross-slab examines the detailed history of the monument from its construction to the contesting identities and narratives claiming it in the recent past. These approaches have informed Edwards’ careful reinterpretation of the ninth-century Pillar of Eliseg and its ‘afterlife’, which draws upon antiquarian sources as well as the surviving monument (Edwards 2009; 2013, 322–36). Another notable study is Hall et al.’s exploration of the cultural biography of the Crieff Burgh Cross, which by close examination of the monument and its history not only suggested a primary original location and context for the cross but also charted its development as an agent in post-medieval judicial punishment (Hall et al. 2000). Likewise, Hall (2012) has explored the biographies of early medieval stones from St Madoes and Inchyra now on display in Perth Museum, which reveal

1 introduction: stones in substance, space and time 

their life-histories in relation to place and landscape. These cultural biographies attempt to go beyond descriptions of historical change to explore the ways in which uses and perceptions of monuments alter over time (Mytum 2003/2004, 112). However, at the time of writing, there have been significant advances in thinking about the reuse and replication of early medieval monuments in recent centuries (e.g. Foster 2014), but fewer studies of the biographies of early medieval monuments have theorized how the life-history of the monument is related to memory work within the early medieval period (but see Hall 2012). For example, painted monuments possessed a distinctive short-term tempo, requiring repair work that perhaps operated as a key component of commemorative rituals, if the aim was for them to remain legible and discernible through multiple winters (Jansson 1987, 153–61). Such repair might have an agency of its own, as remembering and forgetting through repeated repainting transformed the appearance of the monument over years and decades, and rendered some rapidly invisible if not repainted. It is even possible that repainting allowed different iconographic readings as part of conscious efforts to reframe the relationships between scenes and panels (see Hawkes 2003a). Once such consideration is brought centre-stage, the biographical approach can be regarded as central to understanding the use of early medieval stone monuments within the decades following their construction as well as their subsequent reuse in later centuries. In other words, many inscribed and sculpted stones have had multiple phases of activity written on to them during the early Middle Ages, whilst others reveal their biographies through their incorporation into new contexts. It is clear that there is potential in considering short-term cycles of use and reuse alongside long-lasting biographies. For example, a ‘short’term life might be interpreted for five or six examples of cross-slabs in south-west Wales, where possibly seventh- to ninth-century cross motifs were added to monuments with earlier ogham and/or Roman inscriptions (Edwards 2007b, 47). In some cases these crosses respect earlier inscriptions, whilst in others they obliterate parts of them (Edwards 2007b, 48). Similarly, Clarke (2007) has highlighted several examples of Class I (fifth- to seventh-century AD) Pictish symbol stones with multiple sets of symbols, sometimes overwriting existing symbol motifs. In both these cases, these were stones that can be raised, moved and reactivated through a series of stages in their early medieval life-histories (see also Williams 2007; Gondek, this vol.). In a seminal study of the cultural biographies of early medieval stone monuments, Burström (1996) explored the Viking-period reuse of picture stones within mortuary contexts. Picture stones of various dates were reused in stone kerbs and as head and foot-stones within cists at the Viking cemetery at Ihre, Hellvi parish (Burström 1996, 23–5). Burström argues that the picture stone reused above the female burial was at least

19

20 

howard williams, joanne kirton & meggen gondek

one hundred years old when buried. Bearing a ship and woman with a drinking horn, the stone was placed face-down as the covering slab of the inhumation grave. When reused, the slab may have been a meaningful addition, its scene speaking to the dead at a time of Christian conversion and rapid socio-economic change. Rundkvist (2012, 146–7) has revisited this phenomenon and demonstrates that, like the picture stones and runestones of the Lake Mälar area, the Vendel Period (AD 540–790) saw the systematic destruction of the preceding era’s picture stones on Gotland. Moreover, he identifies no further reuse within the Vendel or early Viking period and identifies the reuse recognized by Burström as an exclusively late Viking-period phenomenon (tenth and eleventh centuries). Significantly, the pattern is for the reuse of picture stones in male-gendered graves, reflecting the overall trend for male graves to receive structural elaborations (Rundkvist 2012, 148), and an association with sites where pagan cult was continuing, evidenced by furnished burial and the persistence of cremation and north–south-aligned inhumation. Hence, in this case, the reuse of picture stones might indeed reflect tensions over religious and social change in these centuries. The biographical theme is widely addressed within the volume. The biography of place is considered by Kirton, Back Danielsson and O’Leary with contrasting data-sets and approaches. Meanwhile, Gondek focuses specifically on the use and reuse of Pictish symbol stones in settlement contexts. Crouwers considers not only the life-histories of Norwegian stone crosses but also the reuse of prehistoric sites where they were installed. Hall explores the different cultural biographies of stone monuments in Scotland over the longer term, while Ní Ghrádaigh explores the historical evidence of the twelfth-century reception of early medieval stone monuments. Williams’ study overtly avoids considering the biography of hogback stones, but instead gives attention to the citations between monuments and media which informed their significance for their designers and audiences during the early Middle Ages.

Landscape Early medieval scholars have long recognized that landscapes and monuments are inseparable and cannot be explored alone (e.g. Orton 2006). However, a ‘landscape approach’ to early medieval stone monuments might mean very different things in practice. Key to the approach is contextualizing the monument in a ‘populated’ setting where older and contemporary settlements, sites and monuments and the natural top­ography are recognized as agents in how monuments were located and engaged with. In general, the landscape context of English stone monuments has been less explored than that in other parts of Britain and Ireland and in Scandinavia. In part this is related to the fact that the corpus here has perhaps

1 introduction: stones in substance, space and time 

suffered most greatly in terms of movement from original locations and destruction (e.g. O’Sullivan 2011). In areas where original contexts are marginally better preserved, such as Wales, Scotland, Ireland and across Scandinavia, wider landscape contexts of individual monuments and groups of monuments have been discussed, particularly with relation to socio-political and ideological boundaries and sacred landscapes (e.g. Edwards 2001a and b; Gondek 2006 a and b; 2007; Turner 2006). Sometimes these wider landscape discussions result in spatial considerations of ‘schools’ or groups of monuments, such as the Govan School (e.g. Driscoll et al. 2005; Sidebottom 1994), which emphasize the collective power of monuments to promote social memory across considerable distances. A key challenge in landscape studies of early medieval monuments is a lack of direct investigation into the archaeological contexts of early medieval stone monuments through landscape-centred fieldwork and largescale excavations at monument sites (as opposed to keyhole excavation at the base of monuments). This imbalance is beginning to be addressed by work that has looked at different scales of spatial context for early medieval stone monuments (see James 2005; Griffiths 2006; Gondek and Noble 2010). Drawing from theoretical approaches adapted in prehistory to the study of the experience of landscape, there is also potential to move beyond mapbased studies of monument distributions to consider the embodied experience of encountering stone monuments in the early medieval landscape. Here, micro-topographical approaches, looking at the spatial interplay of sculpture with church sites and settlements, have potential (Gondek, this vol.; Gondek and Noble 2010), as does considering how stone monuments operated within the mortuary arena (Williams 2006; Devlin 2011) and along routes and tracks. For example, T. Ó Carragáin (2009) examines the role of stone monuments – leachta – and the form and decoration of stone crosses surmounting them, within the pilgrimage landscape of Inishmurray, Co. Sligo, the origins of which are taken back at least to the ninth and tenth centuries AD and are argued to have contained eucharistic celebrations. Hence, crosses were ‘stage props’: stations during penitential processions (T. Ó Carragáin 2009, 215–16). Ó Carragáin likens the landscape of memory on Inishmurray to that documented for St Davids and discussed by Heather James, where wells, burial grounds and chapels of late medieval date, but possibly with earlier origins (James 1993), were connected with particular miracles and moments in the lives of saints. This spatializing of the cult across processional routes embellished with stone monuments might be considered as forming evolving and varied, but significant, elements of many early medieval monastic centres and their hinterlands. This leads us to consider the wider study of landscape dynamics of routes, boundaries and ancient monuments in the study of monument location, as advocated by Williams (1999; 2011b; Williams et al. 2010; Kirton 2015;

21

22 

howard williams, joanne kirton & meggen gondek

Fig. 1.5 The Pillar of Eliseg in its modern landscape context, viewed from hills to the east. The cross was located on a far-earlier Bronze Age burial monument on a spur of land with a plateau of flat ground to its north and west.

this vol.). Rarely do we have the dense concentrations of monuments that allow the detailed reconstructions of church organization on a landscape scale equivalent to that discussed by T. Ó Carragáin (2003) for Iveragh and Dingle or the dense concentration of rune-stones in the landscape of Täby, Uppland. Yet it is evident that conventional mapping needs to be married to a more qualitative, subjective engagement with topography; the combination of thick description and control samples can allow for new insights into why and how early medieval stone monuments were situated where they were and, equally importantly, the reasons behind where they were not situated (see Williams 1999; Williams et al. 2010). Here, Carver’s (2004, 26–8) approach to how the Tarbat peninsula monuments may have interacted with the Portmahomack monastery in relation to landscape and seascape is very revealing. Despite these approaches, a clear theoretical context for approaching the landscape contexts of early medieval stone monuments is often lacking. Indeed, those studies of the landscape contexts of Anglo-Saxon monuments have principally focused on cemeteries and burial mounds, without adequate discussions of inscribed and sculpted stone monuments (e.g. Semple 1998; 2003; Williams 1999; 2006), although their approach is readily applicable to many stone monuments, as can be seen from

1 introduction: stones in substance, space and time 

23

ongoing research exploring the landscape context of the Pillar of Eliseg (see Williams 2011b). The Pillar of Eliseg is also a good example of how the excavation of the immediate setting of an early medieval stone monument can enhance our knowledge of its biography and landscape significance is the recent fieldwork around the early ninth-century ‘Pillar of Eliseg’ (Figs 1.5 and 1.6). Excavations between 2010 and 2012 revealed details of a multi-phased prehistoric cairn containing many secondary cist-graves upon which the monument is now, and quite possibly was originally, raised. Excavations also revealed details of aspects of the monument’s subsequent biography, including its rehabilitation in the late eighteenth century. Moreover, the fieldwork has enhanced our understanding of the topographical setting of the cross in the early medieval landscape as a landmark along routes and possibly a site of assembly on a plateau within the valley, with striking acoustics created by the surrounding hills (Edwards 2009; Williams 2011b). Like Maen Achwyfan but a century earlier, the Pillar was a place of memory and assembly in the early medieval landscape. For another example we can turn to the Baltic. Gotlandic picture stones depict movement by horse and ship as integral to their iconography and have been argued by some to be symbolic doorways to the afterlife (e.g. Andrén 1993). Their landscape context has, therefore, long been seen as important, although few are conclusively in their original location. Andreeff (2012) has recently excavated around the picture stone at Fröjel Stenstugu, Gotland. Thought to be in situ, the monument was located next to a road marked out on an eighteenth-century map which runs along a raised shingle beach ridge: a natural and perhaps ancient artery of communication. The parish boundary between Klinte and Fröjel is also close by. Twenty-seven square metres were excavated around the monument, revealing the ancient line of the road and a cremation burial of at least two individuals radiocarbon dated to the seventh to ninth centuries AD. Andreeff Fig. 1.6 The Pillar of Eliseg looking north during suggests that the cremation burial and excavations in 2011 by Project Eliseg. Behind the ninthcross-shaft is a plateau that had to be traversed by picture stone were part of the same century those navigating the Horseshoe Pass or World’s End en route funerary process (Andreeff 2012, 135). from the north-west or north-east.

24 

howard williams, joanne kirton & meggen gondek

A number of papers address the landscape theme in this book. Ní Ghrádaigh and O’Leary consider the power of place from literary and archaeological perspectives respectively. Gondek explores how stone monuments operated within the micro-landscapes of settlement sites and their environs. For the wider landscape perspective, Back Danielsson considers Scandinavian rune-stones in terms of embodied engagement. Likewise, Kirton’s study of the Cleulow Cross makes a clear argument for why the cross is where it is; like the Pillar of Eliseg and Maen Awyfan, the Cleulow cross was situated to be seen from and to be seen.

Conclusion Most studies of early medieval stone monuments focus on their date, distribution, iconography, meaning and context. This volume is both optimistic and original in drawing together scholars who wish to explore new trajectories of theory to investigate how momuments operated and created social memories. During construction and once erected, stone monuments were implicated in complex and shifting processes of use and reuse in evolving ritual and social practices within inhabited landscapes that were changing rapidly with each generation in terms of population density, routes, settlement patterns and territorial organization. Thus, in considering the materialities, biographies and landscape contexts of early medieval stone monuments we hope to better understand how stone monuments created and transformed memory and were enmeshed in the making and remaking of social and religious worlds. The following contributions foreground the practical and performative constitution of memory – memory work – revealed through the study of early medieval stone monuments. We consider the construction process as memory work in itself, involving different agents (i.e. patrons, carvers and sculptors) and different audiences. Stone monuments were multi-sensual material cultures, both visual and tactile, associated with particular sounds and perhaps also aromas, tastes, bodily engagements and experiences. This introduction has deliberately foregrounded Welsh examples to complement the case studies of the collection in other parts of Britain as well as in Ireland and Scandinavia. The geographical parameters reflect both the interests and expertise of the editors and also the emerging vibrancy of interdisciplinary endeavours of scholars working on different parts of the Islands of the North Atlantic and Fennoscandia in the study of the materialities, biographies and landscapes of early medieval stone monuments. However, the strength of this collection is in its themes, not its geographical foci. Together, the chapters in this book set a new framework for exploring how these fragmented and intriguing traces of early medieval communities can be explored with new vigour and confidence throughout the archipelago of Britain and Ireland, Scandinavia and further

1 introduction: stones in substance, space and time 

afield throughout Atlantic Europe and the Mediterranean, not only in the regions considered in this book.

Acknowledgements The authors thank Ing-Marie Back Danielsson, Mark Hall, Andrew Meirion Jones, Anna Mackenzie, Adrián Maldonado, Clíodhna O’Leary, Ruth Nugent and Victoria Whitworth for constructive and insightful comments and suggestions on drafts of this chapter. Special thanks to Adrián Maldonado for his observations on the cross at Maen Achwyfan.

Bibliography Alcock, S. 2002. Archaeologies of the Greek Past: Landscape, Monuments, and Memories, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press Allen, J. and Anderson, J. 1903 (1993 reprint). Early Christian Monuments of Scotland, Balgavies: Pinkfoot Press Andrén, A. 1993. Doors to other worlds: Scandinavian death rituals in Gotlandic perspectives, Journal of European Archaeology, 1, 33–56 Andrén, A. 2000. Re-reading embodied texts – an interpretation of runestones, Current Swedish Archaeology, 8, 7–31 Andreeff, A. 2012. Archaeological excavations at picture stone sites, in Karnell (ed.), 129–50 Bailey, R. N. 1996. England’s Earliest Sculptors, Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Medieval Studies Bailey, R. 2011. Corpus of Anglo-Saxon Stone Sculpture Volume IX: Cheshire and Lancashire, Oxford: Oxford University Press Bidwell, P. 2010. A survey of the Anglo-Saxon crypt at Hexham and its reuse of Roman stonework, Archaeologia Aeliana, XXXIX, 53–145 Boric, D. (ed.) 2010. Archaeology and Memory, Oxford: Oxbow Bradley, R. 1987. Time regained: the creation of continuity, Journal of the British Archaeological Association, 140, 1–17 Bradley, R. 2002. The Past in Prehistoric Societies, London: Routledge Bradley, R. and Williams, H. (eds) 1998. The Past in the Past: The Reuse of Ancient Monuments, World Archaeology, 30(1) Brate, E. 1911. Östergötlands runinskrifter transkate och tolkade, Sveriges Runinskrifter, 2, Stockholm: KVHAA Brate, E. and Wessén, E. 1936. Södermanlands runinskrifter granskade och tolkade, Sveriges Runinskrifter, 3, Stockholm: KVHAA Burström, M. 1996. Other generations’ interpretation and use of the past: the case of the picture stones on Gotland, Current Swedish Archaeology, 4, 21–40 Burström, M. 2012. Treasured Memories: Tales of Buried Belongings in Wartime Estonia, Lund: Nordic Academic Press

25

26 

howard williams, joanne kirton & meggen gondek

Caple, C. 2010. Ancestor artefacts – ancestor materials, Oxford Journal of Archaeology, 29(3), 305–18 Carver, M. 2001. Why that? Why there? Why then? The politics of early medieval monumentality, in H. Hamerow and A. MacGregor (eds), Image and Power in the Archaeology of Early Medieval Britain, 1–22, Oxford: Oxbow Carver, M. (ed.) 2003. The Cross Goes North: Processes of Conversion in Northern Europe, AD 300–1300, York: York Medieval Press Carver, M. 2004. An Iona of the east: the early-medieval monastery at Portmahomack, Tarbat Ness, Medieval Archaeology, 48, 1–30 Carver, M. 2005. Sculpture in action: contexts for the stone carving on the Tarbat peninsula, Easter Ross, in S. M. Foster and M. Cross (eds), Able Minds and Practised Hands: Scotland’s Early Medieval Sculpture in the 21st century, 13–36, The Society for Medieval Archaeology Monograph 23. Leeds: Maney Cassidy, B. 1992. The later life of the Ruthwell cross: from the seventeenth century to the present, in B. Cassidy (ed.), The Ruthwell Cross, 3–47, Princeton: Index of Christian Art, Department of Art and Archaeology, Princeton University Clarke, D. 2007. Reading the multiple lives of Pictish symbol stones, Medieval Archaeology, 51, 19-40 Collingwood, W. 1927. Northumbrian Crosses of the Pre-Norman Age, London: Faber and Gwyer Craig, D. 1991. Pre-Norman sculpture in Galloway: some territorial implications, in R. Oram and G. Stell (eds), Galloway Land and Lordship, 45–62, Edinburgh, Society for Northern Studies Cramp, R. 1984. Corpus of Anglo-Saxon Stone Sculpture Volume I: County Durham and Northumberland, 2 vols, Oxford: Oxford University Press Cramp, R. 1993. A reconsideration of the monastic site of Whitby, in R. M. Spearman and J. Higgitt (eds), The Age of Migrating Ideas: Early Medieval Art in Northern Britain and Ireland, 64–73, Edinburgh and Stroud: National Museum of Scotland and Sutton Cramp, R. 2006. Corpus of Anglo-Saxon Stone Sculpture Volume VII: South-West England, Oxford: Oxford University Press Cramp, R. 2010. New directions in the study of Anglo-Saxon sculpture, Transactions of the Leicestershire Archaeological and Historical Society, 84, 1–25 Cummings, V. 2002. Experiencing texture and transformation in the British Neolithic, Oxford Journal of Archaeology, 21(3), 249–61 Devlin, Z. 2007. Remembering the Dead in Anglo-Saxon England: Memory Theory in Archaeology and History, Oxford: British Archaeological Research Reports, British Series, 446 Devlin, Z. 2011. Putting memory in its place: sculpture, cemetery topography and commemoration, in M. F. Reed (ed.), New Voices on

1 introduction: stones in substance, space and time 

Early Medieval Sculpture in Britain and Ireland, 32–41, Oxford: British Archaeological Reports, British Series, 542 Driscoll, S. 1998. Picts and prehistory: cultural resource management in early medieval Scotland, World Archaeology, 30(1), 142–58 Driscoll, S. 2000. Christian monumental sculpture and ethnic expression in early Scotland, in W. O. Frazer and A. Tyrell (eds), Social Identity in Early Medieval Britain, 233–52, Leicester: Leicester University Press Driscoll, S., O’Grady, O. and Forsyth, K. 2005. The Govern School revisited: searching for meaning in the early medieval sculpture of Strathclyde, in Foster and Cross (eds), 135–58 Eckardt, H. and Williams, H. 2003. Objects without a past? The use of Roman objects in early Anglo-Saxon graves, in Williams (ed.), 141–70 Edwards, N. 1999. Viking-influences sculpture in North Wales: its ornament and context, Church Archaeology, 3, 5–16 Edwards, N. 2001a. Monuments in a landscape: the early medieval sculpture of St David’s, in H. Hamerow and A. MacGregor (eds), Image and Power in the Archaeology of Early Medieval Britain, 53–77, Oxford: Oxbow Edwards, N. 2001b. Early medieval inscribed stones and stone sculpture in Wales: context and function, Medieval Archaeology, 45, 15–39 Edwards, N. 2007a. Early medieval sculpture in south-west Wales: the Irish Sea connection, in Moss (ed.), 184–97 Edwards, N. 2007b. A Corpus of Early Medieval Inscribed Stones and Stone Sculpture in Wales. Volume II, South-West Wales, Cardiff: University of Wales Press Edwards, N. 2009. Rethinking the Pillar of Eliseg, Antiquaries Journal, 89, 143–77 Edwards, N. 2013. A Corpus of Early Medieval Inscribed Stones and Stone Sculpture in Wales. Volume III, North Wales, Cardiff: University of Wales Press Eaton, T. 2000. Plundering the Past: Roman Stonework in Medieval Britain, Stroud: Tempus Everson, P. and Stocker, D. 1999. Corpus of Anglo-Saxon Stone Sculpture Volume V: Lincolnshire, Oxford: Oxford University Press Filmer-Sankey, W. 1996. The ‘Roman Emperor’ in the Sutton Hoo ship burial, Journal of the British Archaeological Association, 149, 1–9 Fisher, I. 2001 Early Medieval Sculpture in the West Highlands and Islands, Edinburgh: RCAHMS and the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland Foster, S. and Cross, M. (eds) 2004. Able Minds and Practised Hands: Scotland’s Early Medieval Sculpture in the 21st Century, Leeds: Maney Foster, S. 2014. Circulating agency: the V and A, Scotland and the multiplication of plaster coasts of ‘Celtic crosses’, Journal of the History of Collections. doi: 10.1097/jch/fhu008 Gell, A. 1992. The technology of enchantment and the enchantment of technology, in J. Coote and A. Shelton (eds), Anthropology: Art and Aesthetics, 40–67, Oxford: Clarendon

27

28 

howard williams, joanne kirton & meggen gondek

Giles, K. 2007. Seeing and believing: visuality and space in pre-modern England, World Archaeology, 39(1), 105–21 Gondek, M. 2006a. Investing in sculpture: power in early historic Scotland, Medieval Archaeology, 50, 105–42 Gondek, M. 2006b Early historic sculpture and landscape: a case study of Cladh a’Bhile, Ellary, Mid-Argyll, Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland, 138, 237–58 Gondek, M. 2007. Pictish symbol stones: caught between prehistory and history, in A. Mazel, G. Nash and C. Waddington (eds), Art as Metaphor: The Prehistoric Rock-art of Britain, 69–89, Oxford: Archaeopress Gondek, M. 2010. Constructing sacred space – soil, stone, water and symbols: early medieval carved stone monuments from Tillytarmot, Aberdeenshire, in A. George, D. Hawley, G. Nash, J. Swann and L. White (eds), Early Medieval Enquiries: The Proceedings of the Clifton Antiquarian Club, 9, 318–33, Bristol: Clifton Antiquarian Club Gondek, M. and Noble, G. 2010. Together as one: the landscape of the symbol stones at Rhynie, Aberdeenshire, in S. Driscoll, J. Geddes and M. Hall (eds), Pictish Progress: Pictish Studies for the 21st Century, 281–306, Leiden: Brill Gosden, C. 2005. What do objects want? Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory, 12, 193–211 Gosden, C. and Marshall, Y. 1999. The cultural biography of objects, World Archaeology, 31(2), 169–78 Griffiths, D. 2006. Maen Achwyfan and the context of Viking settlement in north-east Wales, Archaeologia Cambrensis, 155, 143–62 Hall, M. A. 2012. Three stones, one landscape, many stories. Cultural biography and the early medieval scuptures of Inchyra and St Madoes, Carse of Gowrie, Perthshire, Scotland, in S. H. Dudley, A. J. Barnes, J. Binnie, J. Petrov and J. Walklate (eds), Narrating Objects, Collecting Stories: Essays in Honour of Professor Susan M. Pearce, 85–102, London: Routledge Hall, M. A. 2013. Performing prehistory in early medieval Scotland: making sense of the meanings of masks on Pictish sculpture, in H. Meller and R. Maraszek (eds), 2012 Masken der Vorzeit in Europa [II], International Tagung vom 19. Bis 21. November 2010 in Hall (Saale), Tagungen Landesmuseum für Vorgeschichte Halle (Saale), 7, 93–110, Halle: Landesamt für Denkmalpflege und Archäologie Sachsen-Anhalt, Landesmuseum für Vorgeschichte Hall, M. A., Forsyth, K., Henderson, I., Scott, I. G., Trench-Jellicoe, R. and Watson, A. 2000. Of makings and meanings: towards a cultural biography of the Crieff Burgh Cross, Strathearn Perthshire’, Tayside and Fife Archaeological Journal, 6, 154–88 Hamerow, H, Hinton, D. and Crawford, S. (eds) 2011. The Oxford Handbook of Anglo-Saxon Archaeology, Oxford: Oxford University Press

1 introduction: stones in substance, space and time 

Harbison, P. 1992. The High Crosses of Ireland vol.1 and 2, Dr. Rudolf Habelt GMBH, Bonn Hawkes, J. 2002. The Sandbach Crosses: Sign and Significance in AngloSaxon Sculpture, Dublin: Four Courts Press. Hawkes, J. 2003a. Reading stone, in C. E. Karkov and F. Orton (eds), Theorizing Anglo-Saxon Stone Sculpture, 5–30, Morgantown: West Virginia University Press Hawkes, J. 2003b. Iuxta Morem Romanorum: Stone and Sculpture in Anglo-Saxon England, in C. E. Karkov and G. H. Brown (eds), AngloSaxon Styles, 69–100, Albany: State University of New York Hawkes, J. 2007. Collingwood and Anglo-Saxon sculpture: art history or archaeology? in Moss (ed.) 142–52 Henderson, G. and Henderson, I. 2004. The Art of the Picts. Sculpture and Metalwork in Early Medieval Scotland, London: Thames and Hudson Henry, F. 1964. Irish High Crosses, Cultural Relations Committee, Dublin Henry, F. 1965. Irish Art in the Early Christian Period, London: Metheun Higgitt, J. (ed.) 1986. Early Medieval Sculpture in Britain and Ireland, BAR, Oxford. Higgitt, J. 1997. Early medieval inscriptions in Britain and Ireland and their audiences, in D. Henry (ed.), The World, the Germ and the Thorn: Pictish and Related Studies Presented to Isabel Henderson, 67–78, Angus: Pinkfoot Higgitt, J. 2003. Design and meaning in early medieval inscriptions in Britain and Ireland, in Carver (ed.), 327–38 Higham, N. and Ryan, M. 2013. The Anglo-Saxon World, New Haven: Yale University Press Hingley, R. 2012. Hadrian’s Wall: A Life, Oxford: Oxford University Press Holtorf, C. 1996. Towards a chronology of megaliths: understanding monumental time and cultural memory, Journal of European Archaeology, 4, 119–52 Ingold, T. 2007. Materials against materiality, Archaeological Dialogues, 14, 1–16 Jackson, H. 2007. Geological sources and selection of stone, in Edwards 2007, 19–29 James, H. 1993. The cult of St David in the Middle Ages, in M. Carver (ed.), In Search of Cult, Archaeological Investigations in Honour of Philip Rahtz, 105–12, Woodbridge: Boydell James, H. 2005. Pictish cross-slabs: an examination of their original archaeological context, in Foster and Cross (eds), 95–112 James, H., Henderson, I., Foster, S. and Jones, S. 2008. A Fragmented Masterpiece: Recovering the Biography of the Hilton of Cadboll Pictish Cross-Slab, Edinburgh: Society of Antiquaries of Scotland Jansson, S. B. F. (trans. P. Foote). 1987. Runes in Sweden, Stockholm: Gidlunds

29

30 

howard williams, joanne kirton & meggen gondek

Jones, A. 1999. Local colour: megalithic architecture and colour symbolism in Neolithic Arran, Oxford Journal of Archaeology, 18(4), 339–50 Jones, A. 2003. Technologies of remembrance: memory, materiality and identity in Early Bronze Age Scotland, in Williams (ed.), 65–88 Jones, A. 2004. Archaeometry and materiality: materials based analysis in theory and practice, Archaeometry, 46(3), 327–38 Jones, A. 2007. Memory and Material Culture, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press Joy, J. 2009. Reinvigorating object biography: reproducing the drama of object lives, World Archaeology, 41(4), 540–56 Karkov, C. 2011. The Art of Anglo-Saxon England. Woodbridge: Boydell. Karnell, M. H. (ed.) 2012. Gotland’s Picture Stones: Bearers of an Enigmatic Legacy, Gotlädskt Arkiv, Reports from the Friends of the Historical Museum Association, 84, Visby: Gotlands Museum Kelly, D. 1991. The heart of the matter: models for Irish High Crosses, Journal of the Royal Society of Antiquaries of Ireland, 121, 105–45 Kirton, J. 2015. Sculpture and Place: A Biographical Approach to Recontextualizing Cheshire’s Early Medieval Stone Sculpture, unpublished PhD thesis, University of Chester Llillios, K. T. and Tasamis, V. 2010. Material Mnemonics: Everyday Memory in Prehistoric Europe, Oxford: Oxbow Macalister, R. 1945. Corpus Inscriptionum Insularum Celticarum Vol. 2, Stationary Office, Dublin MacLean, D. 1997. King Oswald’s wooden cross at Heavenfield in context, in C. E. Karkov, M. Ryan and R. T. Farrell (eds), The Insular Tradition, 79–97, Albany: State University of New York Press Maddern, C. 2013. Raising the Dead: Early Medieval Name Stones in Northumbria, Turnhout: Brepols McClain, A. 2011. Local churches and the conquest of the north: elite patronage and identity in Saxo-Norman Northumbria, in D. Petts and S. Turner (eds), Early Medieval Northumbria: Kingdoms and Communities, AD 450–1100, Turnhout: Brepols, Studies in the Early Middle Ages, 24 Mills, B. 2009. From the ground up. Depositional history, memory and materiality, Archaeological Dialogues, 16(1), 38–40 Mills, B. and Walker, W. H. (eds) 2008. Archaeologies of Material Practices, Sante Fe: School for Advanced Research Advanced Seminar Series. Moreland, J. 1999. The world(s) of the cross, World Archaeology, 31(2), 194–213 Moreland, J. 2001. Archaeology and Text, London: Duckworth Moss, R. (ed.) 2007. Making and Meaning in Insular Art, Dublin: Four Courts Press Mytum, H. 2003/2004. Artefact biography as an approach to material culture: Irish gravestones as a material form of genealogy, Journal of Irish Archaeology, 12/13, 111–27

1 introduction: stones in substance, space and time 

Nash-Williams, V. E. 1950 Early Christian Monuments of Wales, Cardiff: HMSO Ní Ghrádaigh, J. and Mullins, J. 2013. Apostolically inscribed: St Cuthbert’s coffin as sacred vessel, in J. Ashbee and J. Luxford (eds), Medieval Art and Architecture in Newcastle and Northumberland, 73–89, British Archaeological Association Transactions Series, 36, Leeds: Maney Okasha, E. 2003. Spaces between words: word separation in Anglo-Saxon inscriptions, in Carver (ed.), 339–50 Orton, F. 2003. Rethinking the Ruthwell and Bewcastle monuments: some deprecation of style; some consideration of form and ideology, in C. E. Karkov and G. H. Brown (eds), Anglo-Saxon Styles, 31–68, Albany: State University of New York Press Orton, F. 2006. At the Bewcastle monument, in place, in C. A. Lees and G. R. Overing (eds), A Place to Believe in: Locating Medieval Landscapes, 29–66, University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press Orton, F., Wood, I. and Lees, C. 2007. Fragments from History: Rethinking the Ruthwell and Bewcastle Monuments, Manchester: Manchester University Press Ó Carragáin, É. 1999. The Necessary Distance: Imitatio Romae and the Ruthwell Cross, in J. Hawkes and S. Mills (eds), Northumbria’s Golden Age, 315–26, Stroud: Sutton Ó Carragáin, É. 2003. Between Annunciation and Visitation: spiritual birth and the cycles of the sun on the Ruthwell Cross: a response to Fred Orton, in C. E. Karkov and F. Orton (eds), Theorizing Anglo-Saxon Stone Sculpture, 131–87, Morgantown: West Virginia University Press Ó Carragáin, T. 2003. A landscape converted: archaeology and early church organization on Iveragh and Dingle, Ireland, in Carver (ed.), 127–52 Ó Carragáin, T. 2007. Skeumorphs and spolia: the presence of the past in Irish pre-Romanesque architecture, in Moss (ed.), 95–109 Ó Carragáin, T. 2009. The saint and the sacred centre: the early medieval pilgrimage landscape of Inishmurray, in N. Edwards (ed.), The Archaeology of the Early Medieval Celtic Churches, Society for Medieval Archaeology Monograph 29, Society for Church Archaeology Monograph 1, 207–26, Leeds: Maney O’Connor, B. and Cooney, G. 2009. Introduction: materialitas and the significance of stone, in B. O’Connor, G. Cooney and J. Chapman (eds), Materialitas: Working Stone, Carving Identity, Prehistoric Society Research Paper, 3, 1–9, Oxford: Oxbow O’Connor, B., Cooney, G. and Chapman, J. (eds) 2009. Materialitas: Working Stone, Carving Identity, Oxford: Oxbow O’Sullivan, D. 2011. Normanising the North: The evidence of Anglo-Saxon and Anglo-Scadninavian Sculpture, Medieval Archaeology, 55, 163–91 Netzer, N. 1999 The Book of Durrow: the Northumbrian connection, in J. Hawkes and S. Mills (eds), Northumbria’s Golden Age, Stroud: Sutton, 315–26.

31

32 

howard williams, joanne kirton & meggen gondek

Petts, D. 2002. The reuse of prehistoric standing stones in Western Britain? A critical consideration of an aspect of early medieval monument reuse, Oxford Journal of Archaeology, 21(2), 195–209 Petts, D. 2007. De Situ Brecheniauc and Englunion y Beddau: Writing about burial in early medieval Wales, in S. Semple and H. Williams (eds), Early Medieval Mortuary Practices, Anglo-Saxon Studies in Archaeology and History, 14, 163–72, Oxford: Oxford University School of Archaeology Pirotte, E. 2001. Hidden order, order revealed: new light on carpet-pages, in M. Redknap, N. Edwards, S. Youngs, A. Lane and J. Knight (eds), Pattern and Purpose in Insular Art, 203–7, Oxford: Oxbow Ritchie, A. (ed.) 1994 Govan and its Early Medieval Sculpture, Alan Sutton, Stroud. Rodwell, W., Hawkes, J., Howe, E. and Cramp, R. 2008. The Lichfield Angel: a spectacular Anglo-Saxon painted sculpture, Antiquaries Journal, 88, 48–108 Rundkvist, M. 2012. The secondary use of picture stones on Gotland prior to the first stone churches, with a typology of picture stone outline shapes, in Karnell (ed.), 145–60 Sanmark, A. 2008. Administrative organization and state formation: a case study of assembly sites in Södermanland, Sweden, Medieval Archaeology, 53, 205–41 Sanmark, A. and Semple, S. 2008. Places of assembly: new discoveries in Sweden and England, Fornvännen, 103(4), 245–59 Saunders, N. 2007. Killing Time: the Archaeology of the First World War, Stroud: Sutton Sawyer, B. 2001. The Viking Age Rune-Stones, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Scarre, C. 2004. Displaying the stones: the materiality of ‘megalithic’ monuments, in E. DeMarrais, C. Gosden and C. Renfrew (eds), Rethinking Materiality: the Engagement of Mind with the Material World, 141–52, Cambridge: McDonald Institute for Archaeological Research Semple, S. 1998. A fear of the past: the place of the prehistoric burial mound in the ideology of middle and later Anglo-Saxon England, World Archaeology, 30(1), 109–26 Semple, S. 2003. Burials and political boundaries in the Avebury region, North Wiltshire, in D. Griffiths, A. Reynolds and S. Semple (eds), Boundaries in Early Medieval Britain, Anglo-Saxon Studies in Archaeology and History, 12, 72–91, Oxford: Oxford University School of Archaeology Semple, S. 2013. Perceptions of the Prehistoric in Anglo-Saxon England: Religion, Ritual and Rulership in the Landscape, Oxford: Oxford University Press Sharpe, R. (trans.) 1995. Adomnán of Iona, Life of Columba, London: Harmondsworth

1 introduction: stones in substance, space and time 

Sherley-Price, L. (trans.) 1990. Bede: Ecclesiastical History of the English People with Bede’s Letter to Egbert and Cuthbert’s Letter on the Death of Bede, revised edition, London: Penguin Sidebottom, P. 1994. Schools of Anglo-Saxon Stone Sculpture in the North Midlands, unpublished PhD thesis, University of Sheffield Stocker, D. 2000. Monuments and merchants: irregularities in the distribution of stone sculpture in Lincolnshire and Yorkshire in the tenth century, in D. M. Hadley and J. D. Richards (eds), Cultures in Contact: Scandinavian Settlement in England in the Ninth and Tenth Centuries, 179–212, Turnhout: Brepols Stocker, D. with Everson, P. 1990. Rubbish recycled: A study of the re-use of stone in Lincolnshire, in D. Parsons (ed.), Stone: Quarrying and Building in England, 83–101, Chichester: Phillimore Stuart, J. (ed.) 1867. Sculptured Stones of Scotland, Aberdeen: Spaulding Club Swift, E. 2006. Object biography, re-use and recycling in the Late to PostRoman transition period and beyond: rings made from Romano-British bracelets, Britannia, 43, 1–49 Tarlow, S. 1999. Bereavement and Commemoration, Oxford: Blackwell. Thompson, V. 2003. Memory, salvation and ambiguity: a consideration of some Anglo-Scandinavian grave-stones from York, in Williams (ed.), 215–26 Thompson, V. 2004. Dying and Death in Later Anglo-Saxon England, Woodbridge: Boydell Turner, S. 2006. Making a Christian Landscape: The Countryside of Early Medieval Cornwall, Devon and Wessex, Exeter: University of Exeter Press. Van Dyke, R. and Alcock, S. (eds) 2003. Archaeologies of Memory, Oxford: Blackwell. Watson, A. and Keating, D. 1999. Architecture and sound: an acoustic analysis of megalithic monuments in prehistoric Britain, Antiquity, 73, 325–36 Webster, L. 2012. Anglo-Saxon Art: A New History, London: British Museum Wessén, E. and Jansson, S. B. F. 1943. Upplands runinskrifter, Sveriges Runinskrifter, 6, Uppsala: Almqvist and Wiksells Williams, H. 1997. Ancient Landscapes and the dead: the reuse of prehistoric and Roman monuments as early Anglo-Saxon burial sites, Medieval Archaeology, 41, 1–31 Williams, H. 1999. Placing the dead: investigating the location of wealthy barrow burials in seventh century England, in M. Rundkvist (ed.), Grave Matters: Eight Studies of Burial Data from the first millennium AD from Crimea, Scandinavia and England, 57–86, Oxford: British Archaeological Report, International Series, 781 Williams, H. 2001. Death, memory and time: a consideration of mortuary

33

34 

howard williams, joanne kirton & meggen gondek

practices at Sutton Hoo, in C. Humphrey and W. Ormrod (eds), Time in the Middle Ages, 35–71, York: York Medieval Press Williams, H. (ed.) 2003. Archaeologies of Remembrance: Death and Memory in Past Societies, New York: Kluwer/Plenum Williams, H. 2005. Keeping the dead at arm’s length: memory, weaponry and early medieval mortuary technologies, Journal of Social Archaeology, 5(2), 253–75 Williams, H. 2006. Death and Memory in Early Medieval Britain, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Williams, H. 2007. Depicting the dead: commemoration through cists, cairns and symbols in early medieval Britain, Cambridge Archaeological Journal, 17(2), 145–64 Williams, H. 2010. Engendered bodies and objects of memory in Final Phase graves, in J. Buckberry and A. Cherryson (eds), Burial in Later Anglo-Saxon England c. 650–1100 AD, 24–36, Oxford: Oxbow Williams, H. 2011a. Cremation and present pasts: a contemporary archaeology of Swedish memory groves, Mortality, 16(2), 113–30 Williams, H. 2011b. Remembering elites: early medieval stone crosses as commemorative technologies, in L. Boye, P. Ethelberg, L. Heidemann Lutz, S. Kleingärtner, P. Kruse, L. Matthes and A. B. Sørensen (eds), Arkæologi i Slesvig/Archäologie in Schleswig. Sonderband ‘Det 61. Internationale Sachsensymposion 2010’ Haderslev, Denmark, 13–32, Neumünster: Wachholtz Williams, H. 2011c. The sense of being seen: ocular effects at Sutton Hoo, Journal of Social Archaeology, 11(1), 99–121 Williams, H., Rundkvist, M. and Danielsson, A. 2010. The landscape of a Swedish boat-grave cemetery, Landscapes, 11(1), 1–24 Wood, I. 2006. Constantinian crosses in Northumbria, in C. Karkov (ed.), The Place of the Cross in Anglo-Saxon England, 3–13, Woodbridge: Boydell Yoffee, N. (ed.) 2007. Negotiating the Past in the Past: Identity, Memory, and Landscape in Archaeological Research, Tucson: University of Arizona Press

Locating the Cleulow Cross: Materiality, Place and Landscape Joanne Kirton

Introduction

L

andscape now, and in the past, is both a cognitive construct and physical place used to express beliefs through practices (Darvill 1999, 109). Faith and identity can sometimes be expressed physically through monuments, structures and boundaries or sometimes expressed cognitively as placenames and folklore (Semple 2011, 742–63). Often the material practices and the significances attached to places are closely entwined. Material evidence, combined with written sources, can provide insights into how past groups and individuals engaged with, and experienced, their surroundings. Ingold (1993, 152–74) has demonstrated that the landscape is a constant work in progress, used by subsequent generations to express their thoughts and beliefs, often assimilating earlier practices and associations. Consequently, to understand landscape from Ingold’s dwelling perspective requires archaeologists to consider the past in the past (Bradley 2002). In early medieval studies, this approach has been most widely applied to consider the mortuary arena. Discussions have sought to understand how early medieval communities viewed and potentially controlled their environments through movement and sensory engagement with the landscape, and investing meaning in place through memory-making practices associated with the burial and commemoration of the dead (e.g. Semple 2003, 72–91; Brookes 2007, 143–53; Williams 2006; Devlin 2007; Reynolds 2009; Williams et al. 2010, 1–24). Within this literature, studies have explored the distribution and topographic situations of early medieval stone sculpture only on occasion and for specific monuments (e.g. Sidebottom 2000, 213–35; Carver 2005, 13–36; Griffiths 2006, 143–62; Turner 2006; Gondek 2010, 318–33; Williams 2011, 13–32). This study builds on this work, as well as on the cautious and critical application of approaches to monuments in the landscape developed in

2

36 

joanne kirton

British prehistory (Barrett 1994; Tilley 1994; 2012; for discussion see Williams et al. 2010). This study applies these approaches to Cheshire’s corpus of stone monuments for the first time. Moreover, it provides an in-depth exploration of early medieval stone sculpture’s role in creating, or augmenting existing, landscapes by investigating immediate landscape settings and relationships with the broader topography and associated archaeology. The case study for this approach will be a striking early medieval stone cross-shaft seemingly positioned in its original location: the Cleulow Cross (Wincle), located in the far east of Cheshire. The study focuses on visibility but also degrees of proximity and access to the cross as themes. This approach explores how early medieval sculpted stone monuments constructed particular embodied experiences in the landscape. It argues that the monument’s appearance is probably dictated by its location and its function. Moreover, it demonstrates that the landscape was carefully chosen for its ability to orchestrate and affect experience and memory, highlighting how embodied experience of the monument may add to current debates about the function and perception of early medieval stone sculpture. These orchestrations of experience combine to generate specific knowledge of a place and a memorable encounter, although there is room for an individual to act outside these parameters and generate an experience outside the norm.

The round-shafts of Cheshire In the east of Cheshire there is a well-recognized group of round-shafted crosses with limited surviving decoration. The group is comprised of twelve single-shaft monuments, one composite monument with two shafts and a double socket stone with two missing shafts. A further four monuments could be round-shafts but their fragmentary state makes a definitive identification impossible. They are dated by the Corpus of Anglo-Saxon Stone Sculpture (Bailey 2010, 33–8) to the tenth and eleventh centuries based on their form and decoration. All have lost their cross heads and the primary surviving decoration is the moulding and swag at the juncture between the shaft and the cross-head. The only other decorative elements are fragments of relief decoration on monuments such as Rainow and Sutton 1, predominantly limited to the tapering shaft between the swag and cross-head (Bailey 2010, 98, 126–8). They are found in a closely bound geographical area within the Anglo-Saxon parish of Prestbury (Fig. 2.1), which formed part of Hamestan Hundred in the early medieval period (Ormerod 1882, 535). Of the ten known sites, three are associated with parish churches, although this is no guarantee as to their original context. Furthermore, in each case, there is no independent evidence that these were pre-Conquest churches. At Disley, Church Field, a double socket stone, without its surviving round-shafts, was unearthed during field drainage around St Mary’s Church (Rosser 1958, 142). However, records demonstrate that Disley acquired a place of worship at this site only in the sixteenth century (Bailey 2010, 73), so a link between monument

2 locating the cleulow cross 

and ecclesiastical structure is unlikely. The other two examples, Astbury and Macclesfield, were found during nineteenthcentury church restoration work (Bailey 2010, 47, 83). Unlike the other surviving round-shafts they are only small fragments of the original monument. The remaining seven were distanced from settlement activity, being found on moorland, beside trackways or at crossroads. Consequently, their locations suggest that few were connected to contemporary early medieval ecclesiastical structures (Bailey 2010, 36), although it remains possible that further examples have been lost. This grouping is part of a wider distribution of round-shafted crosses focusing on the Peak District, across Derbyshire and Staffordshire (Routh 1937, 1–42; Pape 1945–46, 25–49; Bailey 2010). Their locations have been repeatedly used to interpret their probable function, commonly believed by historians and archaeologists to be as landmarks and aids to devotion (Thacker 1987, 280; Bailey 2010, 5–10). Descriptions of these monuments tend to focus on their comparable stylistic qualities and rarely explore individual monuments and their contexts (Sidebottom 1999, 206; 2000, 213–17). In some cases, the lack of a broader contextual study is understandable, as many examples in Cheshire are fragmentary and many have been moved. This is a wider problem nationwide, but, within the Cheshire corpus, of the thirty-one sites associated with early medieval sculpture in the county, only the round-shaft of the Cleulow Cross at Wincle is likely to be in its original location (Fig 2.2). Two other sites (with roundshaft monuments), Disley Lyme Handley and Rainow, provide compelling evidence for only localized movement (within 300 m of the original find-spot). Though scarce, examples such as the Cleulow Cross at Wincle provide excellent opportunities to explore the function and meaning of free-standing stone crosses through their landscape situation, comparable

37

Fig. 2.1 RoundShaft Monuments in the Ancient Parish of Prestbury.

38 

joanne kirton

Fig. 2.2 Cleulow Cross, Wincle.

2 locating the cleulow cross 

to the ongoing research investigating the Pillar of Eliseg (Denbighs.) (Edwards 2009; Williams 2011). However, it seems that round-shafted monuments in Cheshire have escaped in-depth enquiry because they do not bear either highly decorative motifs or an inscription the likes of which have made monuments such as the Sandbach crosses and the Pillar of Eliseg the focus of intense study (e.g. Hawkes 2002; Edwards 2009). The Cleulow Cross at Wincle becomes ‘exceptional’ only when we consider it as a monument within its landscape. The name ‘Cleulow Cross’ is first mentioned in a will dated 1538 as the location of a debtor. The early date of the will certainly indicates that it survived the iconoclasts who are known to have destroyed many early medieval sculptures in Cheshire (Stewart-Brown 1923, 100–102). In the seventeenth century it appears on a map for the first time (Bailey 2010, 136). The argument for the Cleulow Cross being in its original location is further enhanced by the presence of the stone’s original base, the sheer size of the monument and its relative completeness. This rare circumstance allows consideration of its original topographic, geographical and archaeological context.

The location of the Cleulow Cross The monument is situated upon the very top of a large natural mound of glacial drift material near the present Cheshire/Derbyshire/Staffordshire county boundaries, within the parish boundary of Prestbury and the township boundary of Wincle. The monument, at its closest, is situated 2.17 km from the county boundary, which also serves as the parish and township boundaries in this area (Fig. 2.1). A number of observations suggest that the patron(s) actively chose to make the Cleulow Cross visible, memorable and available to a mobile audience. The strategy was dependent on movement, indicating that the monument had a significant symbolic message to convey to those who passed by. The surrounding topography and archaeology, the form and size of the monument itself and the geographical location are all part of this strategy, which could have been augmented by the involvement of the cross in ritual processions. Furthermore, its immediate topography is boggy and undulating, suggesting that the significance of the monument may have been enhanced by the control of access to space via natural approaches and barriers. By examining the deliberate selection of location, it is possible to explore ideas about monumentality, memory and embodied experience.

The mound before the monument The mound on which the Cleulow Cross is situated may have played a significant role in the landscape before the monument was erected in the

39

40 

Fig. 2.3 The mound as viewed from the east.

joanne kirton

early medieval period. The mound at Wincle is certainly visually striking and unusual in the broader topography – a place that naturally draws a person’s attention whether covered with trees, as at present, or cleared of vegetation (Fig. 2.3). Natural features, such as peaks, prominent stones and trees, could appear special in the landscape and these were sometimes augmented in later periods by monuments or considered as significant places (Bradley 2000, 97–113), an argument made specifically for early medieval Britain by Sanmark (2010, 171–2) and Semple (2010, 27–9). The link between natural places/features and assembly sites has been highlighted by Pantos (2004, 155–70), who has clearly demonstrated that they were popular choices for assembly gathering. The place-name evidence derived from the hundreds of Cheshire prior to the Norman Conquest indicates that natural places were given significance in the region during this period, as four of the twelve hundreds in the county bear names associated with natural places, usually prefixed with a personal name. Two examples will suffice: Tunendune is the OE personal name Tuna and OE dun meaning ‘hill down’ (Anderson 1934, 149) and Warmundestrou is the OE personal name Wermund and treo meaning ‘tree’ (Anderson 1934, 150). Four other names refer to a ‘stone’: an example is Dudestan, which uses the OE personal name Duda and OE Stan ‘stone’.

2 locating the cleulow cross 

41

Fig. 2.4 Map of known monuments, earthworks and find spots around the Cleulow Cross, Wincle.

One method of recognizing natural places that may have developed significance is by the evidence for human activity found at these sites (Bradley 2000, 35). The mound at Wincle and the Cleulow Cross on its summit are situated amongst several surviving prehistoric and early medieval monuments. Reynolds and Langlands (2011, 417) argue that the clustering of monuments from several time periods is evidence for ‘deep time signatures of key landscape features’, following Semple (2007) who argued that certain surviving place-name elements such as OE hearg represent sites of long-lived ‘cultic’ practice from the prehistoric to the early medieval period. The Wincle mound is surrounded by prehistoric monuments, suggesting that this area was indeed a focal point for a long period of time for probably intermittant uses. The Wincle mound was situated within an early medieval landscape that would have been heavily marked by prehistoric and early historic monuments and traces. A range of monuments and find-spots around the mound are indicative of activity from the Neolithic to the Roman period (Fig. 2.4). For example, to the south-west of the mound, on the opposing side of the valley, there are two prehistoric standing stones (at a distance of c. 1.7 km) (SMR 1645 and SMR 1646) and to the north-east there is a Bronze Age round barrow (at a distance of c. 1 km) (SMR 1523) and a

42 

joanne kirton

Fig. 2.5 Bullstones.

Bronze Age stone circle and burial site known as the Bullstones (c. 0.4 km distant) (SMR 1522; Wilson 2011, 43–53) (Fig. 2.5). Although there is no evidence to directly link the mound with prehistoric and Roman activity, the surviving Bronze Age burials and Neolithic standing stones indicate that this was a landscape with visible monuments surviving from prehistory. Furthermore, the Cheshire antiquarian Dr J. D. Sainter made reference to a possible prehistoric settlement or cemetery in the field directly west of the Cleulow Cross and mound (Sainter 1878, 36). This is no longer visible and only further survey would provide a clearer interpretation. Whilst these monuments and earthworks are not particularly exceptional within British prehistoric landscapes, their clustering around the Wincle mound and along the valley with which it is associated suggests that the natural topography may have held significance prior to the erection of the monument on the mound’s summit.

Mound and monument: cultural topography Understanding the reasons why the specific mound was chosen as the site for the Cleulow Cross in the early medieval period requires a twofold approach: one that considers both the significance of the cultural landscape and how the natural topography would have aided the patrons in conveying their message(s). Recent sculpture studies have argued that the creation of early medieval stone sculpture was a way of marking new and/or developing identities by physically creating a link between a people and their landscape. It is a process that drew upon past memories embedded in a landscape (memories real or imagined) and one that facilitated the creation of new memories as part of group activity and cohesion. Natural features, such as hilltops, which may already have had import were drawn upon to aid this endeavour (Semple 2010, 21–4). Two other sites with round-shafts, Rainow

2 locating the cleulow cross 

and Disley Lyme Handley (monuments which appear to be located near to their original settings), are also situated on elevated topography in monumentalized prehistoric landscapes (Kirton 2015). It is also possible that the monumental landscape may have appealed to the patrons of the cross, as it signalled that this place had been important before. The concept of reusing or appropriating past landscapes and monuments is drawn from the broader paradigm of ‘the past in the past’, whose main proponents, working with early medieval material (e.g. Bell 2005; Williams 2006; Semple 2010, 21–5), have been successful in demonstrating how groups reused ancient landscape features, such as funerary monuments, to draw a link between the past and the present. Semple (2011, 743) notes how the ‘... act of raising new monuments and using old monuments, drawing on the power of the ancient and the natural, is conceived as an active process of physical myth-making, with the landscape both adopted and used afresh to add emphasis to the legends and beliefs of communities’. The apparent connection between round-shafts and prehistoric monuments in the east of Cheshire could be a symbolic appropriation of space by creating a physical marker linking living individuals, ancient monuments and their associated ancestral groups. The link could be a perceived connection to their ancestors or a physical sign of the appropriation of the land by a community. Williams (2006, 145–214) has demonstrated that groups from the early medieval period often buried their dead within or around prehistoric monuments as a means of making a physical connection with the past and as a way of appropriating the landscape. Rather than burying their dead in the Wincle landscape, the patrons of the Cleulow Cross could have used its construction and placement to symbolize their association with the land and with those who went before. This would have enabled them to appropriate this landscape, including the mound, as their own, symbolize this appropriation to a wide, mobile audience and contribute to their own developing group identities. Whilst it is almost impossible to prove this in an area with very limited historical documents and even less archaeological investigation, the cultural topography surrounding a monument can be indicative of location choice and probable function.

Mound and monument: natural topography The natural topography should be given equal consideration when attempting to understand early medieval sculpture, as it dictates how a monument will be engaged with and, subsequently, how it will be remembered.

Form, decoration and landscape location The Cleulow Cross as it stands now remains significant in its height: the shaft and base are just over 3 m tall. Before it lost its cross-head, it is likely that this monument stood in the region of 4 m tall, implying that it was intended to be seen from some distance. Comparisons with other round-

43

44 

joanne kirton

shafts that appear largely intact, such as the Wincle Grange example (2.03 m) and the three examples from Sutton (1.90–2.16 m), suggest that the shafts of these monuments (without base or cross-head) were generally over 2 m tall. Even with the skyline now obscured by a plantation of large trees, the monument at Wincle is visible from the other side of the valley (1.7 km) and southwards in the direction of the River Dane. It is possible that the monument was augmented by the application of paint, a known practice from this period (e.g. Rodwell et al. 2008, 48–108). The lack of decoration on the shaft, separated from the rectangular head with swag decoration (Bailey 2010, 137), may be explained by the use of paint, rather than carving, as the primary form of decoration. However, considering that this monument was highly exposed to the elements, the decorative painted images would have been short-lived and their impact in such an open space would have been highly limited. Furthermore, any decoration on the monument – painted or carved – would have been impossible to see even when on the mound, owing to its steeps sides – only when on top of the mound would the surface decoration have been evident. It is far more likely that this monument was primarily meant to be viewed from a distance and, therefore, did not require the intricate decorative programme of a cross that was intended to be seen at close quarters, such as within a churchyard or church. Those monuments associated with churches in tenth- and eleventh-century Cheshire, such as the group found at St John’s Chester, are generally highly decorated and significantly shorter than the east Cheshire round-shafts. The church setting provides a situation that would have been regularly encountered and a small, designated space within which one could interact with the monument. The monuments did not need to visually draw an audience to a place (the church and associated activities would have done this), and could be approached easily to access the decorative images. The Cleulow Cross, standing alone in a seemingly large open space, required a different form and decorative consideration to engage its audience, indicating that the choice of form and decoration for the Cleulow Cross was influenced by its immediate topography.

See and be seen Engagement with the mound and Cleulow Cross, like form and decoration, was dictated by the surrounding topography. To the north and east, after the immediate drop from the mound, the land begins to steadily rise and areas of higher ground can be found. However, there is good reason why this more prominent area was not chosen for monumentalization. Firstly, in order to be seen the Cleulow Cross needed to be situated in a visible location. Its location at the head of the valley, on a spur of land, makes the mound on which the monument is situated far more visible over longer distances than those high points could obtain, as the high points are obscured by the gently rising topography that surrounds them. This situation ensures that the higher points in the area do not hold commanding views over the valley and/or they are not visible from the valley itself. Secondly, the mound is the most visually dramatic topographic feature in the locale. It is a natural spectacle which draws the eye and engages

2 locating the cleulow cross 

the traveller by its sheer physicality, providing an obvious stage for anyone wishing to draw attention and foreground a monument. However, the ease at which the monument can be viewed is juxtaposed with the difficulty of the immediate terrain. To the south and west there are sharp drops into the Shell Brook Valley (Fig. 2.3) and to the east the ground is boggy and undulating. The local antiquarian J. D. Sainter (1878, 39) referred to this area as an ‘extensive morass’. This would have created a visual and physical barrier, serving to discourage people just wandering up to the mound, naturally aiding in controlling access and potentially symbolizing a divide between the people who accessed the mound and those that did not. Whilst the mound was far from inaccessible, it requires careful, considered movement to and from it. In other words, a special effort is needed to reach it. There may have even been a designated path to follow. Currently, the best approach to the mound is from the north, along the valley top, which avoids most of the boggy areas. The immediate topography, geo­graphical location and the form and size of the Cleulow Cross indicate that this was a monument designed to be seen from afar. This approach was potentially dependent on controlled encounter founded on visibility and varying degrees of controlled proximity, possibly based on natural directionality. Hence, the monument’s creators were able to orchestrate a situation that provided a visible platform in a location that is problematic to access from certain directions. The views from the mound are equally noteworthy and they, in all probability, enhanced the significance of the location. The mound sits alone at the head of the Shell Brook Valley, with views stretching to the Cheshire plain in the north-west and the River Dane in the south, which forms the county boundary between Staffordshire and Cheshire. The viewshed from the mound would have provided an excellent vantage point from which to observe both the landscape to the south and north and the passage of people along the valley (Fig. 2.6).

45

Fig. 2.6 Wincle viewshed.

46 

Fig. 2.7 Viewshed from the Bowstones, Disley Lyme Handley.

joanne kirton

Figure 2.6. is a viewshed created in ArcGIS as a tool to help visualise the distances and areas visible from the mound. The viewshed demonstrates the vast vistas available from the summit to the north and south, which stretches beyond the limits of the computer-generated viewshed. It also illustrates how the whole of the valley, which sits to the west, is visible from the mound. The viewshed suggests two scales of view. The first scale is focused on the valley itself: the mound’s immediate topography. The second is the broader view to the north and south beyond the valley. The vast views serve to situate the mound and valley within the wider topography, offering a much broader sense of place. The exploration of early medieval cemeteries in comparable locations (elevated, topographically distinct) has demonstrated that a viewshed that encompasses large swathes of the surrounding topography or particular vast views in one direction, as well as the reuse of earlier monuments, was a common consideration when choosing a burial location. Consequently, these factors had a bearing on the creation and/or continuation of symbolic sites in the landscape (Lucy 1998; Williams 1999; Brookes 2007, 143–53). Whilst further view­shed analysis of early medieval round-shafts in the east of Cheshire is difficult be­cause the remainder have been moved around, those that have localized move­ment (Rainow and Disley Lyme Handley) also boast significant viewsheds (Fig. 2.7), suggesting that being seen and affording places with extensive views were particular considerations for those raising monuments in the area. The mound at Wincle has practical advantages for observing large swathes of the landscape, including major navigable routes. To the northeast the view extends to the Peak District (c. 7.4 km). To the north-west the Mersey estuary is visible (c. 70 km) and to the south the distinctive Roaches and Hen Cloud stone outcrops, near the Staffordshire border, sit on the horizon (c. 7.7 km). These dominant visual features may have been used to help orientate an individual or group within the landscape. When on

2 locating the cleulow cross 

the mound they would have helped to relate and order movement, as one or more of the features are commonly visible as you traverse the area. Being able to orientate oneself would have been essential in the early medieval period, when the only means by which the landscape could have been understood would have been by way of passage through it and observation of it from high ground, as well as word of mouth directions described in terms of features in the surroundings. Reynolds and Langlands (2011, 413) have suggested that Anglo-Saxon inhabitants relied on ‘mental maps’ to help them journey through the landscape. Specifically, the embodied experience of the landscape, through movement and visibility, was key to its perception and ordering. Mounds like that at Wincle and, eventually, the Cleulow Cross on its summit, as destinations and points of embarkation, were positioned to configure such practical maps for those traversing the landscape.

Move and be moved The importance of this specific type of topography and the use of the Wincle mound as a potential viewing platform is further enhanced by the clear importance of movement and route-ways, as suggested by the proximity of multiple roads and the convergence of five historic roads (Fig. 2.8). The proximity of multiple routes is not unexpected, as many examples

47

Fig. 2.8 Road map.

48 

joanne kirton

of early medieval stone monuments are associated with such arteries of communication in the documentary evidence and through archaeological investigation (e.g. Griffiths 2006, 143–62; Turner 2006, 166–9; Reynolds and Langlands 2011, 420; Andreeff 2012, 129–44). The main road between the early medieval market town of Congleton and Bakewell passes just to the south of the Cleulow Cross (c. 93 m), with other significant routes between Macclesfield and Wincle and between the neighbouring villages of Wincle and Sutton, passing east and west of the mound respectively. Dating the routes around the Wincle mound is problematic owing to a lack of documentary evidence and archaeological investigation in the area. This is a challenge faced across Ireland and Britain (Taylor 1979, x). However, Taylor (1979, 90) notes that establishing dates for the surrounding settlements with which the tracks are associated is the best option for establishing provisional dates for the tracks themselves. The sites of Macclesfield, Congleton and Bakewell were all in use during the early medieval period, as their situations before the Norman Conquest are described in Domesday. Wincle and Sutton do not appear in Domesday but the presence of tenth- to eleventh-century stone sculpture is indicative of activity in each of these areas during this period. So, whilst we cannot date the routes, we do know they were linked to early medieval settlements or areas associated with activity from this period. Furthermore, a consideration of the surrounding topography suggests that these routes generally follow the easiest passage through the rugged terrain: primarily the tops and bottoms of the valleys, avoiding the peaks of hills. Least-cost pathway analysis using GIS uses comparable logic to establish the easiest route between two points. It is a concept based on two principal ideas. Firstly, movement between two points in the landscape involves encounters with cultural and natural topography that may impede that movement. Secondly, the easiest route between these two points can be established by giving every topographic obstacle a value depending on how hard it is to move through, over and past it. In this way you are able to establish the ‘cost’ of each pathway and determine which is the easiest, the least-cost, pathway (Howey 2011, 2524). Stuart Brookes (2007, 146–7) has demonstrated a correlation between least-cost pathways generated using GIS and transport geography in the early medieval period, suggesting that routes commonly follow the easiest overland trajectory, as is suggested by the Wincle evidence. However, least-cost analysis provides only one possible route but the area of Wincle provides multiple options for access to the area. Whilst the natural landscape facilitates access along certain routes, the proximity of monuments from any period would have enhanced the experience of the traveller and aided those journeying through the landscape. Monuments such as round barrows and standing stones may begin as symbolic representations of ideas and messages but they commonly

2 locating the cleulow cross 

develop utilitarian uses, such as obvious waymarkers. They come to facilitate the ordering and remembering of the physical landscape, enabling individuals to navigate their way across it. The distribution of monuments and the distinctive topography of the Wincle area may well have facilitated a confluence of movement around the Cleulow Cross and mound, a sort of early medieval highway led by ease of passage and visible signs along the valley tops. Reynolds and Langlands (2011, 413–14) suggest that this natural ‘funnelling’ of movement created ‘locations in the landscape ripe for the monumental expression of power, belief and identity’. The creation of other early medieval monuments, in close proximity, would have encouraged this concentration of movement. For example, the Sutton Cross (Fig. 2.9), a probable early medieval wayfaring standing stone with a carved cross on both faces (Bailey 2010, 143–4), sits to the north (c. 1.7 km) on the road between Sutton and Wincle, leading to Wildboarclough Village (SMR 1519). The road passes along the steep edge of the Shell Brook Valley and commands views down the valley to the north, and Shutlingsloe Hill dominates the horizon to the east. Another round-shafted cross can be found at Wincle Grange in the south (c. 2.5 km), although its exact location within this area is unknown (Bailey 2010, 138). Another three examples were moved from Ridge Hall Farm to the north (c. 3.3 km) and now reside in West Park, Macclesfield (Bailey 2010, 126), although there is some suggestion that two of these came from elsewhere, supported by the fact that one of them is notably different in form and decoration. Finally, a now lost ‘Blayklow Cross’ is marked on a seventeenth-century map just south of the Wincle mound on a water route (c. 0.4 km) (SMR, 2210) (Fig. 2.4).

49

Fig. 2.9 Sutton Cross.

50 

joanne kirton

Despite the disturbance of the later monuments around the Cleulow Cross, the evidence indicates that this was a landscape populated by postRoman monuments, as well as the prehistoric examples discussed above. These examples may have been used by the patrons of the crosses to create points to visit, mark and order the land, so that passers-by and locals alike had points of reference. Later references to the crosses of Cheshire suggest that they served as waymarkers and places that people deliberately sought to move past as part of processional activity. In an account from the Starr Chambers (1613) we are told how the people of Cheshire, when bearing their corpses to the graveyard, would stop and offer prayers at these ancient stones, kneeling at their base (Stewart-Brown 1923, 100–102). It is possible that processions of this nature were also undertaken in the early medieval period along the routes surrounding the Cleulow Cross mound. Certainly the landscape topography offers itself to controlled movement, access and visibility, while the monumental landscape would have provided notable features to direct movement. In summary, the mound forms a natural viewing platform from which an individual or group can observe both the landscape and passage through it via the valley bottom and tops. It is situated in a location that encouraged the movement of people around the mound from various directions. Reynolds and Langlands (2011, 414) suggest that proximity to navigable routes meant that certain locations were ‘perfectly placed to take advantage of concentrated traffic and to communicate meaning to those passing by’. The mound at Wincle would have helped orientate movement within the broader landscape by its sheer size and distinctiveness. Moreover, using the mound’s significant viewshed it would also have been possible for people to process experiences generated through movement and ‘dwelling’ in the landscape, as the views from the mound would enable people to situate themselves within the broader landscape, thus helping individuals and groups order the world around them and make sense of their interaction with it. This, combined with the mound’s proximity to numerous passages and monuments from several earlier time periods, probably made the mound a significant ‘place’ within the landscape prior to the erection of the Cleulow Cross in the early medieval period. The cross was probably situated on the mound owing to the proximity of a prehistoric monumental landscape and the clear advantages provided by the natural topography, which in turn dictated its appearance.

Mound and monument: biography and function The foregoing discussion of the Cleulow Cross’s form and setting has demonstrated that the monument was conceived with its landscape location in mind. When combined, the form and setting enhanced a land-

2 locating the cleulow cross 

scape that already encouraged and orchestrated movement through and around it. More broadly speaking, visibility, monumentality and topography (natural and cultural) were clearly important factors that worked together to generate special places that could be used to convey particular messages and encourage particular behaviour. The result of this research is an opportunity to develop an interpretation of the Cleulow Cross’s function and meaning based on its relationship with its surroundings rather than on its aesthetic qualities.

Production as a form of memory making The link between the monument and the landscape began the moment the sculpture was conceived and the material chosen. This is clear from the impact that the location had on the form and decoration of the monument. Consequently, there is scope to consider the early biography of this monument afresh. The movement of the stone, carved, un-carved or partially carved, through the landscape to the Wincle mound created a memory that tied the monument, the people associated with it, the route to the mound, the mound and its landscape setting together in one memorable event. The creation of such memories would have changed the perception of the monument’s locale, making it synonymous with this event and the cross itself. The creation of such a large, heavy monument as the Cleulow Cross and its passage through the landscape to the Wincle mound would undoubtedly have been a remarkable and memorable sight, immediately contributing to the mental palimpsest around the mound: firstly for those who were there to experience its erection, and thereafter for all those who experienced the monument in situ. The cross would serve as a reminder of this journey, connected to the monuments and topography which it passed and traversed, drawing them together in a mental palimpsest, which is both remembered and experienced afresh. In this sense it is part of, and a reminder of, this particular landscape imbued with memories, stories and experiences. The carving of this monument and its movement to its final resting place would have been a physical and mental endeavour, which affected how the monument was experienced and remembered. Bristow’s (2010, 11–17) overview of the region’s geology indicates that the stone from which the Cleulow Cross was fashioned was not immediate to the vicinity. The mound and surrounding area is composed of glacial drift debris. The most likely stone source – millstone grit outcrops at least 2 km away from the Wincle mound – suggests that the monument had to travel at least this distance, predominantly uphill, to reach the summit of the mound. This would have been a time-consuming and difficult venture owing to the weight (approximately 13 tonnes without the surviving cross head, based on surviving proportions and known weight of Millstone Grit sandstone) and shape of the stone, and to the difficult terrain through which it had

51

52 

joanne kirton

to be moved, all of which ensured that the venture was fraught with the possibility of breakage. Furthermore, the monument is carved from a single block of stone. It is probable that the fragile head of the cross was completed once it had reached the top of the mound, so the monument was likely to have been heavier prior to its erection. Whilst the movement of monumental blocks of stone and their possible in situ carving may not have been an uncommon event, it was probably not an everyday occurrence and, as such, would have been a powerful memory-inducing episode for all involved, including passers-by. Gondek (2006, 107) argues that monuments are symbols of power through their production. The end product was the culmination of a number of memorable ‘socially loaded processes’ (Gondek 2006, 107–9). Furthermore, the act of moving objects, and the movement required by the people involved, may have generated its own meanings or contributed to wider social relationships. Colin Richards (2009, 57) proposes that the movement of monoliths on Orkney (and elsewhere) would have ‘necessarily involved the negotiation and reproduction of an extensive network of social relationships’. He is suggesting that this process was a social one, requiring the motivation of a body of people. He also suggests that the construction of these monuments helped groups reproduce their social worlds by their involvement in sourcing and extracting the material, moving and erecting the stone and making the tools required for this process to be undertaken. All these processes relied on the interaction of people and the relationships between them. He refers to this network as ‘projects of stone’ and suggests that they are the agency by which social groups can order their world and remember their social ties and obligations (Richards 2009, 57).

Function The monumentalizing of the mound with the cross indicates the place took on a more defined symbolic role in the tenth and eleventh centuries, Bailey’s (2010, 137–8) proposed date for the cross’s erection. Its situation away from centres of occupation and any identified boundaries means there is little evidence for known function. However, the creation of such a monument, combined with its topographically significant location and morphologically distinct situation, raises the possibility that it may have served as a place to gather in the tenth or eleventh centuries. Certainly the immediate morphology of the landscape closely correlates with the criteria for formal assembly sites: a mound close to several roads and route-ways, a large mound with a stone monument and a significant viewshed across major land boundaries and features, all set within a palimpsest of ancient monuments (Meaney 1995; Pantos 2004; Sanmark and Semple 2008). Meaney (1995, 36) states that ‘The mound is an archetypal assembly point, because it gives good opportunities for announcements, for speech-

2 locating the cleulow cross 

making, and for impressing inferiors.’ Whilst no examples of early medieval assembly sites have been archaeologically proven in Cheshire, the placename evidence for the hundreds suggests that mounds were known and significant places in the Cheshire region. For example, Bochelau (Bucca’s Mound) in Bochelau Hundred takes its name from a mound. Indeed, the Cleulow name appears to be derived from the mound. It was first recorded in 1371 and presents a number of interpretive possibilities which support the importance of the mound’s topographic significance, particulary the link between visibility and prominence. Dodgson (1970, 166) suggests that the clu element came from the ME clywe, derived from OE clīwen, ‘which means a clew, a ball (of thread, yarn etc.)’, which might be used here figuratively in the sense of ‘a clue, a guiding line (as through a labyrinth etc.)’. He suggests that this may refer to a landmark, which helped remember and direct passage through the moorland. This would certainly fit with the argument outlined above. However, more convincing arguments have been presented. The clu element could be derived from the English clifu or clud, and the low element from OE hlaw, meaning mound, which would give us ‘cliff-mound’ or ‘hill-mound’ (Breeze, pers. comm.). Andrew Breeze (pers. comm) provides an interesting alternative, suggesting that the clu element of Cleulow relates to OE clue or clow – ‘swift, lively’, as argued by Thomas (1938, 183–4) – and suggests that this was probably the old name for the Shell Brook Valley: a fast-running stream. When combined with the hlaw (low) name, this would suggest a topographic name referring to the mound’s location on the edge of the Shell Brook Valley. Certainly, the clu element of the name, whichever interpretation is considered, seems to draw its emphasis from its prominent topographic location and its relationship to the valley, which supports the notion that monuments were important as place-makers and memory-making devices. The low element of the Clulow name is more closely associated with assembly sites, as it denotes a mound, which often appear to have served as the foci for these gatherings. Della Hooke (2010, 172) has noted how hundreds (or wapentakes) commonly took their names from the landmark at their meeting place, as Bucklow Hundred took its name from the meeting place at Bochelau or Bucklow Hill (Higham 1993, 163). Whilst the Wincle mound is unlikely to have been the hundredal meeting place for the large Hameston Hundred (its peripheral location within the broader hundred makes this unlikely) it could have served as a meeting place for the immediate locale. Aliki Pantos (2001, 124) has dubbed these types of meeting places, possibly associated with a particular community or individual, ‘sub-hundredal’. She has noted that within a hundred there may be ‘numerous assembly sites varying in origins, function and antiquity’ (Pantos 2001, 128). It is necessary to look outside the modern county of Cheshire to find evidence of comparable sites associated with assembly. The Pillar of Eliseg is a ninth-century round-shafted cross that sits on a prehistoric

53

54 

joanne kirton

mound. The monument is located in the base of the Nant Eglwyseg Valley (Edwards 2009, 16) and was in close proximity to a natural route-way, as the route past the pillar is the major route that connects the Vale of Llangollen and the upland district of Iâl via the Horseshoe Pass. Williams (2011, 16–18) suggests that the monument was not a boundary marker but a purposely prominent route marker ‘geared to specific routes of movement into and out of the territories, serving to protect and commemorate the land given by the kings to the church’. Its form and proximity to a major route bears similarities to the Cleulow Cross. Edwards (2009, 26–7) has proposed that the Pillar of Eliseg and its barrow may have been an assembly site, potentially an inauguration place for the kings of Powys, having being directly related to kings through its lengthy inscription. Its location also serves as a natural gathering place, as the valley sides and the river to the west create a sense of enclosure (Williams 2011, 18). This is further augmented by the acoustics of the space, which ensure that the voice of anyone speaking from the mound is amplified down the valley. The site of Knightslow in Warwickshire is a known post-conquest assembly site for the collection of the ship-soke for the Domesday hundreds of Brinklow, Marton and Stoneleigh. The site comprises of a mound and cross-base on its summit (Pantos 2001, 442–3) but the loss of the upstanding stone and the lack of decoration on the base make the monument difficult to date. However, the site’s morphology and later recorded activity make it a strong contender for an early medieval assembly site. Furthermore, Pantos (2001, 124) has suggested that assembly sites that sit at or close to the juncture of several county boundaries could have served as meeting places for the counties that dealt with issues that went beyond their boundaries, such as the ship-soke taxes collected at Knightslow (see Pantos 2001, 124 for an in-depth discussion). Notably, the Wincle mound is situated directly 5.5 km west of the Three Shires Head, where Cheshire, Derbyshire and Staffordshire meet, placing it within an area appropriate for such meetings. Sanmark and Semple’s (2008, 245–59) work on assembly mounds in both Sweden and England offers further potential insight into the mound at Wincle. Their work suggests a two-phase chronology for the formation of assembly sites in Britain and on the Continent. They argue that early cultic assembly sites, such as Gamla Uppsala in Sweden, developed as central places for gathering owing to their wider social import, but that they were actually part of a much broader spectrum of assembly site types. In later periods assembly sites were purposely created for meetings and these were less likely to involve elements of the cultic or earlier activity, such as burial. New sites were established for meetings. Some were newly created. These new meeting-sites were set out according to a topographic plan

2 locating the cleulow cross  related more to access, visibility and magnate/royal prestige than ancient cultic and ritual origins and importance. A physical signature – monumentality that drew inspiration from the past – was necessary however to give the site credibility. (Sanmark and Semple 2008, 256)

Semple and Sanmark (2013, 531–2) suggest that those sites with visible links to the past were also powerful places to create memories, identities and a sense of place by linking people to their immediate landscape. The assembly sites themselves would then be the mediator between the past and the present – a place to ‘harness’ the power of the ancestral past and use it to help manage new group and/or individual agendas. If the Cleulow Cross and mound is considered in light of these observations the site falls into the latter category, as there is no evidence to suggest that the mound specifically (and not its surrounding topography) has been augmented to build on its natural features, although there has been no archaeological investigation. This would indicate that the mound itself was not chosen for its visual association with prior activity, such as burial (although it was situated within a broader landscape of burial activity). Sanmark and Semple (2008, 245–59) suggest that local groups were choosing sites of topographic importance which visually echoed their predecessors, such as the ninth-century Pillar of Eliseg (however, this does not necessitate a direct link between the Cleulow Cross and the Pillar of Eliseg, suggesting only that there may have been earlier examples comparable to the Pillar of Eliseg in the territories of the kingdoms of Powys, Mercia and Northumbria from which the Cleulow Cross patrons took their inspiration). The evidence suggests that the mound at Wincle could have been comparable to one of these later meeting places, centred on a natural mound in a prominent topographic location, with a prehistoric monumental landscape to provide ‘credibility’ and additional meaning through remembered or appropriated associations. Certainly the location of the Wincle mound at the centre of a network of routes, its viewshed and its visibility were ideal for discussing land-related topics and may have given the mound import before or during the early medieval period, as discussed previously. The raising of a monument at this site may have been a means of generating import and providing formalization in a place lacking the same ‘meaning’ as sites built on ancestral mounds. Nancy Edwards (2009, 169) argues that the choice of a cross form to mark places of meeting may be indicative of the growth of the church’s influence in secular affairs, such as the use of God as a legal witness. If we accept that the mound had some formal purpose that encouraged the gathering of people, the cross may represent the presence of the church or even God himself at these gatherings. This would add symbolic significance to any formal activity conducted on the mound, which in turn would have generated stronger

55

56 

joanne kirton

memories for those involved in formal activities (the swearing of oaths, for example) and for those who served as witnesses. Potentially, the presence of the cross also paved the way for an element of ritual to enter the proceedings in the first instance. The cross form may have provided the ‘cultic’ element missing from these new mounds by presencing God. As suggested by Warner (2004, 32), assembly mounds in Ireland were deemed to be places where people could engage with the supernatural world, and Semple (2004, 150–51) suggests that the Anglo-Saxon reuse of prehistoric monuments is a sign of similar practice in England. Presencing God at later assembly mounds may have been a Christian take on this practice. The relationship between mound, monument and God may have begun during the actual conveyance of the cross through the landscape. The visual tableau could not fail to raise parallels with the procession of Christ and his cross to the hill of Golgotha outside Jerusalem. This may have been a primary symbolic act of bringing Christ/God/the church to the mound to serve as a witness to the activities planned for the site. Both Williams (2011, 23) and Edwards (2009, 170) have discussed how the spectacle of the Pillar of Eliseg and its Christian associations may have drawn on perceived links to the Holy Land as part of the monument’s message and power. The political climate during the tenth and eleventh centuries provides a plausible scenario in which this type of site may have been utilized. The Peak District was a border region between the West Saxons and the Anglo-Scandinavian kingdom centred at York, particularly in the early tenth century (Crosby 1996, 30; Sidebottom 1999, 207). It was also a period when the Hundred of Hamestan, in which the Cleulow Cross is found, underwent major reorganization, according to Higham (1993, 174). He suggests that the hundred was once connected to the adjacent Hamestan Hundred in Derbyshire and possibly to Totmonslow in Staffordshire, forming a large earlier political entity which was broken up during the turbulent late ninth and tenth centuries (Higham 1993, 171–82). Fluctuating borders and changes in power centres may have encouraged greater localized control over land use and demarcation, visualized by monuments. In summary, while it is impossible to draw any firm conclusions about who erected the Cleulow Cross, it is feasible to explore their motives and the impact of their decisions by exploring the relationship between monument and landscape. The process of exploration and consideration is as valuable as the outcome, as it allows the monument to be viewed as part of something much greater than its aesthetic appearance and sets a precedent for exploring other monuments in a similar manner. Whilst it cannot be proven that this mound was a place of formal assembly, it can be said that it was a place of importance that facilitated gatherings.

2 locating the cleulow cross 

Conclusion Despite limitations and challenges, it remains profitable to approach the early medieval landscape from an experiential perspective. This period may be explored using aerial photographs, maps and manuscripts, but early medieval people’s daily and seasonal movements and activities, sensitive to settlements, topography, vegetation, boundaries, routes and existing monumental landmarks, were the principal means by which they engaged with their environments. Consequently, the medieval landscape relied heavily on movement to convey, reproduce and validate meaning. Movement and visibility were the key means by which the landscape was ordered and controlled and it is in this context that we can understand the locational qualities of the Cleulow Cross. The mound and monument at Wincle were important in facilitating the ordering of the landscape and the monument, in part, is the symbolic recognition of the particularities of landscape and movement here. Moreover, people moving and interacting with the early medieval landscape ensured an appreciation of place and the mechanisms by which these places could be enhanced for personal and social gain. At Wincle we see a monument that uses all the available mechanisms to make it memorable – location, topography, size and movement – which ensured that the Cleulow Cross was implicated in a web of meanings and memories attached to place and encountered through movement. It is proposed that the Cleulow Cross was initially conceived of as a means of formalizing the mound as a place of import and adding gravitas to the human actions that played out there, potentially within the orchestrated arena of a sub-hundredal assembly site. In future work, stone sculpture of this period that remain in situ should be interpreted as monuments within a landscape in which their very form, size, location and survival are inter-dependent.

Acknowledgements Thanks must first go to my two supervisors and co-editors Meggen Gondek and Howard Williams for their help and support throughout my PhD, from which this chapter developed. Thanks also to my two anonymous referees who directed me on some interesting and rewarding paths. Derek Craig also deserves a huge thank you for his continued support all the way through my university career as does Andrew Breeze who offered comments on the place-name data. Finally, I would like to dedicate this chapter to my grandmother, Joan Barron, my friend, Jackie Scott and my colleague, John Doran, all of whom passed away during the writing of this paper.

57

58 

joanne kirton

Bibliography Anderson, O. S. 1934. The English Hundred Names, Lund: Hakan Ohlsson Andreeff, A. 2012. Archaeological excavations of picture stone sites, in M. H. Kamell (ed.), Gotland’s Picture Stones: Bearers of an Enigmatic Legacy, 129–212, Visby: Fornsalen Publishing Stewart-Brown, R. 1923. Wayside and Churchyard Crosses of Cheshire, in W. F. Ferguson and J. H. E. Bennett (eds), Cheshire Sheaf, XX, Item 4932, 100–101 Bailey, R. N. 2010. Corpus of Anglo-Saxon Stone Sculpture: Volume IX Cheshire and Lancashire, Oxford: Oxford University Press Barrett, J. 1994. Fragments from Antiquity: An Archaeology of Social Life in Britain, 2900–1200 BC, Oxford: Blackwell Bell, T. 2005. The Religious Reuse of Roman Structures in Early Medieval England, Oxford: British Archaeological Reports, British Series, 390 Bradley, R. 2000. An Archaeology of Natural Places, London: Routledge Bradley, R. 2002. The Past in Prehistoric Societies, London: Routledge Bristow, C. R. 2010. Regional geology, in Bailey 2010, 11–18 Brookes, S. 2007. Walking with Anglo-Saxons: landscapes of the dead in early Anglo-Saxon Kent, Anglo-Saxon Studies in Archaeology and History, 14, 143–53 Carver, M. 2005. Sculpture in action: contexts for the stone carving on the Tarbat Peninsula, Easter Ross, in S. M. Foster and M. Cross (eds), Able Minds and Practised Hands: Scotland’s Early Medieval Sculpture in the 21st century, Society of Medieval Archaeological Monograph, 23, 13–36, Leeds: Maney Carver, M., Semple, S. and Sanmark, A. (eds) 2010. Signals of Belief in Early England: Anglo-Saxon Paganism Revisited, Oxford: Oxbow Crosby, A. 1996. A History of Cheshire, Chichester: Phillimore Darvill, T. 1999. The Historic Environment, Historic Landscapes and Space-Time-Action Models in Landscape Archaeology, in P. Ucko and R. Layton (eds), The Archaeology and Anthropology of Landscape, London: Routledge, 106–20. Devlin, Z. 2007. Remembering the Dead in Anglo-Saxon England: Memory Theory in Archaeology and History, Oxford: British Archaeological Report British Series, 446 Dodgson, J. McN. 1970. The Place-Names of Cheshire, Part 1, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press Edwards, N. 2009. Rethinking the Pillar of Eliseg, Antiquaries Journal, 89, 1–35 Gondek, M. 2006. Investing in sculpture: power in early-historic Scotland, Medieval Archaeology, 50, 105–42 Gondek, M. 2010. Constructing sacred space – soil, stone, water and symbols: early medieval carved stone monuments from Tillytarmot, Aberdeenshire, in A. George, D. Hawley, G. Nash, J. Swann and L. White

2 locating the cleulow cross 

(eds), Early Medieval Enquiries, Proceedings of the Clifton Antiquarian Club, 9, 318–33, Bristol: Clifton Antiquarian Club Griffiths, D. 2006. Maen Achwyfan and the context of Viking settlement in north-east Wales, Archaeologia Cambrensis, 155, 143–62 Hawkes, J. 2002. The Sandbach Crosses: Sign and Significance in AngloSaxon Sculpture, Dublin: Four Courts Press Higham, N. 1993. The Origins of Cheshire, Manchester: Manchester University Press Hooke, D. 2010. Trees in Anglo-Saxon England, Woodbridge: Boydell Press Howey, M. C. L. 2011. Multiple pathways across landscapes: circuit theory as a complementary geospatial method to least cost path for modelling past movement, Journal of Archaeological Science, 38(10), 2523–35 Ingold, T. 1993. The temporality of landscape, World Archaeology, 25 (2), 152–74 Kirton, J. 2015. Sculpture and Place: A Biographical Approach to Recontextualizing Cheshire’s Early Medieval Stone Sculpture, unpublished PhD thesis, University of Chester Lucy, S. 1998. The Anglo-Saxon Cemeteries of East Yorkshire: an Analysis and Reinterpretation, Oxford: British Archaeological Reports British Series, 272 Meaney, A. 1995. Pagan English sanctuaries, place-names and hundred meeting places, Anglo-Saxon Studies in Archaeology and History, 8, 29–42 Ordnance Survey c. 1875 Copyright © Landmark Information Group (accessed via Cheshire Tithe Maps Online 26/03/2013. http://maps. cheshire.gov.uk/tithemaps/) Ormerod, G. 1882. The History of the County Palatine and City of Chester, Vol. 3, Second Edition, Ludgate Hill: George Routledge and Sons Pantos, A. 2001. Assembly-Places in the Anglo-Saxon Period: Aspects of Form and Location, unpublished DPhil thesis, University of Oxford Pantos, A. 2004. The location and form of Anglo-Saxon assembly-places: some ‘moot points’, in Pantos and Semple (eds), 155–80 Pantos, A. and Semple, S. (eds) 2004, Assembly Places and Practices in Medieval Europe, Dublin: Four Courts Press Pape, T. 1945–46. The round-shafted pre-Norman crosses of the north Staffordshire area, Transactions of the North Staffordshire Field Club, 80, 20–51 Reynolds, A. 2009. The Emergence of Anglo-Saxon Judicial Practice: the Message of the Gallows, the Agnes Jane Robertson Memorial Lectures on Anglo-Saxon Studies, 1, Aberdeen: The Centre for Anglo-Saxon Studies University of Aberdeen Reynolds, A. and Langlands, A. 2011. Travel as communication: a consideration of overland journeys in Anglo-Saxon England, World Archaeology, 43(3), 410–27 Richards, C. 2009. Building the great stone circles of the north, in B.

59

60 

joanne kirton

O’Connor, G. Cooney and J. Chapman (eds), Materialitas: Working Stone, Carving Identity, 54–63, Oxford: Oxbow Books Rodwell, W., Hawkes, J., Howe, E. and Cramp, R. 2008. The Lichfield Angel: a spectacular Anglo-Saxon painted sculpture, Antiquaries Journal, 88, 48–108 Rosser, C. E. 1958. Notes on recent fieldwork in Lancashire and Cheshire, Transactions of the Lancashire and Cheshire Antiquarian Society, 118, 139–42 Routh, R. E. 1937. A corpus of the pre-Conquest carved stones of Derbyshire, with introduction by W. G. Clark-Maxwell, Archaeological Journal, 94, 1–42 Sainter, J. D. 1878. The Jottings of Some Geological, Archaeological, Botanical, Ornithological and Zoological Rambles Round Macclesfield, Macclesfield: Swinnerton and Brown Sanmark, A. 2010. Living on: ancestors and the soul, in Carver et al., 158–80 Sanmark, A. and Semple, S. 2008. Places of assembly: new discoveries in Sweden and England, Fornvännen, 103(4), 245–59 Semple, S. 2003. Burials and political boundaries in the Avebury region, North Wiltshire, Anglo-Saxon Studies in Archaeology and History, 12, 72–91 Semple, S. 2004. Locations of assembly in early Anglo-Saxon England, in Pantos and Semple (eds), 135–54 Semple, S. 2007. Defining the OE Hearg: a preliminary archaeological and topographic examination of hearg place names and their hinterlands, Early Medieval Europe 15(4), 364–85. Semple, S. 2010. In the open air, in Carver et al., 21–48 Semple, S. 2011. Sacred spaces and places in pre-Christian and Conversion Period Anglo-Saxon England, in H. Hamerow, D. A. Hinton and S. Crawford (eds), The Oxford Handbook of Anglo-Saxon Archaeology, 742–63, Oxford: Oxford University Press Semple, S. and Sanmark, A. 2013. Assembly in North West Europe: collective concerns for early societies? Journal of European Archaeology, 16(3), 518–42 Sidebottom, P. 1999. Stone crosses of the Peak District and the ‘sons of Eadwulf ’, Derbyshire Archaeological Journal, 119, 206–19 Sidebottom, P. 2000. Viking Age stone monuments and social identity in Derbyshire, in D. M. Hadley and J. D. Richards (eds), Cultures in Context: Scandinavian Settlement in England in the Ninth and Tenth Centuries, 213–35, Turnhout: Brepols Sites and Monuments Record 1519 – Wayside Cross 500m north of Sutton End Farm (accessed via Heritage Gateway 28/03/2013) http://www. heritagegateway.org.uk/gateway/) Sites and Monuments Record. 1522 – The Bullstones, site of Bronze Age

2 locating the cleulow cross 

cremation burial (accessed via Heritage Gateway 02/02/2012. http:// www.heritagegateway.org.uk/gateway/) Sites and Monuments Record. 1523 – Cess Banks, Bronze Age round barrow (accessed via Heritage Gateway 02/02/2012. http://www.heritagegateway. org.uk/gateway/) Sites and Monuments Record 1645 – Standing Stone (accessed via Heritage Gateway 28/03/2013) http://www.heritagegateway.org.uk/gateway/) Sites and Monuments Record 1646 – Standing Stone (accessed via Heritage Gateway 28/03/2013) http://www.heritagegateway.org.uk/gateway/) Sites and Monuments Record. 2210 – Blayklow Cross (accessed via Heritage Gateway 02/02/2012. http://www.heritagegateway.org.uk/gateway/) Taylor, C. 1979. Roads and Tracks of Britain, London: Dent and Sons Tilley, C. 1994. A Phenomenology of Landscape: Places, Paths and Monuments, Oxford: Berg Tilley, C. 2012. Body and Image: Explorations in Landscape Phenomenology 2, California: Left Coat Press Thacker, A. 1987. Anglo-Saxon Cheshire, in B. E. Harris (ed.), A History of the County of Chester. Vol. 1, 237–92, Oxford: Oxford University Press Thomas, R. J. 1938. Enwau Afonydd a Nentydd Cymru. Cardiff: privately printed Turner, S. 2006. Making a Christian Landscape: the countryside of early medieval Cornwall, Devon and Wessex, Exeter: University of Exeter Press. Warner, R. 2004. Notes on the inception and early development of the royal mound in Ireland, in Pantos and Semple (eds), 12–26 Williams, H. 1998. Monuments and the past in early Anglo-Saxon England, World Archaeology, 30(1), 90–108 Williams, H. 1999. Placing the dead: investigating the location of wealthy barrow burials in seventh century England, in M. Rundkvist (ed.), Grave Matters: Eight Studies of Burial Data from the First Millennium AD from Crimea, Scandinavia and England, 57–86, Oxford: British Archaeological Reports, International Series, 781 Williams, H. 2006. Death and Memory in Early Medieval Britain, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press Williams, H. 2011. Remembering elites: early medieval stone crosses as commemorative technologies, in L. Boye, P. Ethelberg, L. Heidemann Lutz, S. Kleingärtner, P. Kruse, L. Matthes and A. B. Sørensen (eds), Arkæologi i Slesvig/Archäologie in Schleswig. Sonderband ‘Det 61. Internationale Sachsensymposion 2010’ Haderslev, Denmark, 13–32, Neumünster: Wachholtz Williams, H., Rundkvist, M. and Danielsson, A. 2010. The landscape of a Swedish boat-grave cemetery, Landscapes, 11(1), 1–24 Wilson, D. 2011. The Excavation of Five Early Bronze Age Burial Sites in South-East Cheshire, Wotton-under-Edge: Clarendon Press

61

3

Walking Down Memory Lane: Rune-Stones as Mnemonic Agents in the Landscapes of Late Viking-Age Scandinavia Ing-Marie Back Danielsson

Introduction

A

rune-stone is defined as a runic inscription found on a worked, raised and/or transported stone or carved onto in situ boulders or rock outcrops. While the tradition of inscribing stones with runes has preChristian origins back to the Migration Period, the efflorescence in runestones dates to the Late Viking Age (tenth to twelfth centuries). Hence, rune-stones are largely considered Christian monuments (e.g. Gräslund 1991; 1992; Johansen 1997, 159; Lager 2002). After c. AD 1120 they were no longer erected and so rune-stones are widely regarded as restricted to a phase of Christian conversion and kingdom formation in which VikingAge society – including patterns of inheritance and identity expression – was in flux (Gräslund 1991; 1992; Zachrisson 1998, 161). The earlier rune-stones of the tenth and early eleventh centuries tend to carry text only, whereas late eleventh- and twelfth-century runestones were given ornaments and more elaborate zoomorphic images. A Christian faith is expressed through the common symbol of the cross on many rune-stones as well as the contents of some inscriptions expressing formulae and deeds in relation to Christian teaching (Lager 2002). Some rune-stones contain a Christian blessing for the soul of a deceased. Runestones are generally described as memory stones: that is, stones raised in memory of someone who died (e.g. Jesch 2005; Stoklund 2005; Figs 3.1–3.2). From the borders of modern Sweden almost 4000 rune-stones are known (e.g. Samnordisk Runtextdatabas; Klos 2009, 41). Of these, some 1500 rune-stones are found in the county of Uppland, and more than 400

3 walking down memory lane 

Fig. 3.1 The rune-stone Södermanland 106, Kjula, Kjula parish, Södermanland, as apprehended in the 1860s by renowned landscapist Olof Hermelin (1827–1913). The inscription is turned towards the route of travel, and according to the inscription the stone is raised by Alrik in memory of his father Spjut. The stone is more than 3 m tall (Brate and Wissén 1936).

have been raised in each of the counties of Södermanland, Östergötland and Gotland. A large number of rune-stones in Uppland were erected during the late eleventh and early twelfth centuries (Gräslund 1991; 1992; Zachrisson 1998, 130). These stones belong to the second wave of raising rune-stones, when professional rock carvers arrived on the scene. It has been assumed that the second wave of rune-stone erection is more closely connected to Christianization, perhaps being strongly under the influence of Christian missionaries from Britain and Ireland (Lager 2002, 180–82). Rune-stones are studied by a number of academic disciplines (for instance, Scandinavian languages, archaeology, cultural heritage management and history of religion), each with its preferred focus, methods and modes of interpretation. Consequently, research questions and interpretations from one specialism are often perceived as inadequate and even unscientific by another academic field. One case in point is the work of Andrén (2000); while he emphasized that text and image upon runestones must be understood visually in relation to one another, runologists have disagreed with many of his suggestions (e.g. Bianchi 2010, 39, 52ff). Another example is Birgit Sawyer’s (2000, 92; 2002) interpretation

63

64 

Fig. 3.2 The rune-stone Södermanland 106 photographed around the Midsummer solstice by Bengt A. Lundberg in 1985

ing-marie back danielsson

of rune-stones as a sign of a higher economic and social status; linguistic scholars have been sceptical and prefer to view the main function of rune-stones as commemorative (Jesch 2005, 95; 2011, 31; Stoklund 2005, 37). If we accept that rune-stones can be approach­ed with a range of disciplinary perspectives and questions, thus inviting and engendering new and different knowledge production, the archaeological approach adopted here wishes to explore the mnemonic agency of the stones through highlighting some of the myriad rhizomatic relations that were generated through the embodied processes of making, staging and encountering rune-stones. It equally emphasises that memory work is practical, performative and therefore necessarily embodied in its constitution (e.g. Merleau-Ponty 1962; see also Mauss 1992 [1934]). This approach also takes inspiration from feminist theory, which aspires to avoid reducing ambiguity and complexity in interpretations, in this instance regarding how rune-stones were experienced and understood in the Viking Age (Wylie 2007, 212–13 with references). Hence it strives to avoid the impulse to seek interpretative closure regarding what rune-stones ‘meant’ to Viking-Age ‘society’. Thereby, the lived present is seen as an open-ended and generative process (Harding 1987; 1993; Longino 1994, 483). As such, the work is associated to more-than-representational theories that focus on practices and events, which aspires to explore ‘new potentialities for being, doing and thinking’ in the human past (Anderson and Harrison 2010, 10). It also involves understanding the rune-stones in terms of affect. Affect has been described as ‘[t]he pre-personal capacity for bodies to be affected (by other bodies) and, in turn, affect (other bodies). The capacity for affecting and being affected defines what a body is and can do’ (Cadman 2009, 456), and in more explicit archaeological works ‘affect is understood to be the changes and variations that occur when bodies or forces intersect or come into contact’ (Jones 2012, 77). Thus, if rune-stones can indeed be convincingly interpreted as memory stones (Jesch 2005; Stoklund 2005), I want to go ‘beyond interpretation’ (cf. Alberti et al. 2013). By this I mean that I wish to move beyond decoding runic texts, and further still beyond the study of texts in combination with their ornamentation (following Andrén 2000). Instead I wish to delve deeper into questions concerning the practices and events through which material culture and people were continuously and mutually engaged in the creation and use of runestones. Moreover, I wish to consider how the inclusion of rune-stones in

3 walking down memory lane 

the landscape affected human bodies and hence how memory work took place through embodied interaction with rune-stones. It must be emphasized that the surrounding landscape often constitutes the backbone of the myths of origins that are told or recounted in prehistory, and events in the past are often woven together with the landscape and its different places and features. The narrated past is embodied in the landscape, claiming various monuments and other features as narrative evidence (Chapman 1997; Williams 2006). The landscape therefore has mnemonic qualities and might be regarded as the largest memory prompt of all (Gosden and Lock 1998, 5). Inhabiting the landscape, and performing activities and tasks, is an embodied activity that is constitutive of place (Jones 2006, 212). Therefore, there is a temporality to the landscape; it is processual, ongoing and non-static (Ingold 1993; Bender 2002; Jones 2006, 212). With such foci it is also necessary to recognize that encountering and engaging with rune-stones was not only a process of visual interaction; rather, it involved the entire body, as you perhaps unwittingly were forced to engage with rune-stones in a variety of ways and a variety of locales. In this context it is likewise pertinent to note that it is not a neutral body that experiences and engages with rune-stones. It is necessary to discuss a situated, relational and already oriented body: that is, a body that is situated in, related to and oriented within a number of subject and identity positions tied to, for example, age, ethnicity, sexuality, social position, special position, geographical region and the acknowledgement or rejection of certain mythological and religious ideas (Young 1980; Haraway 1996; Conkey and Gero 1997; cf. Ahmed 2006, 181, note 1). This body is further the subject of sensations (Ingold 2000), and the experiences of these sensations also depend on the body’s abilities and disabilities (impaired hearing, blindness, etc.) (e.g. Arwill-Nordbladh 2011). Only the experiencing body remembers and is able to render objects or places meaningful, and repeated encounters with places or objects invokes memories (Van Dyke 2011, 41). Such recognition of memory, emphasizing a sensing, relational and oriented body and person, gives further depths to understanding how and why rune-stones worked as mnemonic agents in the Viking-Age landscape. To explore this theoretical perspective, my study will focus on case studies from an area with the highest concentration of rune-stones: the eastern part of the Mälar Valley in Sweden (Fig. 3.3). The interpretations of the runic texts discussed below follow the Samnordisk runtext Fornminnesregistret tabas, unless otherwise stated.

Rune-stone environments and orientations A century ago the professor and runologist Otto von Friesen (1913, 13) remarked that many rune-stones had been moved from their original position. This was undertaken for a number of reasons, he claims, primary among

65

Fig. 3.3 The rune-stones in the eastern part of the Mälar Valley (including Södermanland, Uppland and parts of Västmanland, Östergötland and Gästrikland).

3 walking down memory lane 

them being that rune-stones were considered useful as building materials. The removal and reorientation of the rune-stones may have started as early as fifty years after the raising of the stones and it continued throughout the centuries until modern times. The earliest reorientation of rune-stones is known from those medieval churches which, still standing today, have had rune-stones inserted in specific places during their construction from the eleventh and twelfth centuries. In fact, the majority of the removed stones can today be found in churches (von Friesen 1913, 12). Disregarding such potentially disorienting practices (cf. Ahmed 2006), of all the thousands of rune-stones, the original placing of c. 730 stones can be estimated with some certainty (Klos 2009, 56). By investigating the surroundings and orientations of these monuments, it is possible to get an idea of what kind of place was chosen, and subsequently created, by the rune-stone, and how the rune-stones were meant to affect and direct your body in the landscape. In other words, we need to study what the runestones – as images and as agents – ‘wanted’ or ‘required’ of the individual(s) engaging with the monuments in order for the rune-stones to have the desired commemorative affect, or change in relations, upon those encountering them (Mitchell 1996, 76; cf. Langer 1984; Jesch 1998, 462). Before presenting statistics it is worth mentioning that, early on in the study of rune-stones, researchers observed that rune-stones were raised in connection with historically attested routes over land and water (e.g. Jacobsen and Moltke 1942, 910–11; Ekholm 1950, 140). It was also noted that rune-stones were not constructed in isolation, and equally that they were often raised by cemeteries. Since routes would pass burial grounds, the categories at times overlap. The rune-stones placed by cemeteries would commonly have the carved surface turned towards the routes of travel (Ekholm 1950, 138–9). Turning to quantitative data, Lydia Klos (2009) has recently investigated the immediate environment of the 730 locatable rune-stones (Tables 3.1 and 3.2). The two tables account for what kind of features are to be found within, respectively, a 25 m and a 100 m circumference of the rune-stones. It must be emphasized that the data presented in the Tables and Figures below does not convey the possible experiences a person may have had of the chosen place, nor indeed the multiple qualities of individual locales where rune-stones were situated. This of course includes perceptions of the rune-stone itself, its immediate surroundings and whether both nearby and far-away culturally significant features could, for instance, be seen, heard or in other senses felt when approaching, passing or standing by the stone. Such perceptions could include, for example, a splendid view of a distant mountain, long-range views owing to a prominent geographical location (for instance by a lake, or on a hill), the sound of a rushing stream or the smell of a marshy bog. From Tables 3.1 and 3.2 it is clear that the most common feature in the vicinity of rune-stones is burials. Other stones are the second most

67

68 

ing-marie back danielsson

Category Burials Other stones No known ancient features Creek Road Bridge Border Settlement River Lake Place of worship (Bronze Age) Spring Collapsed dry stonewall Assembly Bog Field Single find Sea Place of worship (Iron Age [IA], pagan) Place of worship (IA/medieval, Christian) Smith/Craft Hoard

-25 m 243 158 102 69 56 44 35 26 16 12 11 9 8 8 7 6 6 1 1 1 1 –

% (of 730) 33 22 14 9 8 6 5 4 2 2 2 1 1 1 1 1 1 – – – – –

Table 3.1. The different natural and cultural categories within a 25-metre circumference of the 730 rune stones with known original placing. (Source: Klos 2009, 114, author’s translation from German)

common feature, followed by streams, roads, bridges and borders based on the 100 m circumference analysis. As remarked earlier, though, the different categories at times might intersect. For instance, rune-stones would be close to both a cemetery and a river, a road would pass a cemetery, a bridge would be close to a border, and so on. In the following, I will discuss what kind of memories may have been associated with the features that are most common in connection to rune-stones.

Rune-stones on burial grounds Pre-Christian cemeteries were important arenas for funerals and funeral drama, gathering a great number of people (e.g. Price 2010). The construction of the pyre and the subsequent conflagration formed a major spectacle (Williams 2004), and could involve a display of an array of material culture, with, for example, the corpse dressed up in special clothing. In some instances, the ritualized killing of individuals took place; these were

3 walking down memory lane 

Category Burials Other stones Creek Road Bridge Border Settlement River Lake Place of worship (Bronze Age) Collapsed dry stonewall Field Single find Spring Bog Assembly No known ancient features Place of worship (IA/medieval, Christian) Sea Hoard Place of worship (IA, heathen) Smith/Craft

69

-100 m 389 208 191 111 79 70 65 45 39 29 27 27 23 13 11 8 6 6 4 3 2 2

% (of 730) 53 29 26 15 11 10 9 6 5 4 4 4 3 2 2 1 1 1 1 – – –

Table 3.2. The different natural and cultural categories within a 100-metre circumference of the 730 rune-stones with known original placing. (Source: Klos 2009, 117, author’s translation from German)

sometimes cremated with the deceased or disposed of in other ways (Back Danielsson forthcoming). Consequently, memories associated with cemeteries would have been strong and dramatic as well as cumulative. However, since ordinary roads and routes were commonly associated with cemeteries (e.g. Engesveen 2005), the burial grounds were also passed on a regular – perhaps daily or weekly – basis despite a frequent absence of funerals. Equally important, burial grounds were places that people would visit even though no funeral or burial was imminent or taking place. Within Late Iron Age Scandinavian contexts there are several indicators that the deceased or created being/ancestor that dwelled in the burial mound had agency and was considered capable of communication. This is supported by the opening of burial mounds, but also by medieval sagas, Edda poems and laws, since they frequently refer to communication between living and dead beings (Brendalsmo and Røthe 1992, 102; Gansum 2004a and b). Furthermore, the Christian Gulating Law from the mid-thirteenth century AD strictly forbade (heathen) activities such as grave-digging,

70 

ing-marie back danielsson

Fig. 3.4 The runic inscription Södermanland 41 from Björke, Västerljung parish, photographed in late April, 2004. The rune text reads: ‘tati + iok + eftiʀ + faþur + sin × skaka × mirki| |it + mikla + man + (i)auʀn. In English: Tati/Tatti cut the great landmark in memory of his father Skakki/Skagi; may…’

sitting on mounds and asking questions about the future or reasons for mishaps (e.g. Breisch 1994). The cemetery was thus a significant place for various exchanges, communicative acts and reciprocal engagements on both an individual and social level that involved the past, the present and the future. It is at such mnemonic multi-dimensional hot-spots that rune-stones were situated or runic inscriptions were added to a boulder or outcrop. It has been suggested that equipping such a place with a runestone bearing a cross was a way to give the heathen burial ground a Christian inauguration (Gräslund 2001, 42). Be that as it may, of interest here is how the relationship to the place, and by extension memory work, was altered through the rune-stone or runic inscription, and how it enabled a reconfiguration of existing uses and meanings. Therefore, we must recognize that rune-stones with carved and painted texts, images and ornamentation are evocative and demand attention, forcing one’s body to behave, and be oriented, perhaps even disoriented, in certain ways. As images, rune-stones affect and engage the beholder, and they are actively entangled in social structuration (Mitchell 2005; Jones 2007; Back Danielsson et al. 2012, 5–7). As such, the rune-stones introduce phenomenological registers that exceed the thought of rune-stones as encoded statements or representative of Christian inaugurations.

3 walking down memory lane 

71

Fig. 3.5 Södermanland 41 Björke, Västerljung parish, with surrounding mounds, photographed in late April, 2004. The boulder on to which the runic inscription is made is in a large cemetery, and it is surrounded by at least forty mounds, 180 circular stone settings, two tricorn stone settings and a ship respectively as well as one raised uninscribed stone (Fornminnesregistret).

Figures 3.1, 3.2, 3.4 and 3.5 are examples of runic inscriptions in cemeteries, where the burial grounds have been in use for a considerable amount of time prior to the inscriptions. While the runic inscription Södermanland 41 (Figs 3.4–3.5) follows the elongated stretch of the boulder by being inscribed at an oblique angle, the tall rune-stone Södermanland 106 (Figs 3.1–3.2) seemingly echoes the size of the large mound by which it was raised. Its large size (more than 3 m tall) must have required a tip-toe position (to say the least), or perhaps being mounted on a horse, in order to be able to read or study the runic ribbon. However, both runic inscriptions, as indeed every other writing, require that you have to twist and turn your body to follow and read the inscription of the snake loop. Such bodily acts prolonged your stay by the monument – they promoted embodied engagement with it, and consequently facilitated the memory process.

Other stones in the vicinity of rune-stones Early on, researchers remarked that rune-stones were not made to stand in isolation (Jacobsen and Moltke 1942, 998–9). From Tables 3.1 and 3.2 we can see that the category ‘Other stones’ is the second most frequent category associated with rune-stones. In fact, rune-stones themselves at times

72 

Fig. 3.6 The bridge (or rather embankment) of Jarlabanke as it appears in the work of Johan Peringskiöld (1654–1720).

ing-marie back danielsson

declare that they are part of a monument comprising several stones. This is, amongst other things, evident through the usage of the word kuml, which can refer to the rune-stone itself and, when written in the plural, to other stones that were erected at the same time. Importantly, the word kuml on rune-stones could also refer to a burial mound: that is, the tenement of the dead mentioned in the runic inscription (Back Danielsson 2007, 152). A single rune-stone may have affected, and in some instances perhaps controlled, movement in the landscape. Moreover, by arranging several stones in certain patterns the way one’s body approached a rune-stone and/ or a border, a destination, a resting place, was even more controlled and perhaps perceived as predestined. This force of regularity in combination with repeated performances builds memory. Accompanying stones could be standing in one or two rows (e.g. Da 30 Bække 2), in circles (e.g. Da 282–6 Hunnestad, Da 334–5 Västra Strö, Da 357 Stentoften) or in the shape of a ship (e.g. Da 209 Glavendrup, Da 230 Tryggevælde). Other examples from the county of Södermanland are the rune-stones Södermanland 34 and 35, which frame a road in immediate connection to a river (Brate and Wessén 1936). Another example is the well-known Jarlabanke monument (Fig. 3.6), from the county of Uppland, where several stones, both inscribed (for instance, Uppland 164 and Uppland 165) and uninscribed, are aligned on both sides of a path or a road (Snædal Brink 1981, 129). Yet another illuminating example is the rune-stone at Ängby in Lunda, Uppland, carved by Asmund Karesson (Ekholm 1950, 138–9). Ängby had one of the biggest cemeteries in the county and close by the rune-stone and cemetery were land routes and waterways. During excavation it was discovered that this stone constituted the centre of fourteen flanking bautas (bautas are large uninscribed standing stones) and that one end touched an ancient ford. At Anundshög, in the county of Västmanland, a line of raised stones follows a prehistoric road and ends at an ancient ford. In front of the big mound

3 walking down memory lane 

73

Fig. 3.7 Map of the Lake Edssjön with the ancient road marked with a blue line and an ‘R’, found on the west (left) side of the lake. The boulder with the two runic inscriptions (Uppland 112) is found by the northern ‘R’.

called Anundshög, which served as an assembly place well into the Middle Ages, the line of vertical uncarved stones is interrupted by a carved runestone (Antiquarian Topographical Archive).

Rune-stones by borders and by land and water roads Rune-stones were often sited by borders. Such borders or cross-roads were points of intersection that were given significance throughout the Iron Age in Scandinavia. This is demonstrated by, for instance, the deposition of hoards of gold (Wiker 2000), silver (Zachrisson 1998) and currency bars of iron (Lindeberg 2009) at these junctions. Placements of weapons and other items have also been retrieved in the vicinity of bridges (Lund 2005). These bridges were built before later Christian bridges, whose constructions were considered to be examples of good deeds executed, enabling people to travel in the landscape more easily (Lund 2005). By placing rune-stones at, or by, cross-roads, memory work would be facilitated. Meanwhile, accompanying aligned stones controlled movements, forcing individuals or groups to move in certain directions. I have already mentioned that paths or roads, whether by land or water, often passed burial grounds (e.g. Fig. 3.1). Yet, of course, there are also examples of roads or paths that do not pass cemeteries and yet have been considered appropriate places for runic memorials. One such is the runic

Fig. 3.8 Uppland 112: The rune inscription on the west side of the boulder photographed in late July, 1986. The text reads in English: Ragnvaldr had the runes carved; (he) was in Greece, was commander of the retinue.

Fig. 3.9 Uppland 112: the runic inscription facing south. Note the narrow passage of the path/road just by the boulder and the runic inscription, forcing you to close encounters. The text reads in English: Ragnvaldr had the runes carved in memory of Fastvé, his mother, Ónæmr’s daughter, (who) died in Eið. May God help her spirit.

3 walking down memory lane 

75 Fig. 3.10 Uppland 112: The boulder in its entirety. The stone/smaller boulder opposite the large boulder’s rounded or pointed corner is in this photo covered with moss but clearly seen in Fig. 3.8. Also note the Lake Edssjön in the background (upper left corner). The boy, standing by the inscription to the south, is no other than Sigurd Curman (1879–1966), who later became General Director (1923– 1946) of the National Heritage Board. Curman’s father, Carl (1833–1913), is the photographer.

inscription Uppland 112 in the parish of Ed, Uppland. Uppland 112 really consists of two separate inscriptions made on opposing faces of the same boulder (Figs 3.8–3.10) located on a path or a road that more or less follows the western stretch of Lake Edssjön (Fig. 3.7). This path or road allegedly connected the harbour of Edsbacka with the northern area of Lake Edssjön that in medieval times also received a church (Eriksson 1982, 41–5). It is pertinent to note that each inscription is seemingly executed in such a fashion that it follows and fits the form of the boulder. Coming from the north – thus heading south – you would encounter the monument as shown in Figure 3.8. This part of the boulder is fairly low, and therefore, I argue, the inscription’s snake/animal/beast appears to lie down and seemingly follows the pathway. On the other hand, if you came from the south, you would meet the more typical, seemingly portal-like, inscription (Fig. 3.9; cf. Andrén (1993) who interprets Gotlandic picture stones as symbolic doors to other worlds). This portal-like execution of the inscription is apparently allowed or dictated by the boulder’s particular shape or form facing south.

76 

ing-marie back danielsson

The two inscribed sides face different directions and can thus therefore not be seen simultaneously by a person travelling on the path. When you have passed one inscription the path narrows owing to the fact that the space between the inscriptions is somewhat rounded or pointed (the boulder almost has a gable), and opposite this ‘gable’ another stone or smaller boulder is found on the surface of the ground. These features turn the pathway into a veritable threshold, or indeed a very narrow passage, as seen in Figure 3.10. This narrowing of the path forces your body to come very close to the boulder and its inscriptions.

Rune-stones as materials of affect Leaving the surroundings of rune-stones and turning our attention more intensely to the rune-stones themselves, I argue that the stones are examples of multi-media, demanding the evoking and engaging of an array of bodily senses. The size of the rune-stone – whether life-size or at times in more gigantic (Fig. 3.1) or miniscule form – is of course important when discussing affect. Equally affective is the choice of stone material, the stone’s surface, contour and colour. The rune-stones as images worked as focal points that transformed the place and affected your directionality in the landscape. At times such qualities were aided by the narrowing of a path or a road, for instance through the building of a bridge or an embankment, or by making runic inscriptions at places with threshold qualities (for example, mentioned earlier, Uppland 112), by which you would be forced into close encounters. As remarked earlier, in order to engage with them properly – to read the runes, for instance – one would have to twist and turn one’s head/body to be able to follow the runic ribbon. This is very different from continental Christian monuments carrying texts written horizontally in Latin with imagery inspired by the Bible (Lager 2002). The words are equally interpreted as being placed in specific relations to the imagery/ornamentation of the stone, thus demanding that text and image must be understood visually in relation to one another (Andrén 2000; cf. Lund 2005; Bindberg 2006). It is generally assumed that rune-stones were painted in different colours (Jansson 1984, 167). Deleuze (1986, 118) has argued that colour is an affect itself and Jones (2012, 76) has demonstrated how colour has an affect that goes beyond the material. The most common shades used on rune-stones were black and red, but brown and white are also known to have been employed (Jansson 1984, 167; Tronner et al. 2002). It must be remembered, however, that these colours, owing to their chemical composition, may have been the ones best preserved (Tronner et al. 2002); that is, other colours may have been common, but have left no traces. Even so, it would not be surprising if red and black were most commonly used since they, together with white, have been found present as primary colours in many cultures (e.g. Douglas 1966; 1970). The rune-stones themselves also occasionally

3 walking down memory lane 

declare that they have been painted (Södermanland 205, 347, 213 and Öland 43 (Peterson 1994)). The rune-stone (Gotland 203) from Hogrän church, Gotland, likewise declares that it has been painted, or, rather, it is described as ‘illuminated’ (Johansen 1997, 6; Lindqvist 1941; 1942). More specifically, the rune signs are at times declared to be painted red, as is stated on the inscription Södermanland 206 (Jansson 1984, 161–2). The colours were used to aid reading and deciphering the text and images in equal measure. The colours made rune-stones eye-catching, but what memories could have been evoked by red and black? It has been suggested that the colour red was associated with blood, struggle and sacrifice in the Viking Age (Gansum 1999, 456). Through its association with blood, red was also related to family. It is worth pointing out that the concept of the family was used to connote and structure Viking-Age society. The ancient Swedish word ätt stands for family/kinship (Hellquist 1980), and it is commonly family relations that are expressed on the rune-stones. The concept of ätt can be traced to at least the beginning of the ninth century, and is also linked to the German aihti and the Gothic word aihts, meaning property (Hellquist 1980). The ätt functioned as the social foundation of society through systems of loyalty and cult practice (Lamm 1995; cf. Hafström 1982; Fenger 1982; Hamre 1982; Lindal 1982). The same word was also used for the three groups of letters that made up the futhark, the runic alphabet, where each ätt consisted of eight (ätt) letters (Gustavson 1995). Importantly, the word ätt also stood for the cardinal points of the compass (Hellquist 1980). Consequently, through the colour red, the runic signs, and by extension the word ätt, there is a linkage between bodies and their orientation in the landscape. As a result, an ‘ancestral geography’ (cf. Edmonds 1999) was conveyed through the runic inscription. The colour black, in contrast, has been argued to be associated with Ragnarok, Utgard, night, travel, knowledge and sejd (prophesy making) (Gansum 1999). The interpretations of colours presented here are all taken from analyses of Norse literature. Of course, they need to be complemented by other possible interpretations, but nonetheless, they indicate how colours as affects were important in the work of memory. In this context the play of light on monuments must also be discussed. Both shadow and light create dynamic and interactive experiences, as recently highlighted and demonstrated by Jones on rock art images in the region of Kilmartin, Argyll, Scotland (2012). Consider Figures 3.8, 3.9 and 3.11, which depict two runic inscriptions on the boulder by Lake Edssjön. When the boulder was photographed, the western inscriptions – the seemingly coiled up snake – rests in the shadow, the southern inscription bathes in sun-light. There is thus an ongoing performance, a play of light and shadow making the runic inscriptions visually stronger and weaker depending on season, time of day, weather conditions and the direction from which they are seen. These properties also create pace and rhythm to travels within the landscape.

77

78 

ing-marie back danielsson

Fig. 3.11 Södermanland 175, Lagnö, Aspö parish. The figure is seemingly holding two snake/lizards’ heads in each hand, close to his/her ears, perhaps implying that the runic letters, the carvings, in fact are to be uttered as sounds. The text reads in English: Gíslaug had these landmarks made in memory of Thórðr, also Slóði had (them) made. It is true that which was said and which was intended. (Brate and Wissén 1936, 139, Samnordisk runtextdatabas).

Not only were rune-stones connected to colours, shadow and light but also, I argue, to sounds: they were meant to echo into the future. This is really self-evident, since the runic letters were not simply meant to be read but were probably also situated so as to be read out loud. One example, the aforementioned Södermanland 41 from Björke (Figs 3.4–3.5), has a runic inscription at the end that expresses that ‘it should always be heard’ (Brate and Wessén 1936, 31, my translation). In Gotland, Hogrän (Gotland 203), the runic ribbon is described as ‘Ormalur’ (translated to snake-loop by the Samnordisk runtextdatabas), where lur in Ormalur corresponds to the horn or lure of the snake – thus the medium for written and oral messages (Johansen 1997). Perhaps the rune-stone Södermanland 175 from Lagnö, Aspö parish (Fig. 3.11), demonstrates through its imagery the idea that the signs in the snake’s bodies correspond to sounds or words, since the two lures are held close to the depicted person’s ears.

The materiality of stone and images What relations were there with the material stone during the Viking Age? Needless to say, stones, rocks, boulders and mountains were given significance far earlier in Scandinavian prehistory. Occasional Iron Age mounds had an uncarved stone erected on their tops. Furthermore, during the Iron

3 walking down memory lane 

Age a common idea was that dead kinfolks were believed to dwell and live in stone/mountains. In fact, both the mound and the mountain were considered tenements of the dead (Johansen 1997), contributing to the fluid biographies of the rune-stones (cf. Jones 2007, 216). I have already mentioned how the word kuml, used on rune-stones, could signify both a mound and a (rune-) stone. Indeed, kuml, as signs, thus could be said to direct both living and dead bodies to their designated destinations (Back Danielsson 2007, 163–4). Mitchell (2005) has described pictures as animated beings, and I believe that rune-stones, as images, were/are equally so. Rune-stones were often of comparable stature to people, and their silhouettes could have reminded the viewer of a person waiting for them, imbued with stories or something to behold. The stone itself, whether chipped from rock or a natural boulder, demanded certain actions from the carvers, and later from the readers or those engaging with them. Returning to the Södermanland 41 inscription (Figs 3.4–3.5), it was made on a boulder, and it follows the elongated stretch of the boulder. Otherwise, most runic inscriptions stand up, as in Figure 3.1. However, that is not because such a position was considered the right one, but rather because the stone or boulder onto which the inscriptions were made were considered endowed with such material properties or characteristics that it demanded the inscription to be executed in such a way. Subsequently, the runic ribbon seemingly always follows the contours of the stone, whether chipped from rock or free-standing small or large boulders (see, for instance, Figs 3.1, 3.4 and 3.5). To paraphrase (and answer) both Mitchell (2005) and Gosden (2005), it was what the stone wanted, what it demanded through its materiality.

First-class travelling and common foot traffic Rune-stones, when seen as memory stones, were raised in memory of someone who died, and they frequently declare a person’s place of death. Such places are predominantly faraway places such as Greece, England, Denmark and Gotland (e.g. Larsson 1990). In fact, rune-stones often tell of journeys made afar, but also how certain people constructed bridges and owned villages, who inherited what, who died how, who had been where and whose souls were deserving of paradise (see examples in Samnordisk runtextdatabas). These all seem like individual stories, but they were commemorative for society as a whole. Rune-stones with such stories were placed where people repeatedly walked, met, and travelled. Commemorative practices are performative and recurring in nature (Connerton 1989), which is why it is important to point out that it was not only the runestone carvers/erectors that travelled in the landscape. Rather, we must envision different classes and genders inhabiting the landscape, perhaps transporting things, goods, people and/or information or stories from one place to another (e.g. the aforementioned runic inscription Uppland

79

80 

ing-marie back danielsson

112, Figs 3.7–3.10). This is perhaps an obvious statement, since the power relations expressed by rune-stones must be implemented where they can have an impact on people, in this case on roads and routes where people commonly travelled; more specifically at junctions or cross-roads where people perhaps were ‘forced’ to rest, or slow down, on their journeys. Such a practice-based approach serves to create a more dynamic perspective on the rune-stones as monuments, and how these actually linked people together and thus are coupled not only to presumed elites or people who belonged to an upper-class stratum of society (Van Dyke 2011, 43).

Conclusions: rune-stones as mnemonic agents By raising stones, both carved and uncarved, long-term social memory was created. As Joyce (2003) has noted on monumental structures in Mesoamerica, this meant an evocation of timelessness and permanence. The same is true for rune-stones – they were oriented towards the future (Jesch 1998; 2005, 95) while at the same time their placing connected to, and echoed, past activities. Rune-stones thus held a general mnemonic function as fields of social memory. While at the same time expressing individual memories, these were inserted into social memory, gaining meaning and enabling renegotiations and hence change in general memory itself. Rune-stones were individual expressions in the sense that they often reiterated the faiths and deeds of a deceased person and his/her relatives. However, it must be pointed out that individual memories would not exist were it not for social memory, which provides a foundation and context for them (Middleton and Edwards 1997). Social memory here refers to the ‘selective preservation, construction, and obliteration of ideas about the way things were in the past, in service of some interest in the present’ (Van Dyke 2011, 37). This definition demonstrates that social memory legitimizes current power relations, which is accomplished in a number of ways. Importantly, rune-stones are raised at past places of importance, such as at cemeteries. In some instances they have been situated also at new places that are cloaked or rearranged to be similar to, and remind people of, prominent past places (e.g. Norr and Sanmark 2008 on certain assembly places). Through such usage, a rune-stone both reminds people of the past while at the same time bringing something new to the equation. It is an index of memory; the rune-stone can evoke remembrance, but can equally be called a mnemonic citation (Jones 2007, 24, 26, 55). In this paper I have shown that in order to understand how rune-stones worked as mnemonic agents it is useful to introduce the concept of affect. Memory work is practical, performative, experiential, profoundly material and very much an embodied process. Therefore, affect is an appropriate concept since it highlights the changes and variations human bodies may have experienced when rune-stones were created and/or encountered. The

3 walking down memory lane 

sight of dazzling colours and the play of light and shadow and enticing sounds are some of the possible sensations evoked by the stones, perhaps forcing people into close encounters. I have also mentioned that the size of rune-stones had affective dimensions. Altogether a rune-stone can be seen as an animated being that wanted something from those who engaged with it (cf. Gosden 2005; Mitchell 2005). Furthermore, in order to read and engage with the interacting and meandering texts and images, the body had to twist and twirl, also prolonging the interpreter’s stay by the monument. I have equally emphasized that rune-stones rarely stood alone, and that it is important that the stone’s relation to other stones is considered. The stones together structured the landscape in a certain way, and also regulated how the body was to enter, encounter and experience this index, nexus, or gate to other worlds. I have also maintained that not only places but also families were tied together in the landscape through the rune-stones. They resulted in shared experiences of landscape, life and death – that is, commemoration. In this way, individuals, collective memory and rune-stones were seamlessly interwoven (cf. Connerton 1989; Halbwachs 1993).

Acknowledgements First of all, my thanks go to the editors for inviting me to participate in this inspirational volume and for their valuable comments on an earlier version of the paper. Thanks are also due to the two anonymous referees, as well as to the Birgit and Gad Rausing Foundation. I am grateful to Dr Charlotta Brohult for curing me from an ‘aptypical infection’ that took months to recover from. I am also thankful to Anders Carlsson and Fredrik Fahlander for reading an earlier version of the manuscript. Many thanks go to Ben Alberti for reading and making valuable comments on a very early version of the paper. Lastly, heartfelt thanks to Per and Milton for their never-failing support.

Bibliography Ahmed, S. 2006. Queer Phenomenology: Orientations, Objects, Others, Durham: Duke University Press Alberti, B., Jones, A. and Pollard, J. 2013. Archaeology after Interpretation. Returning Materials to Archaeological Theory, Walnut Stream, California: Left Coast Press Anderson, B. and Harrison, P. 2010. Taking-Place: Non-Representational Theories and Geography, Farnham: Ashgate Andrén, A. 1993. Doors to other worlds: Scandinavian death rituals in Gotlandic perspectives, Journal of European Archaeology, 1, 33–56 Andrén, A. 2000. Re-reading embodied texts – an interpretation of runestones, Current Swedish Archaeology, 8, 7–32

81

82 

ing-marie back danielsson

Arwill-Nordbladh, E. 2011. Förmåga och oförmåga. Om funktionsvariationer och kroppsliga möjligheter i vikingatidens myt- och bildvärld, in M. Sjöberg (ed.), Bildligt talat. Kvinnligt, manligt i 3,2 miljoner år, 97–121, Göteborg/Stockholm: Makadam förlag Back Danielsson, I.-M. 2007. Masking Moments. The Transition of Bodies and Beings in Late Iron Age Scandinavia, Stockholm: Stockholm University Back Danielsson, I.-M. Forthcoming. Norsborgsparken, Stockholm: Stockholm University Back Danielsson, I.-M., Fahlander, F. and Sjöstrand, Y. (eds). 2012. Imagery beyond representation, in I.-M. Back Danielsson, F. Fahlander and Y. Sjöberg (eds), 1–12, Encountering Imagery. Materialities, Perceptions, Relations, Stockholm: Stockholm University Bender, B. 2002. Time and landscape, Current Anthropology, 43, 103–12 Bianchi, M. 2010. Runor som resurs. Vikingatida skriftkultur i Uppland och Södermanland, Runrön 20. Uppsala: Uppsala University Bindberg, L. V. R. 2006. Runstenar i kyrkomiljö, en länk mellan hednisk tradition och kristen tro? En studie av senvikingatida runstenar anknutna till kyrkor i Jönköpings län, BA thesis, Lund University Brate, E. and Wessén, E. 1936. Södermanlands runinskrifter granskade och tolkade av Erik Brate och Elias Wessén, Sveriges Runinskrifter, Stockholm: Kungliga Vitterhets-Historie- och Antikvitets Akademien Breisch, A. 1994. Law and Outlawry: Social Ties and Outcast in Early Medieval Iceland, Studia historica Upsaliensia, 174, Uppsala and Stockholm: Uppsala University and Almqvist and Wiksell International Brendalsmo, J. and Røthe, G. 1992. Haugbrot eller de levendes forhold til de døde – en komparativ analyse, Meta, 1–2, 84–111 Cadman, L. 2009. Nonrepresentational Theory/Nonrepresentational Geographies, in R. Kitchin and N. Thrift (eds), International Encyclopaedia of Human Geography, 456–63, Amsterdam: Elsevier Chapman, J. 1997. Places as time marks: the social construction of landscapes in east Hungary, in J. Chapman and P. Dolukhanov (eds), Landscapes in Flux, 137–62, Oxford: Oxbow Books Conkey, M. W. and Gero, J. 1997. Programme to practice: gender and feminism in archaeology, Annual Review of Anthropology, 26, 411–37 Connerton, P. 1989. How Societies Remember, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press Deleuze, G. 1986. Cinema I: The Movement-Image, translated by H. Tomlinson and B. Habberjam, Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press Douglas, M. 1966. Purity and Danger: an Analysis of the Concept of Pollution and Taboo, London: Routledge and Kegan Paul Douglas, M. 1970. Natural Symbols: Explorations in Cosmology, New York: Vintage Books

3 walking down memory lane 

Edmonds, M. 1999. Ancestral Geographies in Neolithic Landscapes. Landscapes, Monuments and Memory, London: Routledge Ekholm, G. 1950. Var restes runstenarna? Fornvännen,137–47 Engesveen, A. T. 2005. På vei mellom levende og døde. En analyse av forholdet mellom veier og graver i Vestfold i vikingtid, Hovudfagsoppgåve i nordisk arkeologi, Oslo: Oslo University Eriksson, Å. 1982. Fornstig och gammelväg: historiska strövtåg i Stockholmstrakten, Stockholm: Nordstedts Fenger, O. 1982. Ätt. Danmark, Kulturhistoriskt lexikon för nordisk medeltid från vikingatid till reformationstid Friesen, O. von. 1913. Upplands Runstenar: en Allmänfattlig Öfversikt, Uppsala: Akad. Bo Gansum, T. 1999. Mythos, logos, ritus. Symbolisme og gravskikk i lys av gudediktene i den eldre Edda, in B. Myhre, I. Fuglestvedt, T. Gansum and A. Opedal (eds), Et hus med mange rom. En venbok til Björn Myhre, 438–501, Stavanger: Arkeologisk museum i Stavanger Gansum, T. 2004a. Role of the bones – from iron to steel, Norwegian Archaeological Review, 37(1), 41–57 Gansum, T. 2004b. Jernets fødsel og dødens stål. Rituell bruk av bein, in Å. Berggren, S. Arvidsson and A.-M. Hållans (eds), Minne och myt. Konsten att skapa det förflutna, 121–55, Vägar till Midgård 5, Lund: Nordic Academic Press Gosden, C. 1994. Social Being and Time, Oxford: Blackwell Gosden, C. 2005. What do objects want? Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory, 12, 193–211 Gosden, C. and Lock, G. 1998. Prehistoric histories, World Archaeology, 30(1), 2–12 Gräslund, A.-S. 1991. Runstenar – om ornamentik och datering, Tor, 23, 113–40 Gräslund, A.-S. 1992. Runstenar – om ornamentik och datering II, Tor, 24, 177–201 Gräslund, A.-S. 2001. Ideologi och mentalitet: om religionsskiftet i Skandinavien från en arkeologisk horisont, Uppsala: Uppsala University Gustavson, H. 1995. Runorna under vikingatiden, in C. Orrling (ed.), Vikingatidens ABC, 216–20, Stockholm: SHM Hafström, G. 1982. Ätt, Sverige, Kulturhistoriskt lexikon för nordisk medeltid från vikingatid till reformationstid Halbwachs, M. 1993 [1950]. On Collective Memory, Chicago: University of Chicago Press Hamre, L. 1982. Ätt, Norge, Kulturhistoriskt lexikon för nordisk medeltid från vikingatid till reformationstid Haraway, D. 1996. Situated knowledges: the science question in feminism and the privilege of partial perspective, in H. Longino (ed.), Feminism and Science, 249–63, Oxford: Oxford University Press

83

84 

ing-marie back danielsson

Harding, S. 1987. Feminism and Methodology, Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Harding, S. 1993. Rethinking standpoint epistemology: what is ‘strong objectivity’? in L. Alcoff and E. Potter (eds), Feminist Epistemologies, 49–82, New York: Routledge Hellquist, E. 1980. Svensk etymologisk ordbok. Malmö: Gleerups förlag Ingold, T. 1993. The temporality of the landscape, World Archaeology, 25, 152–74 Ingold, T. 2000. Stop, look and listen! Vision, hearing and human movement, in T. Ingold (ed.), The Perception of the Environment: Essays in Livelihood, Dwelling and Skill, 243–89, Routledge: London Jacobsen, L. and Moltke, E. 1942. Danmarks Runeindskrifter. Text. København: Ejnar Munksgaards Forlag Jansson, S. B. F. 1984. Runinskrifter i Sverige. Uppsala: Almqvist and Wiksell Förlag AB Jesch, J. 1998. Still standing in Ågersta: textuality and literacy in Late Viking Age rune-stone inscriptions, in K. Düwel (ed.), Runeninschriften als Quellen interdisziplinärer Forschung, 462–75, Berlin: Walter de Gruyter Jesch, J. 2005. Memorials in speech and writing, Hikuin, 32, 95–104. Jesch, J. 2011. Runic inscriptions and the vocabulary of land, lordship, and social power in the late Viking Age, in S. M. Sindbæk and B. Poulsen (eds), Settlement and Lordship in Viking and Early Medieval Scandinavia, 31–44, Turnhout: Brepols Johansen, B. 1997. Ormalur. Aspekter av tillvaro och landskap. Stockholm Studies in Archaeology, 14, Stockholm: Stockholm University Jones, A. 2006. Animated images. images, agency and landscape in Kilmartin, Argyll, Journal of Material Culture, 11 (1/2), 211–26 Jones, A. 2007. Memory and Material Culture, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press Jones, A. 2012. Prehistoric Materialities. Becoming Material in Prehistoric Britain and Ireland, Oxford: Oxford University Press Joyce, R. 2003. Concrete memories. Fragments of the past in Classic Maya present (500–1000 AD), in R. M. Van Dyke and S. Alcock (eds), Archaeologies of Memory, 104–26, Oxford: Blackwell Kulturhistoriskt lexikon för nordisk medeltid från vikingatid till reformationstid. København: Rosenkilde og Bagger, 1980–82. Klos, L. 2009. Runensteine in Schweden. Studien zu Aufstellungsort und Funktion. Er-gänzungsbände zum Reallexikon der Germanishen Altertumskunde, 64, Berlin–New York: Walter de Gruyter Lager, L. 2002. Den synliga tron. Runstenskors som en spegling av kristnandet i Sverige, OPIA 31, Uppsala: Uppsala University. Lamm, J. P. 1995. Ätt, in C. Orrling (ed.), Vikingatidens ABC, 140, Stockholm: SHM. Langer, S. 1984. Philosophy in a New Key: A Study in the Symbolism of Reason, Rite, and Art, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press

3 walking down memory lane 

Larsson, M. G. 1990. Runstenar och utlandsfärder: aspekter på det senvikingatida samhället med utgångspunkt i de fasta fornlämningarna, Stockholm: Almquist and Wiksell Lindal, S. 1982. Ätt, Island, KLNM Lindeberg, M. 2009. Järn i jorden: spadformiga ämnesjärn i Mellannorrland, Stockholm: Stockholm University Lindqvist, S. 1941. Gotlands Bildsteine 1, Stockholm: Wahlström and Widstrand Lindqvist, S. 1942. Gotlands Bildsteine 2, Stockholm: Wahlström and Widstrand Longino, H. E. 1994. In search of feminist epistemology. The Monist, 77(4), 472-485. Lund, J. 2005. Thresholds and passages: the meanings of bridges and crossings in the Viking Age and Early Middle Ages. Viking and Medieval Scandinavia, 1, 109–35 Mauss 1992 [1934]. Techniques of the body, in J. Crary and S. Kwinter (eds), Incorporations, 455–77, New York: Zone Merleau-Ponty, M. 1962. Phenomenology of Perception, London: Routledge Middleton, D. and Edwards, D. (eds) 1997. Collective Remembering, London: Sage Mitchell, T. 1996. What do pictures really want? October, 77, 71–82 Mitchell, T. 2005. What Do Pictures Want? The Lives and Loves of Images, Chicago: University of Chicago Press Norr, S. and Sanmark, A. 2008. Tingsplatser, makt och landskap, in M. Olausson (ed.), Hem till Jarlabanke. Jord, makt och evigt liv i östra Mälardalen under järnålder och medeltid, 379–96, Lund: Historiska Media Peterson, L. 1994. Svenskt Runordsregister, Runrön 2, second revised edition, Uppsala: Uppsala University Price, N. 2010. Passing into poetry: Viking Age mortuary drama and the origins of Norse mythology, Medieval Archaeology, 54, 123–56 Samnordisk Runtextdatabas. http://www.nordiska.uu.se/forskn/samnord. htm Sawyer, B. 2000. The Viking Age Rune-Stones. Custom and Commemoration in Early Medieval Scandinavia, Oxford: Oxford University Press Sawyer, B. 2002. Runstenar och förmedeltida arvsförhållanden, in J. Agertz and L. Varenius (eds), Om runstenar i Jönköpings län, 55–79, Jönköping: Jönköpings läns museum Snædal Brink, T. 1981. Jarlabankebrostenarna, in L. Thunmark-Nylén, J. P. Lamm, G. Tégner and A. Sandwall (eds), Vikingatidens ABC, 129–30, Stockholm: SHM Stoklund, M. 2005. Tolkningen Baekke-, Laeborg- og Jelling-indskrifterne og meningen med at rejse runesten, Hikuin, 32, 37–48. Tronner, K., Nord, A. and Gustavson, H. 2002. ‘stenarna dessa, röda av runor-’: undersökning av färgrester på bemålad sten från vikingatiden,

85

86 

ing-marie back danielsson

in J. Agertz and L. Varenius (eds), Om runstenar i Jönköpings län, 197–210, Jönköping: Jönköpings läns museum Van Dyke, R. M. 2011. Imagined pasts imagined. Memory and ideology in archaeology, in R. Bernbeck and R. H. McGuire (eds), Ideologies in Archaeology, 233–53, Tuscon: University of Arizona Press Wiker, G. 2000. Gullbrakteatene – i dialog med naturkreftene. Ideologi og endring sett i lys av de skandinavise brakteatnedleggelsene, Oslo: Oslo University Williams, H. 2004. Death warmed up, Journal of Material Culture, 9(3), 263–91 Williams, H. 2006. Death and Memory in Early Medieval Britain, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press Wylie, A. 2007. Doing archaeology as a feminist: introduction, Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory, 14, 209–16 Young, I. M. 1980. Throwing like a girl: a phenomenology of feminine body comportment, motility and spatiality, Human Studies, 3, 137–56 Zachrisson, T. 1998. Gård, gräns, gravfält. Sammanhang kring ädelmetalldepåer och runstenar från vikingatid och medeltid i Uppland och Gästrikland, Stockholm: Stockholm University

Building Blocks: Structural Contexts and Carved Stones in Early Medieval Northern Britain Meggen Gondek

Introduction

T

he Craw Stane at Rhynie (Aberdeenshire) stands in a field on a river terrace and is the only one of eight stones from the village still standing in the landscape (Fraser and Halliday 2007, 119–23). Excavation around this stone in 2011 and 2012 showed that the stone appears to be closely embedded within a probably contemporary fifth- to sixthcentury AD high-status settlement (Fig. 4.1; Gondek and Noble 2011). The site is complex, with three concentric enclosures surrounding an interior containing evidence for timber halls, imported Continental pottery (Late Roman Amphorae types 1 and 2) and activities such as fine metalworking (Noble and Gondek 2011, 319–20). Although no direct stratigraphic relationship can be established with the current setting of the Craw Stane and the features excavated on site, the entrance to the inner enclosure and at least one recut of the outer enclosure appear to respect its location. Indeed, the Craw Stane appears to stand facing an entrance that has been elaborated by a complex timber structure and a pit structure immediately adjacent. The apparent juxtaposition of early medieval buildings, probably a high-status settlement complex, and the Craw Stane challenges both our expectations as excavators and the widespread presumption that these monuments may have been landmarks discrete from habitations. The Craw Stane is not the only carved stone to have a non-churchrelated structural context in the northern European, or even Pictish, early medieval world, but little synthesis has been done on stones in these contexts. The default assumption is that symbol stones relate to ecclesiastical and/or funerary contexts. This paper attempts to pull together the known examples of the Pictish Class I monuments with structural associations. In doing so, it aims to provide some context for Rhynie as part of

4

88 

Fig. 4.1 The Craw Stane (left) Class I Pictish stone and excavations around the stone in 2012 (right).

meggen gondek

ongoing work at this site, but also to use Rhynie as a point of departure for a wider exploration of the significance of monumentality, memory and art in these structural contexts as opposed to the other proposed landscape settings and burial associations often considered for Class I Pictish stones.

Pictish stones and memory ‘Pictish sculpture’ is a shorthand phrase to refer to those carved stone monuments dating from the fifth to the tenth century AD found predominantly in northern and eastern Scotland. This area is associated with the later Iron Age to early medieval territories and kingdoms of the Picts (Allen and Anderson 1903; Fraser 2008). This paper focuses on those stones, usually called Class I, carved only with images from the collection of animal and abstract geometric motifs known as the Pictish symbols. They have no obvious Christian iconography. The Pictish symbols are part of the broader artistic style termed Insular art, which has been used to date them and the objects they are part of in the absence of secure archaeological contexts to between the fifth and seventh centuries AD (Henderson and Henderson 2004, 31–58). The dating of stone sculpture purely on art historical grounds is extremely difficult (Henderson and Henderson 2004, 12; Clarke 2007, 20). However, a radiocarbon date for an ox phalange from the Broch of Burrian (Orkney) that was carved with two symbols showed a 95% probability of dating from cal. AD 570–655 (Clarke and Heald 2008, 293). Thus, symbols were in use by the sixth or seventh centuries, corroborating typo-

4 building blocks 

logical dating and providing some chronological context for the appearance of symbols on carved stones. The use and regularity of the Pictish symbols on stone and other media have been compared by Forsyth to the Ogham script and many recent discussions of the function of the symbols have moved towards seeing them as a type of script or language system (Samson 1992; Forsyth 1997; Lee et al. 2010; but see Sproat 2010). This suggests that the symbols perform a commemorative task, perhaps reflecting the early medieval trend of names on monuments, but not necessarily in a Christian context (Clarke 2007; Carver 2009). Suggested possible functions of Class I stones include: burial markers, commemorative markers within cemeteries, landscape markers on routes or borders, cist covers, plaques or a combination of the above (Henderson 1967; Ashmore 1980; Driscoll 1988; Carver 2001, 14; Clarke 2007). While many stones do appear to be upright markers in a landscape, Clarke (2007, 28–31) outlined the lack of evidence for a single explanation as to the function and meaning of Class I stones and also pointed to the lack of secure evidence for Class I stones as explicit burial markers above ground. Why Class I stones were carved and used from around the fifth to seventh centuries is also unclear, but they are part of a northern European tradition of monumentality. Internal and external stresses on society including the introduction of Christianity and the growth and consolidation of kingdoms and estates have been linked to their appearance. The monuments and the symbols thus take on a role that promotes ancestry and identity at particular landscape points in the face of these changes (Driscoll 1988; Carver 2001; 2009; Clarke 2007). The meaning(s) of the Class I stones might extend beyond what the symbols are saying (cf. van Dyke and Alcock 2003, 2). Therefore, investigating the stones is still important even though the symbol code is not cracked. I have likened the Class I stones to prehistoric rock-art (Gondek 2007). As Jones (2005a, 115) says of rock-art, it is clear that the images carved were meaningful despite the meaning being unknown to us. Carved stones should be explored as whole monuments, not just as a vehicle for display and consumption of the symbol message. Prehistor­ians and some early medieval archaeologists have focused not just on the images but also on the purposeful landscapes of carved monuments to help explore meanings (e.g. Jones 2005a; Edwards 2009; Gondek 2010; Williams 2011; Kirton this volume). It is not just big landscapes that matter. Last (1998, 359) has specifically pointed to the importance of the built environment, a microcosm of landscape, and how the separation of wall art inside structures at Çatalhöyük from their relevant contextual space constrains attempts to explore meaning. Meanings and memories are created and articulated not just by the passive reading of the symbol message but by experiencing the monument within its surroundings, whether that is a hilltop or a building. The spatial setting and the opportunities for different embodied engagements with a monument may change over time (see Hall, this volume).

89

90 

meggen gondek

Site No. stones Type of site High confidence of association with structure Dunadd 1 Fort Trusty's Hill 1 Fort Pool, Sanday 1 Multi-period settlement Old Scatness 3(4) Multi-period settlement Good confidence of association with structure Burghead 6 Promontory fort and well Dunnicaer 5 Stack - fort/ritual site? 1 Fort East Lomond Hill Rhynie Craw Stane – no. 1 1 Enclosed site/halls Broch of Gurness 1 Broch complex Knowe of Burrian 1 Broch complex Birkle Hill, Keiss 1 Chambered structure of uncertain date Moderate confidence of association with structure Rhynie Man - no. 7 and no. 8 2 Enclosed site/halls Uncertain/suspected association with structure Parc-an-Caipel, Congash 2 Near enclosure Crosskirk 1 Found in broch - lost Kintradwell 1 Near broch site Orphir 2 Various, near broch - uncertain where found; one is lost Peterhead Farm, Gleneagles 1 Near souterrains; near burials Table 4.1: Pictish Class I monuments found in or near structures

Given the variety of functions these monuments may have had in the early medieval period, close examinations of their landscapes help enable the exploration of the way monument, art, landscape and interaction worked together in a mnemonic way. As one of the key elements in engaging with the stones is their spatial context, those stones that were potentially part of structural elements would have been experienced in a different way to those that are open landscape monuments or situated within cemeteries. The process of constructing or using a carved stone in a structural context is also significant and may be part of the way memories were created, continued and altered.

Stones in structures Most Class I symbol stones have little or no secure primary archaeological context. Like many other monuments, most have moved around. When they still stand in or close to their presumed original settings, they have rarely been investigated archaeologically. New stones are normally found by chance or by ploughing activity and only a handful of new stones have

4 building blocks 

been found during the course of archaeological excavation. Table 4.1 pulls together the evidence for sites with Class I stones associated with structural contexts. The sites are grouped by how secure the identification of the structural context currently is. Those with high confidence are either on outcrops or have been the result of recent excavations. Those classified as ‘good’ have relatively secure structural associations although they may not have explicit stratigraphic evidence or full enough accounts to be certain of their role in those structures. The sites within these two categories will be explored further below. Those classified as moderate/suspected or uncertain lack enough detailed information about their find-spots to include in detail here. The Rhynie examples listed come from near the Craw Stane and were probably part of the same complex, but there is no clear understanding of where they were located, although the Rhynie Man may have stood in or near a funnel-shaped annexe and possible entrance to the main complex (Shepherd and Shepherd 1978, 211; Gondek and Noble 2011). At Congash (Inverness-shire) the stones have been moved to the entrance of a circular enclosure, although no. 1 may be in an original setting. The enclosure here is traditionally associated with a chapel site (RCAHMS n.d.; NMRS no: NJ02NE1.00). The majority of the ‘uncertain’ monuments were found in antiquarian investigations and only a general association with a structure can be established. The exception is at Peterhead Farm (Perthshire), where the symbol stone probably still stands in its original location and may be a reused prehistoric standing stone (Clarke 2007, 39). Recent work in the vicinity of the stone identified two stone-built souterrains, generally linked to Iron Age settlement, and cist burials, which may be early medieval and a post-medieval enclosure (Dingwall 2011). However, no investigation occurred immediately adjacent to the stone, which seems to sit on a cairn. At Mail, Cunningsburgh (Shetland) gravediggers came across hearths in the same area where fragments of carved stones were found, including one with an axe-wielding masked or ‘dog-faced’ person not dissimilar in effect to the Rhynie Man (Turner 1994, 320). It is not possible to ascertain if the stones from Mail have any connection to these potential structural features. There is also a handful of cave sites with symbol carvings; although the dating of deposits within the caves is difficult, it would seem they did take on some structural functions in the Pictish period as enclosed spaces where activities took place. In Fife, one of the Caiplie Caves (Chapel/Constantine’s Cave) has a number of symbols on the walls and evidence of later structures, some burials and deposits containing Roman period artefacts (RCAHMS 1933, 169–79; SMR number NO50NE 6.00). The East Wemyss Caves (Fife; five caves are reported to have symbols) have also shown burial and other activity dating to the late Iron Age or Pictish period from Jonathan’s Cave and Sloping/Sliding Cave (Ritchie and Stevenson 1993; Wessex Archaeology 2005, 19, 36). The most spectacular

91

92 

meggen gondek

Size Lone Animals Burghead no. 1 0.69 × 0.30 × 0.08m Burghead no. 2 0.48 × 0.30 × 0.10m Burghead no.3 0.53 × 0.41 × 0.18m Burghead no. 4 Fragment 0.28 × 0.28 × 0.10m Burghead no. 5 0.53 × 0.53 × 0.08m Burghead no. 6 Fragment 0.46 × 0.61 × 0.15m East Lomond Hill 0.43 × 0.30 diagonally × 0.08m 0.23 × 0.19 × 0.44m Old Scatness Old Scatness 0.38 × 0.33 × 0.50m Old Scatness 0.43 × 0.14 × 0.12m Paired animals Rhynie – Craw Stane 1.70 × 0.91 × 0.46m Animals with other motifs Dunnicaer no. 2 0.68 × 0.38m Old Scatness Fragment 0.14 × 0.18 × 0.24 m Knowe of Burrian 1.50 x 0.55 x 0.1m Dunadd Trusty's Hill

Outcrop Outcrop

Multiple abstract symbols Dunnicaer no. 4 0.68 x 0.38m

Pool, Sanday 0.75 x 0.42 x 0.08m Broch of Gurness 0.27 x 0.19 x 0.29 m Birkle Hill, Keiss

0.97 x 0.53x 0.08m

Dunnicaer no. 3 0.46 x 0.23m Single Abstract motif Dunnicaer no. 1* 0.69 x 0.46m Dunnicaer no. 5† 0.38 x 0.15m

Symbols

Bull Bull Bull Bull Bull Bull Ox/steer Boar Bear Pecked quadruped?

Fish; Pictish beast Fish, triangle with a central dot Salmon and another possible Eagle; crescent and V rod; mirror Boar, ogham, basin and footprint Double disc and Z-rod with two points; fishy beast; pointed object Side A: double disc and Z-rod; Side B: curving symbol/flower, mirror and comb Double-disc and circular motifs Divided mirror-case, rectangle, and a divided rectangle Triple oval; circles; ‘flower’ made of circles Crescent with an equilateral triangle Double disc and Z-rod Double disc type

* Dun 1 – Possibly a fake or heavily recarved? (Fraser 2008, 20) †  There is a Dunnicaer no. 6 sometimes associated with the site, but in one of the earliest accounts of the stones Thomson says this comes to him from the postmaster in Old Aberdeen and it is not at all clear it was at Dunnicaer originally (Thomson 1859, 73).

4 building blocks 

Location Lone Animals In the well South Quay area Unlocated South Quay area Unlocated South Quay area ‘South side' of fort Kerb stone for hearth; Structure 5 Possible pier terminal orthostat; Structure 11 In pier within Structure 6 Paired animals Near inner enclosure entrance

93

Visible 👁 Hidden X

Underground Threshold link? link?

? ? ? ? ? ? ? X 👁 👁

Yes Yes Yes Yes Yes Yes ? Yes Yes Yes

Possible Possible Possible Possible Possible Possible Possible Yes Yes Yes

👁

Yes

Yes

? ? X

No Yes Yes

Yes ? Yes

👁 👁

Yes Yes

No Yes

?

No

Yes

Paving stone Structure 23 On the wall between broch buildings 3 and 4 Paving

X ?

Yes Yes

No Yes

X

Y

No

Tumble from wall Single Abstract motif Tumble from wall Tumble from wall

?

No

Yes

? ?

No No

Yes Yes

Animals with other motifs Tumble from wall SE of Structure 11 Blocked passage to subterranean structure/ well Inauguration point By entrance Multiple abstract symbols Tumble from wall

Table 4.2: Summary of monuments, iconography and structural associations

94 

meggen gondek

and enigmatic cave site with symbols is undoubtedly the Sculptor’s Cave at Covesea (Morayshire). Here symbols are carved into the walls of the double entrance to the cave, but not in the interior chamber. Excavations took place in the 1920s, and again in the 1970s, which recovered a range of materials dating from the late Bronze Age to the late Iron Age. In addition, a large amount of human bone was found. The deposition of bone in the cave has been dated to two phases, the later Bronze Age and the Late Iron Age. The assemblage of bone from the latter included evidence for the violent killing of at least four adults and two children or young adolescents by decapitation, which has been suggested to represent at least one event of ritual execution or sacrifice in the third or fourth century AD (Benton 1931; Armit et al. 2011). Apart from the symbols, there is no other material dated to the early medieval period from the cave. The morphology of stone monuments associated with structures varies, although smaller slabs, here defined as having a maximum measurement of under 0.7 m, are the most common (Table 4.2). These smaller slabs are usually described as plaques to differentiate them from the larger upstanding Class I monuments. Single-animal monuments are rare in the corpus of Class I stones, but these depictions are relatively common in structural associations. Bulls or cows/oxen are the most common animal in these circumstances, mainly because of the multiple bull stones from Burghead (Morayshire). In addition to the East Lomond (Fife) example, there is another bull on a ‘plaque-sized’ stone from Kingsmills and an ox/ steer on a small fragment from Lochardill (both Inverness-shire); neither of these have an excavated context, but were built into a byre and a field dyke (Fraser 2008, 84–5). Only some of the animals that appear solo also appear with other symbols. Bulls or cattle, for example, appear in scenes on cross slabs such as St Vigeans no. 7 (Angus) where a bull is potentially being slaughtered or sacrificed, but a bull has yet to be found or recognized paired with another Pictish symbol in the ‘classic’ paired symbol arrangement for those stones considered landscape monuments. The bear from Old Scatness (Shetland) is the only appearance of this animal found thus far on a Class I stone. Bears have been identified on other monuments, such as the Drosten Stone (no. 1), a cross slab from St Vigeans (Angus) (Fraser 2008, 58). Boars occur singly at Scatness and without other Pictish symbols at Dunadd (Argyll). There is a boar paired with a mirror case on a Class I monument from Knocknagael (Inverness-shire) (Fraser 2008, 84–5). Lone animal motifs are often left out of the interpretations of the Pictish symbol system as names, largely because they are less common and do not conform to the ‘normal’ rules of paired symbols considered to be ‘core’ (core symbols differ between authors) on what is normally thought to be an upright landscape monument (Forsyth 1997, 87–8). They may not work in the schemes proposed for the symbols as a writing system, but for the purposes of this paper they are clearly still symbols that the Picts carved into stones and, more significantly, they appear to have been

4 building blocks 

Fig. 4.2 Location of key sites discussed in the text with stones with relatively secure structural associations.

95

96 

meggen gondek

Fig. 4.3 Invisible messages: stones and their locations from Pool (top left), Scatness (top right), Knowe of Burrian (bottom left) and Birkle Hill (bottom centre). Where location is not known in the structure, only the stone is pictured.

particularly suitable for structural contexts. If the paired symbol tradition commemorates names, then these single (or rarely two paired) animal motifs may be communicating a different social memory.

Carved stones and memory building Although it is often difficult to identify the practice of reuse versus votive deposition of stones in structural contexts by archaeological means, the reuse of material is not always mundane. In the early medieval period, reuse has been interpreted as not just a practical or coincidental development, but a purposeful and determined choice (Driscoll 1998; Williams 1998). Eaton’s (2000, 119) work, for example, stressed that the act of reuse of Roman worked stone in churches carried ideological significance in terms of both the manner of reuse (the act of incorporating the stone) and its final placement/presence in the building. Indeed, the construction and remodelling of buildings or structures may be a particularly important time to mobilize ritual practice incorporating not only special preexisting material but material with potential apotropaic or magical roles (Chadwick 2012, 298).

4 building blocks 

Despite there being only twenty-five examples of stone monuments with moderate to highly confident structural contexts it is argued here that certain stones were purposefully used within architecture and their use is not just a result of pure functional convenience or functional reuse (Fig. 4.2; Table 4.2). Instead, there appear to be choices made about visible vs. invisible stones or symbols, with hidden symbols sometimes on what would have been visible stones in the structure. A recurring theme is the concept of movement, in terms of either moving by or moving over carved symbol stones (but often with invisible motifs). The significance of the concept of movement is enhanced by the reoccurrence of the juxtaposition of carved stones and entranceways or thresholds to both buildings and sites. Another feature that reoccurs on some sites, but not all, is proximity to a sunken or subterranean structure as part of the site. Additionally, most sites have pre-existing archaeology that the community would have encountered. The sites and landscapes are not blank slates, but already had complex biographies and memories to be altered and amended.

Visible vs. invisible At several of these sites, the carved motifs on the stones cannot be proven to have been visible to those moving around and using the structures. This includes the slab from Pool (Orkney), the boar stone at Scatness, the slab in the blocked passageway at Knowe of Burrian (Orkney) and probably the paving slab at Birkle Hill (Caithness) (Fig. 4.3). A purely functional interpretation of these hidden motifs is that the stones are in a reused context and that the symbolism on them and the monuments themselves were no longer relevant, allowing for a new use where the presence of symbols and the carved stone monument itself was irrelevant. Interpreting such stones as reused assumes that the original and main purpose of the monument was to publicly display the symbols, which denies the possibility that the stones’ significance could be found in either their production/construction process or their votive deposition. There has also been the suggestion that some of the monuments that are reused are early examples of symbol carvings (e.g. at Pool, or the pecked ‘quadruped’ at Scatness) from a time when the symbol system was not yet formalized. Therefore, reuse happens in later structures when they are ‘out of date’ and is unproblematic. However, Pool and Scatness, which have the ‘early symbol’ motifs, have stratigraphy and dates that suggest that both stones are used in contexts when symbol stones are generally thought to be very active monuments (the fifth to seventh centuries AD). Considering them ‘reused’ assumes that such early iconic carvings were treated with less respect than later versions. Our aesthetic judgements about the quality of symbol design and execution are questionable as pillars in a chronological arrangement of the carved monuments. Even if the simpler symbols are

97

98 

meggen gondek

early, reuse could still indicate selective and purposeful curation or hiding of the monument and not just a functional reuse. It is clear from their appearance on small personal portable objects such as gaming pieces and jewellery that Pictish symbols were not always for public reading or display, even if this was or came to be one of the dominant uses of symbol-carved stone monuments. Williams (2003, 92–3) has shown how memories can be curated and forgotten through acts of display and consignment, highlighting how, for example, deposits of combs as grave-goods in cremation burials can be considered as a material pivot for selective memories related to the deceased. Of particular note is the performative aspect of rituals of funerary deposition, which powerfully reconvene and recast the deceased in social memory. Drawing on this approach, it is possible that instead of seeing monuments with hidden symbols as examples of functional reuse, the act of building stones with symbols into a structure can be seen as a purposeful votive action. In prehistoric contexts, rock-art motifs ‘hidden’ on stones within structures such as at Knowth are considered to be a purposeful act of incorporation that articulates a sense of place and identity (Jones 2005b). The placement of the boar incised slab at Old Scatness (Shetland) is one of the strongest arguments for the purposeful incorporation of art into a structure. Excavations here uncovered three slabs with motifs identified as symbols and a fourth slab with decoration associated with structures. The site is interpreted in the Pictish period as a high-status farm or estate, with excavations revealing two main spatial groupings of generally semisubterranean cellular structures, with each group connected by passageways (Dockrill 2010, 74–5). The symbol stones include a realistic incised depiction of a bear, a stylized incision of a boar and a fragmented stone depicting at least a salmon and possibly other motifs. This last fragmented stone has the least secure structural association. It was found face down within rubble to the south-east of Structure 11, a complex wheelhouse (Bashford 2010, 306). The other stones are more securely connected to structural components. The boar carved stone was found in Structure 5, a multi-cellular semisubterranean structure (Dockrill 2010, 44). The larger cell of the structure had a central horseshoe-shaped hearth, dated by one AMS date focusing on the seventh and eighth centuries AD and defined by a kerb of stone uprights. One of these kerbstones was carved with a boar ‘hidden’ from view; the stone was placed so that the boar was buried upside down and facing the hearth, providing an ‘intimate’ connection to the dominating hearth feature (Dockrill 2003, 92; Bond 2010, 309). The layout of the building was such that anyone entering was directed straight into the hearth itself, an odd logistical feature (Dockrill 2010, 44). Depending on the flooring construction in the structure (there is a possibility that it had a raised floor) the top of the orthostatic kerb of the hearth would have been visible to those using the building. The boar was

4 building blocks 

not visible, but the stone could have been and there is no way of discerning whether the boar stone itself was marked out in some way to show its votive significance ‘above ground’. The boar was clearly a heavily loaded symbol suitable for ritual activity in early medieval northern Britain, as evidenced by its placement at the inaugural focus at Dunadd. There is plentiful archaeological evidence for the long-standing significance of the boar, both in Britain and the Continent, where it has connections to hunting, aggression and, by extension, to warfare, and also to feasting and funerary feasts (Green 1992, 44–5; Pluskowski 2010, 113). The positioning of the partially buried boar stone at a hearth, an area that might be considered a transformational zone, recalls the significance of pork reflected in the relatively high proportion of animal remains found in the Northern Isles in feasts for the living and perhaps also an ‘otherworldly’ feast where pork played a role (Bond 2002, 181). The placement of the stone here in this particular hidden setting appears to be purposeful. However, the incorporation of this carved stone at Scatness may not have been about articulating a connection to ancestral place and identity, as interpreted for hidden rockart in Neolithic passage graves. The carved stone at Scatness may instead offer a device and a constructional action that remembers and accents the dialogue between the otherworld/underworld, represented by the underground and the hearth, and the world of the living. Other stones with hidden symbols are generally proven, or thought, to have been used as paving slabs (e.g. Pool, Birkle Hill, perhaps Knowe of Burrian). Here the stones themselves were visible, but the symbols hidden. The slab from Pool, Sanday (Orkney) has a shallow pecked double disc and other circular images suggested by Hunter to be parts of a possible serpent and crescent (Hunter 2007, 115). Pool is a multi-period site with settlement from the Neolithic to Norse periods. The stone was found in Structure 23, an unusual rectangular form, which was newly built in Phase 6.4, dated to the fifth to early sixth century AD (Hunter 2007, 114). In the central area of flagging within the structure the stone was found symbolside down as part of the floor surface. The slab stood out as one of the larger stones used for floor flagging (Hunter 2007, 101). The excavators interpreted the building as a roofed structure with several entrances, but no clear permanent hearth was identified (Hunter 2007, 101). Morphological comparisons can be made to other contemporary structures, particularly from the north of Scotland, such as at Howe (Orkney) and Forse (Caithness), where the structures were interpreted as a ‘yard’ and cattle fold respectively, but the access patterns to what appear to be domestic buildings through Structure 23 and its centrality to the site perhaps argues against an animal enclosure (Hunter 2007, 114). Hunter notes how movement to and through Structure 23 appears to be a key concern in the dynamics of the entire site. Whilst the symbols were not visible, the carved slab was part of a key building that structured movement and subsequent building activity in the settlement.

99

100 

meggen gondek

Hunter interprets the stone as designed to be displayed horizontally, as the symbols would always have been at least partially obscured in any vertical earth-fast setting (Hunter 2007, 115). If its excavated context was a resetting, the slab’s morphology does not give any more clues to its original use (for example, as potentially a different architectural element). The somewhat early date of the structure has been used to explain the lack of finesse of the symbols and it has been suggested the symbols are ‘proto-symbols’ in use before the more formalized Class I monuments were carved and erected (Hunter 2007, 115). Also found in Structure 23 was a stone with part of an Ogham inscription placed upright. The inscription is incomplete and not fully understood, but probably represents a personal name (Hunter 2007). In a later phase (6.6, dated as fifth to seventh century AD), the structure was reflagged, covering over the primary floor surface that contained both the symbol and Ogham stones (Hunter 2007, 106, 109). The stone from the broch complex at the Knowe of Burrian (Orkney) is large – 1.5 m maximum length – and seems complete, although it is now in two pieces (Fraser 2008, 116–17). The motifs include an eagle, a crescent and V-rod, and a mirror. Part of the broch complex here was a subterranean structure or well; the passage to the subterranean structure was blocked by the symbol stone and other smaller stones (J. Ritchie 2003, 122). An account of one of the excavators notes that they had to lever the stone out of the passageway and found carvings on the ‘other side’, which suggests it was lying face down or leaning symbol-side downward (ibid.). Therefore, it is uncertain whether the stone and its symbols were ever meant to be displayed in some way in the passage-blocking material or if the stone served as flagging over the blocked entrance. At Birkle Hill, Keiss (Caithness), the stone acted as a paving slab and again has a connection to a subterranean or sunken structure. The slab bears a triple oval and a circular flower-like motif. It was found during excavation of an east–west orientated stone-built rectangular structure with dimensions of 2.4 m × 1.5 m and two opposing descending entrance passages suggesting that the building was at least partly subterranean. The eastern entrance had been deliberately blocked with a boulder. Finds from the building included spindle whorls, worked flints and other stone, and the paved floor showed signs of fire. This structure was built into a mound of midden material that had probably started to accumulate in the Mesolithic, which also had long cists inserted into it. The building is described as having a carefully paved floor and Allen and Anderson (1903, 27) state that the stone was used in the paving, but do not mention if the symbols were upright or face down. The symbolism on these ‘invisible’ monuments is difficult to interpret. Apart from the Scatness boar, these stones could all work within the ‘normal’ rules of symbolic language (paired symbols) argued for Class I stones, which means they may have names on them and were commemorative monuments. The votive nature of these monuments is suggested not only by the presence of the hidden symbols but by the context of their use

4 building blocks 

101

Fig. 4.4 Sunken elements: stones and their locations from Burghead (above) and the Broch of Gurness (below).

and the character of the structures they were built into. The symbol stones were clearly an appropriate feature to ‘close’ or redefine earlier activities relating to the ground or underground, in these cases. As votive deposits with hidden symbols, the symbols and the stones that bear them are not being used for public display. Instead, they were placed facing the underground to engage with ‘others’ in ritualized contexts. The symbols are hidden from view, but they are also safe to interact with the otherworld ‘in the background’ whilst the daily activities of life go on above. Their placement may also have helped erase memories in the world of the living, of individuals, for example, if the symbols are names, whilst maintaining the message in the otherworld.

Sinking feeling About half the sites with structural stones have some association with a sunken, semi-subterranean or fully subterranean structure (Fig. 4.4). The

102 

meggen gondek

stones themselves are not always built into or in these structures, however. The most complex of these subterranean elements are at Burghead, Knowe of Burrian (discussed above), and the Broch of Gurness (Orkney), but Birkle Hills and arguably the Scatness buildings were also sunken structures. The well was clearly a focal point within the fort at Burghead and linked to ritual activity. Anna Ritchie, in a discussion on Pictish preChristian ideology, noted that the later Iron Age ritual significance of subterranean chambers and wells appeared to continue in the early medieval period (A. Ritchie 2003). She points to a story in the Life of Columba (Book II, chapter 11) that noted how the ‘heathen’ Picts had famous wells that were worshipped as gods (Sharpe 1995, 162–3; A. Ritchie 2003, 7). Burghead (Morayshire) is perhaps the site best known for symbol stones within a structural context; this is despite not a single stone being found in recorded archaeological contexts. The six stones from Burghead are small and often described as plaques to distinguish them from the larger upright symbol monuments. Although only six survive, it is thought there may have been up to thirty plaque-sized bull stones from the site (RCAHMS 1999, 34). Each is carved with a single bull that walks to the right and they are all slightly different from one another (Fraser 2008, 104–5). The site was a complex and impressive promontory fort. Roy’s eigtheenthcentury map of Burghead shows three sets of banks and ditches with only one entrance cutting off the headland. Inside this, a walled/banked enclosure divides the interior longitudinally with the western enclosure having two opposing entrances and the eastern having only one landward entrance (Roy 1793). Young (1890, 155) reproduced an account by Stuart who visited the site in 1809; he described a large surviving rampart, noting that it was made up of all types of material, including carved stones with ‘various animals’. The stones were found in either unknown circumstances or during building works on the South Quay, whilst Burghead no. 1 was found in the spectacular ‘well’ at the fort alongside other objects of various dates when the well was cleared in the nineteenth century. The well is now a rectangular chamber with the central basin bordered by a ledge or walkway and a step into the basin cut out of the rock; it is accessed by twenty stone steps. It was located near the entrance to the eastern platform of the fort interior. Although a connection between the bull plaques and rampart walls has been made, Ralston has pointed out that this has only recently become integrated into the site’s biography (Ralston 2004, 38). At Gurness (Orkney) a symbol stone bearing two rectangular symbols flanking a motif usually called the mirror case was found in the outlying broch village on top of a partition wall between two structures in the broch village at the eastern break in the rampart, suggesting it was not used as paving (Ritchie 1968, 130; Fraser 2008, 114). This locational description is not particularly exact, but the association between the stone’s find-spot and the main entranceway to the broch complex seems certain. The entrance at Gurness was particularly imposing; there was one entrance through the

4 building blocks 

outer enclosures and a single straight passage leading to the broch tower itself, where it bifurcates around the broch tower entrance. The well at Gurness is inside the broch tower on the other side of a wall from the entrance to the tower itself (Armit 2003, 101). The well is thought to either predate or be contemporary with the broch tower and is an elaborate structure with corbelled cells and hollow secret chambers, stairs and a short drop at the top and bottom of the chamber (Armit 2003). It is impractical as a water source and has ritual connotations; the structure at Mine Howe offers a parallel, as do other broch ‘wells’ of overly complex construction (A. Ritchie 2003, 7). The floor over the well apparently sank repeatedly, requiring levelling-up episodes before the chamber was paved over (Armit 2003, 108). A similar situation might be postulated at the Knowe of Burrian, where the deposition of the symbol stone was part of efforts to close and block the entrance to the well there. Sunken or semi-subterranean structures are quite a distinctive feature of Pictish architecture, particularly in the Northern and Western Isles (Ralston 1997, 22–3). Many of the excavated Pictish sites are at places with long settlement histories (such as at Scatness), allowing the Picts to reuse earlier structures, but also dig into middens to provide the support and semi-subterranean layout that seemed preferable. This sunken characteristic has been suggested to help protect settlements from wind and weather and to offer constructional support to the stone, often corbelled, buildings, and it is a long-standing construction technique in these regions stretching back into the Neolithic. A sunken or subterranean element is thus a strong concept that must have structured Pictish life and ideology. The late Iron Age association with wells and the prevalence of souterrains also suggests that the concept of ‘underground’ had ideological significance. There are many sunken structures including later Iron Age wells that have no contemporary or later associations with symbol stones, so it is not suggested here that there is any rule regarding the placement of symbol stones in or near underground structures. However, the juxtaposition of many of the structural stones with this element deserves consideration. This is also reinforced by the association of those ‘hidden’ symbols, some of which are not associated with a sunken structure, to the earth or underground. There appears to be a repetitive practice associating structural symbol stones with the underground and by extension an ideology where the underground takes on some association with an otherworld. Evidence for Pictish non-Christian belief is scarce. Anna Ritchie (2003) outlined several possibilities for structures and places associated with ritual activity, including natural places and the wells of the later Iron Age. She also identified a series of small structures in Orkney and Shetland with the potential to be interpreted as shrines, at least in part, as such divisions between sacred and profane are probably anachronistic (A. Ritchie 2003, 5). These include small circular freestanding structures, sometimes just outside other buildings in the settlement, ranging from 2.5 m to 3.0 m in

103

104 

meggen gondek

Fig. 4.5 Thresholds and movement: stones and their locations from Scatness (top left), Dunadd (top centre), Trusty’s Hill (top right), Dunnicaer (bottom left and centre) and East Lomond Hill (bottom right). Where location is not known in the structure, only the stone is pictured.

diameter with central areas marked in some special way (A. Ritchie 2003). These structures may provide a parallel for the sunken-floored building at Rhynie, situated next to the Craw Stane, which is approximately 3.3 m in diameter (Fig. 4.1). Other structures she identifies as having ritual connotations are buildings where the hearth is immediately inside the entrance, causing awkward access patterns to the structure; Structure 5 at Scatness, where the boar-carved slab was found, is one example (A. Ritchie 2003, 6). The above suggests that Class I symbol stones, particularly those with lone animals or only animal symbols (like the Craw Stane), played a role in pre-Christian ritual activities not necessarily associated with public display or the creation of memories focused on individuals or lineages.

Past, over, through With both visible and invisible symbol stones, movement and often a connection to an entranceway seem significant factors in constructional decisions (Fig. 4.5). As noted above, movement over paving slabs and the structures they were part of seemed dominating features at both Pool and Birkle Hill. The boar slab at Scatness is part of the hearth awkwardly sited at the entrance to the building, requiring a reconsideration of movement around the fire. The symbol stones, although not displaying their carved

4 building blocks 

messages to those above-ground, play a role in habitual actions of movement that seem important at these sites. The outcrop carvings at Dunadd and Trusty’s Hill (Kirkcudbrightshire) both have clear associations with high-status settlement activity and structures (Thomas 1961; Lane and Campbell 2000; Toolis and Bowles 2013). The ‘Pictish-ness’ of the symbols is problematic owing to their locations well outside traditional Pictish areas. Their appearance has been interpreted as a sign of Pictish activity, such as a successful capture of the fort, at these sites (Feachem 1950). There may, however, be more peaceful reasons why symbols normally associated with Pictland occur at these forts, such as political, ideological or social alliances. At Dunadd, the boar occurs with other carvings on an outcrop, including a single footprint interpreted as playing a key role in inauguration ceremonies for the kings of Dal Riata (Lane and Campbell 2000). The outcrop and immediate surrounding area were not probably built into a structure as the ritual needed to be visible. The outcrop location symbolically represents the ‘pinnacle’ of movement at the fort, being located near the vertical and horizontal hierarchical focus of a complex of walls and enclosures that emphasize thresholds and movement. At Trusty’s Hill, the symbols are carved into an outcrop located at the entrance to the fort. There are three motifs and a recently discovered Ogham inscription (untranslatable): a double disc and Z-rod with two pointed ends (an unusual feature), a fish-like beast and a pointed object sometimes interpreted as a sword, whetstone or a pin (Feachem 1950; Cessford 1994; Toolis and Bowles 2013, 15). The fort was partly excavated by Thomas in 1960 and trenches were re-excavated in 2012 by the Galloway Picts Project (Thomas 1961; Toolis and Bowles 2013). The 2012 excavations showed that a substantial (1.8 m across) rock-cut basin lay near the fort entrance and carved outcrop (Toolis and Bowles 2013, 23–4). The main defences and activity of the fort appear to show an Iron Age origin with early medieval (fifth- to seventh-century) high-status settlement (Thomas 1961; Toolis and Bowles 2013, 47). These two examples of excavated forts with integral carved elements suggest that carvings could be deliberately placed at significant points in built complexes, where they were part of ritual acts or habitual engagement. The connection to the underground is also present via the rock-cut basins at both sites. These examples provide a comparable situation to the location of the Craw Stane at Rhynie, which appears to be located at an entrance. The accentuating of thresholds and movement may be echoed at other sites. The bear slab at Scatness is considered by the excavators as having been visible from the entrance of a wheelhouse (Structure 11). The Pictish (Phase 2) building was complex, with six cells divided by piers and another circular structure (Structure 20) accessed through Cell 3, almost directly opposite the south-east-facing entrance (Dockrill 2010, 46). In Cell 4, across from the entrance, a blocked ambry in the wall contained a cache of neatly aligned quartz pebbles, suggesting votive practice (Dockrill 2010,

105

106 

meggen gondek

52). The bear stone was found face down on an ash-rich deposit spread from the area north of the hearth into Cell 4 (the deposit has been dated to around the seventh to ninth centuries AD) (Dockrill 2010, 55). The morphology of the bear slab suggested to the excavators that the stone could have formed one of the terminal orthostats of a pier of Cell 4, and thus would have been visible (Dockrill 2010, 50, 313). The bear stone is thus potentially connected to a highly visible point in the building, across from the entrance, and is associated with a cell linked to ritual activity. Built into Structure 6 at Scatness (a Pictish phase wheelhouse inserted into an earlier structure) was a stone with a pecked design, not a recognized Pictish symbol, but possibly a quadruped (Dockrill 2010, 57 and 312). The stone was a visible component of pier 631, facing into Cell 1 left of the entrance (Dockrill 2010, 58, 312). Dates for the earliest hearth structure in the building range in the mid-sixth to ninth centuries with a second hearth dating to the seventh to ninth centuries (Dockrill 2010, 62). The image is difficult to interpret; the excavators claim it may be a series of abstract arcs and lines or possibly a very stylized quadruped, but the latter seems more likely (Dockrill 2010, 312). Probably visible only in low light, it is one of the only examples of an excavated carved stone, although not with a recognized ‘symbol,’ still in situ with visible carved decoration that played a role in accentuating division within the building. Even the plaques interpreted as part of walls as at Burghead (presumably visible) reflect this concern with movement and thresholds. Here it could be the movement of following along the wall, but it is also the movement of passing through a wall that has the symbol stones built into it. In addition to a potential ‘wall’ placement at the Broch of Gurness and the collection of stones from Dunnicaer (Aberdeenshire) may be related to a wall given their findspots and ‘plaque’ size, but their exact original location is unknown (Alcock and Alcock 1992, 280). In 1832, locals climbed atop the precipitous rock stack of Dunnicaer (led by stories of hidden gold) and once there decided to throw stones off a low wall down into the sea below. One of the men stopped when he realised a stone had carving on it and he took it back to the mainland. Searches at the base of the stack during low tide eventually produced the others (Thomson 1859). There is no dating evidence for the low wall of which the stones were part and thus they could be either in an original or much later reused context. Another possible ‘plaque’ find is of the ox/steer carved stone found at the fort on East Lomond Hill. The stone is very similar in size, scale and iconography to the Burghead bulls and circumstantial evidence suggests it comes from the area of fort associated with the entrance (Corrie 1926, 32; Alcock 2003, 207). The site has not been excavated, but stray finds include an undated spindle whorl, two glass beads and a mould for casting small metal ingots, which could be Iron Age (RCAHMS 1933, 143–4).

4 building blocks 

Memories hidden and stories retold In talking about memory, Andrew Meirion Jones has advocated that the concept of citation is useful (2001, 339–40). Actions and ideas build on previous actions, objects and ideas but massage them to create new objects, practices and cosmologies. In the instances described above, people are reworking their relationship with the otherworld within new material cultural practices and technologies of remembrance. The potential ritual wells of the Picts, described by St Columba, and the engagement with the otherworld that they embodied may have been a fundamental ideological concept from long-standing Iron Age traditions. The underground appears to have liminal associations with crossing between worlds and movement back and forth between them. The survival of impressive subterranean stone structures in the north and west of Scotland may unfairly point to this being a limited concept regionally. However, the frequent presence of souterrains in lowland areas suggests that the underground was a place many Later Iron Age communities engaged with on some level. Prehistoric and later Iron Age carvings such as rock-art or Roman milestones probably survived in the Pictish period landscape. However, carving stone was not the normal thing to do in Iron Age Scotland and the emergence of carved symbols in stone in the fifth to seventh centuries combines a new type of physical engagement with the material of stone. By carving the symbol stones communities may have been promoting a new version of the past. The occurrence of some of these monuments in structural contexts helps to explore the way at least in the fifth to seventh centuries societies may have been repeating an earlier practice of associating ideology with the underworld with a new mnemonic device in a new situation. Whatever the explicit message of the symbols, the context of use in structural situations seems highly symbolic or even ritualized (e.g. votive), suggesting that the message may not have been solely for the benefit of the living community. Social action and meaning are embedded within the practice of daily life (Hodder and Cessford 2004). Certainly those living in or using the structures habitually encountered the stones consciously and unconsciously; this process maintained and promulgated social memories linked to carving, construction, monumentality and communication with the otherworld. However, the division of sacred and domestic is not clear cut and these carved stone monuments may not only have been mnemonic devices for the living. Those populating the otherworld, whether gods or ancestors, might have also habitually engaged with the stones and their symbols. The monuments are thus also part of social engagements by the ‘others’ that create social memories in the otherworld, which renegotiates how relationships between the two worlds should work. In this way the structural carved stones help to recall the ancestral traditions and create new ones suitable for articulating the social

107

108 

meggen gondek

and cosmological rules of engagement and relations of power between the living and the others. Although archaeologically dated contexts are rare, the dated contexts at Pool, Rhynie, Dunadd and Trusty’s Hill do point to the practice of associating carved monuments with structures as early as the fifth to seventh centuries AD. However, this is not enough to say whether the tradition of upstanding landscape monuments carved with symbols, the ‘classic’ Class I type, followed on from these stones engaged with the others in a structural context. These instances of movement in structures are microcosms of what may be happening with other stones in landscape contexts, if these are contemporary to structural stones. In the Strathdon region of Aberdeenshire the general location of symbol stones coincides with reconstructed medieval parish boundaries, highlighting their potential liminal significance (Fraser and Halliday 2007, 124). The power of movement in structural contexts is condensed and the stress is on moving through or over, offering a parallel to the metaphysical concept of moving between states of being such as inside/outside. However, the ritual and votive contexts of many of these structural stones suggests that this reflects a greater concern or memory of the movement between this world and the underworld/otherworld. The juxtaposition of carved symbols and the entrance, but not the interior, of Covesea Cave (Morayshire) and its potential link to late Iron Age ritual killing also echoes this link between symbols, threshold/movement, ritual and transitions between above ground/underground and the worlds of the living and the dead. This paper has argued that even stones with ‘hidden’ or invisible symbols were purposefully placed and that they are votive messages meant in part to convey social memory to ‘others’ populating an underworld/otherworld that was very significant in pre-Christian Pictish ideology. Those monuments that were visible are connected to the theme of movement by and through the structures of which they were part, emphasizing the concept of crossing through thresholds, a mnemonic device for the significance of, and the relationships to, the otherworld. In addition to exploring the use of Class I stones as mnemonic devices, this examination of structural stones also aimed to help contextualize the potential structural setting of the Craw Stane at Rhynie. The Craw Stane certainly appears superficially to be a landscape monument. However, it does share aspects of other structural stones: it would have been visible, but only to a few, it is connected to entrances and movement, it may be associated with a sunken structure similar in morphology to other proposed Pictish shrines and it has a rare symbolic pairing of only animal symbols. Monuments bearing symbols, particularly the animal symbols, are appropriate for these otherworldly liminal places and transmissions and movement over or through symbolic boundaries and adapting a pre-existing association with thresholds between worlds.

4 building blocks 

Acknowledgements Many thanks to my colleagues, Jo Kirton and Howard Williams, for insightful comments on earlier drafts of this paper. Thanks are also due to the referees for their valuable comments, as well as to Ewan Campbell, who commented on a very early version. The Rhynie material would not be possible without the work of my co-director of the Rhynie Environs Archaeological Project, Gordon Noble. All errors remain the fault of the author.

Bibliography Alcock, L. 2003. Kings and Warriors, Craftsmen and Priests in Northern Britain AD 550–850, Edinburgh: Society of Antiquaries of Scotland Alcock, L. and Alcock, E. 1992. Reconnaissance excavations on Early Historic fortifications and other royal sites in Scotland, 1974–84: A, Excavations and other fieldwork at Forteviot, Perthshire, 1981; B, Excavations at Urquhart Castle, Inverness-shire, 1983; C, Excavations at Dunnottar, Kincardineshire, 1984, Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland, 122, 215–87 Allen, J. and Anderson, J. 1903 (1993 reprint). Early Christian Monuments of Scotland, Balgavies: Pinkfoot Press Armit, I. 2003. Towers in the North: the Brochs of Scotland, Stroud: Tempus Armit, I., Schulting, R. Knüsel, C. and Shepherd, I. 2011. Death, decapitation and display? The Bronze and Iron Age human remains from the Sculptor’s Cave, Covesea, north-east Scotland, Proceedings of the Prehistoric Society, 77, 251–78 Ashmore, P. 1980. Low cairns, long cists and symbol stones, Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland, 110, 346–55 Bashford, D. 2010. Salmon carving, SF43719, in Dockrill et al. 2010, 306–7 Benton, S. 1931. The excavations of the Sculptor’s Cave, Covesea, Morayshire, Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland, 65, 177–216 Bond, J. 2002. Pictish pigs and Celtic cowboys: food and farming in the Atlantic Iron Age, in B. Ballin Smith and I. Banks (eds), In the Shadow of the Brochs: the Iron Age in Scotland, 177–90, Stroud: Tempus Bond, J. 2010. Boar carving, SF8492, in Dockrill et al. 2010, 307–9 Carver, M. 2001. Why that? Why there? Why then? The politics of early medieval monumentality, in H. Hamerow and A. MacGregor (eds), Image and Power in the Archaeology of Early Medieval Britain, 1–22, Oxford: Oxbow Carver, M. 2009. Early Scottish monasteries and prehistory: a preliminary dialogue, Scottish Historical Review, 88, 332–51 Cessford, C. 1994. Pictish raiders at Trusty’s Hill, Transactions of the Dumfriesshire and Galloway Natural History and Antiquarian Society, 69, 81–8

109

110 

meggen gondek

Chadwick, A. 2012. Routine magic, mundane ritual: towards a unified notion of depositional practice, Oxford Journal Archaeology, 31(3), 283–315 Clarke, D. 2007. Reading the multiple lives of Pictish symbol stones, Medieval Archaeology, 51, 19–39 Clarke, D. and Heald, A. 2008. A new date for Pictish symbols, Medieval Archaeology, 52, 291–6 Corrie, J. M. 1926. Notice of … (2) a symbol stone from East Lomond Hill, Fife, recently presented to the National Musuem, Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland, 60, (1925–26), 27–34 Dingwall, K. 2011. Peterhead Enclosure, Auchterarder. A9 Loaninghead Junction, unpublished report PESM10/002. Edinburgh: Headland Archaeology Dockrill, S. 2003. Broch, wheelhouse, cell: redefining the Iron Age in Shetland, in Downes and Ritchie (eds) 2003, 82–94 Dockrill, S. 2010. The Pictish Village, in Dockrill et al. 2010, 27–76 Dockrill, S., Bond, J., Turner, V., Brown, L., Bashford, D., Cussans, J. and Nicholson, R. 2010. Excavations at Old Scatness, Shetland Volume 1: The Pictish Village and Viking Settlement, Lerwick: Shetland Heritage Publications Downes, J. and Ritchie, A. (eds) 2003. Sea Change: Orkney and Northern Europe in the Later Iron Age AD 300–800, Balgavies: The Pinkfoot Press Driscoll, S. 1988. Power and authority in early historic Scotland: Pictish symbol stones and other documents, in J. Gledhill, B. Bender and M. Trolle (eds), State and Society: the Emergence and Development of Social Hierarchy and Political Centralization, 215–36, London: Unwin Hyman Driscoll, S.T. 1998. Picts and prehistory: cultural resource management in early medieval Scotland, World Archaeology, 30(1), 142–58 Eaton, T. 2000. Plundering the Past: Roman Stonework in Medieval Britain, Stroud: Tempus Edwards, N. 2009. Rethinking the Pillar of Eliseg, Antiquaries Journal, 89, 143–77 Feachem, R.W. 1950. A New Pictish symbol-stone in the Lowlands, Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland, 84, 206–8 Forsyth, K. 1997. Some thoughts on Pictish symbols as a formal writing system, in D. Henry (ed.) 1997, 85–98 Fraser, I. (ed.) 2008. The Pictish Symbol Stones of Scotland, Edinburgh: RCAHMS Fraser, I. and Halliday, S. 2007. The Early Medieval Landscape, in RCAHMS, In the Shadow of Bennachie: a Field Archaeology of Donside, Aberdeenshire, 115–35, Edinburgh: Society of Antiquaries of Scotland and the RCAHMS Gondek, M. 2007. Pictish symbol stones: caught between prehistory and history, in A. Mazel, G. Nash and C. Waddington (eds), Art as Metaphor: The Prehistoric Rock-art of Britain, 69–89, Oxford: Archaeopress

4 building blocks 

Gondek, M. 2010. Constructing sacred space – soil, stone, water and symbols: early medieval carved stone monuments from Tillytarmont, Aberdeenshire, in A. George, D. Hawley, G. Nash, J. Swann and L. Waite (eds), Early Medieval Enquiries, 318–33, Bristol: Clifton Antiquarian Club Gondek, M. and Noble, G. 2011. Together as one: the landscape of the symbol stones at Rhynie, Aberdeenshire, in S. Driscoll, J. Geddes and M. Hall (eds), Pictish Progress, 95–110, Leiden: Brill Green, M. 1992. Dictionary of Celtic Myth and Legend, London: Thames and Hudson Henderson, G. and Henderson, I. 2004. The Art of the Picts: Sculpture and Metalwork in Early Medieval Scotland, London: Thames and Hudson Henderson, I. 1967. The Picts, London: Thames and Hudson Henry, D. (ed.) 1997. The Worm, the Germ, and the Thorn, Balgavies: The Pinkfoot Press Hodder, I. and Cessford, C. 2004. Daily practice and social memory at Çatalhöyük, American Antiquity, 69(1), 17–40 Hunter, J. 2007. The Iron Age, in J. Hunter with J. Bond and A. Smith, Vol. 1: Excavations at Pool, Sanday A Multi-period Settlement from Neolithic to Late Norse times, 75–120, Edinburgh: Historic Scotland Jones, A. 2001. Drawn from memory: the archaeology of aesthetics and the aesthetics of archaeology in Earlier Bronze Age Britain and the present, World Archaeology, 33(2), 334–56 Jones, A. 2005a. Between a rock and a hard place: rock art and mimesis in Neolithic and Bronze Age Scotland, in V. Cummings and A. Pannett (eds), Set in Stone: New Approaches to Neolithic Monuments in Scotland, 107–17, Oxford: Oxbow Books Jones, A. 2005b. By way of illustration: art, memory and materiality in the Irish Sea region and beyond, in V. Cummings and C. Fowler (eds), The Neolithic of the Irish Sea: materiality and traditions of practice, 174–85, Oxford: Oxbow Lane, A. and Campbell, E. 2000. Dunadd: an Early Dalriadic Capital, Oxford: Cardiff Studies in Archaeology Last, J. 1998. A design for life: interpreting the art of Çatalhöyük, Journal of Material Culture, 3(3), 355–78 Lee, R., Jonathan, P. and Ziman, P. 2010. Pictish symbols revealed as a written language through application of Shannon entropy, Proceedings of the Royal Society A: Mathematical, Physical and Engineering Sciences, 31 March 2010, 2545–60 (available online at rspa.royalsocietypublishing. org) Noble, G. and Gondek, M. 2011. Symbol Stones in Context: Excavations at Rhynie, an undocumented Pictish Power Centre of the 6th–7th centuries AD? Medieval Archaeology, 55, 317–21 Pluskowski, A. 2010. Animal magic, in M. Carver, A. Sanmark and S.

111

112 

meggen gondek

Semple (eds), Signals of Belief in Early England: Anglo-Saxon Paganism Revisited, 103–27, Oxford: Oxbow Ralston, I. 1997. Pictish homes, in D. Henry (ed.) 1997, 18–34 Ralston, I. 2004. The Hill-forts of Pictland since ‘The Problem of the Picts’, Rosemarkie: Groam House Museum. Ritchie, A. 2003. Paganism among the Picts and the conversion of Orkney, in Downes and Ritchie (eds) 2003, 3–10 Ritchie, J. 1968. Two new Pictish symbol stones from Orkney, Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland, 101, 130–33 Ritchie, J. 2003. Pictish art in Orkney, in Downes and Ritchie (eds) 1997, 117–26 Ritchie, J. N. G. and Stevenson, J. N. 1993. Pictish cave art at East Wemyss, Fife, in R. M. Spearman and J. Higgitt (eds), The Age of Migrating Ideas: Early Medieval Art in Northern Britain and Ireland, 196–208, Edinburgh: National Museum of Scotland Roy, W. 1793. The Military Antiquities of the Romans in Britain, London, accessed at http://maps.nls.uk/roy/antiquities/page.cfm?id=2411 28 Jan 2012 RCAHMS 1933. Eleventh Report with Inventory of Monuments and Constructions in the Counties of Fife, Kinross, and Clackmannanshire, Edinburgh: RCAHMS RCAHMS 1999. Pictish Symbol Stones: an Illustrated Gazetteer, Edinburgh: RCAHMS RCAHMS n.d. Parc-an-Caipel, Congash. Burial Ground, Chapel (Possible), Enclosure(s), Pictish Symbol Stone(s). Canmore ID 15675. NMRS no: NJ02NE 1.00. Retrieved from: http://canmore.rcahms.gov. uk/en/site/15675/details/parc+an+caipel+congash/ Samson, R. 1992. The reinterpretation of the Pictish symbols, Journal of the British Archaeological Association, 145, 29–65 Sharpe, R. (trans.) 1995. Adomnán of Iona: Life of St Columba, London: Penguin Books Sproat, R. 2010. Ancient symbols, computational linguistics, and the reviewing practices of the general science journals, Computational Linguistics, 36(3), 585–94 (doi:10.1162/coli_a_00011) Shepherd, I. and Shepherd, A. 1978. An incised Pictish figure and a new symbol stone from Barflat, Rhynie, Gordon District, Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland, 109, 211–22 Thomas, C. 1961. Excavations at Trusty’s Hill, Anwoth, Kirkcudbright, 1960, Transactions of the Dumfriesshire and Galloway Natural History and Antiquarian Society, 3rd series, 3, 58–70 Thomson, A. 1859. Notice of sculptured stones found at ‘Dinnacair’, near Stonehaven, Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland, 3, 69–75 Toolis, R. and Bowles, C. 2013. The Galloway Picts Project: Excavation and Survey of Trusty’s Hill, Gatehouse of Fleet Data Structure Report Project

4 building blocks 

3309, report for the Dumfriesshire and Galloway Natural History and Antiquarian Society. Available online at: http://www.gallowaypicts.com/ Turner, V. 1994. The Mail stone: an incised Pictish figure from Mail, Cunningsburgh, Shetland, Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland, 124, 315–25 Van Dyke, R. and Alcock, S. 2003. Archaeologies of Memory: An Introduction, in R. van Dyke and S. Alcock (eds), Archaeologies of memory, 1–13, Oxford: Blackwell Wessex Archaeology. 2005. Wemyss Caves, Fife, Scotland: Archaeological Evaluation and Assessment of Results, report for Videotext Communications Ltd. Report Ref: 55754.01. Salisbury. Wessex Archaeology. Available online at: http://www.wessexarch.co.uk/system/ files/55754_Wemyss%20Caves.pdf Williams, H. 1998. Monuments and the past in early Anglo-Saxon England, World Archaeology, 30(1), 90–108 Williams, H. 2003. Material culture as memory: combs and cremation in early medieval Britain, Early Medieval Europe, 12(2), 89–128 Williams, H. 2011. Remembering elites: early medieval stone crosses as commemorative technologies, in L. Boye, P. Ethelberg, L. Heidemann Lutz, S. Kleingärtner, P. Kruse, L. Matthes and A. B. Sørensen (eds), Arkæologi i Slesvig/Archäologie in Schleswig. Sonderband ‘Det 61. Internationale Sachsensymposion 2010’ Haderslev, Denmark, 13–32, Neumünster: Wachholtz Young, H. 1890. The ancient bath at Burghead, with remarks on its origin, as shewn by existing baths of the same shape and design, Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland, 24, 147–56

113

5

Memory, Belief and Identity: Remembering the Dead on Iniscealtra, Co. Clare Clíodhna O’Leary

Introduction

T

Fig. 5.1 Map of Co. Clare.

he island of Iniscealtra is situated in Scarriff Bay on Lough Derg, on the lower River Shannon, near the boundaries between counties Clare, Galway and Tipperary (Fig. 5.1). Although the earliest phase of Iniscealtra’s history remains somewhat obscure, hagiographical and annalistic evidence imply the presence of an ecclesiastical settlement there by the early to midsixth century (AFM 548; AU 549; VSH 229 §15; Ó Riain 2011, 210, 422). Moreover, excavation confirmed that habitation was continuous from the seventh century (de Paor 1997, 92; 2013, 43). Today this major ecclesiastical complex preserves the remains of five churches (usually surrounded by a cemetery), a round tower and various medieval and post-medieval

5 memory, belief and identity 

115 Fig. 5.2 Plan of Iniscealtra showing main features.

monuments, including a shrine-structure, a holy well, bullaun stones* and a network of earthworks (Fig. 5.2). Its sculptural collection includes over seventy cross-inscribed stones, approximately forty plain grave-slabs, several high crosses and smaller crosses, as well as numerous cross-bases and socketed stones. Sundials and architectural pieces also endure. In the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries Iniscealtra’s sculpture attracted antiquarian attention (Brash 1866; Petrie 1878, 41–4; Deane 1880; Westropp 1900–02, 124–6, 155–7; 1906; Macalister 1906; Crawford 1907, 203–4; 1912, 228–9). In 1916, R. A. S. Macalister made the first coherent attempt to catalogue the collection in its entirety by producing line drawings with accompanying descriptions. The sculpture was cited in several publications from the mid-twentieth century onwards (including Macalister 1949, nos 888–906; Lionard 1961, 148–9; de Paor 1977, 99; Henry

*  Bullaun stones, stones with hollows in their upper surface, commonly occur on early ecclesiastical sites in Ireland (for more information see Dolan 2009).

116 

clíodhna o’leary

1970, 123–4; Higgitt 1986, 127–9, 147; Killanin and Duignan 1989, 250; Harbison 1991, 127; 1992, nos 118–21; Ó Floinn 1995, 258; Swift 1999, 111–13; Marshall and Rourke 2000, 105). Following his excavations on Iniscealtra in the 1970s, Liam de Paor (1997, appendices D–F) sought to produce an updated catalogue; owing to his untimely death, however, this was never completed. Despite the impressive scale of the collection, it has been largely ignored by modern scholarship. The only principal exception is the inclusion of twenty-two pieces in Elisabeth Okasha and Katherine Forsyth’s (2001, 46–106) Munster corpus of inscriptions; this author has subsequently discovered a twenty-third inscribed stone on Iniscealtra. In seeking to remedy this neglect, I undertook a detailed survey and comprehensive analysis of the entire collection. Iniscealtra’s sculpted stones can be broadly categorized within two groupings: Group 1 consists of fewer than twenty small pre-tenth-century crossslabs and Group 2 encompasses over 100 large eleventh- and twelfth-century grave-slabs. Recumbent slabs of later medieval date have also survived. Group 1 occur in a variety of shapes (max. length/width c. 0.7 m). This is a fairly disparate group, exhibiting a diversity of motifs and cross-types (predominantly the cross-of-arcs or equal-armed forms), as well as a wide range in technical ability, from rough, simple carvings to sculpture which indicates a deeper understanding of intricate stone-work. With over a dozen extant examples, none are in situ. Despite the broad variances between the individual stones, most can be dated to before the tenth century. Group 2 comprises approximately 100 large recumbent grave-slabs (max. length c. 2 m). They are usually rectangular, some tapering from top to base. Forty are apparently undecorated; the remainder are generally incised with long Latin outline crosses. Fifteen inscriptions survive. The majority of slabs remain in situ within the Saints’ Graveyard. This type has been assigned an eleventh-/twelfth-century date on the basis of size, form, decoration and epigraphical/textual evidence. Some stones cannot be classified confidently within either of the groups or proposed chronological frameworks. While the cause of the apparent hiatus (or decline) in sculpture production in the period between the two groupings is not the concern of the current paper, it is noteworthy that Raghnall Ó Floinn (1995) detected short intermittent periods of cross-slab production at Clonmacnoise, Co. Offaly, also on the banks of the River Shannon. He demonstrated that these distinct artistic phasic fluctuations coincided with different phases of royal patronage.

Group 1: remembering the dead through prayer Allocating precise dates to Iniscealtra’s Group 1 cross-slabs has sometimes proved problematic, but in most cases a pre-tenth-century date seems probable, with dates seemingly centring on the seventh and eighth centuries. Three Group 1 stones bear an incised equal-armed cross, framed in a square/rectangle and accompanied by a single personal name inscription

5 memory, belief and identity 

117

Fig. 5.3 Inscribed Group 1 cross-slabs.

(Fig. 5.3); these are the only surviving examples with inscriptions in the Group. Another Group 1 cross-slab, now lost, was also inscribed (Petrie 1878, 42 and pl. XXVI, fig. 55). It differed from the cross-slabs illustrated here in the indication of filiation in the inscription and the encompassment of its cross within a circular frame. The pattern combinations visible on the cross-slabs featured in Figure 5.3 bear close resemblance to a type of cross-slab occurring in abundance at Clonmacnoise: Ó Floinn’s (1995, 251–3) Type A. Type A was created by at least the mid-eighth century. The stones depicted in Figure 5.3 also share similarities with Northumbrian name stones which date from the mid-seventh to the early ninth centuries (Cramp 1984, 98–101, 202–6; Bailey 1996, 40; Okasha and Forsyth 2001, 100–101; Maddern 2007). Given these parallels, it is likely that the three stones illustrated here were also created during this period. There is a broad chronological correlation between the production of Group 1 and the development and rise in the practice of praying for the dead in Ireland (cf. Petts 2003, 207–10). Depictions starkly contrasting heaven and hell permeated early theology through inspiration from descriptions in the Book of Revelation of the Last Day, including the rise of the dead

118 

clíodhna o’leary

and the transfer of souls to heaven or hell following judgement. By the seventh century this relatively straightforward interpretation was obscured by complex conflicting opinions debating what was to happen to the soul after death and detailing the nature/number of its attainable destinations (Maddern 2007, 139). These centuries realized the first truly significant attempt to promote the idea of an interim location for souls, a foundation for the philosophy of purgatory. Debates pertaining to its evolution are highly complex. Jacques Le Goff (1984) noted that the noun ‘purgatorium’ emerged in the late twelfth century and argued that the concept did not previously exist. Others have successfully revealed a gradual ideological progression from at least AD 600 (Edwards 1985; Paxton 1990; Dunn 2000; Maddern 2007; Flanagan 2010, 12); therefore, for the purpose of this paper the term ‘purgatory’ is applied to pre-twelfth-century contexts. Mounting tension surrounding the rise of purgatory was eased by promoting the idea that the living could intercede for the dead through prayer, forging an essential relationship between the living and the dead. Prayers could influence the fate of the soul; they were believed to be effective in atoning for sins in life and could procure divine assistance for the departed souls. Praying for the dead was an ancient custom as described in II Maccabees (12:39–46) but it acquired an increasingly important role as a way of relieving the interim suffering of souls. For example, the Irish Collectio Canonum Hibernensis (c. 716–25) encourages ‘oratione pro mortuis’ (Wasserschleben 1885, 43–4). Praying, during communal liturgies and in private, served to quell the amplified apprehensions of devoted Irish Christians (Maddern 2007, 220–26). Group 1 cross-slabs were created to act as a focus and a locus for commemorative practices on Iniscealtra, probably in contexts away from the church. The cross-slabs were dressed on one side only, with decoration occupying this area. This gives the impression that they were placed flat on the ground, possibly marking a grave. In this position they could facilitate a mnemonic interface between the living and the dead. By striking sensory imprints in the mind of the observer they could potentially engineer a series of responses, internally (in the mind) and externally (physical acts), encouraging the re-experience and recreation of memories. A cross-slab could trigger a memory of an individual or an event. Among the desired responses were the recital of prayers for the dead and the eternal preservation of the deceased’s memory for whom the prayers were offered, be they for the commissioner of the cross-slab or for whomever the prayer-giver felt personally obliged to remember. Their carved crosses permanently expressed the pre-eminence of death and salvation and hence by the very nature of their decoration they stimulated prayer-giving (cf. Devlin 2011, 34). This emphasizes the essential role of an active audience. Acts of remembrance, centring on the cross-slabs, may have taken place during formal communal events such as funerals, or were perhaps undertaken informally by individual community members or visitors through private prayer and individual devotions.

5 memory, belief and identity 

The cross-slabs in Figure 5.3 each bear an inscription consisting of a single personal name. Two of the names are apparently male. One inscription forms the male personal name Flaithbertach (Fig. 5.3a), while the other is inscribed with the letters ‘derm’ followed by at least two more letters probably forming the male personal name Dermait (Fig. 5.3b). While the name is undoubtedly a common one, it is noteworthy that the annals record the obituary of ‘Diarmait, abbot of Iniscealtra’ in 762 (AI; contra Macalister 1916–17, 104), a plausible date for this cross-slab. The previously mentioned lost cross-slab supposedly commemorated a male named Móengal mac Lodgin (Petrie 1878, pl. XXVI, fig. 55). The third stone illustrated here is inscribed with the word Muir[–]aith (Fig. 5.3c). However, the text is badly worn and the middle letters are difficult to decipher. Okasha and Forsyth (2001, 96) suggest that if ‘the penultimate letter is a c rather than a t then the text could be a form of the male personal name Muiredach’. This author is confident that this letter is a t but this does not discount the possibility of the text forming a variant of that name. The genealogies preserve a female name Muiriath (O’Brien 1976, 18 §118; Okasha and Forsyth 2001, 96). This potential female may have taken the vows of monachus (cf. Swift 1999, 113; 2003, 109; Etchingham 1999, 283); alternatively, she may have been a devoted Christian of secular status perhaps in monastic retirement on Iniscealtra. Owing to the difficulty in deciphering the inscription, the gender of the individual commemorated remains uncertain. Cross-slabs facilitated the offering of prayers addressed directly to God for the dead, and prayers to the ‘special’ dead as intercessors for the living and for the souls of the ordinary dead (Maddern 2007, 191, 233). Given the relative sparsity of inscriptions it seems possible that the named persons on the Group 1 slabs may represent such ‘special’ individuals. This argument may not apply to the unparalleled collection at Clonmacnoise, where at least twenty-six Type A cross-slabs bear names (Ó Floinn 1995, table 2). If the inscriptions do represent ‘special’ individuals in the context of Iniscealtra, prayers were made both for and, more significantly, to these individuals, thereby enhancing their role, in death, through their power of mediation. This resonates in the context of the seventh-century rise in the cult of the corporeal remains of the saints and the ‘very special dead’ (Brown 1981). Likewise, it resonates in the name of the main early medieval cemetery on Iniscealtra: the Saints’ Graveyard. The name inscribed on a cross-slab could evoke a memory and its recital may itself have constituted a prayer, serving as a proclamation and a celebration in its own right, much in the same way as the contemporaneous practice of reading names aloud during Mass. Evidence for such is contained in the Stowe Missal (c. 792–812) (Paxton 1990, 79; Maddern 2007, 80, 109), which is associated with Lorrha, Co. Tipperary, on the eastern banks of Lough Derg, about 30 km north-east of Iniscealtra. It preserves not only a Mass for the dead but also a memento of the dead, in the canon of the non-ferial Mass which provides for the recital of the names of the ‘ordinary’

119

120 

clíodhna o’leary

dead (Warner 1906–15, II, 9; Maddern 2007, 221; Ó Carragáin 2010a, 210). Similar evidence is contained within the Irish seventh-century Penitential of Cummian (Maddern 2007, 221, fn. 675). Such acts probably refer to the utilization of Libri vitae: memorial books which contained lists of names of the living and deceased serving as prayer-reminders essential in guaranteeing the endurance of memories of a community’s dead (Maddern 2007, 89, 228–31). The generation and implementation of such a record was a mammoth task necessitating the perpetual remembrance of each individual Christian through the liturgy. For members of the ecclesiastical familia and for others with means, such as benefactors, this was not an abstract aspiration. How widespread this practice of name recital became in Ireland is difficult to determine owing to the lack of surviving lists. Significantly, aside from the three examples presented in Figure 5.3, the remaining Group 1 cross-slabs do not bear inscriptions. Evidently, the inscribing of names in stone was rarely executed on Iniscealtra at this time. By contrast, in roughly the same period, some two-thirds of approximately fifty Type A cross-slabs from Clonmacnoise carry inscriptions (Ó Floinn 1995, 252–3). Clonmacnoise is unique in this regard and should not be viewed as reflective of the wider sculptural tradition in Ireland; with c. 700 pieces the site was manufacturing sculpture on an incomparable scale. The implications of the absence of inscriptions are explored below (see Group 2). Prayer confraternities were established across Europe from the seventh century. These were intercession arrangements made between communities for mutual spiritual support (Paxton 1990, 66–7, 101, 204; Effros 2002, 210; Maddern 2007, 132–3, 222–8; Ó Carragáin 2010a, 210). Their existence in Ireland may be attested by the practice, possibly of Irish origin, of soliciting prayers through scribal colophons; an example is preserved in the eighthcentury Book of Durrow (Maddern 2007, 194). Rev. Moloney (1964) proposed that miniature name stones of seventh- to ninth-century date from Toureen Peacaun, Co. Tipperary, were originally stored in a location physically independent from the actual grave of the named individual, and probably within the church. In this setting the stones may conceivably commemorate individuals with no direct connections with the site: members of fellow confraternities. It was suggested that the inscribed names were used as prompts during acts of liturgical remembrance of the dead, in a comparable manner to the contemporary Libri vitae (Moloney 1964, 105–6). Some of the inscribed stones from Anglo-Saxon England may also form a ‘lapidary liber vitae’ (Okasha 2004, 91). The stones from Toureen Peacaun are smaller and more portable than most cross-slabs, and so this theory is difficult to substantiate for the bulk of early medieval sculpture. Although Iniscealtra’s Group 1 share some characteristics with the stones from Toureen Peacaun (including the utilization of the cross-arms for syllable separation), their larger scale/weight and the relative paucity of inscriptions in contrast to the name stones support the opinion that at Iniscealtra the cross-slabs stimulated less formal (possibly non-liturgical) acts of remembrance, away from the church, and probably at the grave-site.

5 memory, belief and identity 

While Ó Floinn (1995) insists that the sculpture from Clonmacnoise was derived from local royal patronage, Catherine Swift (1999, 114, 117–18; 2003) used epigraphy, especially the lack of patronymics, to support her assertion that cross-slabs commemorated ecclesiastics. On Iniscealtra, the moderate quantity constituting Group 1 can be explained by the probability that the cross-slabs were limited almost exclusively to a small number of ecclesiastics and ecclesiastical tenants (manaig) within the island’s immediate community. Perhaps, some lay benefactors, committed Christians who provided donations to the church on Iniscealtra, also commissioned sculpture. These various groups embody what Colmán Etchingham (1999; 2006, 85) refers to as a Christian élite: the ‘paramonastics’. Etchingham (1999, chapter 6; 2006, 85–8) argued that they were favoured with pastoral services, while the majority of Christians were only marginally exposed to pastoral care. However, the density of early ecclesiastical sites throughout Ireland testifies to the close interaction between local communities and local ministry (Ó Carragáin 2010b, 221). Nevertheless, burial at major ecclesiastical centres such as Iniscealtra and especially the commissioning of cross-slabs were probably confined to this élite. An analysis of contemporary Irish mortuary data strengthens this argument. It was previously assumed that, in Ireland, the transition to ecclesiastical burial for all Christians had been accomplished by the eighth or ninth centuries (O’Brien 1992; 2003). Recent syntheses of the results of excavations undertaken in advance of the infrastructural developments of the ‘boom years’ have revised our perception of early medieval burial. There is now abundant evidence for a range of cemeteries away from churches, including small unenclosed or partially enclosed cemeteries (O’Brien 2003) and larger curvilinear enclosures which provide evidence for both habitation and burial but without observable ecclesiastical features (see various contributions in Corlett and Potterton 2010). Together these must have served a sizeable subsection of the population and a significant number, especially of the latter type of cemetery, were still used for burial in the later centuries of the early medieval period. Most produced fewer than 200 interments (Ó Carragáin 2010b, 218). Greater numbers occur, for example, at Parknahown, Co. Laois, with over 400 interments (O’Neill 2010, 253), and at Faughart Lower, Co. Louth, with 772 (Buckley and McConway 2010, 54). Whole cemeteries were rarely excavated and figures were impeded by poor preservation and later disturbances. Given the volume of interments, it is extremely doubtful that non-ecclesiastical cemeteries were intended for the socially excluded; the majority probably considered themselves Christian. Elizabeth O’Brien (1992, 135–6) contended that some apprehension regarding burial at non-ecclesiastical sites was expressed in the eighthcentury Collectio Canonum Hibernensis: ‘angels visit graves of martyrs in desert places [churches], but do not visit graves among evil men [pagans] … martyrs who are buried among evil people were visited by angels, but the angels returned sad’. O’Brien regards this as an incentive to bury at

121

122 

clíodhna o’leary

ecclesiastical sites. However, it is rather ambivalent owing to the contentious interpretation of the Latin martyros (‘martyrs’). It may refer to all Christians or may have a narrower focus pertaining to the relics of holy men or saints (Lynn 1988, 71–2; Bhreathnach 2010, 26). If the latter is the case then this statement cannot lend itself to evidence for hostility towards the burial of the secular community at non-ecclesiastical sites. In any case, radiocarbon dates confirm the use of many non-ecclesiastical cemeteries into and beyond the Viking Age, demonstrating that written exhortations did little to entice the general populace to bury exclusively at ecclesiastical sites. Evidence for the continuity of non-ecclesiastical burial comes, for instance, from Johnstown 1, Co. Meath, where its inhumations spanned the early medieval period (Clarke 2010, 63–6). Various cemetery types clearly co-existed in the early medieval landscape, and some nonecclesiastical cemeteries were sited on or near contemporary ecclesiastical estates, as at Faughart Lower, Co. Louth (Boazman 2008, 426), indicating their acceptance by local ecclesiastical authorities. This may signify that non-ecclesiastical burial did not necessarily preclude clerical intervention and liturgical commemoration (Ó Carragáin 2010b, 220–21). The evolution to ecclesiastical burial progressed rather slowly and the evidence from non-ecclesiastical contexts should not be conceptualized as a failed clerical campaign to encourage burial solely at ecclesiastical sites for all segments of society; in all probability such an endeavour was never embarked upon on a meaningful scale. As may be inferred from the archaeology, local clerics seem rather accepting of the burial and commemorative activities of the secular population. This somewhat tolerant attitude may be partly due to the absence in Ireland at this time of ‘an overarching ecclesiastical hierarchy’ (Ó Carragáin 2010b, 220). The continuation of non-ecclesiastical burial, apparently with the acquiescence of local church powers, has major implications for our interpretation of burial at ecclesiastical sites such as Iniscealtra. Few major early ecclesiastical cemeteries have undergone large-scale excavation owing to their continued use to the present day; it is therefore difficult to speculate about the type or frequency of burials or the changing character of the cemeteries. The principle early medieval cemetery on Iniscealtra, the Saints’ Graveyard, remains unexcavated; however, a number of early burials were investigated elsewhere on the island. Just north of the Saints’ Graveyard approximately sixteen burials were uncovered in proximity to what is understood as successive rebuildings of a small rectangular wooden shrine (de Paor 1997, 73–9 and fig. 25). It was located near its replacement, the ‘Confessional’: a stone structure resembling a slab shrine (Figs 5.2 and 5.6), which has itself undergone several reconstructions since the later centuries of the early medieval period (de Paor 1997, 73–9, 94, figs 22–3, 25). The wooden shrine and burials were surrounded by a rectangular palisaded/fenced enclosure; again, a number of rebuilds were evident and the early medieval northern wall of the Saints’ Grave-

5 memory, belief and identity 

yard was superimposed on its southern region (de Paor 1997). The burials were accorded normal Christian orientation and their alignment frequently followed either that of the enclosure or the wooden shrine structure within it (de Paor 1997, 74–8, fig. 25). To the north of the rectangular enclosure traces of another enclosure bound a roughly circular area. Stratigraphical and stylistic evidence were employed to argue that bronze-working was practised within the circular enclosure from the eleventh century (de Paor 1997, 74–9, 93–4). Cultivation furrows stopped at the edge of the rectangular enclosure but were concealed under the circular enclosure, indicating that the rectangular enclosure, wooden shrine and associated burials predated the eleventh-century metal-working area. To the west of the principal early medieval church on the island, St Caimín’s Church, a small cluster of burials was exposed in close proximity to a complex pattern of post-holes, the early phases of which have been interpreted as an earthen church (de Paor 1997, 85–6, 93, figs 29–31). The human remains from Iniscealtra were never radiocarbon dated but, on the basis of their location, orientation and stratigraphical analysis de Paor (1997, 74–9, 85–6, 93) remarked that both groups of burials belong to a very early phase of occupation and speculated that they may be the graves of early monks.* These burials represent those privileged in achieving ecclesiastical burial at a time when non-ecclesiastical burial persisted. Not only that, but these interments were sanctioned at a major sacred ecclesiastical site when local minor ecclesiastical sites and small familial church sites dominated the Irish landscape (Ó Carragáin 2010b, 218). In light of all the mortuary evidence outlined it is reasonable to assume that Group 1 cross-slabs were commissioned by devout clerics and perhaps a small number of other Christian élites who had in some way demonstrated their commitment to the Church on Iniscealtra. Tomás Ó Carragáin (2003; 2010a, 83–4) proposed that in Ireland the precocious development of the concept of consecrated Christian space emerged in tandem with the cult of the corporeal relics of the saints. References to the ritual demarcation of space contained within seventh- and eighth-century legislation and hagiographical episodes reveal that in Ireland the presence of the saints’ relics in a cemetery sanctified the whole church site (Ó Carragáin 2010a). The rituals provided further sanctification for the relics in their original locations, deeming translation undesirable. By contrast, in Europe the remains of the ‘very special dead’ were exhumed and housed within churches (Ó Carragáin 2010a, 71). The Collectio Canonum Hibernensis forbade indoor church burial in Ireland (Wasserschleben 1885, 58–9; see also Paxton 1990, 85–6) and the archaeology confirms that it rarely occurred (Ó Carragáin 2010a, 84, 154–6). While the rituals of demarcation may have encouraged the later genesis of formal cemetery consecration outside of Ireland (Gittos 2002, 205–7), for which the earliest extant

*  Matthew Seaver’s current post-excavation project seeks to obtain radiocarbon dates.

123

124 

clíodhna o’leary

liturgical instructions from England and the Continent date from the tenth century (Treffort 1996, 141–3; Fry 1999, 42; Effros 2002, 78; Gittos 2002, 198; Ó Carragáin 2003, 146–7; 2010a, 83), most of the Irish evidence is for rituals which sanctify the whole site rather than the cemetery specifically (Ó Carragáin 2010a, 83, endnote 267). In this sophisticated model of Christian burial proximity to saintly remains was of secondary concern; burial within the ecclesiastical site which held those remains assumed priority. In a Middle Irish homily, St Columba instructs his devoted companions on Iona as follows: ‘Someone among you should go down into the soil of the island to consecrate it’ (Ó Carragáin 2010a, 83), whereupon St Odrán dies and is buried, thereby consecrating the whole island. Similarly, it is presumed that the whole island of Iniscealtra was deemed sacred and the burial space within this consecrated landscape would have been reserved for a select few, a very small percentage of whom were honoured with a cross-slab. The following textual evidence confirms that the various rites associated with remembering the dead explicitly targeted the clergy in the period under review and not the wider populace. Theological writings reflect upon changing attitudes towards the sacrament of penance in the seventh century, from a public to a private act – a change attributable to its new role in alleviating purgatorial suffering (Dunn 2000). The Irish facilitated this development through the promotion of penitentials. These were models designed to tackle sins through the stipulation of a system of tariffed penance (Paxton 1990, 68, 78–9, 99; Maddern 2007, 209, 215). Sixth- and seventh-century saints intimately associated with the foundation on Iniscealtra – St Colum mac Crimthain and St Caimín under the guise of Mocholmóc – are cited as sponsors of a certain type of vigil in the eighth-/ninth-century Old Irish Table of Penitential Commutations (Binchy 1962, §23; Ó Riain 2011, 137). This highlights that Iniscealtra was at the centre of these developments. Contemporary texts attest to the performance of penance on behalf of the deceased (Bieler 1963, 278; McNeill and Gamer 1965, 143 §4; Maddern 2007, 217). The type of penance could depend on one’s status: clerical or lay (Binchy 1962, §7). The general feeling is that the penitentials (and associated booklets of commutations) were principally concerned with tackling the misdemeanours of the clergy and advising them on how to deal with the infractions of the lay community, rather than dictating directly to secular society. The texts imply that some clerics deemed salvation as unachievable for the secular (Etchingham 1999, 271; 2006, 90; Flanagan 2010, 215). Pedagogic accounts of good and bad deaths and eschatological visions also emerged in the seventh and eighth centuries to warn of the dangers of non-compliance with correct Christian doctrine. The Irish were at the forefront of this movement abroad. For example, the out-of-body experience of the seventh-century Irish monk Fursey describes his attack by an evil spirit (Stokes 1904a, 395–7). Its stimulus had come from the acceptance of clothing by the monk from a sinner who was later sent to hell. Fursey had also provided absolution to the sinner before penance was completed. This served as a warning to priests

5 memory, belief and identity 

125 Fig. 5.4 A sample of Group 2 graveslabs.

to implement appropriate penance or they themselves would incur punishment (Effros 2002, 163; Maddern 2007, 203–4, fn. 619). Such narratives were, again, primarily directed towards the literate clergy. Owing to the lack of a single panoptic institution constituting the Church in Ireland at the time, contemporary theological writings must be viewed within their own specific local context, each as the product of an individual ascetic or a small group of overtly zealous clerics and not necessarily as a consensus of Irish clergymen. The writings offer little indication of the practices and attitudes of the majority. The archaeological evidence confirms that, on the ground, clerics largely refrained from interfering with non-ecclesiastical burial and commemoration. Like the texts, Group 1 cross-slabs were a product of an independently regulated local clerical body. The stones should be understood within an emphatically religious and monastic milieu where remembrance through prayer was part of the daily devotions for select individuals on Iniscealtra. Even within this context, only a very small, exclusive and special minority of the Christian élite was privileged with a Group 1 cross-slab.

Group 2: the impact of the reform on remembering the dead Group 2 comprises approximately 100 large recumbent dressed grave-slabs of rectangular/trapezoidal shape. Forty appear plain. The rest are generally incised with long Latin outline crosses, most commonly of hollow-angled form or plain (Fig. 5.4); a small number exhibit elaborate interlace designs

126 

Fig. 5.5 View of the Saints’ Graveyard from the northwest showing western profile of Teampall na bhFear nGonta.

clíodhna o’leary

and geometric motifs. The slabs date to the eleventh and twelfth centuries. About eighty occur in situ within the Saints’ Graveyard, located just east of St Caimín’s Church (Figs 5.2, 5.5 and 5.6). The graveyard wall was rebuilt in c. 1879 (Westropp 1900–02, 156; Macalister 1916–17, 113, 126–7, 142; de Paor 1997, 35–40, 74–6, fig. 22; Okasha and Forsyth 2001, 101–2); however, its original footings and lower course were retained and are visible in places, particularly externally along the north wall (for details and images of the original wall see Petrie 1845, 282; Dunraven 1877, pl. XCVIII; Brash 1866, 19; Deane 1880, 73). The original round-headed entrance in its western wall was also rebuilt at this time. De Paor (1997, 75–6) examined the north wall of the graveyard and noted that its erection post-dated nearby activity – outside the graveyard – in and around the Confessional. This included successive wooden shrine structures enclosed by a succession of rectangular enclosures, part of which underlies the Saints’ Graveyard (see above). This activity is believed to pre-date the eleventh century. On the grounds of its relationship with the neighbouring excavated area and on the character of the masonry of the wall and archway, de Paor (1997, 76, 95) concluded that the graveyard was enclosed in the twelfth century. The grave-slabs respect the enclosing wall and roughly follow its alignment. The grave-slabs are laid recumbently and aligned west/east in orderly rows; all, except one, have their heads to the west (Figs 5.5–5.6). This layout meant that every successive interment physically and conceptually referenced and interacted with previous ones, thereby upholding this organized

5 memory, belief and identity 

system of row formation (cf. Williams 2006, 62, 78, 105–6; Devlin 2011, 36). An unpublished later medieval vernacular metrical Life of St Caimín extravagantly praises the saint’s burial ground on Iniscealtra but does not appear to refer to the grave-slabs specifically (LC; Ó Riain 2011, 136; Flahive and Ó Riain pers. comm.). Only one grave-slab was remarked upon in the Ordnance Survey Letters of 1838 (O’Donovan and O’Conor 1838, 550–51); this cross-inscribed stone was ‘sunk in the ground’ in a location north-east of Teampall na bhFear nGonta (Church of the Wounded Men). Macalister (1916–17, 172, fn. 1) defended this oversight, stating that the other slabs were ‘completely hidden by rubbish’ until they were revealed during clearance work undertaken in c. 1879 when many of the stones were recorded for the first time (Deane 1880; see also Macalister 1906, 303). When Richard Brash (1866, 21) visited Iniscealtra in 1852 he noted in the vicinity of Teampall na bhFear nGonta ‘a number of incised sepulchral slabs, bearing crosses and inscriptions of the primitive age’ but was unable to locate them on a return visit in 1865. They had obviously become concealed by overgrowth and debris in the intervening years. Following repairs on the island by the Board of Works, Thomas Deane (1880, 73) recorded the discovery

127

Fig. 5.6 Plan of the Saints’ Graveyard (modern monuments are not illustrated).

128 

Fig. 5.7 Cathasach’s Cross.

clíodhna o’leary

of ‘a most interesting relic of antiquity, viz., the burial place of the monks, [where] more than seventy inscribed and sculpted stones, most of which are in situ mark the graves’. Deane (1880, pl. 1) provided a plan of the Saints’ Graveyard depicting the locations of c. eighty grave-slabs and a cross-base. Subsequently, Macalister (1916–17, pl. XV) produced a more detailed plan. At this time many of the slabs were ‘sodded over and [had] to be dug out’ (Macalister 1916–17, 172, fn. 1). Apart from the removal of a small number of slabs for preservation, the unearthing of a few new ones and the sodding-over of some formerly visible, the current plan of the graveyard (Fig. 5.6) differs little from previous plans; most of the slabs remain in their earliest recorded locations. Numerous scholars have commented on the likelihood that the slabs remain in situ in their original recumbent settings (Deane 1880, 73; Macalister 1906, 304; 1916–17, 110, fn. 2; Crawford 1912, 228; Lionard 1961, 148; de Paor 1997, 95; Okasha and Forsyth 2001, 2, 8–9, 47–103). Without excavation this cannot be demonstrated conclusively; however, excavation at High Island, Co. Galway, confirms that long recumbent cross-slabs were placed lengthwise over tenth-/eleventh-century stone-lined graves (Marshall and Rourke 2000, 104–21, 148–54). Following ‘the principle of parsimony’ the grave-slabs on Iniscealtra are likely to have retained their original locations (cf. O’Sullivan and Ó Carragáin 2008, 317). As perhaps the largest Irish collection of in situ early medieval grave-slabs, Iniscealtra offers a unique insight into the role of these monuments in the performance and negotiation of memory work in the form of liturgical practices and less formal ritual activities in and around the cemetery. Iniscealtra’s high crosses date to the same period of production as Group 2. There are two ringless crosses and a ringed cross; these are stored in St Caimín’s Church, with the shaft of the ringed cross mounted on a base to the west of the church (Harbison 1992, nos 118–21). Smaller sculpted crosses, cross-fragments and cross-bases also survive. One of the ringless crosses, hereafter Cathasach’s Cross, bears two inscriptions

5 memory, belief and identity 

(Fig. 5.7). A large inscribed cross-base occurs in situ within the Saints’ Graveyard (Fig. 5.8). The production of such a large quantity of eleventh- and twelfthcentury sculpture on Iniscealtra expresses both local socio-political circumstances and wider developments in the nature of the remembrance of the dead in Ireland at this time. The immediate political context is clear: Iniscealtra was located in the heart of the Uí Briain kingdom, which was coterminous with the twelfth-century diocese of Killaloe. The Uí Briain, a sept of the Dál Cais dynasty, were the most powerful Irish kings of the latter centuries of the early medieval period. Their royal palace and church complex was located at Kincora-Killaloe, just 12 km south of Iniscealtra (Fig. 5.1). Given the geographical proximity of their stronghold it is not surprising that the Uí Briain dominated Iniscealtra and transformed its material culture. They commonly installed members of their own family, and of affiliated Dál Cais groups, into ecclesiastical offices (Ó Corráin 1973). The first recorded Dál Cais representative stationed at Iniscealtra was bishop ‘Diarmaid, son of Caicher’ (ob. 951 AFM). Cogadh Gaedhel Re Gallaibh states that Brian Ború (ob. 1014) erected the church on Iniscealtra; his brother, Marcán (ob. AU 1010), was co-abbot of Iniscealtra and Killaloe. Notably in 1076 ‘Gormlaith … queen of Mumu (Munster) [and] wife of Tairdelbach Ua Briain … was buried in Inis Celtra’ (AI). This annalistic entry illustrates that Iniscealtra was deemed a worthy setting for royal Uí Briain burial (contra Fry 1999,

129

Fig. 5.8 Inscribed cross-base, Saints’ Graveyard.

130 

clíodhna o’leary

174). Most of the buildings on the island were erected in the eleventh and twelfth centuries and were probably Uí Briain commissions. In addition, a large volume of excavation evidence indicates a substantial rise in craft activities on Iniscealtra at this time (de Paor 1997). Having briefly defined the local political context, it is necessary to illustrate how Iniscealtra and the Uí Briain interacted with the wider religious environment. In Europe, the eleventh and twelfth centuries were characterized by major institutional reform of the Church. Contemporary religious alterations in Ireland must be interpreted as an expression of this pan-European phenomenon but one which articulates regional priorities (Flanagan 2010, xi, 33). The Uí Briain were the chief secular advocates of the Irish reform movement, and Muirchertach Ua Briain presided over two crucial reforming synods convened in Munster: the Synods of Cashel (AFM 1101) and Ráith Bressail (AU 1111). The most powerful reformist text of Irish provenance is a treatise compiled for the Synod of Ráith Bressail by Bishop Gille of Limerick, who was appointed to this position with Uí Briain approval (Fleming 2001). This text, De Statu Ecclesiae, will serve as the foundation for much of the following discussion. It has already been established that, during the early medieval period, a significant part of the population conducted its relationship with the dead away from ecclesiastical sites (see above). There is, however, a marked decline in burial at some non-ecclesiastical cemeteries in the latter centuries of the early medieval period and certainly by the twelfth century. For example, the cemetery at Carrowkeel, Co. Galway, began to fall out of use between AD 1050 and 1250 (Lehane et al. 2010, 143). The gradual abandonment of these sites and, in turn, the expansion in the numbers buried at major ecclesiastical settlements should be viewed alongside the reform agenda and its more formal definition of the ecclesiastical cemetery as the natural burial ground for the whole Christian community. The reform in itself, however, was not exclusively responsible for the shift to ecclesiastical burial. This was a drawn-out process, occurring with varied momentum in various places throughout Ireland and influenced by varied local sociopolitical factors at various times throughout the early medieval period (Ó Carragáin 2010b, 224). Nevertheless, the religious changes engineered by the reform movement would have reinforced a trend which was already in motion. The Irish reform sought to establish a more inclusive and all-encompassing Church by making ecclesiastical burial and eternal salvation more accessible. Gille’s De Statu Ecclesiae (c. 1111) specified that the offices of the priest include the burial of ‘the bodies of the faithful’ and outlined the actions of the priest during this ceremony (Fleming 2001, 159). The welfare of the dead was determined by liturgical practice which defined the priest as the only licensed administrator and thus the most important intermediary between the living and the dead (Effros 2002, 209). Gille’s writing explicitly prescribed the denial of what can

5 memory, belief and identity 

only be interpreted as ecclesiastical burial to specific socially excluded groups: ‘the bodies of the unfaithful and of the vicious are to be far removed from the faithful; for we do not communicate with these when they are alive or dead’ (Fleming 2001, 159). Denial of ‘proper’ Christian burial operated as a form of punishment (Reynolds 2009, 214). Zoë Devlin (2007, 80) explored the progression of clerical power in AngloSaxon England and noted that by dictating admission to the cemetery the clergy emerged as powerful guardians of memory. This is true of early medieval Ireland where the categorization of, and detection of, ‘deviant’ burials has proved problematic, perhaps owing to the Church’s desire to forget such individuals. A small number of decapitations and prone burials have been identified on non-ecclesiastical cemeteries, as at Mount Gamble, Co. Dublin (O’Donovan and Geber 2010, 236) and Johnstown I, Co. Meath (Clarke 2010, 64). This is in marked contrast to Anglo-Saxon England, where its many execution cemeteries reinforced powerful negative memories (Reynolds 2009). Placing restrictions on ecclesiastical burial made such burial all the more attractive (Effros 1997, 11–21; 2002), which played its part in the transition to the churchyard, as borne out in the archaeological record. The process of making the Church more inclusive necessitated the exclusion of certain groups. Thus, it was only from the time of the reform that the full development of the idea that all ‘worthy’ Christians should be interred in ecclesiastical cemeteries penetrated all segments of Irish society. Certain zones within a cemetery or an ecclesiastical complex were considered ‘better’ than others (Devlin 2007, 53). Such locations were deliberately selected and embedded with meanings. Burial within the Saints’ Graveyard, the most desired burial space on Iniscealtra, expressed status, with powerful groups monopolizing it (see below). However, it is just one of a number of sepulchral spaces on the island (de Paor 1997, 52, 98–9); this is characteristic of the centrifugal development of major Irish ecclesiastical complexes (Ó Carragáin 2010a, 217–19; 2010b, 223). Multiple satellite cemeteries dedicated to particular groups, such as females within peripherally located nunneries and kings, are a feature of major ecclesiastical complexes, as at Armagh, Clonmacnoise and Glendalough, Co. Wicklow (AU 935, 1064; AFM 1013; Hamlin and Foley 1983; Ó Floinn 1995; Fry 1999, 131–4; Bhreathnach 2003, 100–102; Swift 2003, 106–7; O’Sullivan and Ó Carragáin 2008, 35, 243–4, 320). This multiplicity of cemeteries exemplifies the marked increase in ecclesiastical burial and expresses the heterogeneity and complexity of major ecclesiastical sites: the variety of religious groups they accommodated and the variety of lay people associated with them, especially in the later centuries of the early medieval period. The resistance to indoor church burial seems to have abated in Ireland by the end of the early medieval period (Ó Carragáin 2010a, 154–6; see also Bhreathnach 2003, 102). For example, Muirchertach Ua Briain was interred ‘in the church of

131

132 

clíodhna o’leary

Killaloe’ (AFM 1119). The burials of approximately twenty men, women and children were uncovered on Iniscealtra within St Brigid’s Romanesque church. The interments were dated to the thirteenth century on the basis of artefactual evidence (de Paor 1997, 59–69, 96–7, figs 9–10, pl. 46); however, a bronze-decorated mounting (for an armlet) displays decoration of probable late eleventh- or twelfth-century date. Some of these burials may conceivably be of twelfth-century date, but without radiocarbon determinations this remains unsubstantiated. Burials were numerous around the round tower and St Caimín’s Church (de Paor 1997, 86–7, figs 29, 37–8); these interments post-dated the construction of the buildings (i.e., probably after AD 1000). A graveyard surrounds the later parish church on Iniscealtra, St Mary’s, which was erected in the early thirteenth century. A children’s burial ground (cillín) developed around St Michael’s Church between the sixteenth and nineteenth centuries (de Paor 1997, 70–72, 96–7) and a modern cemetery is attached to the southern end of St Caimín’s Church. These burial spaces do not boast any in situ pre-1200 grave-slabs but some specific zones may have been utilized by the increasing numbers of lower-ranking individuals presumably being interred on the island. Gille also describes the burial of other relatively marginal individuals at ecclesiastical sites: ‘Other places also adjoin the cemeteries of the saints, where the bodies of the faithful who were drowned or killed (are laid) since their souls are not prohibited from being commended to God’ (Fleming 2001, 159). Iniscealtra’s satellite cemeteries may have been designated for particular religious or lay groups; nevertheless, burial on the island probably remained rather exclusive. Within the Saints’ Graveyard, the greatest concentration of graveslabs occur in the northern half, particularly adjacent to Teampall na bhFear nGonta (Figs 5.5 and 5.6). The densely occupied westernmost row maintained the closest position to the entrance to the cemetery (cf. Devlin 2011, 35), as well as to St Caimín’s Church. Proximity to churches was evidently of paramount concern (Devlin 2011, 37). Burial near, and indeed within (above), churches may have had a particular appeal during the reform, when there was a renewed emphasis on the ‘Real Presence’ of Christ in the Eucharist, stored within churches. Dedication to row formations was the result of strict grassroots management (Devlin 2011, 37–8). In the graveyard’s south-eastern quadrant there is a noticeable dearth of grave-markers, which peter out towards the south. In a highly inflated account of those buried in the Saints’ Graveyard, the Life of St Caimín describes some ‘seven hundred thousand’ interments in the southern part of the Saints’ Graveyard alone (LC, chapter 3, §6; Ó Riain trans.). We cannot discount the possibility that some Group 2 grave-slabs in this area have become overgrown, or perhaps the area was once paved with Group 1 cross-slabs. The use of wooden markers might also account for the lack of visible memorials. Excavation directly

5 memory, belief and identity 

under a cross-base, located to the west of St Caimín’s Church, revealed a pit which may have originally received some form of post (de Paor 1997, 88–9, 94). In Clonmacnoise similar post-holes beneath the high crosses were interpreted as evidence for wooden antecedents (MCC, 25). Cross-slabs depicting crosses with pointed shafts were probably inspired by such crosses (Healy 2009, 31–2; O’Sullivan and Ó Carragáin 2008, figs 24, 27 and 30). Excavation also revealed evidence for wooden grave-markers in Anglo-Saxon England (Williams 2006, 111; Devlin 2011, 35, 38). Devlin (2007, 13, 74) highlighted that the stimulus for the termination of the upkeep of certain graves and the suppression of their memory were bound up with local contemporary concerns, where the forgotten were no longer required for the preservation of the identity of the living. This process, however, was rarely an active or intentional one. As commemoration was entwined with salvation, Devlin (2007, 79) advocates that the forgotten were the damned. However, the placement of a body in the Saints’ Graveyard, even without a grave-marker, held important communal commemorative implications as the site itself operated like a relic, to be visited and revered. The most notable distinction between the two sculptural groups is the far greater dimensions, and hence visibility and permanence, of Group 2 slabs (cf. Devlin 2011, 34). An incentive for their more monumental nature was possibly an increased awareness of the ineffectiveness of smaller stones in perpetuating the long-term memory of a particular grave (or individual). The diminutive scale of Group 1 cross-slabs made them impractical grave-markers, becoming overgrown or buried within a comparatively short period, especially where grave-digging was practised. This may explain why Group 1 stones were not revealed in situ. The larger (Group 2) form occurred at a time when anxieties were expressed regarding the burden of remembering all the accumulating generations of Christians (Geary 1994, 27, 131–2). Group 2 grave-slabs often exceed 1.5 m in length and occasionally taper. This form grew from a desire to maximize the chances of the preservation of the physical integrity, and hence the memory, of the grave and ultimately to protect the body. The resurrection of the body of the deceased on the Last Day is a fundamental tenet of Christian doctrine (I Corinthians 15:51–3). Textual evidence indicates heightened interest in this among Irish theologians in the latter centuries of the early medieval period. The eleventh-/twelfth-century Lebor na hUidre, which was probably composed at Clonmacnoise, preserves a tractate, Scéla na Esérgi, which provides a discourse on the final physical Resurrection: ‘All those will arise … and each of them will take his own soul into union with his proper body’ (Stokes 1904b, 237). By citing the stone sepulchre of Christ as the ideal burial it may have promoted the use of stone markers: ‘Out of their graves assuredly, after that example of the Lord’s Body, which arose out of its own sepulchre’ (Stokes 1904b, 237). A human leg hanging

133

134 

clíodhna o’leary

from the mouth of a beast is carved within a rectangular panel on the lower, right side of Cathasach’s Cross, on Iniscealtra (Fig. 5.7). A similar scene features on a cross from Seir Kieren, Co. Offaly (Harbison 1992, 325, fig. 559; see also Maddern 2007, 146; Henderson and Henderson 2004, 180, 199). Such eschatological iconography is notable in light of the tract’s statement that: ‘Those, however, who have been devoured by wild beasts and dispersed in different places, will arise according to the counsel of the Lord, who will gather them and renew them’ (Stokes 1904b, 237). The widespread transition to ecclesiastical cemeteries led to a greater emphasis on protecting the body in the context of the increasing frequency of burial. With increased competition for space, a larger grave-marker served as an indication that a piece of ground was already occupied, inhibiting the intercutting of graves. The archaeology of Iniscealtra facilitates speculation of the movements and possible routeways established during repeated ritual activities. Contemporary Irish accounts refer to circumambulatory rituals. For example, the twelfth-century Irish Life of Colmán Mac Lúacháin states that: ‘After mass they all make the round of the cemetery’ (Meyer 1911, 55). On Iniscealtra, excavation around the Confessional, St Brigid’s Church and St Michael’s Church established that a roughly paved path was laid along the inner face of a drystone wall surrounding each building (de Paor 1997, 53–74, 97–8, figs 9, 11, 16 and 22). Similar circuits of paving, possibly of eleventh-century date, were uncovered at Relickoran, on Inishmurray, Co. Sligo (O’Sullivan and Ó Carragáin 2008, 267, 296–7). Such paths would have enabled rounding rituals. The layout of the Saints’ Graveyard on Iniscealtra also promoted organized processional circuits around its internal circumference during events such as pilgrimages and funerals. Some Irish texts refer to clockwise or deiseal movement, from the Irish deis, meaning ‘right’ (see O’Sullivan and Ó Carragáin 2008, 331–2; Ó Carragáin 2010a, 39–40). One may speculate that, on entering the Saint’s Graveyard, the procession initially turned left to accommodate this clockwise movement by following the right hand around the cemetery. The physical environment and topography of the mortuary monuments manipulated the sacred space by regulating movement along the dictated paths between the coherent rows of graveslabs (cf. Gondek 2003, 47; O’Sullivan and Ó Carragáin 2008, 328–9; Devlin 2011, 35–9; 2007, 79). Perhaps after passing the north-western corner of the graveyard the procession was channelled between the first and second rows of slabs, thereafter returning to the entrance and continuing in this manner, making ever larger loops between successive rows until the final ‘round’ followed the perimeter wall. The final stage of this proposed route corresponds to the course directed by the paths surrounding the Confessional, St Brigid’s and St Michael’s churches. This series of revolutions would have encompassed all monuments within the Saints’ Graveyard, supporting prayers and readings of the inscriptions

5 memory, belief and identity 

at the individual markers. At a later time Teampall na bhFear nGonta may have accommodated the movements of the devotees, allowing the procession to pass into and through the church by way of its three doorways.* In recent centuries, the graveyard was subsumed into a larger turas, or ‘pattern’, which encompassed all of the island’s buildings and monuments. The turas was facilitated by a coherent system of earthworks, pathways, paved roads and low banks which connected various sites or ‘stations’ and which was apparently reconstructed at intervals from the thirteenth century (de Paor 1997, 34, 42–98, figs 2 and 20). Notwithstanding the continuities that exist, ritual practice and pilgrimage activities on Iniscealtra probably changed considerably as the medieval period progressed (see O’Donovan and O’Conor 1838, 561–5; Macalister 1916–17, 109–13, 173–4; Harbison 1991, 125–31; de Paor 1997, 31, 101). Nevertheless, these activities continued to bridge the gap between the living and the dead through the creation of new memories which were heavily conditioned by monuments from the past. Few Irish early ecclesiastical sites provide explicit evidence for physical subdivisions within their cemeteries and so Iniscealtra is interesting in this regard. Some of the grave-slabs within the Saints’ Graveyard are flanked with stones and sockets at their head, feet and sides. A composite burial plot, positioned east of Teampall na bhFear nGonta, and now comprising three grave-slabs, with an additional outlier to the south, conveys more defined status differentiation (Figs 5.6 and 5.9). This *  Teampall na bhFear nGonta was a product of the Romanesque period but has undergone significant changes up to c. 1700 (CRSBI). The western doorway was probably the original entrance, with the doorways in the north and south walls being later additions.

135

Fig. 5.9 Composite burial plot, Saints’ Graveyard.

136 

Fig. 5.10 Group 2 grave-slabs with inscriptions of clerical identity.

clíodhna o’leary

is evident from its commemoration of, among others, a bishop: Gillu[Cristi] episco(po) (Fig. 5.10a). Its grave-slabs are divided by long low slabs placed on edge forming individual compartments; edging stones also define their heads and feet. Cross-bases feature within the cemetery, the largest being located in the south-western quadrant (Figs 5.6 and 5.8). This inscribed cross-base is surrounded by a series of low erect stones forming a rectangle, formerly covered by an earthen cairn with numerous small rounded stones in its vicinity, reminiscent of a leachttype structure (Macalister 1916–17, 146–7). The inscription reads ilad i(n) dechenboir (‘tomb of the ten persons’). The word ilad, from ailad or ulaidh, means a stone tomb, sepulchre or burial cairn (eDIL; Macalister 1906, 308–9; Fry 1999, 131; Okasha and Forsyth 2001, 48–9). The term was also used for penitential stations. Ollamurray, a leacht on Inishmurray, preserves this element in its name (O’Sullivan and Ó Carragáin 2008, 170). Their implementation as pilgrimage stations is well attested. For example, Inishmurray’s monumentalized pilgrimage landscape was furnished with numerous stopping points formed by rectilinear drystone structures and leachta which incorporated cross-slabs (O’Sullivan and Ó Carragáin 2008, 316, 325). The later medieval Life of St Caimín states that people make ‘rounds of the cross and the noble vast cemetery’ on Iniscealtra (LC, chapter 2 §15; Ó Riain and Flahive trans.; for similar passages see O’Sullivan and Ó Carragáin 2008, 328). The compartmentalized burial plot and cross-base in the Saints’ Graveyard, while necessitating considerable investment, were more likely to endure and to better preserve the remains and memory of the dead. By incorporating these impressive structures into ritual activities their associated memories were further maintained, transformed and projected through the provision of a locus for anticipated future assembly characterized by repetitive (and competitive) commemoration (cf. Williams 2006, 150; Devlin 2007, 78). The practice of praying for the dead played a pertinent role on Iniscealtra from an early stage; however, the Group 2 inscriptions express a heightened concern with this activity in the eleventh and twelfth centu-

5 memory, belief and identity 

ries. Fourteen of the surviving fifteen inscriptions articulate explicit prayer requests designed for public oration in the form of or(óit) do (‘a prayer for’) and occurring as the abbreviated: or do. Five inscriptions are vertically disposed, four of which run down/up the shaft of a cross, with the fifth inscribed on an otherwise plain (crossless) slab. Curiously, the other ten inscriptions, which are horizontally arranged, are each oriented in the opposite direction to their accompanying crosses (for other examples of this rare phenomenon see Okasha and Forsyth 2001, 108–12, 341–3). Since the slabs are aligned west–east with these inscriptions facing west, individuals reading them would have been facing east, towards Jerusalem, in the same direction as the interred. The cross-carvings which also face east, away from the site and towards the nearby lakeshore, may have been intended to serve an apotropaic function of keeping the malevolent forces off the island and out of the sacred sphere. A prayer request was inscribed on a long kerb stone forming part of the composite monument (Fig. 5.9) and one appears on each narrow face of Cathasach’s Cross (Fig. 5.7). All of Iniscealtra’s stone inscriptions, including that occurring on the large low cross-base (Fig. 5.8), are most conveniently read while kneeling, encouraging a deliberate expression of humble veneration before the monuments (Higgitt 1986, 127–43). The impetus for the increased emphasis on praying for the dead must be understood within the context of the reform movement. The Irish spearheaded the evolution of the ideology surrounding purgatory in the seventh and eighth centuries and played an important role in its endorsement during the reform. Gille warns of the inevitable suffering of all sinners in purgatory: ‘For even if the remission of sin should have been promised to the sinner when he repented nevertheless he must expect some penalty for sinning, namely the fire of purgatory’ (Fleming 2001, 159). Some comfort is offered: ‘The purification of the dead should be done here in prayer and almsgiving. These advance them to purification, since the sweat of the living is the rest of the dead’ (Fleming 2001, 159). The Irish were responsible for a series of reformist texts in the Schottenklöster monasteries in Germany. These monasteries received Irish patronage and, consequently, their necrologies preserved the names of Uí Briain kings, clerics from Killaloe and other individuals from Munster, indicating a specific regional focus (Ó Riain-Raedel 2006, 182). In Europe the most widely disseminated visionary account of this period was the Vision of Tnugdal (c. 1149); it was set in Cork and compiled by an Irish monk (Flanagan 2010, 11–12). Another popular text, the Tractatus de Purgatorio Sancti Patricii (c. 1180– 84) relates the journey of an Irish knight to St Patrick’s Purgatory in Co. Donegal (Easting 1991). Although this genre had originated in the seventh century, these later texts were decidedly different: they appealed to a wider audience by recounting the stories of laymen and nobles and, so, unlike the earlier texts, were not designed specifically for clerical consumption. Tnugdal’s purgatorial-type realm contained not only clerics but kings such

137

138 

clíodhna o’leary

as Conchobar Ua Briain and anonymous secular individuals. The texts were instrumental in shaping popular ideas of the ‘otherworld’, reiterating the necessity of praying for the dead and the completion of penance for all members of society. Why, if prayers were so important in the early medieval period, do so many of Iniscealtra’s sculpted stones lack inscriptions? Forty grave-slabs are also completely void of any identifiable decoration (cf. Maher 1997, 26–7; Effros 2002, 107; McClain 2007, 156). In some instances the carvings were probably removed through the effects of weathering. We cannot discount the possibility that some artwork or inscriptions were applied in paint. At any rate, in a predominantly oral culture, the large size of each grave-slab alone may have signalled its ideological significance, easily catching the attention of the passer-by, thereby ensuring remembrance. Some of the particular individuals for whom the slabs were commissioned, be their names inscribed or not, became anonymous with the passing of time as their identity dissolved into a collective of ‘special’ ancestors (cf. Williams 2003, 6). The stones evolved as blank slates upon which to impress identities and project power. The entirely plain grave-slabs, and also decorated examples without inscriptions, expressed a heightened sense of transtemporality; these stones could be more readily adopted and symbolically appropriated by various groups, who may periodically have reworked their associated memories by endowing them with new significances, while underlining a palimpsest of links to the past (cf. Williams 1997, 25–6). As such the grave-slabs functioned on various levels, simultaneously embodying an array of different meanings for different people. The identity of those commemorated by Group 2 grave-slabs will now be explored. Where it has been possible to identify the incised names, all are male. Prayer requests for clerics occur on two of the slabs: Domnall [s]acart (‘Domnall the priest’) and Gillu[Cristi] episco(po) (‘Gillu-Críst bishop’) (Fig. 5.10).* Because the upper right corner of the bishop’s slab is now missing, the reading is based on the testimony of Macalister (1916–17, 157). Such clear statements of status and occupation are uncharacteristic of early medieval sculpture (Swift 1999, 112–13) but must be viewed within the climate of the reform. The Synod of Ráith Bressail established an episcopal hierarchy and Gille’s subsequent writings focused on delineating the functions of the various clerical grades (Fleming 2001, 149–63). At Iniscealtra, the use of the Latin form of the title for bishop, episco(pus) or episcopos, rather than the Irish, epscop (Okasha and Forsyth 2001, 75; see also Fleming 2001, 81–2), is revealing in light of reformist interests in aligning the Church in Ireland with the Church in Rome. Three graveslab inscriptions bear the epithet máel, meaning tonsured, which hints at

*  For a discussion of the term gilla or gillu, meaning ‘servant’, see Fleming 2001, 38; Okasha and Forsyth 2001, 32, 37; Swift 1999, 113; 2003, 110.

5 memory, belief and identity 

a clerical identity, especially when followed by the name of a renowned saint (eDIL; Okasha and Forsyth 2001, 32; Swift 1999, 113; 2003, 110). One example commemorates Máel Pátraic. However, máel became a prefix for compound names, leaving the epithet largely detached from its original meaning. For instance, a grave-slab commemorates Máel Sechnaill, a relatively common medieval name. Cathasach’s Cross (Fig. 5.7) requests a prayer for ardse[n]óir hErenn i(d est) do Cathasa[ch] (‘the chief elder of Ireland, that is Cathasach’) which can be confidently identified with ‘Cathasach, the most pious man in Ireland’ who ‘rested in Christ in Inis Celtra’ (AI 1111). The year of his death is notably the year of the Munster Synod of Ráith Bressail and Cathasach, an Armagh cleric, probably died while in attendance. The significance of the decision to bury Cathasach on Iniscealtra shows the continued importance of the site as an acceptable burial space for high-ranking and renowned individuals associated with the reform movement. One grave-slab is incised with the outlines of two large shoe-prints, mid-stride (Fig. 5.11). It commemorates Coscrach Laignech (‘Coscrach the Leinsterman’). Elizabeth FitzPatrick (2004, 235–8) noted eighteen ‘footprint stones’ at Irish ecclesiastical sites or locales attributed to saints; many, however, simply exhibit natural depressions. They differ from ‘footprint stones’ at (secular) inauguration sites in that they commonly display a pair of prints as opposed to the ‘single shoe’ which was an expression of kingship (FitzPatrick 2004, chapter 3). Given the presence of the shoe-prints at an ecclesiastical site and the application of the ethnic label Laignech, Mac­alister (1916–17, 153) suggested that the stone from Iniscealtra commemorated a pilgrim (see also Harbison 1991, 127; Okasha and Forsyth 2001, 60–61), an interpretation also suggested to explain a footprint stone from Llanelltyd, Wales (Hemp and Radford 1953). While this is one plausible theory, another possibility, when we consider the contemporary reformist preoccupation with episcopal footwear, is that the slab commemorated a bishop. Gille placed great importance on defining clerical footwear: ‘Each day at Mass he [a priest] wears at least the following four vestments: a linen gown,

139

Fig. 5.11 Group 2 graveslab with engraved shoe-prints.

140 

clíodhna o’leary

a tunic, breeches and shoes. The Romans wear boots. Amalarius says the priest should wear sandals and dalmatic but among us only pontiffs use these’ (Fleming 2001, 159). Elsewhere he states: ‘The bishop uses, for purposes of dignity … sandals’ (Fleming 2001, 161). The impetus for wearing sandals stems from Christ’s injunction to the apostles to do so (Mark 6:9). Numerous other medieval texts acknowledge the episcopal significance of footwear (see Flanagan 2010, 77–8). Not only did footwear imply status but, on a practical note, it would have been essential for bishops who were expected to travel throughout their dioceses. The footwear of bishops may have come to be associated with the processional rituals which they conducted. As we have seen, this was at a time when the performance of cemetery consecrations was promoted across Europe. Annalistic references highlight the role of bishops in consecration ceremonies (Flanagan 2010, 82, 116). For example, the reforming bishop Cellach ‘consecrated churches and graveyards’ (AFM 1129). Hagiographical accounts show that these were events of public jubilation. For instance, the consecration of the church and cemetery at Lann by Bishop Étchén is recounted as a great celebratory feast in the twelfth-century Life of Colmán Mac Lúacháin (Meyer 1911, 30–31, 40–41; Ó Carragáin 2010a, 169). The consecration ceremony would have made the bishop visible as he transversed and circumambulated the cemetery and wider ecclesiastical site (Flanagan 2010, 116). The striding, shod feet carvings at Iniscealtra may well have been reminiscent of such striking mnemonic spectacles. Grave-slabs reinforced the exclusivity of the upper echelons of society in order to distinguish them from the increasing numbers of lower-status individuals receiving ecclesiastical burial. Given the greater diversity of persons being interred in ecclesiastical sites it seems likely that some Group 2 slabs may commemorate high-status secular individuals. A lost grave-slab from Clonmacnoise and one from Roscrea, Co. Tipperary, both apparently commemorated kings (Macalister 1949, no. 798; Swift 1999, 112; 2003, 108; Okasha and Forsyth 2001, 217–20). These date to the end of the early medieval period. As stated, at Iniscealtra most of the grave-slabs occur in the northern half of the Saints’ Graveyard, near Teampall na bhFear nGonta, a mortuary chapel of twelfth-century origin (de Paor 1997, 95; CRSBI). Early Irish models of cosmological significance emphasize the superiority of the north (Meehan 1958, 44, 46; Rees and Rees 1961, 100–103; Aitchison 1994, 252–63). In Ireland the north side of the graveyard was sometimes termed taobh na bhfear gonta (‘the side of the wounded men’) (Talbot 1990, 8). This tradition was preserved in Carrickmore, Co. Tyrone, where a graveyard is named Relig-na-fir gunta (Hamlin and Foley 1983, 43). On Iniscealtra, the name of the church may imply that it – and possibly the northern portion of the graveyard – was dedicated to a group of warriors.* The name is inter-

*  The name could alternatively imply dedication to wounded martyrs.

5 memory, belief and identity 

esting considering the contemporary self-promotion of the Uí Briain as a brave, warrior-like people. The local historical, political and archaeological evidence alludes to the possibility that some of Iniscealtra’s sculpture were created by and for the Uí Briain. Nevertheless, the graves of clerics also occur within the zone around Teampall na bhFear nGonta. In light of this we must remember that the Uí Briain regularly ensured that high-ranking ecclesiastical positions were filled with their own family members, as well as individuals of collateral and subsidiary branches of the Dál Cais. When evaluating the identity of sculpture commissions, future research in this area would benefit from the acceptance of the close integration of Church and secular élite in early medieval Ireland. Although a grave-slab may have been commissioned to memorialize a specific high-status individual or an aspiring élite, such monuments also expressed familial status and identity, acting as foci for the communal remembrance, and hence the aspired salvation of the entire family, kingroup and community (cf. Williams 2006, 158; Devlin 2007, 79; 2011, 36–8). The generation of the large volume of sculpture was bound up with a desire by the Uí Briain to affiliate with Iniscealtra’s illustrious past by rewriting themselves into local perceptions of the site’s history through sculpture production. The slabs formed components of a social discourse resulting from the patronage and socio-biographical memory of the Uí Briain on Iniscealtra. By reifying important socio-political affiliations, these distinctive physical markers were exclusively identifiable, through memory, with the social and cultural identity of this dynasty and those who forged close relationships with it.

Conclusion The commemoration of the dead had a long history on Iniscealtra. The two distinct phases in sculpture production coincide with both important transformations in the nature of commemoration and changes in the identity of the giver and recipient of such acts of remembrance. Group 1 cross-slabs were produced at a time when the commemoration of the dead became deeply instilled with significance in light of changing perceptions of the afterlife; however, the desire to be remembered manifested itself materially among only a very small and special segment of the Christian élite. In contrast, Group 2 grave-slabs were created when the concept of the ecclesiastical community cemetery was maturing under the banner of the reform agenda. While this movement promoted ecclesiastical burial for a broader spectrum of society, the slabs themselves were confined to specific groups who had the means to commission monuments of remembrance. As mnemonic devices, mortuary sculptures convey opposing values: on the one hand they offered a focus for acts of humility in the form of prayers for the dead, but their monumentality also articulated the authority and pride of those persons whose graves they marked (Thompson 2002, 240).

141

142 

clíodhna o’leary

Acknowledgments This paper is based on ongoing doctoral research being undertaken in the Archaeology Department, University College Cork. I gratefully acknowledge the kind support of the College of Arts, Celtic Studies and Social Sciences and the Irish Research Council for scholarships which funded this research. I would like to thank Gerard Madden of East Clare Heritage, and James O’Brien and Frank Geraghty of the OPW, for their assistance. I wish to thank Professor Pádraig Ó Riain and Dr Joseph Flahive for their help regarding the Life of St Caimín. Thanks to my mother, Marian, for accompanying me on my many visits to Iniscealtra, to Nick Hogan and Dr Joanne O’Sullivan for their help surveying and generating images, and to Niamh Carty, Dr Bernadette McCarthy, the editors of this volume and two anonymous reviewers for their insightful comments and suggestions. My thanks above all to my supervisor, Dr Tomás Ó Carragáin, for his support throughout this project.

Bibliography

Primary sources AFM O’Donovan, J. (ed. and trans.) 1848–51. Annals of the Kingdom of Ireland by the Four Masters, Dublin, available online at: http://www.ucc. ie/celt/published/T100005A/index.html AI Mac Airt, S. (ed. and trans.) 1944. The Annals of Inisfallen, Dublin, available online at: http://www.ucc.ie/celt/published/T100004/index. html AU Mac Airt, S. and Mac Niocaill, G. (ed. and trans.) 1983. The Annals of Ulster AD 431–1131, Dublin, available online at: http://www.ucc.ie/celt/ published/T100001A/index.html Bieler, L. (ed.) 1963. The Irish Penitentials. Scriptores Latini Hiberniae, Dublin: Dublin Institute for Advanced Studies Binchy, D. A. 1962. The Old-Irish table of penitential commutations, Ériu, 19, 47–72 Easting, R. (ed.) 1991. St Patrick’s Purgatory: Two Versions of ‘Owayne Miles’ and ‘The vision of William of Stranton’ together with the Long Text of the ‘Tractatus de purgatorio Sancti Patricii’, Oxford: Oxford University Press LC Life of St Caimín, Bibliothèque Royale, Brussels, MS 2324–40 (O’Clery 1), 264r–273v, unpublished, available on micro-film from the Boole Library, University College Cork, Cork McNeill, J. T. and Gamer, H. M. 1965 (reprinted 1990). Medieval Handbooks of Penance: A Translation of the Principal Libri Poenitentiales and Selections from Related Documents, New York: Columbia University Press

5 memory, belief and identity 

Meehan, D. (ed.) 1958 (reprinted 1983). Adamnán’s De Locis Sanctis, Dublin: Dublin Institute for Advanced Studies Meyer, K. 1911. Betha Colmáin maic Lúacháin, Dublin: Hodges Figgis O’Brien, M. A. (ed.) 1976. Corpus Genealogiarum Hiberniae, Vol. 1, Dublin: Dublin Institute for Advanced Studies O’Donovan, J. and O’Conor, T. 1838. Ordnance Survey Letters of Ireland, Galway. Letters Containing Information Relative to the Antiquities of the County of Galway Collected during the Ordnance Survey in 1838, Vol. 2, unpublished Stokes, W. (ed. and trans.) 1904a. The Life of Fursa, Revue Celtique, 25, 385–404 Stokes, W. (ed. and trans.) 1904b. Tidings of the Resurrection, Revue Celtique, 25, 232–59 VSH Heist, W. W. (ed.) 1965. Vitae sanctorum Hiberniae ex codice olim Salmanticensi, Brussels: Societe des Bollandistes Warner, G. F. (ed.) 1906–15. The Stowe Missal: MS D.II.3 in the library of the Royal Irish Academy, Dublin, 2 vols, Suffolk: Henry Bradshaw Society Wasserschleben, H. (ed.) 1885 (reprinted 1966). Die Irische Kanonen­ sammlung, Liepzig: Bernard Tauchnitz Scientia Verlag Aalen

Secondary sources Aitchison, N. B. 1994. Armagh and the Royal Centres in Early Medieval Ireland: Monuments, Cosmology, and the Past, Woodbridge: Boydell and Brewer Bailey, R. N. 1996. England’s Earliest Sculptors, Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Medieval Studies Bhreathnach, E. 2003. Learning and literature in early medieval Clonmacnoise, in H. King (ed.), Clonmacnoise Studies Volume 2 Seminar Papers 1998, 97–104, Dublin: Dublin Stationery Office Bhreathnach, E. 2010. From fert(ae) to relic: mapping death in early sources, in Corlett and Potterton (eds), 23–31 Boazman, G. 2008. Introduction to the Leinster regional study and to the Faughart case study, in T. Ó Carragáin and J. Sheehan (eds), Making Christian Landscapes: Settlement, Society and Regionality in Early Medieval Ireland, 421–7, unpublished interim INSTAR report for the Heritage Council Brash, R. R. 1866. Inishcaltra and its remains, Gentleman’s Magazine, 220(I), 7–22 Brown, P. 1981. The Cult of Saints: Its Rise and Function in Latin Christianity, London: SCM Press Buckley, L. and McConway, C. 2010. Early medieval settlement and burial ground at Faughart Lower, Co. Louth, in Corlett and Potterton (eds), 49–59

143

144 

clíodhna o’leary

Clarke, L. 2010. Johnstown 1, Co. Meath: a multi-period burial, settlement and industrial site, in Corlett and Potterton (eds), 61–75 Corlett, C. and Potterton, M. (eds) 2010. Death and Burial in Early Medieval Ireland in light of Recent Archaeological Excavations, Dublin: Wordwell Cramp, R. 1984. A Corpus of Anglo-Saxon Stone Sculpture, Vol. I, County Durham and Northumberland, 2 parts, Oxford: British Academy and Oxford University Press Crawford, H. S. 1907. A descriptive list of early Irish crosses, Journal of the Royal Society of Antiquaries of Ireland, 37(2) [5th Ser., Vol. 17], 187–239 Crawford, H. S. 1912. A descriptive list of early cross-slabs and pillars, Journal of the Royal Society of Antiquaries of Ireland, 42(3) [6th Ser., Vol. 2], 217–44 CRSBI. Corpus of Romanesque Sculpture in Britain and Ireland, available online at: http://www.crsbi.ac.uk/index.html de Paor, L. 1977. The Christian triumph: the golden age, in P. Cone (ed.), Treasures of Early Irish Art, 1500 B.C. to 1500 A.D., 93–104, New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art de Paor, L. 1997. Inis Cealtra. Report on Archaeological and other Investigations of the Monuments on the Island, unpublished report submitted to the National Monuments Service, Department of the Environment Heritage and Local Government de Paor, L. 2013. Inis Cealtra: archaeological investigations of the monuments on the island, North Munster Antiquarian Journal, 53, 27–78 Deane, T. N. 1880. Appendix D: national monuments of Ireland, annual report, 1880. Forty-eighth Annual Report from the Commissioners of Public Works in Ireland 1879–80, 73–6, Dublin Devlin, Z. L. 2007. Remembering the Dead in Anglo-Saxon England: Memory Theory in Archaeology and History, Oxford: British Archaeological Reports, British Series, 446 Devlin, Z. L. 2011. Putting memory in its place: sculpture, cemetery topography and commemoration, in M. F. Reed (ed.), New Voices on Early Medieval Sculpture in Britain and Ireland, Oxford: British Archaeological Reports, British Series, 542, 32–41 Dolan, B. 2009. Bedrocks and bullauns: more than one use for a mortar? Archaeology Ireland, 23(1), 16–19 Dunn, M. 2000. Gregory the Great, the vision of Fursey, and the origins of purgatory, Peritia, 14, 238–54 Dunraven, E. 1877. Notes on Irish Architecture, Vol. II, M. Stokes (ed.), London: George Bell and Sons eDIL Electronic Dictionary of the Irish Language by the Royal Irish Academy, available online at: http://www.dil.ie/index.asp Edwards, G. R. 1985. Purgatory: ‘birth’ or evolution? Journal of Ecclesiastical History, 36, 634–46 Effros, B. 1997. Beyond cemetery walls: early medieval funerary topography and Christian salvation, Early Medieval Europe, 6(1), 1–23

5 memory, belief and identity 

Effros, B. 2002. Caring for Body and Soul. Burial and the Afterlife in the Merovingian World, University Park: The Pennsylvania State University Press Etchingham, C. 1999. Church Organisation in Ireland AD 650 to 1000, Maynooth: Laigin Publications Etchingham, C. 2006. Pastoral provision in the first millennium: a two-tier service? in E. FitzPatrick and R. Gillespie (eds), The Parish in Medieval and Early Modern Ireland, 79–90, Dublin: Four Courts Press FitzPatrick, E. 2004. Royal Inauguration in Gaelic Ireland c. 1100–1600, Woodbridge: The Boydell Press Flanagan, M. T. 2010. The Transformation of the Irish Church in the Twelfth Century, Woodbridge: The Boydell Press Fleming, J. 2001. Gille of Limerick (c.1070–1145): Architect of a Medieval Church, Dublin: Four Courts Press Fry, S. L. 1999. Burial in Medieval Ireland 900–1500: A Review of the Written Sources, Dublin: Four Courts Press Geary, P. 1994. Phantoms of Remembrance. Memory and Oblivion at the End of the First Millennium, Princeton: Princeton University Press Gittos, H. 2002. Creating the sacred: Anglo-Saxon rites for consecrating cemeteries, in S. Lucy and A. Reynolds (eds), Burial in Early Medieval England and Wales, Society for Medieval Archaeology Monograph, 17, 195–208, London: Society for Medieval Archaeology Gondek, M. M. 2003. Mapping Sculpture and Power: Symbolic Wealth in Early Medieval Scotland, 6th–11th centuries AD, unpublished PhD thesis, University of Glasgow Hamlin, A. and Foley, C. 1983. A women’s graveyard at Carrickmore, County Tyrone, and the separate burial of women, Ulster Journal of Archaeology, 46, 41–6 Harbison, P. 1991. Pilgrimage in Ireland: the Monuments and the People, Syracuse: Syracuse University Press Harbison, P. 1992. The High Crosses of Ireland: an Iconographical and Photographic Survey, 3 vols, Dublin and Bonn: Royal Irish Academy and Habelt Healy, P. 2009. Pre-Norman Grave-slabs and Cross-inscribed Stones in the Dublin Region, K. Swords (ed.), Dublin: Local Studies Section South Dublin Library Hemp, W. J. and Radford, C. A. R. 1953. The Llanelltyd inscribed stone, Archaeol. Cambrensis, 102(2), 164–8 Henderson, G. and Henderson, I. 2004 (reprinted 2011 paperback edition). The Art of the Picts: Sculpture and Metalwork in Early Medieval Scotland, London: Thames and Hudson Ltd Henry, F. 1970. Irish Art in the Romanesque Period 1020–1170 A.D., London: Methuen Higgitt, J. 1986. Words and crosses: the inscribed stone cross in early medieval Britain and Ireland, in J. Higgitt (ed.), Early Medieval Sculpture

145

146 

clíodhna o’leary

in Britain and Ireland, Oxford: British Archaeological Reports, British Series, 152, 125–52 Killanin, Lord and Duignan, M. V. 1989. The Shell Guide to Ireland, 3rd edition, P. Harbison (rev.), Dublin: Gill and Macmillan Le Goff, J. 1984. The Birth of Purgatory, A. Goldhammer (trans.), London: Scolar Press Leask, H. G. n.d. Glendalough, Co. Wicklow. National Monuments Vested in the Commissioners of Public Works. Official Historical and Descriptive Guide, Dublin: Stationary Office Lehane, J. et al. 2010. Three cemetery-settlement excavations in County Galway at Carrowkeel, Treanbaun and Owenbristy, in Corlett and Potterton (eds), 139–56 Lionard, P. 1961. Early Irish grave-slabs, Proceedings of the Royal Irish Academy, 61C, 95–169 Lynn, C. 1988. Excavations at 46–8 Scotch Street, Armagh 1979–80, Ulster Journal of Archaeology, 51, 69–84 Macalister, R. A. S. 1906. The inscriptions of Iniscaltra, Lough Derg, County Galway, Journal of the Royal Society of Antiquaries of Ireland, 36(3) [5th Ser., Vol. 16], 303–10 Macalister, R. A. S. 1916–17. The history and antiquities of Inis Cealtra, Proceedings of the Royal Irish Academy, 33, 93–174 Macalister, R. A. S. 1949. Corpus Inscriptionum Insularum Celticarum, Vol. 2, Dublin: Stationary Office McClain, A. 2007. Medieval cross-slabs in the North Riding of Yorkshire: chronology, distribution and social implications, Yorkshire Archaeological Journal, 79, 155–93 Maddern, C. F. 2007. The Northumbrian Name Stones of Early Christian Anglo-Saxon England, unpublished PhD thesis, University of York Maher, D. 1997. Medieval Grave Slabs of County Tipperary, 1200–1600 A.D., Oxford: British Archaeological Reports, British Series, 262 Marshall, J. W. and Rourke, G. D. 2000. High Island: An Irish Monastery in the Atlantic, Dublin: Town House and Country House MCC 2009. The Monastic City of Clonmacnoise and its Cultural Landscape Management Plan 2009–2014, World Heritage Site Draft Management Plan, available online at: http://www.ahg.gov.ie/en/ Publications/HeritagePublications/BuiltHeritagePolicyPublications/ Clonmacnoise%20Draft%20Management%20Plan.pdf Moloney, M. 1964. Beccan’s hermitage in Aherlow: the riddle of the slabs, North Munster Antiquarian Journal, 9(3), 99–107 Ó Carragáin, T. 2003. The architectural setting of the cult of relics in early medieval Ireland, Journal of the Royal Society of Antiquaries of Ireland, 133, 130–76 Ó Carragáin, T. 2010a. Churches in Early Medieval Ireland, New Haven and London: Yale University Press

5 memory, belief and identity 

Ó Carragáin, T. 2010b. From family cemeteries to community cemeteries in Viking Age Ireland? in Corlett and Potterton (eds), 217–26 Ó Corráin, D. 1973. Dál Cais – church and dynasty, Ériu, 24, 52–63 Ó Floinn, R. 1995. Clonmacnoise: art and patronage in the early medieval period, in C. Bourke (ed.), From the Isles of the North – Early Medieval Art in Ireland and Britain, 251–60, Belfast: HMSO Ó Riain, P. 2011. A Dictionary of Irish Saints, Dublin: Four Courts Press Ó Riain-Raedel, D. 2006. Cashel and Germany: the documentary evidence, in D. Bracken and D. Ó Riain-Raedel (eds), Ireland and Europe in the Twelfth Century. Reform and Renewal, 176–217, Dublin: Four Courts Press O’Brien, E. 1992. Pagan and Christian burial in Ireland during the first millennium AD: continuity and change, in N. Edwards and A. Lane (eds), The Early Church in Wales and the West, 130–37, Oxford: Oxbow Press O’Brien, E. 2003. Burial practices in Ireland: first to seventh centuries A.D., in J. Downes and A. Ritchie (eds), Sea Change: Orkney and Northern Europe in the Later Iron Age AD 300–800, 63–72, Angus: Pinkfoot Press O’Donovan, E. and Geber, J. 2010. Excavations on Mount Gamble Hill, Swords, Co. Dublin, in Corlett and Potterton (eds), 227–38 O’Neill, T. 2010. The changing character of early medieval burial at Parknahown 5, Co. Laois, AD 400–1200, in Corlett and Potterton (eds), 251–60 O’Sullivan, J. and Ó Carragáin, T. 2008. Inishmurray. Monks and Pilgrims in an Atlantic Landscape, Cork: The Collins Press Okasha, E. 2004. Memorial stones or grave-stones? in P. Cavill (ed.), The Christian Tradition in Anglo-Saxon England: Approaches to Current Scholarship and Teaching, 91–101, Cambridge: D. S. Brewer Okasha, E. and Forsyth, K. 2001. Early Christian Inscriptions of Munster: A Corpus of the Inscribed Stones, Cork: Cork University Press Paxton, F. S. 1990. Christianising Death: The Creation of a Ritual Process in Early Medieval Europe, Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press Petrie, G. 1845. The Ecclesiastical Architecture of Ireland, Dublin: Hodges and Smith Petrie, G. 1878. Christian Inscriptions in the Irish Language, Vol. 2, M. Stokes (ed.), Dublin: Royal Historical and Archaeological Association of Ireland Petts, D. 2003. Memories in Stone, in H. Williams (ed.), Archaeologies of Remembrance: Death and Memory in Past Societies, 193–214, London: Kluwer Academic/Plenum Publishers Rees, A. and Rees, B. 1961. Celtic Heritage: Ancient tradition in Ireland and Wales, London: Thames and Hudson Reynolds, A. 2009. Anglo-Saxon Deviant Burial Customs, Oxford: Oxford University Press Swift, C. 1999. Early medieval Irish grave-slabs and their inscriptions, Durham Archaeological Journal, 14–15, 111–18

147

148 

clíodhna o’leary

Swift, C. 2003. Sculptors and their customers: a study of Clonmacnoise grave-slabs, in H. King (ed.), Clonmacnoise Studies, Volume 2 Seminar Papers 1998, 105–23, Dublin: Dublin Stationery Office Talbot, E. 1990. Teampull na bhFear nGonta or The Church of the Wounded Men, East Clare Heritage Journal, 2, 8–9 Thompson, V. 2002. Constructing salvation: a homiletic and penitential context for late Anglo-Saxon burial practice, in S. Lucy and A. Reynolds (eds), Burial in Early Medieval England and Wales, Society for Medieval Archaeology Monograph Series, 17, 229–39, London: Society for Medieval Archaeology Treffort, C. 1996. L’Église Carolingienne et la Mort, Lyon: Presses Universitaires de Lyon Westropp, T. J. 1900–02. The churches of County Clare, and the origin of the ecclesiastical divisions in that county, Proceedings of the Royal Irish Academy, 3rd ser., 6, 100–180 Westropp, T. J. 1906. Inscriptions of Iniscaltra, Lough Derg, Journal of the Royal Society of Antiquaries of Ireland, 36(4) [5th Ser., Vol. 16], 423 Williams, H. 1997. Ancient landscapes and the dead: the reuse of prehistoric and Roman monuments as early Anglo-Saxon burial sites, Medieval Archaeology, 41, 1–32 Williams, H. (ed.) 2003. Archaeologies of Remembrance: Death and Memory in Past Societies, London: Kluwer Academic/Plenum Publishers Williams, H. 2006. Death and Memory in Early Medieval Britain, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press

The Biographies and Audiences of Late Viking-Age and Medieval Stone Crosses and Cross-Decorated Stones in Western Norway Iris Crouwers

Introduction

P

revious research on the late Viking-Age and medieval stone crosses and cross-decorated slabs of western Norway has focused on the role of the tall crosses and upright cross-slabs as direct markers of Norway’s transition to Christianity (Birkeli 1973; Fuglestvedt and Hernæs 1996; Haavaldsen 2000; Rindal and Steinsland 2001; Gabrielsen 2007; but see also Nordeide 2009; 2011). As they have mainly been studied as a source for the Christianization of Norway, limited attention has been given to the use and perception of these monuments throughout the centuries. However, when studying their individual biographies, it transpires that many monuments have been moved, modified and reused – sometimes even very recently – and, thus, must have repeatedly acquired new functions and meanings. The notion that stone crosses and cross-decorated stones continued to affect people long after they were erected is also supported by the folktales and legends that surround a number of them. In addition, existing stone crosses inspired their audiences to erect similar monuments. While all these aspects could be seen as obstacles in determining a monument’s age and primary function, recent studies employing a cultural biographical approach have shown that the changing attitudes towards monuments and the ways in which they accumulate history can provide a better understanding of the dynamic relationship between objects and people, as well as how past actions and alterations to monuments influence conceptions held in the present (Holtorf 1998; Moreland 1999; Hall 2011; 2012). Such an approach is new to the large stone crosses and cross-

6

150 

iris crouwers

Fig. 6.1 Map of Southern Norway.

slabs of Norway, where a rather static view of the monuments as silent witnesses to religious and political changes has dominated. Despite the many problems in dating stone sculpture, it is safe to assume that these crosses and cross-decorated stones were commissioned by individuals or social groups who self-identified as Christians (Nordeide 2009, 176; Fisher 2010, 107). Yet, owing to the fragmented state of the source material, it is not easy to obtain a coherent picture of when and where in Norway Christianity was first introduced. According to the medieval textual sources, Hákon the Good, who was raised in England and reigned from 934 to 961, was Norway’s first Christian ruler, although his attempts to Christianize the country are described as less successful than those of his successors Óláfr Tryggvason (995–1000) and Óláfr Haraldsson (1015–

6 Biographies and Audiences in Western Norway 

1028), who was to become Norway’s most beloved saint. The most elaborate accounts of their lives and deeds are given in Heimskringla (c. 1230), a compilation of the sagas of the kings of Norway written by the Icelander Snorri Sturluson (1179–1241). Heimskringla was composed several centuries after the lifetimes of the missionary kings and it is likely that Snorri’s account at least partly reflects thirteenth-century customs and conceptions. The textual sources, most of which are not contemporary with the Christianization period, can be supplemented by archaeological evidence. While imported goods indicate that there were contacts with Christian regions in Europe already around AD 700 (Hernæs 1994), they do not prove that their owners or the regions in which they were found adhered to the Christian faith (Nordeide 2011, 298). Christian burial grounds and churches are more indicative of the presence of Christian communities. So far, the earliest known Christian graveyard in Norway has been identified on the island of Veøy in the county of Møre og Romsdal, where, within an enclosure, a number of east–west-orientated inhumations were found (Fig. 6.1). This graveyard has been dated to the beginning of the tenth century (Solli 1996). However, most other identified early Christian graves have been dated to the eleventh century (Bagge and Nordeide 2007, 132–3). Published in 1973, Fridtjov Birkeli’s Norske steinkors i tidlig middelalder: et bidrag til belysning av overgangen fra norrøn religion til kristendom is still the most complete and influential work on the stone crosses and upright cross-inscribed monuments of western Norway. Birkeli argues that the majority of the large crosses were raised during the second half of the tenth century and the beginning of the eleventh century, which largely coincides with the reigns of Norway’s first Christian kings. Even though Birkeli’s study contains many valuable observations, his attempts to date certain crosses to the tenth century by linking them to events described in the medieval literary sources are at times rather strained, as none of the extant Norwegian crosses and cross-slabs can irrefutably be dated before the year 1000. The majority of the monuments lack inscriptions or elaborate decorations and the cross-shapes they display were used over such a long time-period and wide geographical region that it is difficult to determine their origin (Fisher 2010). In addition, there is a lack of knowledge about their direct archaeological context, as few excavations have been undertaken at their locations (Nordeide 2011, 273). Here I will discuss several matters of temporality with regard to the Norwegian stone crosses and cross-decorated stones, the first one being the translation of portable crosses in other media into stone and whether this was done for design reasons only, or to give a lasting memory of the uses and symbolic meanings associated with these portable crosses. Petrified and enlarged portable crosses could in turn inspire the production of similar monuments, as is exemplified by the Stavanger cross and the four crosses that appear to have been based on its design. Focusing on monuments with runic inscriptions, I will address how these memorials may reflect

151

152 

iris crouwers

the changing burial customs, commemorative practices and conceptions of time that existed in Norway during the Christianization period and the later Middle Ages. That a stone monument is no guarantee for enduring memory is clarified by the case of a deteriorated runic cross that inspired the erection of an entirely different wooden cross. The landscape context forms an important factor in interpreting stone monuments (Edwards 2001; Fleming 2011; Williams 2011). I will focus on stone crosses that were at some point in time placed on Bronze Age and Iron Age mounds. Do these belong to the time of conversion or are there other possible explanations? The last section explores whether crosses were associated with Christianization not because they were actually raised by missionaries or missionary kings but rather because they retrospectively memorialized events related to the Christian mission or the presence of the persons involved, in particular St Óláfr.

Petrified crosses: imitation and meaning Although stone crosses and cross-decorated stones were not the first Norwegian stone monuments, their production posed new challenges and possibilities with regard to the translation of designs into stone and the techniques required to carve this material in a country where woodwork was far more advanced. Throughout the Norwegian Iron Age (c. 500 BC–AD 1030) undecorated and uninscribed standing stones were erected, often as part of a funerary structure (Solberg 2005, 33). From the fourth century AD, monuments with runic inscriptions started to appear, although few of these early rune-stones have been preserved. Some of the inscriptions are clearly commemorative, such as the one on the Tune stone from Østfold (c. AD 400), which contains the line ‘I, Wiw, after Wodurid, guardian of the bread, made the runes’ (Fjellhammer Seim 2007, 166–8). Nevertheless, most upright rune-stones employing a formula of the type ‘X raised this stone / carved these runes after (in memory of) of Y’ originate from the tenth and eleventh centuries (Spurkland 2005, 35). Free-standing crosses were not only novel with respect to their form and Christian message, but they were also amongst the first three-dimensional sculptures to be produced in Norway. Many are carved from crude local stone types that were difficult to work. Over twenty of the crosses that have been preserved in western Norway are made of Kyanite-Garnet-Muscovite-schist from Hyllestad in Sogn og Fjordane. The quarries in Hyllestad primarily produced quernstones and millstones which were exported from before the Viking Age through to early modern times. The crosses were probably a by-product made on demand (Baug 2005). In addition, several west Norwegian wheel-crosses and sepulchral monuments that are dated to the twelfth and thirteenth centuries are made of soapstone. The production of these professionally carved objects may be related to the emergence of architectural ornament and stone baptismal fonts. Many of the tall freestanding crosses, however, are characterized by their irregular, sometimes

6 Biographies and Audiences in Western Norway 

even organic, form. None of the large monuments depicts Christ, which could be explained by the dearth of narrative and figurative motifs in Viking art and Scandinavian art in general (Lager 2002, 57) and by the scarcity of decorative stonework in Norway in particular. Analogies between woodwork, metalwork and crosses in stone have been pointed out, both for the material within Norway and elsewhere (Higgins 1987, 133; Harbison 1992, 345, 348; Staecker 1999, 101–3; Lang and Craig 2001; Lager 2002, 62). For instance, the ornament and techniques used for some elaborately decorated early Christian crosses in Ireland are clearly reminiscent of metalwork, or, as Françoise Henry (1965, 140) expressed: ‘they are really processional crosses or reliquary crosses turned into stone monuments’. Richard Bailey (1996, 123) has pointed out that many sculptors aimed at giving stone crosses the appearance of metal covered in jewels. This was partly done because of the higher status of metalwork, but also because it was widely known that the cross on Mount Golgotha was encased in silver and covered in jewels. A number of west Norwegian free-standing stone crosses appear to have been modelled after portable crosses in other media, such as processional, altar, or devotional crosses made of metal and wood (Fig. 6.2). Depictions of these types of crosses are also frequently found on upright and recumbent slabs, both within and outside Norway. It is likely that portable crosses were not rendered in stone for design reasons only, but also because of their uses and associations. Although the function of the stone crosses is not always clear, the fact that many of them are situated in churchyards suggests that at least some of them may have served as memorials to deceased persons. Monuments enhanced the visibility of the departed and, consequently, their remembrance (Devlin 2011, 34). Moreover, by choosing stone as a material, the commissioners may have wished to ensure this memory would last. Medieval memorials often express the victory over evil and the hope for a better life after death (Lange 1955, 127). Crosses formed the most important motif, as they were a constant reminder of the promise of salvation and resurrection on the Day of Judgement, urging the viewer to pray for the souls of the departed (Devlin 2011, 34). Moreover, the cross would consecrate the grave and help protect it (Sørheim 2000, 24; Staecker 2004, 182). A cross placed on a staff was a particularly popular motif in memorial sculpture, as it was Christ’s weapon when he descended into Hell to defeat Satan and

153

Fig. 6.2 Stone cross. Churchyard of Vereide, Gloppen, Sogn og Fjordane.

154 

Fig. 6.3 Wooden devotional/ mortuary crosses. Herjolfsnes, Greenland.

iris crouwers

to free Adam and Eve and the righteous people during his Resurrection. The staff cross was, thus, seen as a sign of triumph of life over death and the promise of eternal life (Lager 2002, 225). The majority of the west Norwegian stone crosses and recumbent crossslabs do not bear any inscriptions, which may indicate that securing the burial place was considered to be more important than remembering the deceased as an individual (Moltke 1960, 425). However, the absence of an inscription with the name of the departed does not necessarily mean that the monument was anonymous, as individuality could also have been expressed through, for instance, a certain type of ornament or in ways that we can no longer recognize (Nilsson 1994, 71, 74). Judging from the modest number of late Viking-Age and medieval stone monuments that have survived in Norway, it can be concluded that they must have been exceptional. Few of them are identical, which enhanced the memory of the reason for which they were erected. Moreover, as they were so rare and costly, stone monuments may have been an investment for a whole family, rather than memorials to single individuals (Devlin 2011, 36). The number of generations for which the memory was preserved must have been dependent on whether the family was still in the area to commemorate their ancestors (Devlin 2011, 35). Very little is known about the ways in which ordinary people in the

6 Biographies and Audiences in Western Norway 

Nordic countries marked their graves. They may have used wooden crosses and poles that were possibly inscribed with a name (Nilsson 1994, 55). The only wooden crosses surviving in a sepulchral context were discovered in graves. A few examples are known from Norway, but the largest amount of wooden mortuary crosses in the Norse realm derives from the medieval churchyard of Herjolfsnes in Greenland (Fig. 6.3). Some of these crosses, which are dated to c. 1300, appear to have been placed in the hands of the departed (Stoklund 1984, 102–3). It is thought that these objects were part of the personal belongings of the deceased, who used them frequently during their lifetimes for individual devotion or to ward off evil (Stoklund 1984, 113). They may, thus, have had a long history of use before following their owners into the grave. A gravestone from Brattahlid in Greenland displays an image of a cross that is almost identical in appearance to some of the wooden devotional crosses (Stoklund 1984, 110). Could this have been meant as a perpetual reflection of a wooden cross placed in the grave that was no longer visible after the burial? While inscribed monuments appear to better preserve the memory of an individual than stones without inscriptions, erosion and changes in language and script may have rendered it difficult for future generations to read and understand the texts. Interesting in this respect is the biography of a stone cross with a runic inscription that, according to the notes in a manuscript dated to c. 1626, used to stand on the island of Giske in Møre og Romsdal (AM 370 fol.; N 441: numbers of runic inscriptions correspond to their catalogue entries in the series Norges innskrifter med de yngre runer (Olsen 1941–60; Liestøl et al. 1980) and Samnordisk runtextdatabas). By the first quarter of the seventeenth century the stone cross had already been replaced with a wooden cross at the initiative of Claus Nilssøn Gaas, vicar in nearby Borgund from 1589 to 1625. The wooden cross, which has also decayed, was inscribed with a rhyme in Roman script telling the story of one brother beating another to death in a quarrel about the road the cross was standing by (Fig. 6.4). Such a rhyme

155

Fig. 6.4 Lost wooden cross. Giske, Møre og Romsdal.

156 

Fig. 6.5 Stone cross from Stavanger. Front with runic inscription.

iris crouwers

would be highly unusual for a runic cross, particularly if the original Giske cross was created around the same time as the other known runic crosses, all of which have been dated to the eleventh century. Therefore, it has been suggested that words in the original runic inscription were misunderstood and provided the inspiration for the rhyme concerning the two brothers (Olsen 1957, 262–6). Fratricide is a common motif in legends surrounding medieval and (early) modern German stone crosses (Losch 1981). It is likely that this rather generic legend became attached to the Giske cross after its primary purpose was no longer recognised. Moreover, the story of the cross may have been conflated with the nickname of two large stones that stood on opposite sides of the main road on the island. According to an eighteenth-century source these stones were called ‘the two brothers’ (Strøm, Physisk, II, 116–8). Thus, the lost runic cross had obtained a new meaning that the local vicar considered important enough to be memorialized by the wooden cross. The custom to erect crosses or memorials at sites where a sudden death occurred has been documented in Norway in post-reformation times. For instance, a cross in Gudbrandsdalen in Oppland was said to commemorate the Scottish troops who fell in the Battle of Kringen of 1612 (Christie 1842, 176). In Sweden, however, there are indications that this custom existed as early as the twelfth century (Petersson 2009, 77). While in the late Viking Age and Middle Ages both stone and wooden crosses were erected outdoors – although of the latter none remain – most of the documented early modern crosses in Norway were made out of wood. While it may seem odd that the vicar of Borgund replaced a stone cross with a much less durable wooden cross, both the choice for the material and the rhyme appear to reflect contemporary customs. Portable crosses could be rendered into stone for a variety of reasons. While stone provided certain advantages over other materials, such as the possibility to create durable, massive and seemingly immovable memorials, it also meant that there was a chance that the monument would outlast the memory of the reason for which it was erected. Nevertheless, not only the design but also the use of

6 Biographies and Audiences in Western Norway 

157

the stone crosses and cross-inscribed stones of western Norway may have more in common with crosses in other media than has been recognized.

A portable cross turned to stone and associated monuments The largest – and perhaps the earliest – free-standing cross emulating a processional cross is the crudely carved Stavanger cross, which measures almost 4 m high (Figs 6.5 and 6.6). The lower part of the crosshead, which protrudes from the shaft, terminates in a V-shape, so the overall monument resembles a cross placed on a staff (Birkeli 1973, 152). Incised in the centre of the crosshead is an equal-armed linear cross. The other side of the monument contains a runic inscription stating: ‘ the priest raised this stone in memory of his lord Erlingr … when he fought with Óleifr’ (N 252). This is the only instance in which a still extant cross or cross-carved stone can convincingly be linked to events described in the kings’ sagas. The persons named in the inscription have been identified as Erlingr Skjálgsson and Óláfr Haraldsson, later St Óláfr (Liestøl 1954, 254). Erlingr Skjálgsson was a Christian chieftain from Sola in Rogaland, who married Óláfr Tryggvason’s sister sometime after 995 and must have been one of the most powerful men in Norway around the turn of the millennium. Erlingr’s relationship with Óláfr Haraldsson, however, was less amicable and in 1027 the chieftain met his demise battling Óláfr’s army. Linguistic analysis of the inscription indicates that the Stavanger cross could have been erected around 1030, so shortly after Erlingr’s death and perhaps before the veneration of St Óláfr started to take off (Spurkland 2005, 114). As the monument was commissioned by a priest, it is tempting to think that he provided the prototype on which the mason based his design. Interestingly, while the monument was deliberately carved in the form of a cross, in the inscription it is referred to as stein instead of kross. In the British Isles, runic monuments raised by Norse settlers and their descendants almost exclusively employ the word kross, both for free-standing crosses and slabs adorned with a cross in relief (Olsen 1954b). Within Norway, however, only one stone cross, located on the island of Svanøy in Sogn og Fjordane, describes itself as a kross (N 417). All others use stein, which is also common on ‘ordinary’ Norwegian rune-stones. The Stavanger cross may have been one of the first tall stone crosses erected in the county of Rogaland. Its stone type, gneiss with

Fig. 6.6 Stone cross from Stavanger. Detail of back with V-shaped terminal and line-carved cross.

158 

Fig. 6.7 Stone cross from Tjora. Fantoft stave church, Fana, Bergen, Hordaland.

Fig. 6.9 Stone cross. Old churchyard of Njærheim, Hå, Rogaland.

iris crouwers

Fig. 6.8 Stone cross from Tjora. Old churchyard of Tjora, Sola, Rogaland.

large chunks of feldspar, is not the most suitable for a carved and inscribed monument. This stone type is not found in the direct surroundings of the cross’s primary location. Perhaps it was chosen because it was quarried close to the place where Erlingr perished (Lexow 1992, 22). The inexperience of the commissioners and the masons with the carving of stone monuments may also have contributed to the choice of stone type and it is significant that it has not been used for any other surviving crosses. The monumental quality of the Stavanger cross and the high status of the person it commemorates must have made an impression on its audience, as it appears to have been the inspiration for at least four other monuments originating from the now abandoned medieval churchyards of Tjora and Njærheim, which are located south-west of Stavanger (Figs 6.7–6.9). Even though these four crosses are considerably smaller than the Stavanger cross, c. 1.5–2 m in height, they all display the same moulded V-shaped terminal. This feature is not found

6 Biographies and Audiences in Western Norway 

anywhere else in Norway and is thus exclusive to this particular group of stone crosses from a small area in Rogaland (Birkeli 1973, 156). In addition, the centres of the crossheads of two of the Tjora crosses are incised with an equal-armed linear cross, underlining their resemblance to the Stavanger cross. By imitating Erlingr Skjálgsson’s memorial stone the commissioners may have wished to express their affiliation with or admiration for the chieftain. Whether this means that these crosses were raised for the same purpose – for allies who died for the same cause as Erlingr – is, of course, impossible to prove. Perhaps the link between these crosses was formed by the priest who commissioned Erlingr’s cross. Nevertheless, the four crosses do not form a homogeneous group. Their overall shape varies and they are carved from different stone types. Moreover, on one of the Tjora crosses and the Njærheim cross the V-shaped terminal – still carefully moulded though – is partly placed within the crosshead, which is too high up to properly imitate a processional or altar cross (Figs 6.8–6.9). Instead of marking the division between crosshead and shaft, on the last two crosses the V-shape has become an independent motif. It appears that the masons modelled these two crosses after the Stavanger cross (or its more closely related successors) without having fully understood that the shape of the latter alludes to a portable cross. It is debatable whether this means that these two stone crosses predate a time when everybody was acquainted with processional crosses, as Birkeli concludes while dating the Njærheim cross to the late tenth century and the large cross from Tjora to the tenth or eleventh century (Birkeli 1973, 131–2, 147). Perhaps it was rather a distance in time or space that explains the presence of this skeuomorphic feature. While Tjora is located in Sola, the centre of Erlingr Skjálgsson’s power, Njærheim is situated c. 30 km south from Stavanger: thus, further away from its prototype (Fig. 6.10). Nevertheless, the distance in time and space is much more significant in the case of the third Tjora cross, which was hewn out of stone quarried in Hyllestad in Sogn og Fjordane, almost 300 km north of Stavanger. Although it is clearly the most professionally carved cross in this group, here the V-shape is not only placed within the cross-head but also dramatically reduced in size. Finds of fragments of crosses in the Hyllestad quarries indicate that the monuments were shipped off in a more or less finished state (Baug 2005, 9). The masons

159

Fig. 6.10 Map of Western Norway.

160 

iris crouwers

working in Hyllestad probably did not have first-hand knowledge of the Stavanger cross and may have executed their work based on an inaccurate sketch or, perhaps more likely, an oral description. Unlike the Stavanger cross, the Tjora and Njærheim crosses do not bear an inscription, which raises questions about expressions of identity and mnemonic strategies through the design, stone type and location of monuments within the landscape or churchyard. Moreover, the Stavanger cross and the four crosses from Tjora and Njærheim offer some insight in the translation of portable crosses into stone, the transmission of designs and the mobility of monuments. Certain conspicuous typological features, such as the moulded V-shaped terminal, can be explained by possible use of prototypes in other media. The transformation of this feature into a separate motif shows that existing stone crosses served as examples for other monuments. The evidence that one of the Tjora crosses was transported over hundreds of kilometres demonstrates how exclusive carved stone monuments were in Norway in the late Viking Age and the early Middle Ages. Although these stone crosses do not seem very sophisticated in comparison to some of their Insular counterparts, their sheer size as well as the resources that were required to carve, transport and erect them must have impressed their audiences. After all, power is also embedded in the series of processes involved in the production of a monument (Gondek 2006).

Indications of time in runic inscriptions on stone crosses and upright cross-slabs Apart from giving us a direct explanation of the function of the monument, runic inscriptions often provide a more solid basis for dating than stylistic or morphological analysis, particularly when dealing with objects as plain as the majority of the Norwegian stone crosses and cross-decorated monuments. Four upright slabs from four different counties displaying both a runic inscription and an ornamental cross are known (N 449; N 84; N 273; N 224). Besides the aforementioned Stavanger cross, only one free-standing stone cross with a runic inscription has been completely preserved, whereas three lost runic crosses, one of which survives only as fragments, are known from seventeenth-century documents (N 417; N 252; N 237; N 223; N 441). The inscriptions on these monuments, most of which are dated to the first half of the eleventh century, tell us they were erected in memory of a deceased person, as they employ variations of the commemorative formula ‘X raised this stone / carved these runes in memory of Y’. As said, little is known about the archaeological context of the stone crosses and similar problems surround the Norwegian runestones. Nevertheless, it is thought that the commemorative rune-stones that were raised in Viking-Age Norway did not necessarily mark the last resting place of the deceased (Spurkland 2005, 86). The Swedish evidence

6 Biographies and Audiences in Western Norway 

suggests that upright rune-stones were sometimes located at burial grounds and could be placed directly on the grave (Gräslund 1987, 254, 258). Nevertheless, many were erected in the open field, outside a distinct sacral context (Staecker 2010, 198). Although rune-stones and stone crosses thus have several aspects in common, it should be noted that the relationship between the two categories is complex and the nine crosses and cross-slabs with a commemorative runic inscription documented in Norway form only a small portion of the entire corpus of Norwegian stone crosses and cross-decorated stones. One of the Norwegian cross-decorated runic slabs, the well-known Kuli stone from Møre og Romsdal, commemorates not only a person but also the arrival of Christianity in Norway, as its inscription states: ‘Þórir and Hallvarðr raised this stone in memory of Ulfljótr … Twelve winters had Christianity been (valid law) in Norway …’ (N 449). The Kuli stone is the only Norwegian monument that can unequivocally be tied to the Christianization process, although there has been much debate as to what historical moment it memorializes. Suggested dates range from the mid-tenth century, when Hákon the Good undertook missionary work in Møre, to 1030, the year of the Battle of Stiklestad in which Óláfr Haraldsson perished. As bridges were sometimes constructed in connection with the creation of a rune-stone, some believe the Kuli stone to be contemporary with the remains of a wooden bridge found close to the stone’s alleged primary location. Based on dendrochronological analysis of the bridge, which must have been constructed after 1034, it is believed that the inscription points to the assembly at Moster in Hordaland in c. 1024, where Óláfr Haraldsson and Grímkell, his bishop, proclaimed Christianity the official religion of Norway (Spurkland 2005, 109–12). The inscription, however, does not mention the bridge, nor does it display the language changes that by that time had taken place further south in Norway. Moreover, it does not necessarily have to refer to an event recorded in the sagas (Fjellhammer Seim 2007, 197). The Kuli stone is sometimes compared to the Danish Jelling stone (c. 985) and the Frösö stone from Jämtland in Sweden (c. 1050–90), as these are the only three Scandinavian rune-stones that make reference to the Christianization process (Sawyer 2000, 133; Nordeide 2011, 275). The very long runic inscription on the Jelling stone ends with the statement that its commissioner, King Haraldr Gormsson, ‘made the Danes Christian’ (DR 42), while the message on the Frösö stone tells us it was raised by a man named Austmaðr, who had Jamtaland Christianized (J RS1928;66 $). These two inscriptions clearly celebrate the accomplishments of their commissioners. In contrast, the Kuli stone does not specify whether Þórir and Hallvarðr were personally involved in the Christianization of Norway. Perhaps they considered the coming of Christianity as the beginning of a new era and measured the time of Ulfljóts death in relation to this milestone in history. Little is known about when the Nordic countries adopted the Christian calendar and started to use

161

162 

Fig. 6.11 Runic cross-slab. Churchyard of Grindheim, Etne, Hordaland.

iris crouwers

numbered years. It is thought that the process was related to the organization of the Church in Norway and Sweden around the middle of the twelfth century and must have taken c. 150–200 years (Nordberg 2006, 24–5). The Kuli stone was raised well before this process was completed, but later in the Middle Ages folk chronology continued to mark the years by tying them to memorable (and sometimes very local) events, such as natural disasters, wars and epidemics (Jansson 1974, 276). The runic inscription on a large upright slab adorned with an equal-armed (processional) cross, which is standing by the church of Grindheim in Hordaland, raises questions about how long after the death of commemorated persons were their monuments erected (Fig. 6.11). The inscription reads: ‘Þormóðr raised this stone in memory of Þormóðr the (Earth-) Scorcher, his father’ (N 273). The fact that both father and son bear the same name may indicate that the son was born after his father’s death (Olsen 1957, 10). According to Viking-Age naming traditions, children could only be named after deceased ancestors. Only after Christianity was firmly established was it acceptable to be named after a living person, although in some regions the old custom survived up to modern times (Bø 1967, 208). Names were seen as part of an individual’s personality and when a newborn child was given the name of a deceased ancestor the departed relative rejoined the living members of the family (Flom 1914–15, 249). It is likely that the Grindheim rune-stone was commissioned by the son when he came of age, which means that there must have been at least fifteen years between the death of the father and the creation of the monument (Olsen 1957, 10). Despite the many uncertainties about the primary location of late Viking-Age upright runic monuments, the suggestion that they were not necessarily connected to a grave becomes apparent when we compare their inscriptions with those found on recumbent slabs. In Norway, the latter are often dated from c. 1100 onwards, although their dating may have been influenced by the idea that recumbent slabs succeeded the upright commemorative rune-stones, while in reality the production of the two types might have overlapped (Sawyer 2000, 10–11). Nevertheless, the inscriptions on Norwegian recumbent slabs display some new features. Firstly, the fact that the monument was placed over the grave is

6 Biographies and Audiences in Western Norway 

indicated by formulae such as ‘Here rests…’ or ‘Here lies…’ (e.g. N 65; N 79; N 215; N 457). Secondly, while Christian invocations for the soul of the deceased are occasionally found on upright Norwegian rune-stones, they appear much more frequently on recumbent slabs (e.g. N 79; N 227; N 457; N 536). Thirdly, many of the runic inscriptions on the graveslabs mention the day of death (but not the year), which was usually also the anniversarium (N253; N261; N210). Each year on the anniversarium a mass for the soul of the deceased was to be held (Palm 1992, 151). The days are identified by their distance to ecclesiastical holidays: for instance, ‘seven nights after All Saints’ Day’ or ‘five nights before St Botolph’s Day’ (N 231; N 236). These recumbent grave-covers show not only that burial customs and commemorative practices changed after the establishment of Christianity but also that time was now structured in a different way.

Crosses and mounds: the Christianization of monuments in a medieval perspective Although their exact numbers are unclear, at least some of the freestanding stone crosses found in the coastal and fjord landscape of western Norway were erected on a mound. Usually located by roads and waterways, these mounds could be Bronze or Iron Age barrows, artificial mounds that did not contain any burials, or natural hills. Because of the (perceived) contrast between the pagan mound and the Christian cross, the combination of these two elements is often believed to directly mark the moment of transition from the pagan Norse belief system to Christianity. Therefore, crosses-on-mounds have been dated to the tenth and early eleventh centuries (Birkeli 1973; Rindal and Steinsland 2001, 60) or even to the ninth century (Fuglestvedt and Hernæs 1996; Haavaldsen 2000, 16). However, most stone crosses associated with mounds display neither inscriptions nor decorations, which renders it difficult to determine their age as well as the moment they were added to these prehistoric structures. It is important to be aware of the possibility that the ‘Christianization’ of pre-Christian monuments was not limited to the actual period of conversion, but could happen anytime afterwards (Thäte 2007, 74; Tingle 2005). Moreover, even if the combination of the crosson-mound originates in the late Viking Age, this composition also must have invoked responses from medieval audiences, in particular because of its visibility in the landscape. Stone crosses on mounds appear most frequently in the county of Rogaland, which is why the discussion will be confined to this area. Approximately ten relatively reliable cases have been reported, although four of these are known from early modern sources or oral accounts only. With the exception of the monuments from Gard in Haugesund and Hauge in Klepp, which are considered to be in situ, all extant crosses associated with mounds

163

164 

Fig. 6.12 Stone cross on burial mound. Hauge, Klepp, Rogaland.

iris crouwers

are now preserved in local churches or museums (Figs 6.12–13). None of the crosses have survived in one piece. Of some only a single fragment remains, while others were severely damaged and then creatively restored. Stone crosses surmounting pre-Christian mounds play an important role in discussions concerning the Christianization of Norway, as they are thought to form the link between (rune-)stones raised on barrows and (small) cruciform gravestones found in Christian churchyards (Birkeli 1973, 136). It has been suggested that Norwegian aristocrats may have attempted to make society gradually accepting of Christianity by combining older burial customs with new religious symbols (Fuglestvedt and Hernæs 1996). By placing a cross on a barrow, a sign of their landownership, the aristocrats emphasised the continuity of their dynasty in spite of the religious changes (Gabrielsen 2007). Other scholars, however, believe that the cross on the mound signified a radical change in ideology, religion and social order (Rindal and Steinsland 2001, 60). Their presence showed that the ancestor-cult was no longer steering peoples’ lives and that the power of the dead over the living had been neutralized by the sign of the cross (Birkeli 1973, 138). The majority of the crosses have, thus, mainly been dated and interpreted based on the conviction that they belong to an early phase of the Christianization process. The following discussion is not aimed at entirely disproving the aforementioned theories, but explores the possible functions of crosses on mounds in the Middle Ages, after Christianity had become the norm. In order to do so, it is important to gain insight into the conception and use of mounds in Christian times. Recently, several studies have addressed the reuse of preChristian barrows and other prehistoric sites in England and Wales, focusing on the superstitious beliefs surrounding them and their roles as assembly sites, execution cemeteries and signs of landownership (Semple 1998; 2003; Edwards 2001; Reynolds 2009; Williams 2011). All of these aspects, which cannot be seen totally separate from each other, will be considered here.

6 Biographies and Audiences in Western Norway 

165

above: Fig. 6.13 Stone cross on natural hill. Gard, Haugesund, Rogaland.

That the people in Rogaland continued to have a relationship with pre-Christian barrows after the conversion is attested to by a number of small crosses cut from thin sheets of lead that were brought to light during excavations in mounds. For instance, at Bru, on the island of Rennesøy, two lead crosses were found stuck between the stones at the edge of a Bronze Age cairn (Olsen 1954a, 279; Fig. 6.14), while a lead cross from Sande near Stavanger was discovered in an Iron Age barrow that contained burnt bones which produced a radiocarbon date focusing on the third and early fourth centuries AD and a sword that was dated to AD 600–800 (Sørheim 2004, 195). It is thought that lead crosses of this type should be seen primarily in connection with Christian burial customs. Their purpose may, thus, have been comparable to the wooden crosses from Herjolfsnes in Greenland (Olsen 1954a, 286; Sørheim

Fig. 6.14 Runeinscribed lead cross found in prehistoric cairn. Bru, Rennesøy, Rogaland.

166 

iris crouwers

2000, 25). Lead mortuary crosses have been documented in France, England and the Low Countries from the eleventh century onwards, although these are usually inscribed with the name of the deceased and the day of death. The Norwegian lead crosses, on the other hand, are mainly dated to the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries and the majority were discovered in mounds that predate the deposition of the crosses by many centuries (Olsen 1954a; Haavaldsen 1995; Hagland 1995; Sørheim 2004). It is unlikely that good Christians were buried in barrows so many centuries after Norway’s transition to Christianity. The medieval Gulaþing law, which was valid in western Norway, prohibited interment in mounds or cairns. This legislation is preserved in several manuscripts, the earliest of which is dated to c. 1250 (Gulatingslovi 23). As the lead crosses did not accompany ordinary burials, it is thought that they were deposited either in an attempt to Christianize the mounds and the ‘ancestors’ buried within them, or with the aim of preventing the walking dead or other creatures from haunting the living (Olsen 1954a, 287; Haavaldsen 1995, 26; Sørheim 2000, 24; Fisher 2010, 108; Nordeide 2011, 279). The first interpretation resembles the one often given to stone crosses on mounds. However, both explanations have been criticized, as it is improbable that the ancestors were still remembered as individuals so many generations after their lifetimes. The restless dead, on the other hand, were believed to wander only shortly after their burial (McKinnell et al. 2004, 189). Nevertheless, it is possible that thirteenth- and fourteenthcentury landowners considered the mounds on their estates as the burial places of their ancestors, in spite of the large time-gap between the establishment of the mounds and their own lifetimes (Edwards 2001, 23) and regardless of whether the connection with these ancestors was genealogical or mythical (Williams 2011, 17; see also Bradley 1987). After all, people living in the past may have had difficulties differentiating between natural hills and man-made structures and did not have the means to determine their age (Ellis 1968, 112; Bradley 1987, 15; Semple 2003, 120; Thäte 2007, 38). It should be noted, though, that while the medieval textual sources regularly refer to the worship of mounds, they often do not clarify whether worship was directed at the mound itself or its inhabitants, whether they were thought to be dead ancestors or supernatural creatures (Ellis 1968, 102, 111). Despite the variety in conceptions of mounds recorded in the Christian period, negative attitudes appear to dominate. Therefore, it has been suggested that the deposition of the crosses in the mounds should be regarded as an act of exorcism to drive out whatever creature that dwelt within (Haavaldsen 1995; Sørheim 2000). This is supported by the fact that several lead crosses are inscribed with runic inscriptions in Latin that are evidently of an apotropaic nature. The crosses from Sande, for instance, cite (parts of) the antiphon Ecce crucem that contains the lines ‘Behold, the cross of the Lord, flee oh fiendish powers!’ (Sørheim 2004). This antiphon was recited during funerals when the priest made the sign of the cross over the grave (Olsen 1954a, 233). Although we can only speculate as to who buried

6 Biographies and Audiences in Western Norway 

the crosses in the mounds, the use of Latin indicates that knowledgeable clergy may have been involved in their production (Olsen 1954a, 237, 286; Sørheim 2004, 226). The action of depositing a lead cross would not have left an external trace and would have meaning only for the persons who were present at the time. A stone cross could provide a more permanent sign of conquering the forces within the mound. The only object in this group to display any writing is a possible cross-fragment from Melhaug in Sola that was found near a Bronze Age mound (Birkeli 1973, 142). The inscription on this fragment is illegible and it is thought that the carver imitated runic script without mastering it himself. Olsen suggested that the rune-like signs were carved into the stone as a form of protection against the living dead in the mound (Olsen 1954a, 211). However, from the lead crosses displaying lines of Ecce crucem it can be gathered that not only the inscription itself but also the cruciform object on which it was inscribed warded off evil. Uninscribed stone crosses may thus have served similar purposes. Almost all stone crosses associated with mounds in Rogaland show rather poor workmanship, which could mean that they were erected by people who did not have the means to commission or manufacture well-carved monuments or who deemed the appearance of the cross to be less important than the message it conveyed or the powers associated with it. While crosses on mounds have often been interpreted as proclamations of the new faith by the upper class, it is worth considering whether at least some of them originated in a more provincial environment and were more closely related to medieval superstitions and beliefs. Regardless of its fragmented state, a cross from Hauge in Klepp is one of the most illustrious monuments in this group (Fig. 6.12). It is placed on a mound known as Krosshaug, which means ‘Cross hill’. The immediate surroundings of Krosshaug are extremely rich in archaeological finds and excavations at the mound itself revealed the grave of a wealthy female dated to the Migration Period (fifth to early sixth centuries AD). It is thought that Hauge and nearby Tu formed the economic, political and religious centre of the area from the fifth century AD to the postmedieval period, which is supported by the fact that two assembly places were located here (Tsigaridas Glørstad 2012, 45). The presence of stone crosses at assembly places has not escaped the attention of previous scholars and it has been suggested that they were erected in connection with the official adoption of Christianity at the assemblies (Birkeli 1973, 166; Birkeli and Hauge 1995, 91–2). Interesting in this respect is an event described in the vita of King Óláfr Tryggvason, which was written in c. 1190 by Oddr Snorrason, a Benedictine monk living in Iceland. One of the stories told is that of Óláfr Tryggvason’s mission to Christianize Iceland. Amongst his supporters was an Icelandic chieftain called Hjalti Skeggjason, who had transported two large crosses, one as tall as Óláfr, back to Iceland after having met with the king in Norway. Hjalti brought these crosses to the assembly plain and had them carried to the Law

167

168 

iris crouwers

Rock, where he and his companion spoke with vigour about the Christian faith (Snorasson, Tryggvason, 90–91). Although Óláfr Tryggvason may actually have been involved in the Christianization of Iceland, Oddr appears to have modelled his vita after other hagiographies, so many specific events are of a miraculous or legendary nature (Bagge 2006, 493, 504). Moreover, other versions of this episode omit the crosses (Norwegian Kings, ch. 12; Sturluson, Tryggvasons, ch. 95). These late twelfth- and thirteenth-century sources emphasize the aspects of the Christianization process that were considered important in the time of writing, such as the royal status of the missionaries and the presentation and acceptance of the gospel at legal assemblies (Bagge 2006, 473, 504). To return to Rogaland: the stone cross at Hauge is usually dated to the late Viking Age, although the nearby assembly sites were in use throughout the Middle Ages, as well as in early modern times (Tsigaridas Glørstad 2012, 45). This raises the question of whether the cross could be linked to activities that took places at the assemblies. Recent studies of the reuse of prehistoric mounds in later Anglo-Saxon England have shown that some of them functioned not only as assembly places but also as execution cemeteries (Reynolds 2009). Criminals, suicides and unbaptized children were buried in barrows or at other prehistoric sites (Semple 2003, 240). The use of mounds for this purpose may have been brought on by the superstitions that surrounded them, which are similar to those recorded in medieval Norway. The living dead or the supernatural creatures that were thought to dwell within the barrows may have added to the torments of the criminals (Semple 2003, 241). It is tempting to think that in medieval Norway mounds also functioned as the last resting place for people who were not allowed to be buried in consecrated ground. This would explain the many superstitions related to mounds, as well as the deposition of lead crosses that were normally used in a sepulchral context. In addition, there is evidence that elsewhere in Scandinavia mounds were reused as burial sites during the Middle Ages. In Lärbro on the Swedish island of Gotland, for instance, the skeleton of an infant discovered in a prehistoric mound was radiocarbon dated to the thirteenth or fourteenth century AD. This has been interpreted as the illicit inhumation of an unwanted child (Lindquist 1981, 8). However, none of the investigated prehistoric mounds in Rogaland contained human remains that could be dated to the Christian period (Sørheim 2000, 24). In Anglo-Saxon England the sites of deviant burials are characterized by their liminal location (Reynolds 2009, 37). The same is true of the place that the Gulaþing law points out as the burial site for murderers, traitors, suicides and others not worthy to rest in consecrated ground, as one of the provisions says that these were to be buried by the coastline ‘where the sea and the green turf meet’ (GL 23). Executions may also have taken place at the beach, after a gathering at the assembly site (Kjus

6 Biographies and Audiences in Western Norway 

2011, 36). In medieval Christian thought, the seas and the oceans were perceived as an uncontrollable chaos where Satan reigned. The seashore was, thus, the literal boundary between good and evil (Flatman 2010, 67). No medieval deviant burial sites have been identified in western Norway, although several stone crosses that do not have a direct connection with churchyards are situated close to the shore. The most interesting example is a cross that used to stand at a place called Korsstranda, ‘Cross beach’, in Davik in Sogn og Fjordane. This roughly carved cross is made of local stone and appears to be unfinished, as one of its armpits has not been cut out. When it was first reported in 1826, the monument was located in the intertidal zone, so it was completely submerged at high tide and visible only at low tide (Christie 1842, 161–2). Of course, there are many other explanations for crosses placed close to the shore. They may, for instance, mark the spot where a drowned person washed up or signify a safe haven for seafarers (AM 370 fol.; Birkeli 1973, 160). One interpretation does not necessarily exclude the other, as uses of these sites may have changed not only over the centuries but also with the seasons and the time of the day. The same goes for the cross on the mound: while it is often seen in the light of the conversion to Christianity, it is improbable that people in the later Middle Ages would have been indifferent to this construction, as it at the least must have reminded them of the cross on Mount Golgotha. As such, crosses on mounds may intentionally emulate the site of the Crucifixion. Similar ideas could have influenced the pyramidal and stepped bases of stone crosses in the British Isles (Fisher 2005, 86; Hall et al. 2005, 311). Although the cross may have been put on the mound to clarify that the old powers had been subdued by the new religion, the juxtaposition of the old and the new also allows for other interpretations. Mount Golgotha was not only the location of the Crucifixion but also considered to be the burial place of Adam, which is why in many renderings of the Crucifixion Adam’s skull is depicted beneath the Cross. Moreover, according to a legend that circulated in the Middle Ages, the tree that provided the wood for the True Cross sprouted from a branch that Adam’s son Seth had planted on his father’s grave (de Voragine vol. 1, ch. 68). Thus, the cross that was to save humanity emerged from the grave of the first sinful human. The juxtaposition of Old and New Testament scenes is well known from stone crosses in the Insular area, but it is worth investigating whether plain crosses were also meant to invoke temporal transcendence by connecting the old with the new (Williams 2011, 23, 26). Previous scholarship on the Norwegian stone crosses has underlined the importance of pre-Christian barrows in the period of conversion. However, considering the deposition of lead crosses and their role at assembly sites, it can be concluded that mounds – and the stone crosses that surmounted a number of them – also formed meaningful elements of the medieval landscape.

169

170 

iris crouwers

Remembering the presence of St Óláfr: real or imagined One of the aspects touched upon in the previous section is how monuments could materially create continuities between the present and real or imagined pasts (Williams 2011, 17). In this section I would like to further explore this notion while concentrating on crosses and other monuments that commemorate the presence of St Óláfr Haraldsson. As we have seen, in Oddr Snorrason’s account of the Christianization of Iceland King Óláfr Tryggvason provides his adherents with two crosses that accompany them while spreading the gospel. Óláfr Tryggvason’s accomplishments as a missionary king, however, pale in comparison to those Óláfr Haraldsson is credited with. After his death in the Battle of Stiklestad in 1030, Óláfr Haraldsson’s body was transported to Nidaros and the following year he was declared a saint. Soon Óláfr’s miraculous shrine started to attracted pilgrims, whose numbers increased during the twelfth century. In the course of time many Norwegian landmarks, such as springs, oddly shaped rocks, standing stones and crosses, were linked to St Óláfr and his cult (Bø 1955). Whether St Óláfr himself erected any stone crosses during his lifetime is doubtful. The aforementioned Stavanger cross is the only contemporary stone cross that makes reference to St Óláfr, although hardly as a king or a saint, but rather as the person responsible for Erlingr Skjálgsson’s demise. One more runic inscription on a stone monument may mention an event in the life of the holy king. Sometime in the twelfth century, a pre-Christian standing stone located at the church site of Stedje in Sogn og Fjordane was inscribed with a runic inscription stating ‘King Óláfr shot between these stones’ (N 386). Even though Norway has known more than one king named Óláfr, it is possible that this inscription refers to a local legend in which St Óláfr consecrated the area around the church by shooting an arrow between two standing stones (Olsen 1957, 197). The motif of shooting reoccurs in several other legends surrounding stone crosses that also feature St Óláfr. Two crosses in Eivindvik in Sogn og Fjordane are covered in the red garnets that are so characteristic of the type of stone quarried in Hyllestad. According to a seventeenth-century legend, these red specks were lead pellets shot into the stone by St Óláfr (AM 370 fol.). Through the hole in the centre of a cross from the farmstead of Kile in Møre og Romsdal, St Óláfr was said to have shot a giant (Birkeli 1973, 206). The conspicuous typological features of certain crosses were thus explained by connecting them to a common legendary motif. The first written account of a cross being raised on Norwegian soil is found in Heimskringla. Snorri Sturluson tells how Óláfr Haraldsson arrived by ship at a sandbank named Sylte in Møre og Romsdal. Here St Óláfr set up his tent and had a cross erected. The next day he continued his journey by foot. After a while St Óláfr rested at a spot known as

6 Biographies and Audiences in Western Norway 

Krossbrekka. The place where he sat down was marked with two crosses (Sturluson, Olav, ch. 178 and 179). According to a 1766 account, a wooden cross dedicated to St Óláfr was standing at Sylte. This cross, which of course did not date back to St Óláfr’s lifetime, was reportedly maintained by the locals (Strøm, Physisk, 266). A letter by Bishop Eystein of Oslo dated to 18 February 1394 indicates that in the fourteenth century too crosses may have been raised as memorials to St Óláfr’s presence. Bishop Eystein writes how he, during a visit to Vinger in the county of Hedmark, met four old men who remembered that in their youth a large cross used to stand by the church of Eidskog. The cross apparently marked the place where St Óláfr once rested. Upon hearing this, Bishop Eystein promptly ordered the re-erection of the cross and the construction of a small prayer house for pilgrims (Dip. Norv., I, 1849, No. 545). The relationship between St Óláfr, pilgrimage and crosses can also be observed in the travel notes of Bishop Jens Nilssøn of Oslo and Hamar. On 7 September 1594 the bishop encountered several crosses standing on a heap of stones by Kjølveien, the road leading from Gran to Teterud in the county of Oppland (Nilssøn, 287). The highest point of this road is still known as Højkorset, ‘High cross’, which suggests that this is the place where the crosses, which are now lost, were standing. Kjølveien was part of the pilgrimage route to Nidaros and travellers may have rested and prayed by the crosses. In Sweden, toponyms containing the element ‘Kors’ often occur by the pilgrim roads leading to Nidaros. There are indications that some of these refer to physical crosses, although they were not necessarily made of stone (Bø 1955, 104). Numerous examples of crosses and other monuments associated with missionary kings and saints are found elsewhere in Europe (e.g., Bede, Hist. Ecc. 3:2; Adamnan, Columba XXIV). In Germany, many legends and folktales surrounding stone crosses allude to the Anglo-Saxon missionaries St Willibrord and St Boniface, who were active in the Frankish Empire in the very late seventh and first half of the eighth centuries. In some cases these concern reused pre-Christian monuments, such as the large menhir from Ferschweiler in Rheinland-Pfalz that at some point in time was carved into the shape of a cross, according to legend by St Willibrord himself. The functions attributed to these monuments are similar to the ones often assumed for the large Norwegian crosses: they were supposedly erected in places where missionary saints preached, performed baptisms or rested, either during their lifetimes or post-mortem. For instance, after his violent death in Dokkum in 754, St Boniface’s body was brought to the monastery of Fulda. Wherever the funeral procession rested overnight a stone cross was raised. The custom of erecting stone crosses or other monuments wherever the funeral procession of an important person paused is thought to be of Anglo-Saxon origin and has been documented from the early eighth century (Brockpähler 1963, 145). Some very elaborate constructions marking the route of royal funeral processions are known

171

172 

iris crouwers

from thirteenth-century France and England (Sadler 1996, 197; Coldstream 1996, 197–8), but the custom could also take much simpler forms. In Sweden, certain plain roadside memorials are interpreted as the places where pall-bearers paused on the way from the home of the deceased to the church (Petersson 2009, 77). The legend concerning St Boniface’s body may, thus, be a reflection of actual burial traditions that were practised over a long time-period and in a wide geographical region. None of the extant German stone crosses can convincingly be dated to the eighth century, so it is possible that they were erected at a later stage to identify sites associated with St Boniface’s mission or the transport of his body. On the other hand, these stories may have become attached to existing crosses that commemorated an accidental death (Mostert 1999) or that were raised by murderers to atone for their crimes. It also appears as if monuments dedicated to a certain saint or placed on the route to a saint’s shrine were interpreted as signs that the saint had once visited that site in the past or even erected the monument himself. Moreover, the conception that crosses marked the sites where a saint once rested may echo the actions of the pilgrims at these crosses. To return to Norway: a local legend records how the body of the aforementioned Erlingr Skjálgsson was transported over land to his estate in Sola. Nine standing stones on six different estates were thought to mark the resting places during transport. Archaeological research, however, has demonstrated that at least several of these stones were originally part of funerary structures that date back to the Migration Period (Myhre 2004). These legends explain the presence of monuments by connecting them to known historical persons or events and are, of course, no reliable sources to their primary function or age. They do, however, offer us a glimpse of the perception and use of these monuments. The presence of St Óláfr and events related to the Christianization of Norway are commemorated also in modern times by the (re-)erection of crosses. In 1923 a roughly cut cross from Voss in Hordaland – which was first documented in 1626 and may very well date back to the Middle Ages – was renovated and moved to its present location on a mound especially created for this purpose in the centre of town. The occasion was the 900th anniversary of St Óláfr’s missionary visit to Voss, which was described by Snorri, although the Icelandic author fails to mention any crosses in his rendering of the episode (Sturluson, Olav, ch. 121). Interestingly, the first written records of this particular monument, dating back to the seventeenth and nineteenth centuries, describe how it marked the barrow of one of the four giants (in the seventeenth century) or men (in the nineteenth century) responsible for building the church in Voss (AM 370 fol.; Miltzow, Voss, 15–16; Christie 1842, 164). The association of this cross with St Óláfr is, thus, of a quite recent date and shows how monuments are sometimes retrospectively tied to events described in the literary sources.

6 Biographies and Audiences in Western Norway 

Conclusion By employing a biographical approach it becomes apparent that monuments are not static and enclosed in the time period in which they were created, but have multiple lives and meanings. Previous research on the stone crosses and cross-slabs of western Norway has often limited itself to their (alleged) late Viking-Age origin, while their medieval Christian context has been neglected. Breaking down the barriers between different ages opens up a wider range of interpretations regarding the ways in which they were used and perceived and allows for a larger amount of comparative material to be taken into account (Hall 2012, 97). In this paper I have emphasized the interplay between crosses of different sizes and materials that are often associated with different time periods, functions and uses, as these different types of crosses do not exist in separate realms. In Norway, the apotropaic and liturgical purpose of large stone crosses has been largely neglected, but it is difficult to dismiss these functions as some of the medieval lead and wooden crosses were clearly used to ward off evil or as a focus for individual devotion. The impact of artefacts that are now lost should not be underestimated either. For instance, crosses covered in precious metals and gems were probably found in many Scandinavian churches before the Reformation (Lange 1981, 175). Commissioners of stone crosses or cross-decorated monuments may have wished to replicate the effect these jewelled crosses had on their audience or the powers associated with them. Here we may also consider the link with Mount Golgotha and the Holy Land. The choice of a certain stone type – or of stone as a material for monumental crosses in general – should not be taken for granted, as large wooden crosses would, to some extent, have had the same effect (Williams 2011, 21). The features of specific stone types, such as the metal-like shine of the stone quarried in Hyllestad and the red garnets it contains, may also have played a role. Events represented in the medieval literary sources such as Heimskringla have been used to explain the presence of stone crosses at certain locations. These interpretations tend to focus on the moment of erection instead of on the monument’s use over the centuries. Moreover, as the written sources often describe a distant past, it is difficult to discriminate between historical fact and fiction. However, the existence of the stone crosses and the conceptions expressed in the sources overlap in time and it is not easy to tell what came first: the monument or the story attached to it. The ongoing dialogue between medieval textual sources and stone monuments is exemplified by the story of the cross from Voss, which was reused in recent times to serve as a memorial to an episode described by Snorri. Legends and folktales make sense out of monuments from the past while reflecting the conceptions, morals and knowledge of the time

173

174 

iris crouwers

in which they were developed and circulated. Many of these folktales were created when the need to explain the presence or meaning of an existing monument arose, which indicates that their previous purpose was forgotten (Zachrisson 1996, 96). These legends are often stereotypical and contain anachronistic elements, such as the use of hail shot by St Óláfr. However, instead of trying to assess the historical reliability of these legends or beliefs, it is perhaps more important to focus on their meaning (Gazin-Schwartz and Holtorf 1999, 13). For instance, legends may have added to the importance of a village or town (Zachrisson 1996, 94). Moreover, explanations that appear implausible to the modern mind may have been thought valid up until quite recently. For instance, belief in the intervention of supernatural beings persisted in Norway into the twentieth century (Brendalsmo and Stylegar 2003, 82). At times, folklore has also influenced the way monuments have been interpreted by scholars. Although the evidently unrealistic explanations have not been repeated, the connection of stone crosses with St Ólafr, which in many cases may be equally legendary, has been perpetuated not only by local communities but also by scholars such as Birkeli. Stone crosses and the sign of the cross were used to modify monuments originating in the pre-Christian past. Here I have discussed stone crosses that were placed on prehistoric burial mounds, but in Norway there are also examples of standing stones that were transformed into explicitly Christian monuments by adding carved crosses or a horizontal bar. The ‘Christianization’ of prehistoric monuments or sites is known from many different European regions (Hall 2012, 98). These actions could have been taken long after the initial introduction of Christianity and for a variety of reasons (Holtorf 1997; Tingle 2005; Thäte 2007). Several authors dealing with the British material mention the deliberate destruction of stone crosses after the Reformation (Moreland 1999; Fraser 2005; Fleming 2011; Fraser et al. 2011). Although many Norwegian crosses are damaged, there is no evidence that any of them were vandalized for ideological reasons. Nevertheless, it appears as if the Reformation effectively erased the memory of many of the religious practices that must have surrounded these monuments, as well as the powers attributed to crosses in the Middle Ages, which is also illustrated by the fact that these aspects have been barely touched upon in Norwegian research on the stone crosses. Overall it seems as if the majority of the west Norwegian free-standing stone crosses continued to function as independent monuments, although what or whom they memorialized (or were thought to memorialize), the beliefs and practises that surrounded them and their functions changed over time. The numerous examples of reuse, relocation and replication of stone crosses into modern times show the active ways in which audiences engage with the monuments in their surroundings.

6 Biographies and Audiences in Western Norway 

Acknowledgements An earlier version of this paper was presented at the PhD seminar Materialities of Time: ritual, death and the practice of archaeology, which was organized by the Nordic Graduate School in Archaeology in Århus in June 2012. I would like to thank the organizers, participants and lecturers for their comments and discussions. I am particularly grateful to Howard Williams for inviting me to contribute to this volume, offering his opinions and pointing me in the direction of relevant literature. Thanks are also due to Meggen Gondek, Jo Kirton and the two anonymous reviewers for their helpful comments on an earlier draft of this paper and their suggestions for further reading. Mark Hall deserves thanks for kindly providing me with copies of several of his articles. Any errors remain my own.

Bibliography

Primary sources Adamnan, Columba Life of Saint Columba, Founder of Hy (ed. W. Reeves), 1874, Edinburgh: Edmonston and Douglas AM 370 fol. Antiqvitates. Eller fortegnelse oc afritzing paa huis gamle legender som findis udi Bergen-sticht. Published in E. Moltke, Jon Skonvig og de andre runetegnere: Et bidrag til runologiens historie i Danmark og Norge, vol. 1, Billeder og kildetext, 1956, København: Ejnar Munksgaard, 163–96 Bede, Hist. Ecc. Bede’s Ecclesiastical history of the English people (eds B. Colgrave and R. A. B. Mynors), 1969, Oxford: Clarendon Press Dip. Norv. Diplomatarium Norvegicum, 1847–1849. Christiania: P. T. Mallings Forlagshandel Gulatingslovi Gulatingslovi (trans. K. Robberstad), 1969, Oslo: Samlaget Miltzow, Voss Miltzow, Gert Henrikssøn, Voss og Hardangers prestehistorie: Oversat og forsynet med anmerkninger samt en skildring af forfatteren (trans. with notes O. Olafsen). Norheimsund: Hardanger Samlinger, 1911 (first published in 1679 as Presbyterologia Norwegico-Wos-Hardangriana) Nilssøn Biskop Jens Nilssøns visitatsbøger og reiseoptegnelser 1574–1597, 1885, Y. Nielsen. Kristiania: A. W. Brøgger Norwegian Kings Theodoricus Monachus, Historia De Antiquitate Regum Norwagiensium.

175

176 

iris crouwers

An Account of the Ancient History of the Norwegian Kings. D. McDougall and I. McDougall (trans.), 1998, London: Viking Society for Northern Research, University College London Snorasson, Tryggvason Oddr Snorrason, The Saga of Olaf Tryggvason (trans. T. M. Andersson), 2003, Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press Strøm, Physisk Hans Strøm, Physisk og oeconomisk beskrivelse over fogderiet Søndmør,beliggende i Bergens Stift i Norge, 1766, Oplyst med landkort og kobberstykker, Kiøbenhavn: Sælges i Rothes Enkes og Profts Boghandling Sturluson, Olav Snorri Sturluson, Olav den helliges saga, in Norges Kongesagaer (eds F. Hødnebø and H. Magerøy, trans A. Holtsmark and D. Arup Seip), 1979, 211–451, Oslo: Gyldendal Sturluson, Tryggvasons Snorri Sturluson, Olav Tryggvasons saga, in Norges Kongesagaer (eds F. Hødnebø and H. Magerøy, trans A. Holtsmark and D. Arup Seip), 1979, 129–210, Oslo: Gyldendal de Voragine Jacobus de Voragine, The Golden Legend. Readings on the Saints (trans. William Granger Ryan), 1993, 2 vols, Princeton: Princeton University Press

Secondary sources Bagge, S. 2006. The making of a missionary king: the medieval accounts of Olaf Tryggvason and the conversion of Norway, Journal of English and Germanic Philology, 105(4), 473–513 Bagge, S. and Nordeide, S. W. 2007. The kingdom of Norway, in N. Berend (ed.), Christianization and the Rise of Christian Monarchy: Scandinavia, Central Europe and Rus c. 900–1200, 121–66, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press Bailey, R. N. 1996. England’s Earliest Sculptors, Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies Baug, I. 2005. Frå kvernstein til steinkross – produksjon og distribusjon, in F. B. Førsund (ed.), Hyllestadseminariet 2004. Steinkrossane på Vestlandet, 7–12, Hyllestad: Hyllestad kommune Birkeli, F. 1973. Norske steinkors i tidlig middelalder: Et bidrag til belysning av overgangen fra norrøn religion til kristendom, Oslo: Universitetsforlaget Birkeli, F. and Hauge, K. O. 1995. Tolv vintrer hadde kristendommen vært i Norge, Oslo: Verbum Bø, O. 1955. Heilag-Olav i norsk folketradisjon, Oslo: Samlaget Bø, O. 1967. Namngjeving, in J. Brøndsted, B. Hjejle, P. Skautrup, L. Jacobsen and J. Danstrup (eds), Kulturhistorisk leksikon for nordisk

6 Biographies and Audiences in Western Norway 

middelalder fra vikingetid til reformationstid, 12, 207–10, København: Rosenkilde og Bagger Bradley, R. 1987. Time regained: the creation of continuity, Journal of the British Archaeological Association, 140(1), 1–17 Brendalsmo, J. and Stylegar, F. 2003. Om kirkesagn og ødekirker. Muntlig tradisjon og stedsnavn som kilder for kirkeforskningen, Hikuin, 30, 69–94 Brockpähler, W. 1963. Steinkreuze in Westfalen, Münster: Aschendorff Christie, W. F. K. 1842. Om steenkors, Urda, et norsk antiqvarisk-historisk tidsskrift, udgivet af Directionen for det Bergenske Museum, 2, 160–80 Coldstream, N. 1996. Eleanor Cross, in Turner (ed.), 197–8 Devlin, Z. L. 2011. Putting memory in its place: sculpture, cemetery topography and commemoration, in M. F. Reed (ed.), New Voices on Early Medieval Sculpture in Britain and Ireland, 32–41, Oxford: British Archaeological Reports, British Series, 542 Edwards, N. 2001. Early-medieval inscribed stones and stone sculpture in Wales: context and function, Medieval Archaeology, 45, 15–39 Ellis, H. R. 1968. The Road to Hel. A Study of the Conception of the Dead in Old Norse Literature, New York: Greenwood Press Fisher, I. 2005. Christ’s cross down into the earth: some cross-bases and their problems, in Foster and Cross (eds), 85–94 Fisher, I. 2010. Norwegian crosses in the Hebrides and Shetland? in J. Sheehan and D. Ó Corráin (eds), The Viking Age: Ireland and the West. Papers from the Proceedings of the Fifteenth Viking Congress, Cork, 18–27 August 2005, 107–12, Dublin: Four Courts Press Fjellhammer Seim, K. 2007. Runologie, in O. E. Haugen (ed.), Altnordische Philologie. Norwegen und Island, 147–222, Berlin and New York: Walter de Gruyter Flatman, J. 2010. Wetting the fringe of your habit: medieval monasticism and coastal lifescapes, in H. Lewis and S. Semple (eds), Perspectives in Landscape Archaeology, 66–77, Oxford: British Archaeological Reports, International Series, 2103 Fleming, A. 2011. The crossing of Dartmoor, Landscape History, 32(1), 27–45 Flom, G. T. 1914–15. Modern name-giving in Sogn, Norway, and the pagan belief in soul-transmigration, Scandinavian Studies, 2, 235–54 Foster, S. and Cross, M. (eds) 2005. Able Minds and Practised Hands Scotland’s Early Medieval Sculpture in the 21st Century, Society for Medieval Archaeology Monograph, 23, Leeds: Maney Fraser, I. 2005. ‘Just an ald steen’: reverence, reuse, revulsion and rediscovery, in Foster and Cross (eds), 55–68 Fraser, I., Hall, M. A. and Scott, I. G. 2011. From holy rood to estate folly: chapters in the cultural biography of the Goodlyburn Cross, Perthshire, Review of Scottish Culture, 23, 1–19 Fuglestvedt, I. and Hernæs, P. 1996. Rituell kommunikasjon i yngre

177

178 

iris crouwers

jernalder. Forslag til modell for forståelse av storhauger og steinkors i brytningstiden mellom hedendom og kristendom, in J. F. Krøger and H. Naley (eds), Nordsjøen. Handel, religion og politikk, Karmøyseminaret, 94/95, 140–50, Stavanger: Dreyer Bok Gabrielsen, K. H. 2007. Vestlandets steinkors: Monumentalisme i brytningen mellom hedendom og kristendom, Universitetet i Bergen Arkeologiske Skrifter, 2, 115–272 Gazin-Schwartz, A. and Holtorf, C. 1999. ‘As long as ever I’ve known it …’ On folklore and archaeology, in A. Gazin-Schwartz and C. Holtorf (eds), Archaeology and Folklore, 3–25, London and New York: Routledge Gondek, M. 2006. Investing in sculpture: power in Early Historic Scotland, Medieval Archaeology, 50, 105–42 Gräslund, A.-S. 1987. Runstenar, bygd och gravar, Tor. Tidskrift för nordisk fornkunskap, 21, 241–62 Haavaldsen, P. 1995. Kors i haug. Minner etter ei langvarig trosbrytning, Frá haug ok heiðni: Tidsskrift for Rogalands arkeologiske forening, 2, 24–6 Haavaldsen, P. 2000. Nålen i høystakken eller korset i løa. Historien om et gjenfunnet steinkors fra yngre jernalder – tidlig middelalder fra Husabø på Hundvåg i Stavanger, Frá haug ok heiðni, Tidsskrift for Rogalands arkeologiske forening, 1, 14–17 Hagland, J. R. 1995. Litt meir om blykrossar frå mellomalderen, Frá haug ok heiðni, Tidsskrift for Rogalands arkeologiske forening, 4, 24–5 Hall, M. A. 2011. Tales from beyond the Pict: sculpture and its sses in and around Forteviot, Perthshire from the ninth century onwards, in S. T. Driscoll, J. Geddes and M. A. Hall (eds), Pictish Progress. New Studies on Northern Britain in the Early Middle Ages, 135–68, Leiden and Boston: Brill Hall, M. A. 2012. Three stones, one landscape, many stories. Cultural biography and the early medieval sculptures of Inchyra and St Madoes, Carse of Gowrie, Perthshire, Scotland, in S. H. Dudley, A. J. Barnes, J. Binnie, J. Petrov and J. Walklate (eds), Narrating Objects, Collecting Stories. Essays in Honour of Professor Susan M. Pearce, 85–102, Oxford and New York: Routledge Hall, M. A., Henderson, I. and Scott, I. G. 2005. The early medieval sculptures from Murthly, Perth and Kinross: an interdisciplinary look at people, politics and monumental art, in Foster and Cross (eds), 293–314 Harbison, P. 1992. The High Crosses of Ireland: An Iconographical and Photographic Survey, 3 vols, Bonn: Habelt Henry, F. 1965. Irish Art in the Early Christian Period (to 800 AD), London: Methuen and Co Ltd Hernæs, P. 1994. Tidlige kristne impulser i Rogalands vikingtid, Frá haug ok heiðni, tidsskrift for Rogalands arkeologiske forening, 1, 17–22 Higgins, J. G. 1987. The Early Christian Cross Slabs, Pillar Stones and

6 Biographies and Audiences in Western Norway 

Related Monuments of County Galway, Ireland, 2 vols, Oxford: British Archaeological Reports, International Series, 375 Holtorf, C. 1997. Christian landscapes of pagan monuments. A radical constructivist perspective, in G. Nash (ed.), Semiotics of Landscape: Archaeology of Mind, 80–88, Oxford: British Archaeological Reports, International Series, 661 Holtorf, C. 1998. The life-histories of megaliths in MecklenburgVorpommern (Germany), World Archaeology, 30(1), 23–38 Jansson, S. O. 1974. Tideräkning, in B. Hjejle, P. Skautrup, L. Jacobsen, J. Danstrup and J. Brøndsted (eds), Kulturhistorisk leksikon for nordisk middelalder fra vikingetid til reformationstid, 18, 270–77, København: Rosenkilde og Bagger Kjus, A. 2011. Død som straff i middelalderen, Oslo: Unipub Lager, L. 2002. Den synliga tron: Runstenkors som en spegling av kristnandet i Sverige, Uppsala: Institutionen för arkeologi och antik historia, Uppsala universitet Lang, J. T. and Craig, D. 2001. Corpus of Anglo-Saxon Stone Sculpture in England, Vol. 6, Northern Yorkshire, Oxford: Oxford University Press Lange, B. C. 1955. Østnorske gravmonumenter fra tidlig middelalder. Nye funn og iakttagelser, Viking, 19, 121–46 Lange, B. C. 1981. Kors, in J. Danstrup (ed.), Kulturhistorisk leksikon for nordisk middelalder fra vikingetid til reformationstid, 9, 173–7, Köpenhamn: Rosenkilde og Bagger Lexow, J. H. 1992. Omkring Erling Skjalgssons minnekors, Frá haug ok heiðni, Tidsskrift for Rogalands arkeologiske forening, 1, 9–11 Liestøl, A. 1954. Stavanger III, in M. Olsen (ed.), Norges innskrifter med de yngre runer, vol. 3, VIII. Aust-Agder Fylke IX.Vest-Agder Fylke X. Rogaland Fylke, 245–58, Oslo: i kommisjon hos A/S Bokcentralen Liestøl, A., Johnsen, I. S. and Knirk, J. E. 1980. Norges innskrifter med de yngre runer, vol. 6, Bryggen i Bergen, Oslo: Norsk historisk kjeldeskriftinstitutt Lindquist, M. 1981. Mylingar – Offer, utsatta barn eller förhistoriska barnbegravningar? Gotländsk arkiv, 53, 7–12 Losch, B. 1981. Sühne und Gedenken, Steinkreuze in Baden-Württemberg: Ein Inventar, Stuttgart: Theiss McKinnell, J., Simek, R. and Düwel, K. 2004. Runes, Magic and Religion, Wien: Fassbaender Moltke, E. 1960. Gravmonumenter, in J. Danstrup (ed.), Kulturhistorisk leksikon for nordisk middelalder: Fra vikingetid til reformationstid, 5, 424–34, S.I.: Rosenkilde og Bagger Moreland, J. 1999. The world(s) of the cross, World Archaeology, 31(2), 194–213 Mostert, M. 1999. 754, Bonifatius bij Dokkum vermoord, Hilversum: Verloren

179

180 

iris crouwers

Myhre, B. 2004. Sagn og Virkelighet, Frá haug ok heiðni, tidsskrift for Rogalands arkeologiske forening, 3–5 Nilsson, B. 1994. Kvinnor, män och barn på medeltida begravningsplatser, Uppsala: Lunne böcker Nordberg, A. 2006. Jul, disting och förkyrklig tideräkning, Uppsala: Kungl. Gustav Adolfs akademien för folklivsforskning Nordeide, S. W. 2009. Cross monuments in north-western Europe. ZAM Zeitschrift für Archäologie des Mittelalters, 37, 163–78 Nordeide, S. W. 2011. The Viking Age as a Period of Religious Transformation, Turnhout: Brepols Olsen, M. (ed.) 1941. Norges innskrifter med de yngre runer, vol. 1, I. Østfold Fylke II. Akershus Fylke og Oslo III. Hedmark Fylke IV. Opland Fylke, Oslo: Norsk historisk kjeldeskrift-institutt Olsen, M. (ed.) 1954a. Norges innskrifter med de yngre runer, vol. 3, VIII. Aust-Agder Fylke IX.Vest-Agder Fylke X. Rogaland Fylke, Oslo: i kommisjon hos A/S Bokcentralen Olsen, M. (ed.) 1957. Norges innskrifter med de yngre runer, vol. 4, XI. Hordaland Fylke XII. Sogn Og Fjordane Fylke XIII. Møre Og Romsdal Fylke, Oslo: i kommisjon hos A/S Bokcentralen Olsen, M. 1954b. Runic inscriptions in Great Britain, Ireland and the Isle of Man, in H. Shetelig (ed.), Viking antiquities in Great Britain and Ireland, Vol. 6, Civilisation of the Viking Settlers in Relation to Their Old and New Countries, 151–235. Oslo: Aschehaug Palm, R. 1992. Runor och regionalitet. Studier av variation i de nordiska minnesinskrifterna, Uppsala: Institutionen för nordiska språk. Uppsala universitet Petersson, A. 2009. Swedish offerkast and recent roadside memorials, Folklore, 120, 75–91 Reynolds, A. 2009. Anglo-Saxon Deviant Burial Customs, Oxford: Oxford University Press Rindal, M. and Steinsland, G. 2001. Heilage stader i Norge, Oslo: Samlaget Sadler, D. L. 1996, Montjoie, in J. Turner (ed.), 197 Samnordisk Runtextdatabas, http://www.nordiska.uu.se/forskn/samnord. htm/?languageId=1 Sawyer, B. 2000. The Viking-Age Rune-Stones: Custom and Commemoration in Early Medieval Scandinavia, Oxford: Oxford University Press Semple, S. 1998. A fear of the past: the place of the prehistoric burial mound in the ideology of Middle and Later Anglo-Saxon England, World Archaeology, 30(1), 109–26 Semple, S. 2003. Illustrations of damnation in Late Anglo-Saxon manuscripts, Anglo-Saxon England, 32, 231–45 Solberg, B. 2005. Bautastein, in E. Østmø and L. Hedeager (eds), Norsk arkeologisk leksikon, 33, Oslo: Pax Solli, B. 1996. Narratives of Veøy. An Investigation into the Poetics and Scientifics of Archaeology, Oslo: Universitetets Oldsaksamling

6 Biographies and Audiences in Western Norway 

Sørheim, H. 2000. Sensasjonelt funn på feil sted! Nytt funn av kristent runekors i hedensk gravhaug På Sande i Sola, Frá haug ok heiðni, Tidsskrift for Rogalands arkeologiske forening, 4, 18–26 Sørheim, H. 2004. Lead mortuary crosses found in Christian and Heathen graves in Norway, Medieval Scandinavia, 14, 195–227 Spurkland, T. 2005. Norwegian Runes and Runic Inscriptions, Woodbridge: The Boydell Press Staecker, J. 1999. Rex Regum Et Dominus Dominorum. Die Wikingerzeitlichen Kreuz- und Kruzifixanhänger als Ausdruck der Mission in Altdänemark und Schweden. Stockholm: Almqvist and Wiksell International Staecker, J. 2004. Stellvertreter auf Erden. Studien zur Ikonographie der Mittelalterlichen Grabplatten Schwedens, in J. Staecker (ed.), The European Frontier. Clashes and Compromises in the Middle Ages, 177–208. Lund: Almqvist and Wiksell International Staecker, J. 2010. En kokong av sten – Runstenar och Eskilstunamonument ur ett textuellt perspektiv, in B. Nilsson (ed.), Från hedniskt till kristet. Förändringar i begravningsbruk och gravskick i Skandinavien c. 800–1200, 197–270, Stockholm: Sällskapet Runica et Mediævalia Stoklund, M. 1984. Nordbokorsene fra Grønland, Nationalmuseets Arbejdsmark, 101–13 Thäte, E. S. 2007. Monuments and Minds. Monument Re-use in Scandinavia in the Second Half of the First Millennium AD, Lund: Dept. of Archaeology Tingle, E. 2005. The sacred space of Julien Maunoir: the Re-Christianising of the landscape in seventeenth-century Brittany, in W. Coster and A. Spicer (eds), Sacred Space in Early Modern Europe, 237–58, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press Tsigaridas Glørstad, Z. 2012. Sign of the times? the transfer and transformation of penannular brooches in Viking-Age Norway, Norwegian Archaeological Review, 45(1), 30–51 Turner, J. (ed.) The Dictionary of Art, 8, London: Macmillan Williams, H. 2011. Remembering elites: early medieval stone crosses as commemorative technologies, in L. Boye, P. Ethelberg, L. Heidemann Lutz, S. Kleingärtner, P. Kruse, L. Matthes and A. B. Sørensen (eds), Arkæologi i Slesvig/Archäologie in Schleswig, Sonderband ‘Det 61. Internationale Sachsensymposion 2010’ Haderslev, Denmark, 13–32, Neumünster: Wachholtz Zachrisson, T. 1996. Folkliga föreställningar, in M. Burström, B. Winberg and T. Zachrisson (eds), Fornlämningar och Folkminnen, 87–103, Helsingborg: Riksantikvarieämbetet

181

7

Lifeways in Stone: Memories and Matter-Reality in Early Medieval Sculpture from Scotland Mark A. Hall

Introduction

T

his paper explores the cultural biography of early medieval (particularly Pictish) sculpture. It seeks to elucidate the contrasting trajectories of such biographies, and to explore how these trajectories led to the creation of different kinds of social agency within which the sculpture performed a role as well as encouraging the sculpture’s divergent use in the construction of different kinds of social memory. Space limitations preclude detailing full biographies; instead, the paper outlines episodes from those case studies treated in full elsewhere (and duly referenced). A key strand of the paper is that all the case studies have a wider significance than their original early medieval purpose. The biographies of early medieval stone sculpture last to the present day; therefore, the biographical approach explores a much longer time frame than that of their initial construction and use, after which their initial purpose began to decay almost immediately. Consequently, a neglect of the wider picture, the longer story, archaeology and art history can miss vital nuances that reflect landscape and social change and can also reflect back on our understanding of the early medieval episodes. Indeed, both of these two key sister disciplines have tended to focus on the logic of conception and construction over the longer-term use and reuse of sculpture, to the impoverishment of its study. At the same time the biographical approach reveals the importance of early medieval monuments in later epochs as an integral and legitimate aspect of their archaeological and art-historical investigation.

7 lifeways in stone 

Sculpture and biography, agency and entanglement The concept of cultural biography (Appadurai 1986; Gosden and Marshall 1999; Schiffer 1999) and its application to archaeological case studies (Schiffer and Skibo 1987; Skeates 1995; Gosden and Marshall 1999; Meskell 2004; Pena 2007; Joy 2009) is now well established. Here, I want to focus on its application in the field of early medieval sculpture, particularly in north and east Scotland. This section of the paper addresses various theoretical positions that articulate a wide social theory underpinning this approach. The case studies that follow are informed by these theoretical underpinnings but on the grounds of space and repetition they do not repeat them. Through the study of cultural (or less broadly, material) biography, I am seeking to understand the re-meaning and re-imagining of things, how people related and gave meaning to the layered landscapes they lived in and inherited. As a medievalist, the question of what makes something medieval and how that time, that people, that material culture relates to what preceded it and what has followed is of abiding interest. One route to recovering past complexity whilst retaining a focus on past social life is through the concept of cultural biography. This approach helps to reveal human complexity in both the period time-frame and in the multi-period longue durée. It breaks down the straightjacket of traditional periodizations, transcending such demarcations, and, by revealing complexities within periods, disrupts cohesive, generalized definitions of the function and meaning of sculpture. This approach is also people-focused: it does not fetishize objects but seeks to tell us about how they were used and reused and changed by people. Objects have use lives and multiple users. It has the facility to integrate the individual and the social, reflecting lived lives through its concern with the humanity of materiality. Cultural biography, in an archaeological and anthropological context, charts the changes in meaning in material culture – whether brought about by social action or physical modification – by which they accumulate a history or biography (Gosden and Marshall 1999; Hoskins 1998). It is the movement of people through the performance of their lives that drives the biographical momentum of material culture and its human-imparted agency. Monument biography is not about the biography of an individual person so much as the lifecycle of an individual monument and its entanglements, which sheds light on the lifecycle of communities or social groups and their performative strategies across generations. A key objective is to measure and chart this change across a given monument’s life from its inception and through its subsequent changes in meaning (including contemporary issues around conservation, research and wider public access). Personhood, entanglements and performance are key theoretical concepts underpinning the biographical approach. Such an approach has

183

184 

mark a. hall

the facility to link into ideas about personhood as a relational concept extending beyond individual human agents to include animals, trees, rocks and portable objects (Fowler 2004; 2010). Through such a lens, many early medieval sculptures become the longest-lived ‘persons’ in their respective communities. It testifies, then, that such sculptures have a material agency, not an inherent one of self-determination but a secondary agency given to them by people and reworked through time (Pickering 2010; Hall 2012b). One of the categories discussed below is that of market or mercat crosses. Mercat crosses, be they created new or reused early medieval sculptures, were always prone to redevelopment but their loss has perhaps not been so eloquently expressed as in James Wilson’s late eighteenth-century poem about the destruction of the medieval mercat cross of Edinburgh, written in the voice of the cross, so as to allow ‘the relic to speak its own grievances’ (Wilson 1848, 219, quoted in Dunshea 2010, 207). His poem is part of a particular genre of eighteenth-century writing that has been described as ‘it narratives’: first-person narratives told by a variety of objects, including coins, coaches and clothes and also animals and insects (Lamb 2011). They privilege inanimate objects as having their own agency and personalities but it is always the act of human imagination. The question of agency is a productive fault line that runs through material culture studies. In terms of early medieval sculpture the fault is clearly demarcated by Cramp (2010, 21), who, contra Moreland (1999, 198), rejects the concept of sculptures having biographies (whilst endorsing their long-term engagement with peoples’ lives). I contend that whilst the inanimate sculptures do not have self-agency, their materiality influences human behaviour, enhanced and expanded by human perceptions of independent action by such monuments. This makes the concept of biography a vital one to their fullest understanding. The concept of material entanglements is crucial to this discussion. A concept rooted in quantum physics, it values existence as a social affair rather than an individual one: individuals emerge through and as part of their entangled inter-relating. Which is not to say that emergence happens once and for all, as an event or as a process and takes place according to some measure of space and time, but rather that time and space, like matter and meaning, come into existence, are iteratively reconfigured through each intra-action, thereby making it impossible to differentiate in any absolute sense between creation and renewal, beginning and returning, continuity and discontinuity, here and there, past and future. (Barad 2007, ix)

In pursuing such entanglements, Barad adopts Haraway’s (1997) metaphor of diffraction; as diffraction patterns expose difference and heterogeneity they are a productive counterpoint to reflection, which is concerned only with originals, sameness and mirroring. ‘Diffraction is a narrative, graphic,

7 lifeways in stone 

psychological, spiritual, and political technology for making consequential meanings’ (Haraway in Barad 2007, 71), which might well be a description of a biographical agenda. The biographies of monumental sculptures have the potential to reveal how people related to and understood the generations that preceded them through their use of their memory and imagination. Their agency and personhood derives from imaginative (and sometimes a lack of it) human investment in their dwelling spaces; it is this that allows them to perform in the social networks in which they are enmeshed (Law and Hassard 1999; Schechner 2006; Latour 2007). The meaning of such monuments may fluctuate over time but they seem to remain a vital component in the performative strategy of a community’s construction of its social memory (Connerton 1989). Such memory is always important to a community’s self-understanding in the present. This can be created and transmitted as much through engagement with objects and repeated embodied acts as through writing (Le Goff 1988; Lowenthal 1993; van Houts 2001; Mack 2003). For a particular case study of these issues seen through the lens of Pictish masking practices revealed through sculpture, see Hall 2013a. Of course, through archaeological or historical discourse we will never recover a complete biography of any single monument, and we can only gain fragmentary glimpses of these, not least because the past becomes the present through a constant series of changes, creating and preserving memory through repetitions, transformations and losses (Lucas 2010; Olivier 2008, esp. 267–74). The realities of material and human behaviour mean that the archaeological record is as complete as it could be and what is critical is how we reconstitute the stories it embodies. Cultural or material biography provides a suitable framework to do that task.

The biographical approach to early medieval sculpture The biographical approach to early medieval sculpture is applicable throughout the Insular and continental genres of sculpture, as has been demonstrated, for example, by the biographical consideration of the Ruthwell Cross, Dumfries and Galloway, Scotland (Cassidy 1992) and the Bradbourne Cross, Derbys., England (Moreland 1999). Both of these papers looked in detail at how the purposes of those crosses changed in post-medieval times and critically established the validity and importance of understanding post-medieval engagements with early medieval sculptures. Churchyards across Britain and Ireland are endowed with monuments replete with potential for further research from a biographical perspective. For example, the graveyard at Monasterboice, Co. Louth, Ireland, contains not only a rich collection of complete and fragmentary early medieval

185

186 

mark a. hall

High Crosses but also a suite of later burial monuments which derive their ornament and form through direct inspiration from the former group. The finest examples of the latter group mark the nineteenth-century graves of clergymen, part of a far broader trend of reinventing the medieval in the late Georgian and Victoria eras and often – as at Monasterboice – very much about the recreation of links between holy place and commemorative practice. A second example takes us to Sancreed churchyard, Cornwall. There, two pillar crosses stand. The older (left) started out as a sixth-century pillar stone with a Latin inscription, which only partially survives as ‘EROCAV … FILIUS IC …’, with the meaning Erocav (the father) his son (name lost) lies here. In the twelfth or thirteenth century it was turned upside down and a cross design was added along with other design elements (Langdon and Allen 1896, 360–62; Langdon 1997, 55, no. 82). The form of the cross was copied from the tenth-/eleventh-century example (inscribed with the sculptor’s name RUNHO) that also stands in the churchyard (Hencken 1932, 270 and 276–7; Macalister 1945, 2, 186). So, we have a monument that simultaneously displays the appropriation of two past memorials in two contrasting strategies of reuse and replication. Furthermore, in the same graveyard a nineteenth-century millstone is reused as a grave-marker, demonstrating that some of the same reflexes found in the medieval sculpture at the site were also employed in later centuries. Together, Monasterboice and Sancreed serve to illustrate how many different biographies intersect in specific churchyards as places of memory. Building on these examples, below I explore the biographies of early medieval, particularly Pictish, sculpture. The geographical focus both reflects the author’s expertise and also serves to reveal the contrasting commemorative strategies at work within the same region. The label ‘early medieval’ remains useful. In many instances it stresses the historical significance of that particular episode (often the ‘birth’ episode) in a longer story and articulates the academic necessity to periodize the past so as to help to get to grips with it. The categories offered make no pretence to being exhaustive (and they inevitably overlap in several instances) but seek to promote further work in these and other areas that can only be alluded to here. Throughout I accept as axiomatic that economic, utilitarian use and reuse of early medieval sculpture was commonplace. It encompassed deliberate destruction to provide building material. This was noted by MacLean (1997, 117) for one of the crosses at Applecross, Wester Ross, and explored through a regional study of the phenomenon in Lincolnshire by Stocker and Everson (1990). The addition of survey benchmarks suggesting a perception of at least a degree of permanence (for example Monymusk, Aberdeens., and Abdie, Fife, RCAHMS 1999, 17 no. 31, 24 no. 76) is one of a range of other reuses coming under the saying ‘just an ald steen’ (Fraser 2005).

7 lifeways in stone 

Prehistory in the pictish present, or converting the ancestors Pictish sculptures, when newly created, were already enchained to biographies, because many may have been created in reference to an often mythologized, ancestral past. Pictish elites in particular chose to become entangled with prehistory in order to lend themselves legitimacy, reinforced by burial performances and memorialized in sculptured monuments (see in particular Driscoll 1998). In the pages of ECMS (and see also Clarke 2007, 38–9) are several examples of clearly prehistoric standing stones to which Pictish sculpture has been added. The Balblair stone, Inverness (ECMS 1903, 95) is a monolith bearing at least thirteen cup-marks to which the figure of a Pictish man, walking right and leaning on a stick or sword, has been added; the Crichie stone, Aberdeens., an outlier monolith bearing a Pictish beast and a crescent and V-rod, moved to the centre of its stone circle in the mid-nineteenth century (ECMS 1903, 160–61) and Aberlemno no. 1 (ECMS 1903, 205) is an irregular pillar bearing six cupmarks on one face and on the opposite a snake, a double-disc and Z-rod and a mirror and comb. Such stones articulate a relationship with the past – not a known past of recent, recalled events and persons, but the same deep ancestral past as is articulated through some contemporary funerary rituals (see below). Included within that articulation is the debate about conversion to Christianity: this was never a uniform process but one that unfolded over several generations. Within the field of Pictish sculpture the conversion to Christianity was rather simplistically implied to be a matter of paganism (the symbol stones) giving way to Christianity (stones with symbol stones and crosses or just crosses and non-symbol decoration). However, applying the concept of biography, albeit using the alternate term ‘multiple lives’, David Clarke (2007) usefully refocused this debate from a material culture perspective. Clarke explores reuse within the Pictish time-frame, equating successive reuses with the ancestralizing of the symbols and recognizing their capacity to support both anti-Christian and Christian discourse. We should not forget that there was Biblical justification for endorsing the role and remembrance of great men from the past. Ecclesiasticus 44 begins ‘Now let us praise famous men, and our fathers that begat us.’ But the symbol stones do not always stand on their own and caution is needed when interpreting symbol stones without reference to any cross-slabs that may be associated with them. A recent case study of the sculptures from St Madoes, Perths. (Hall 2012a), explores these issues. The two extant sculptures from the St Madoes area comprise a cross-slab decorated with symbols and non-symbol motifs and a symbol stone, the Inchyra slab. St Madoes is close to the River Tay and its junction with the River Earn, and sits opposite the important early church and royal site of Abernethy. In the current chapter of their

187

188 

Fig. 7.1 St Madoes crossslab face A in non-primary church setting.

mark a. hall

lives they are both significant objects in the collection of Perth Museum and Art Gallery, where they are displayed. For St Madoes (Fig. 7.1), the sculpture is portrayed as a key example of Pictish art. For Inchyra (Fig. 7.2), the stone is seen as an example in the cross-period theme of communication. The cross-slab stood in the churchyard until 1991, when it was donated to Perth Museum to facilitate its conservation and long-term care. It is a prestige piece of sculpture and is unlikely to have been a lone item associated with the early church site and possibly the cult of St Madoes (for full details see Hall 2012a). Indeed, a second piece of sculpture was found in the late nineteenth century but its present whereabouts are unknown (Allen 1883, 211). The symbol stone is decorated with salmon, snake, mirror, double-disc and tuning fork symbols, which, uniquely for Pictish sculptures, are laid out in opposed orientations, suggesting that the slab was reorientated at least three times (and further examples in Clarke 2007 and the example from Sancreed, cited above, show that this kind of reorientation can happen entirely within a Christian milieu). The Inchyra stone also bears a series of Ogham inscriptions that are visible on three of the narrow faces but probably extended around all four faces. These may have had an apotropaic function and may have been cut in synchronicity with the symbol reorientations or in succession to them. If we accept Clarke’s argument – that the first symbols on the stone were pagan or expressing an ancestral resistance to Christianity – then the Ogham inscriptions may have accompanied the final symbols to be cut, possibly marking the completion of a Christian transition. Such a religious process is not incompatible with a generational shift, given that Christian conversion had a dynamic across generations. The symbol slab was found in 1945 during the ploughing of orchard ground near the mound known as Witch Knowe (Stevenson 1959; Wainwright 1961). This had been explored during the nineteenth century and the now-lost bones (apart from a fragment of human cranium that survives in the Perth collections) and pottery recovered suggest that it was a Bronze Age burial mound. As uncovered in 1945, the symbol stone covered the remains of a human skeleton, which was reinterred. We do not know the extent of the implied Bronze Age cemetery but the proximity of the Inchyraslab grave to the mound may imply an early medieval appropriation of that

7 lifeways in stone 

cemetery. The poorly understood Oghams on the slab represent names. They could, of course, be the names of recently deceased community members but perhaps they were (or came to be seen as) the names of ancestors, possibly heroes, presumed to be buried in the cemetery. The other two St Madoes sculptures also appear to have been directly associated with the same or a separate Bronze Age cemetery in that part of it which became the church site, less than half a mile away. In his account of a cist burial from Dundee, Hutcheson (1903, 238–9) notes that he excavated in 1891 the ‘remains of a burial cairn of the Bronze Age, with underlying urns and cremated bones, in the south west angle of the parish churchyard of St Madoes … not hitherto recorded’. This posited cemetery was part of a wider prehistoric landscape. It included, no more than one quarter of a mile from the church, the Pitfour stone circle (excavated in the late 1960s in advance of the construction of a new primary school, with the stones left in position and made into a garden feature) and a prehistoric standing stone immediately east of the church, known as the Hawkstone. Its name derives from the legend that it was the stone on which a hawk perched as part of its determination of the extent of the lands to be given to the ennobled Hay family after saving the king from Viking attack (Marshall 1880, 11–12; Melville 1939, 44). This legend was current in the later medieval period, as several charters mention it as a boundary marker. Its perceived national significance is presumably what led to its being inscribed with the word ‘CALEDONIA’ as early as the eighteenth century (OSA 1791–99, 11, 552), a graphic example indeed of how biographies accumulate changes in meaning.

189

Fig. 7.2 Inchyra symbol stone.

190 

Fig. 7.3 Lethendy Cross-slab, upper half of face A.

mark a. hall

The place-name of St Madoes suggests a strong early cult site here (Hall 2012a) but the surviving indication of the landscape context where much that was of an older origin was retained suggests that conversion was, if not welcome, then at least sympathetic. Both the trajectory of symbol reorientations and the presence of Oghams on the Inchyra stone and the fusion of symbols and overtly Christian motifs on the St Madoes slab argue strongly for this interpretation. If, as appears, the church at St Madoes was built within a sacred pagan site – a former Bronze Age cemetery – perhaps the site had retained some or all of its sacrality or it had been re-invented during the later prehistoric period and into early medieval times. Either way, its burial mounds would have been prominent landmarks suggestive of antiquity and ancestors. It would thus be an example of time regained, of the forgotten past readapted for a contemporary purpose (Bradley 1987; Driscoll 1998; Williams 1998 and see also Hobsbawm and Ranger 1983 and Muir 2005). Sacred repurposings of such sites were an element of the conversion period, when many pagan stones became Christian ones, the meaning shaded in every case. When St Boniface cut down the sacred tree of Geismar in the eighth century, he and his followers built from its timber a church dedicated to St Peter (Fuglesang 2011, 415): we can see this as both a jarring change but also one that was not about extinction but a reauthored continuity comparable to the material traces discussed above from Pictland.

Oaths we have taken: sword strikes on sculpture Increasingly, evidence is coming to the fore revealing how stone sculptures might serve as lasting foci for ritual practices within the early medieval period. So far in Scotland a small number of cross-slabs have been identified as bearing various incisions that might be interpreted as sword or blade cuts or strikes: notably Sueno’s Stone, Moray (visible on image D94060 CS on RCAHMS’s Canmore website, under ‘Sueno’s Stone’) and Kirriemuir no. 2, Angus (Henderson and Henderson 2004, plate 263). Examining the evidence for such marks from Ireland and Western Britain, Newman (2009, with further work to follow on the scientific examination of the cutmarks) makes a persuasive case that in some instances such marks and the burnished surfaces that generally accompany them could be linked to the swearing of oaths in support of a king, part of a suite of rituals including whetstones, swords and sites imparting royal authority that articulated a ‘symbolic lasting, sacral sharpness’ in which the blade-struck stones were

7 lifeways in stone 

objects of ‘special agency’ with the ‘ability to gift, lend or bestow sharpness unto the sword’. The giver of sharpness, it is also the source to which the sword must be returned so that its life-force might be renewed. Blunting the sword against the stone – the V-shaped grooves – may have symbolized a returning of potency of the sword to the stone, and accordingly the burnished surfaces may represent renewal of the blade, and with it the revitalization of the lineage and of the kingship, or indeed renewal of oaths, treaties, alliances and laws. In short, the sword-aspotent-weapon is drawn from the stone by the rightful and just king.’ (Newman 2009, 432–3). Within the corpus from Scotland, the Lethendy cross-slab (Figs 7.3–7.4) is possibly the most informative within this oath-taking, kingshipaffirming, law-giving context. The probably tenth-century cross-slab from the Tower of Lethendy was discovered in the early 1970s in use as a lintel in the stairway of the late sixteenth-century L-plan tower house; it may have been incorporated during alterations of 1678 (Fisher and Greenhill 1972, 239–41). During the late 1990s the cross-slab was extracted from its location and, following conservation, was set up on display in the body of the house, with ready examination of it facilitated by the estate factor Mr Kiciuk. Once the whole slab had become accessible, a cross and a series of human and animal figures were visible on the previously hidden face (Hall 2006, 383–4). A large central portion of this face was, however, missing as it had been recut with a broad, shallow channel to convert the slab into a gutter or drain, suggesting that it had been incorporated in an earlier phase of the tower house. Also revealed were a large number of blade strikes, the V-channel grooves (with some burnishing) as described by Newman. They indicate a biographical episode within the early life (tenth–twelfth century) of the cross-slab. Of course the reuse in the Tower House has divorced the cross-slab from its original context and the most that Fisher and Greenhill (1972, 240) were prepared to venture was that ‘the slab probably stood in a field near Lethendy’. Circumstantially, I think it is possible to suggest something more than this. Less than two miles to the north is Clunie, where ninth-century penannular brooches have been found (Youngs 1989, 114–14, nos 109–10; RCAHMS 1994, 90–91). Irish Annals record a Viking raid there

191

Fig. 7.4 Detail of some of the bladestrikes on face A of the Lethendy Cross-slab.

192 

mark a. hall

in the late 850s (Hall et al. 1998, 141–2; Anderson 1980, 250); the abbots and bishops of Dunkeld held Clunie for several centuries and by the twelfth century it was a place of royal assembly and the administration of justice (Cunningham 1907, 8–9; Taylor 2009, 234–6 and 285 and for the wider geography of power, including the association of assembly places with sculpture, in this part of Strathmore, see Hall et al. 2005, esp. 309–11). The assembly mound was a large natural hill beside Clunie Loch and close to the church, which boasts fragments of very fine twelfth-century dog-tooth moulding and capitals rebuilt into an eighteenth-century Watch House (beside the rebuilt church, RCAHMS 1994, 130; CSMPC – Clunie). The mound was large enough to also accommodate a royal castle from the twelfth century, or possibly a little earlier (RCAHMS 1994, 105). Two miles is no distance for reused sculpture to travel (indeed, the Tower of Lethendy boasts a second piece of later medieval sculpture – a sixteenth-century tomb-slab which travelled some twelve miles from the Carthusian monastery at Perth, after the Reformation; Hall 2006) and the resonances of church and secular authority that imbue Clunie argue for its logical candidature as the place where the Lethendy cross-slab stood. The cross-slab fits Newman’s class of Christian monument with sword-strikes, such stones bearing the ‘imprimatur of the highest Christian authority … called upon to bear witness to the event … A sword thus charged was then available for use in other ceremonies because its mark was the seal of authenticated authority’ (Newman 2009, 433).

Commemorating the dead Funerary practices are a staple element of human society, which is not to say they are universally unchanging (the literature on early medieval examples is extensive but see, for example, Semple and Williams 2007; Corlett and Potterton 2010; Lucy and Reynolds 2002; Maldonado Ramírez 2011). They are geared to society’s needs and the variety of monuments within Pictish traditions indicates this contingency and a readiness to find ways of affirming the role of ancestors and the supernatural in safeguarding the present. The reconfiguration of the sculptures to commemorate the legendary dead (not a sub-theme considered in this study, but see Hall 2015, which will develop ideas considered in Hall 2005a, 216–17; Hall 2005b, 81–3 and Ritchie 1995), is a cultural expression that is not unrelated to the creation of high-status tombs for venerated kings or saints, including the St Andrews sarcophagus (Foster 1998). Gondek and Jeffrey’s (2003) analysis of the sculpture from Eigg, originally a possible shrine panel, then converted to a cross-slab, shows that burial monuments could equally be broken up and converted for other uses. What such physical modifications signify is variability and change in local practice within a broadly unified cultural context. Much of the material culture pertaining to death and funerary rituals does not survive but if we approach sculpture, for example, as being multi-purposed we can recover some of the complexity of social performance that they were part of. Hall

7 lifeways in stone 

(2013a) has recently re-examined the small number of Pictish sculptures that appear to show certain and possible face-masks (animal and monstrous) and interpreted these within the European phenomenon of burial and fertility customs, customs with prehistoric roots but fully endorsed by Christianity. Such performed rituals, of which the sculptures were a part, do not represent an obsession with death but a recognition of its being part of a cycle, encompassing regeneration and renewal (which Christ’s resurrection fully endorsed) that also required cross-slabs to perform other roles including weather stones and crop protectors (see below). The memorializing, ancestral role of early medieval sculpture continued into the later medieval and post-medieval periods but its nuances have often not been perceived but simply dismissed as utilitarian reuse. A little-considered example is the Christian-Norse runic cross-slab of late tenth-century date from Cille Bharra, Barra, Hebrides (Fisher 2001, 106–7, no. 41). The runes are not entirely legible but give a commemorative formula recording the erection of the cross, connected with two probable names, one female (Thorgerth), the other male (Steinar). When ethnologist and antiquarian Alexander Carmichael visited, his mainland perspective allowed him to characterize the burial ground as disused and so, encountering the slab in 1865, he could lay claim to its discovery. His historical and preservation outlook, shared by other antiquarians and the landed class, meant the slab could be simply taken away to Edinburgh for further study and retention in the Society of Antiquaries’ museum. It was a celebrated case at the time, seen in an entirely positive light, though ironically Carmichael felt he did not get the credit he deserved. Recent work by Dr Domhnall Uilleam Stiùbhart (Stiùbhart pers. comm.; Stiùbhart 2008; 2009) for the Carmichael Watson Project for Edinburgh University gives a different, contested, view of the slab. The field notes of John Francis Campbell recording an interview with the Barra seanchaidh Alexander MacNeill (c. 1787–1881) (now National Library of Scotland archive Adv. MS. 50.2.4 fos. 96–7; Stiùbhart 2009, 147–8) revealed that the cross-slab in question was the ancestral burial stone of the MacNeills of Barra. It had been their stone on Iona and they brought it with them from there to Barra (though oddly MacNeill describes it as being decorated with leaves and deer, possibly a misinterpretation of a moss-obscured stone). MacNeill was adamant that the stone should not be parted with because of its ancestral importance. Indeed, when Carmichael first ‘found’ it he moved it, turning it over to promote the decay of the lichen, and shortly afterwards it could not initially be found, having been reappropriated as a grave cover once more. This ancestor cult applied more widely to a large number of grave-slabs in the Hebrides and to a wide range of medieval sculptures of different kinds. Clearly there was a long-established practice of memorial stones that linked back to the spiritual centre of Iona. The Martin family of Trotternish, Skye, have their family plot in Kilmuir, where a fifteenthcentury slab bearing a West Highland warrior is said to be the grave of

193

194 

Fig. 7.5 Alex Campbell memorial, Kilchoman Parish church, Isla.

mark a. hall

the clan progenitor, the semi-legendary figure Aonghas na Goithe: he is said to have brought the slab from Iona in the late sixteenth century, resiting it at Kilmuir, where it became the family marker (Macdonald and Macdonald 1904, 558–9). To cite but one further example of the continuing use of older stones as grave-markers, the burial ground of Kilchoman, Islay contains a large number of later medieval grave-slabs reused in this way through the seventeenth to nineteenth centuries. A fourteenth- or fifteenthcentury tapered slab bears a sword and above it the hull of a boat. The remainder of the original decor­ation has been removed by its recutting with the date 1681 and the inscription THIS S/TONE BELONGS TO ALEX CAMPBELL SON TO DONALD M/[C]ALASTER ROY IN ILA & MARY CAMPBELL HIS WYFE (Fig. 7.5). The same inscription and date, differently laid out, were added to a second fourteenth- or fifteenth-century grave-slab decorated with a foliated cross, plant scrolls and opposed beasts. The trace of the original inscription, HIC LACET (‘Here lies’) survives but the remainder has been recut by the 1681 inscription accompanied by an hour glass, illegible inscription, skull and cross-bones and MEMENTO / MORI (‘Remember Death’). The two stones lie side-byside (RCAHMS 1984, 201, nos 16–17). There is a long antiquarian tradition of seeing such reuse not as reflecting a continuing importance and anchoring to an ancestral past but as a disregarding of the past tantamount to vandalism. In Easter Ross perhaps the key example is the Hilton of Cadboll cross-slab, the biography of which has recently been so well illuminated. The stone became the focus of tensions over its ownership and role as an anchor for different identities between the local community it partially defines and both landed interests and academic and heritage authorities based in Edinburgh (James et al. 2008). The full details of the later biography are given by James et al. (2008, 205–84) and here I just want to pick up on two salient points. The redressing of the back of the slab as a burial marker for Alexander Duff and his three wives (1676) is not necessarily to be seen as a taste-

7 lifeways in stone 

less, ill-considered act but one ‘informed by shifts in religious doctrine, which resulted in changes in the significance of medieval sculpture, as well as changing forms of burial and memorialization’ (James et al. 2008, 217). Duff and his wives may never have lain under their monument, which was probably destined for transportation to Fearn Abbey graveyard. In the eighteenth century, Hilton became part of the Macleod of Invergordon estate and in the late nineteenth century R. B. A. Macleod had it moved to form a feature in the gardens at Invergordon House. When the estate was sold in the 1920s the slab was given to the British Museum, which sparked a vociferous public campaign for its return. The British Museum acquiesced and it was returned to the collection of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland (now National Museums Scotland (NMS)); so, it returned to Scotland but not to Hilton. This appears to have created a hole in the local sense of identity, which was only fully articulated with the discovery of further fragments of the cross-slab during excavations at Hilton. The largest of these fragments was seized by the community and an ongoing stalemate sees the fragment on display in Hilton, with both the community and NMS claiming it. Certainly amongst the most iconic pieces of early medieval sculpture from Scotland is the ninth-century Constantine’s or Dupplin Cross and it has deservedly attracted much useful attention as a single monument. In Hall 2011 an attempt is made to give it a more holistic consideration in terms of both its early medieval context, which it shared with a second cross at Invermay and several fragments from the royal site at Forteviot, in the valley below, but also in terms of some of its later episodes. I will mention just two here. The earls of Kinnoull were certainly much enamoured of the cross and it was perhaps they who christened it the Dupplin Cross to link it firmly with their estate; in the late nineteenth century the eleventh earl had a close but simplified copy made in granite as a memorial to his son, who died in 1886. It stands beside the ruins of Dupplin parish church (Hall 2011, fig. 11). Comparable are the crosses erected to commemorate Lieutenant William Keay Falconer (and later his family) of the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders, killed in action at Ypres in 1915 (Fig. 7.6), and of John

195

Fig. 7.6 Memorial to Lieutenant William Keay Falconer, Kinross.

196 

mark a. hall

Fig. 7.7 Memorial to Captain John Fisken Halket, Greyfriars Cemetery, Perth.

Fig. 7.8 Kilwinning War Memorial, Kilwinning Abbey.

Fisken Halket, Captain of the 4th Royal Irish Dragoon Guards, who died stationed in Perth in 1875 (Fig. 7.7). Falconer’s Cross, like so many modern crosses, is decorated on the main face only. Its bold, muscular Pictish inheritance of lively snake bosses is fused with elements of regimental insignia and three familial inscriptions as well as his own. Halket’s Cross similarly has its inscriptions around a pyramidal base. The Cross was erected in Greyfriar’s cemetery, Perth, in his memory, by his regiment. Uniquely its form (though bearing no figurative decoration) is clearly modelled on that of the Irish High Cross (complete with ‘house-shrine’), recognizing both Halket’s Hibernian roots and those of the regiment he served in. There is certainly a wider context to these phenomena. There are a large number of individual and collective war memorials across the UK that draw on medieval imagery and forms (e.g. see Tiller 2013; Rhodes 2010 and Andrews et al. 2011), like the many raised to nineteenth-century ecclesiastics and scholars. The Perth example is unique in the context of its cemetery and in drawing on Irish crosses rather than more generic Celtic ones. In this particular instance it seems less about making the memor­ial fit the cemetery (Walls 2011) than linking that place back to Ireland, a phenomenon – citing home-

7 lifeways in stone 

lands on war memorials – which became common with the First World War (Saunders 2010). There are at least two further copies of the Dupplin Cross, both of them First World War memorials. They are slightly reduced in size and have simplified crowns and the additions of pyramid bases on which the names of the dead are inscribed. One is at Nittshill, Glasgow and the other at Gatehouse of Fleet, Galloway. Both are a long way from Dupplin and suggest a widespread familiarity with the Cross as an iconic image (in part at least deriving antiquarianism making it more widely known). This is probably in large part due to the folk interpretation of the Cross as a battle memorial, for it was popularly held to have been set up at Bank Head to commemorate the Battle of Dupplin in 1332, no doubt a significant factor in the Cross’s survival. Drawing on early medieval sculpture for twentieth-century war memorials is a wider phenomenon. The Bridge of Earn War Memorial stands outside the community hall and draws on both the idea of free-standing crosses and decoration more typical of cross-slabs. In particular the energetic, flowing snake bosses recall those of the Nigg cross-slab in Easter Ross and one of the Govan cross-slabs. The war memorial at Kilwinning Abbey, Ayrs. (Fig. 7.8), clearly draws on the Northumbrian crosses of Ruthwell and Bewcastle and in part derives from a popular sense that old crosses were commemorative of the dead. This practice was not confined to early medieval sculpture: in the wake of the First World War, the later medieval Old Market Cross in the town square of Chagford, Dartmoor, was moved to the grounds of the medieval parish church (St Michael’s), and repurposed as a War Memorial (Van Der Kiste 2010, 43).

Markets and fairs, punishment and winning posts A range of early medieval sculpture has been drawn into fair and market activity (Hall et al. 2000; Hall 2003). ‘People have always come together to trade and exchange. This tended to be connected with worship, with the observance of holy or festive days and with pilgrimage at certain times to wells and shrines’ (Black 2000, 1). Black supported this observation with reference to Iron Age tribal and later gatherings for law-making and other purposes, citing the well-known Irish example of Tara. Such gatherings encompassed judgements, political discussion, religious observances, entertainment, feats of arms, horse-racing, sports, marriage and trading. The eleventh-century Irish poem on the Fair of Carman, South Leinster, portrays a market with three clear divisions between foodstuffs, livestock and luxury goods. Research on the early medieval cross-slab known as the Crieff Burgh Cross (Hall et al. 2000; Fig. 7.9) has produced several insights into market activity over a longer time-frame. The present name of the cross relates to its relatively recent history; it has in fact stood in Crieff only since the late eighteenth century. It was deliberately moved there from Strowan, some three miles to the west, to

197

198 

Fig. 7.9 Crieff Burgh Cross.

mark a. hall

serve as the burgh or market cross. This happened at a time when a major Crieff landowner decided to provide a greater focus of market activity in Crieff (in part to counteract the shift from Crieff to Falkirk of Scotland’s principal cattle market) and so he pulled in several of the markets from surrounding, smaller places – including Strowan – and redesignated them as Crieff markets and fairs. Strowan had traditionally been the site of St Ronan’s Fair and so, aside from its ecclesiastical function, it may have had a sanctioning purpose for a local market during the medieval period. Its location in Strowan was probably on a low mound near the ancient chapel site. When the cross-slab was moved to Crieff it was replaced on its mound by a fifteenth-century cross from Strowan churchyard. The name Strowan is from the Gaelic for meeting place at a junction of two rivers or watercourses, describing the chapel and cross site perfectly. This resonance heightened by the fact that this low ground between two rivers is overlooked by an adjacent hillfort, probably reoccupied in the early medieval period as an estate centre of the Strathearn earldom. The Crieff Burgh Cross also bore jougs, of which only the corroded stub of their attachment survives. Jougs are generally accepted to have been a form of ecclesiastical punishment, particularly during the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. They comprise an iron collar by which an offender was manacled to a market cross or church wall. Such punishment or ‘jagging’ was primarily used on fraudulent traders, with the sentences invariably carried out on market days. The Kirk Session records for

7 lifeways in stone 

Perth record for 1581 a sentence of standing ‘in the irons on the Crosshead two hours on mercat-day’ (Lawson 1847, 141). There need not of course be any incompatibility here between ecclesiastical justice and market infringements given the role of the Church in fostering many markets. The movement of sculpture for market purposes was not an isolated phenomenon. At Creich, Sutherland, a possible prehistoric standing stone incised with a ninth- to tenth-century cross was long associated with the fair of St Devenic (held down to 1630), whose ruined church stands close beside the cross and market field. When published by the Royal Commission in 1911, it was lying prone and later moved into the churchyard (and said to bear an indecipherable inscription) and since then has been placed upright and in the location it was previously recorded in as the market (OSA 1791–99, 8, 372; OPS 1855, 684–5). Later medieval crosses at Campbelltown and Inverary (Argyll) were both relocated to serve as burgh mercat crosses (with their crucifixion imagery defaced), c. 1640–60 (Stewart 1979; MacLagan 1898, 34–5). A second example from Strathearn is the towering cross-slab from Fowlis Wester, some seven miles east of Crieff. The slab has stood in the parish church (St Bean’s) since 1990 (Lewis 1991, 73), when it was moved from the village square because of concerns over its deteriorating condition. The excavation around the socket, which was filled with rubble from a post-Reformation building, established that the Cross had been placed there in more recent times. This is broadly consistent with the use of the cross-slab by the eighteenth century (probably much earlier) as a market cross. Local antiquarians record (Korner 1858, 95–6) that the cross-slab was used as the focus for the Sunday, or Sabbath Shoe, Market and that it stood at the south-east apex of the churchyard. This activity was stopped in the eighteenth century by a newly appointed reforming minister. It is perhaps then that the cross was moved to the village square. In all likelihood it already bore the jougs, fixed to the face bearing the cross (and of which three chain-links survive still attached); it may have continued in use as a punishment post but by the mid-nineteenth century the account in the NSA (1844, 254) suggests that this was an abandoned practice. Fairs, of course, are also about entertainment, particularly in the form of sporting activities, especially horse racing. However, finding evidence for this in connection with early medieval sculpture is extremely difficult. A suggestion of it has recently come to light from the research project on the Goodlyburn Cross (Fraser et al. 2011). This currently stands in the grounds of Dupplin Castle but before the nineteenth century it stood on the outskirts of Perth, defining the burghmuir, the site of the Midsummer Fair (until the mid-eighteenth century), other civic ceremonials and a place of execution (using gallows). An earlier name for the cross was the Ruthven Cross, and it is so noted in the records of Scotland’s royal master masons (Mylne 1893, 97): ‘the silver bell run for betuix the Gibbet of Methuen and the croce of Ruthuen wes won by John Grahame of Bogsyde’.

199

200 

Figs 7.10 The main faces of the Dunning ‘Mercat’ Cross.

mark a. hall

Clearly, in 1611 the Ruthven Cross was still being used as a landmark, a finishing post for a race (presumably on horseback) of 7–8 km, on the old Perth to Methven road. It may be no accident that the race ended at the Burghmuir rather than in Perth itself given the common association of horse races with fair sites and it may be another reflection of later medieval (possibly even pre-burghal) fair activity at this ancient site. Notably, the document of 1611 not only highlights a previously unrecognized use of sculpture but also indicates a lost sporting trophy – ‘the silver bell’ – from the early seventeenth century (Fraser et al. 2011, 10 and n. 29). The Dupplin Cross has been mentioned above in the context of commemorating the dead. The new home for the Dupplin Cross is St Serf ’s church, Dunning, and it is now incorporated into the articulation of the community’s sense of identity. In August 2011 Dunning celebrated the 500th anniversary of the granting of its status as a burgh of barony. This included a recreation of Dunning’s medieval fair or market the centre-piece of which

7 lifeways in stone 

was a wooden version of the Dupplin Cross. Originally this was a plain, plywood mock-up made by Historic Scotland to plan for the locating of the actual Cross in St Serf ’s church, Dunning. Afterwards it was given to Dunning school. For the fair it was painted with various motifs including the dragon slain by St Serf, elements from the Rollo coat of arms and an inscription of the Mercat Law (Sinclair 2011; Fig. 7.10). It now stands as a permanent sculpture outside the school in Dunning. In part fortuitously, it fuses issues of material, purpose and reimagining in a socially performed expression of community identity. The performance was of a key moment and its relatively ephemeral materials mean it may not see such usage again but will bear silent witness and memory as it slowly decays. I deal with several examples of remediation in stone in this paper but this wooden example is the only one in a different material. The articulation of the value of sculpture in the present through other media and at various scales is a vast topic encompassing the depiction of sculptures within textile banners – as with so many Church and SWRI examples (including Fowlis Wester and Forteviot) (Fig. 7.11) – the making and use of casts, both for academic analysis and display (Foster 2013; McCormick 2013) and the depiction of medieval sculpture in works of fiction, including cinema (Hall 2015). Of course, crosses can have their form and meaning changed to break with an established identity and create a new strand. The destruction of many market and wayside crosses during the Reformation and the Civil War saw many of them repurposed as non-religious items, specifically sundials (Daniel 1986, 18–19). It is a further reflex of what has been characterized as an argument in stone (Carver 1991), an argument that for previous generations allowed early medieval crosses to become later medieval market crosses.

Bridges over troubled waters The towering cross-slab at Kettins has stood in its present location, beside the northern boundary wall of Kettins churchyard, for around 150 years (Fig. 7.12). It was found in 1865 in use as a footbridge across the Kettins Burn, which runs beside the church. What we now take to be the back of the cross

201

Fig. 7.11 Forteviot Church banner, with Dupplin Cross and Forteviot hand-bell.

202 

Fig. 7.12 Kettins Cross-slab.

mark a. hall

has no surviving imagery and has a slightly furrowed appearance, suggesting that this was the side that was walked upon. The better surviving, but still considerably worn, face was probably the one that looked down upon the water. The poor survival of the iconographic programme of the cross-slab is very regrettable but its use as a footbridge is also a part of its history, which may tell us interesting things about the later life of the cross-slab. The reuse of early medieval sculpture as bridges is known from elsewhere; there are several examples from both Scotland and further afield, including Wales. The crossshaft in the garden at Upper Arthurlie House, Barrhead, near Glasgow, has an ongoing use as a garden ornament but before that it was used as a stepping-stone or footbridge across a burn close to the field where the cross may have originally stood, approximately 1 mile from Arthurlie (Cooke 1873, 452; Driscoll 2005, 154). North across the Clyde, the Mountblow Cross had been in use as a footbridge across the Sandford Burn, Old Kilpatrick before it became a garden ornament in the later nineteenth century and then part of the collections of Kelvingrove Museum, Glasgow (ECMS 1903, 451–2; Driscoll 2005, 154). In the National Museum, Edinburgh, is a symbol stone found in the mid-nineteenth century in use as a footbridge for one of the walks in the Princes Street Gardens immediately below Edinburgh Castle (ECMS 1903, 421). In his Sculptured Stones of Scotland, John Stuart (1856, 28) notes that Eassie cross-slab (which now stands within the ruins of the church) actually ‘lay for many years in the bed of a stream and has suffered a good deal from rough usage’. It seems highly probable that it found its way into the stream through use as a foot-

7 lifeways in stone 

bridge or stepping stone. Standing close beside Dargie church (the ruined medieval church of St Peter, Invergowrie) is a huge dressed sandstone slab for all intents and purposes a cross-slab except in that it lacks any surviving decoration, the surfaces being worn smooth. For many years it was in use as a footbridge across the nearby stream (Eva Bennett pers. comm., who brought the slab to my attention). Stuart (1856, 32) also records that the Gask stone at one time served as a bridge over the mill race of Mill of Gask but that the owner of the mill, hearing noises and seeing things, was frightened into taking it back to where it stood. Stuart observes that the wear on the stone is consistent with people treading on it. It is not a mode of reuse exclusive to Scotland and there are, for example, several cases from Wales identified between the seventeenth and nineteenth centuries. They include the cart-wheel crosses of Cwrt Dafydd farm now in the Margam Abbey Stones Museum, South Wales (Donovan 1805, plate p. 5; Redknap and Lewis 2007, 427–36), the inscribed stone from Crickhowell, Brecon (Redknap and Lewis 2007, 159–62), one of the inscribed stones from Brawdy (Edwards 2007, 286–8) and the cross-carved stones from Llawhaden and St Dogmaels (Edwards 2007, 374–5; 460–63). We can certainly ask whether such reuse was entirely down to economic expediency: the deployment of a redundant piece of sculpture because of its convenient siting, its suitable size and the trouble of quarrying and transporting a new slab makes perfect sense. However, it is possible that the Christian imagery on several of these cross-slabs or indeed their general perception as old stones with some kind of sacred power made them ideal candidates for the footbridge task because as well as being physically suited to the role they could have been seen as being able to ward off evil from the burn-crossings they facilitated and also from those who walked across them. Such reuse can be seen as a microcosm of the wider debate about sculpture reused as building materials, notably, but not exclusively, in churches. In the medieval period, bridges did have an importance that fused piety and the necessity of communication. In conversion-period Scandinavia, for example, the raising of bridges was part of a system of holy indulgences and was often commemorated by the raising of inscribed commemorative runestones, more than 50% of them by women (Sawyer 2000, 134–45, 186–7; Gräslund 2003, 490–92). The evidence is unique to Scandinavia but the wider phenomenon is recorded in the Canons of Edgar, compiled by Archbishop Wulfstan of York in the early eleventh century. Wulfstan encourages the building of bridges to enable the faithful to travel more easily to church and for the love of God (Sawyer 2000, 134–5). This in turn fits into a wider cultural dynamic where the Church encouraged the linking of everyday necessities with Christian practice. Thus Christian stones, as a representation of the cross, were used as weather stones, imploring for rain when it was dry and preventing heavy rain and hail that might destroy crops. They could be incorporated (sometimes via the burial of wooden crosses) in field

203

204 

mark a. hall

blessings at Rogation tide and invoked as year-round protectors of the land to keep it fertile (Neuman de Vegvar 2003).

Adding the present, graffiti rules okay? Photography in 2008 of the Inchyra symbol stone in the context of a Gaelic TV documentary about its depiction of a salmon revealed a whole series of marks and graffiti on the stone previously unnoticed and demonstrating more recent reuses and attempted reuses. They include cut-marks, presumably marking abandoned attempts to cut the stone up, and two inscriptions – LENN and the pair of letters JA – along with a further inscription on the opposite face: a heart in which is inscribed KATH 4 BILL (Hall 2012a, fig. 7.5). There is also a neatly boxed inscription in purple crayon, which reads: ‘Sandy Christie 31/3/49’. All these modern inscriptions are name-based and must have been applied when the slab was on display in the museum from 1945 into the 1960s. As with the Ogham on the same stone (discussed above), we can say that they are names, but whose? It would be very easy to dismiss them as no more than the work of vandals but we cannot be certain that there were not other, unofficial dialogues going on between stone and public visitors. Was ‘Kath 4 Bill’ a joke by either of them or by others or was it done to lend rebellious significance to the love being declared through the appropriation of the stone? Such incisions of intention and desire have parallels with much older graffiti, which, having the veneer of age, are more readily accepted by many. For a contemporary early medieval hoard of graffiti, I turn to Ireland, and the passage tomb at Knowth (Brugh na Bóinne). This group of eighthcentury Insular and Ogham inscriptions reveals some twenty names added to the surfaces of the eastern and western tombs (Byrne 2008, 90), all of them seemingly male. The Ogham inscriptions, like many from Pictland, do not make sense and this generally lands them with the label ‘scholastic’ or ‘cryptic’ (Swift 2008, 123), indicating the presumed requirement of secrecy by the users. This allowed them to perform a social function but a restricted, exclusive one (Swift 2008, 127). The performative role of the Oghams is not in question but it can in some instances be as a consequence of the circumstances of the execution, such as in dark, cramped conditions such as a cave or tomb. Such circumstances of performance would make errors of execution or incision almost inevitable. However, the inscriber, either alone or under authorial endorsement, knew what was being written and there may have been no expectation of future readings, which in any case may have been perceived as less important than the actual act of inscription (which in some instances may have had a magical import). Supernatural readers (in burial contexts surely always a factor?) could perhaps be relied on to know what was intended and who the named individuals were. Our second parallel returns us to Scotland. In the mid-twelfth century Norse graffiti was added to the walls of the Neolithic tomb at Maeshowe, Orkney

7 lifeways in stone 

(including by homecoming or Jerusalem-bound crusaders; Barnes 1994, 40). The inscriptions include no. 21, which translates as ‘Ingrigerdr is the most beautiful woman’ (Barnes 1994, 38 and 159–65). Along with several more sexually explicit lines (possibly about love, certainly about sexual congress), this resonates with the Inchyra ‘Kath 4 Bill’ graffito. Graffiti express the idea that something is important, sufficiently so to be written down. It acts as a testimony of bodily presence in a place; as a memorialization of an event, a feeling or an idea and, in devotional circumstances, as a ritualized incision of devotion. Holy or sacred objects and spaces can be incised with graffiti about everyday life, thus appropriating that sacredness in support of one’s secular life (Plesch 2002, 181). The addition of modern graffiti to Pictish sculpture adds to its palimpsest qualities (compare Plesch 2002, 169) and can also be read as signals of resistance and playfulness, analogous to rumours, gossip, folk tales, gestures and jokes in ‘insinuating a critique of power while hiding behind a certain anonymity’ (Meskell 2004, 148).

205

Fig. 7.13 Gask cross-slab, details of modern graffiti.

206 

mark a. hall

The nature of the ‘Kath 4 Bill’ inscription on the Inchyra stone makes something of its intention easier to grasp. Modern graffiti applied to early medieval sculptures is usually more obscure in intention. On the Goodlyburn Cross are three sets of initials, including an ‘M W’ (Fraser et al. 2011, 4–5), that are most likely to have been added in the eighteenth or nineteenth century. Grafitti initials are not uncommon. Recent photography of the Gask Stone (Hall and Scott forthcoming) has revealed a lightly incised inscription on the horse at the top of the right-hand zone of Face A. The letters are carefully tailored to the body of the horse, beginning on the head and ending on the haunches. The inscription may represent a series of initials: A B [I] T M W [?] (Fig. 7.13). At Upper Manbean, Elgin, is a symbol stone to which the initials ‘M H S’ have been added (ECMS 1903, 128–9); at Over Kirkhope, Borders, a roughly shaped pillar bears an incised figure in an orans pose and with a cross incised on his chest, and above right the letters ‘P P’ within an incised box (ECMS 1903, 431–2); at Woodrae, Angus, the back of the heavily worn cross-slab carries the initial ‘A H’ (Henderson and Henderson 2004, plate 274); and at Govan, Glasgow, there are several slabs with inscriptions clearly indicating reuse as modern graveslabs, whilst others have only a series of initials (ECMS 1903, 467–72). These last are unlikely to be simply the ‘defacement’ Allen and Anderson characterize them as. It is possible that even those marked only with initials could indicate appropriation for commemoration by members of the community unable to afford more than a pauper’s grave for their kith and kin. All the examples cited here of graffiti added to early medieval sculpture (and there are many others) have been more or less ignored as unwarranted interference with their respective monuments. But more recent archaeological approaches to graffiti (Fleming 2001; Oliver and Neal 2010) have both confirmed its wide temporal range (almost as old as ‘writing’ itself) and its social value in articulating non-mainstream voices and how they both inscribe against the cultural ‘norm’ and use that norm to endorse their counter-cultural statements. Early medieval sculpture is a significant canvas on which both of these inscribing strategies can be observed, in dialogue with their host monuments.

Conclusion This paper has explored use and reuse of monumental sculpture in the early and later medieval period, encompassing the reorientation of symbol stones, appropriation as market crosses and use as oath stones (bearing sword cuts). These earlier episodes are essential to trying to define the whole range of possibilities and the rich imaginative forces that went into redefining sculpture so that it was always relevant to a community. It is possible to suggest that this would have happened in many cases almost from the point of erection. Something does not suddenly change after the medieval period in the way communities socially adapt their materiality;

7 lifeways in stone 

such change is always ongoing. The post-medieval reuses encompass religious change, apotropaic concealments, bridge use and the addition of graffiti. Meaning has power and so is active and, being contested, fluctuates. At the point of inception, early medieval sculpture had powerful roles but almost immediately was open to reinterpretation, sometimes unanimously, sometimes in contestation of an authority view. Echoing Ingold (2011, 56), nothing ever works except as a component of a system constituted in the present moment. Whether one sees Ingold’s (2011, 63–5) spider metaphor as a meshwork or a network (Latour 2007), both represent a distributed field of connected people, objects and environments made socially active – imbued with existence, if you will – by human-imparted agency, real and imagined. Uncovering this evidence makes it entirely clear that the social theorizing which emphasizes the importance of such forces as personhood, performance and entanglements is an articulation of real-world behaviours. The two approaches, theoretical and empirical, are not necessarily mutually exclusive and can work together in an interdisciplinary framework. This paper has endeavoured to demonstrate the value of capturing the biographies of cultural constructions. Archaeologists are used to thinking about layers, through site stratigraphy and landscape palimpsests, and there is only a short stretch to adopting a biographical approach, which we might define as a nuanced perception of layers of social construction that redefine and remediate early medieval sculpture that represents the lives of individuals and communities. Historically the focus of the study and analysis of sculpture has been on origins and originary purpose. This has undoubtedly borne great dividends in understanding but has meant a very narrowly focused approach, one that has not had much time for changes of purpose and behaviour both within the early medieval period and beyond. Broadening out the focus, through the diffracting lens of cultural/material biography, can give us powerful glimpses of how communities reimagined and performed their changing worlds. We should always think about early medieval sculptures as enmeshed or entangled in a web of relations with different people and working with other items of material culture, including swords, gallows and sporting trophies; it may always be sculpture but often it is other things too. This does not mean we stop studying sculpture for its early medieval significance but this should not be automatically privileged in discourses of scholarship above its other meanings. The (discontinuous) longevity of sculpture is of huge value in tracking and understanding social change. It recognizes their place-making value both through time and for their custodial communities today. It offers a point of engagement for those communities in encouraging them to undertake wider understandings of their inheritance and it offers a challenge for museums in the way that material culture is displayed and interpreted. The display of single objects telling different stories simultaneously has yet to be cracked in gallery spaces but the ongoing use of interactive technolo-

207

208 

mark a. hall

gies and social media along with deeper engagement with communities and a longer time perspective brought to fieldwork is showing the way forward.

Acknowledgements Variant versions of this paper, focusing on the question and characterization of reuse, were given at the Pictish Arts Society conference in Dunkeld, November 2009, the TAG Conference in Bristol, November 2010 (Hall 2012b), and the EAA Annual Meeting, Oslo, September 2011, and I am grateful for the feedback from several colleagues at those sessions. Thanks also to Eva Bennett, Domhnall Stiùbhart (for detailed discussion about Cille Bharra and other slabs following his paper on Alexander Carmichael at the MEG Conference, NMS, Edinburgh, April 2012) and Howard Williams for the invitation to contribute to this volume and for his, Jo Kirton’s and two anonymous referees’ considered and helpful comments on an early draft.

Bibliography Allen, J. R. 1883. On the discovery of a sculptured stone at St Madoes with some notes on interlaced ornament, Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland, 17 (1882–3), 211–71 Anderson, M. O. 1980. Kings and Kingship in Early Scotland, revised edition, Edinburgh: John Donald Andrews, M., Bagot-Jewit, C. and Hunt, N. (eds) 2011. Lest we forget: Remembrance and commemoration, Stroud: The History Press. Appadurai, A. (ed.) 1986. The Social Life of Things: Commodities in Cultural Perspective, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press Barad, K. 2007. Meeting the Universe Halfway. Quantum Physics and the Entanglement of Matter and Meaning, Durham, NC and London: Duke University Press Barnes, M. P. 1994. The Runic Inscriptions of Maeshowe, Orkney, Uppsala: Uppsala University Press Black, R. I. M. 2000. Scotland’s fairs and fair-names, Scottish Studies, 33 (1999), 1–75 Bradley, R. 1987. Time regained: the creation of continuity, Journal of the British Archaeological Association, 140, 1–17 Byrne, F. J. 2008. The inscriptions in the main passage tomb at Knowth, in Byrne et al. 2008, 89–119 Byrne, F. J., Jenkins, W., Kenny, G. and Swift, C. 2008. Excavations at Knowth 4: Historical Knowth and its Hinterland, Dublin: Royal Irish Academy Carver, M. O. H. 1991. Arguments in Stone: Archaeological Research and the European Town in the First Millennium, Oxford: Oxbow Books

7 lifeways in stone 

Cassidy, B. 1992. The later life of the Ruthwell cross: from the seventeenth century to the present, in B. Cassidy (ed.), The Ruthwell Cross, 3–47, Princeton: Index of Christian Art, Department of Art and Archaeology, Princeton University Clarke, D. V. 2007. Reading the multiple lives of Pictish symbol stones, Medieval Archaeology, 51, 19–39 Connerton, P. 1989. How Societies Remember, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press Cooke, E. 1873. Notice of a cross-shaft at Arthurlee, Renfrewshire, Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland, 9, 451–2 Corlett, C. and Potterton, M. 2010. Death and Burial in Early Medieval Ireland in the Light of Recent Archaeological Excavations, Research Papers in Irish Archaeology, 2, Dublin: Wordwell (=) Cramp, R. 2010. New directions in the study of Anglo-Saxon sculpture, Transactions of the Leicestershire Archaeological and Historical Society, 84, 1–25 CSMPC. A Corpus of Scottish Medieval Parish Churches: Clunie Parish Church, http://arts.st-andrews.ac.uk/~cmas/site.php?id=128527, accessed 5.11.2012. Cunningham, A. S. 1907. Markinch and its Environs, Leven: Purves and Cunningham Daniel, C. St J. H. 1986. Sundials, Aylesbury: Shire Publications Limited Donovan, E. 1805. Descriptive Excursions through South Wales and Monmouthshire in the Year 1804 and the Four Preceding Summers, Volume 2, London: privately printed Driscoll, S. 1998. Picts and prehistory: cultural resource management in early medieval Scotland, World Archaeology, 30(1), 142–58 Driscoll, S. 2005. The Govan School revisited: searching for meaning in the early medieval sculpture of Strathclyde, in Foster and Cross (eds) 2005, 135–58 Dunshea, P. 2010. Another eighteenth-century reference to Arthur’s Oven, Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland, 140, 207–9 ECMS. 1903. Allen, J. R. and Anderson, J. The Early Christian Monuments of Scotland, Edinburgh: Society of Antiquaries of Scotland, reprinted 1993, 2 volumes, Balgavies: Pinkfoot Press Edwards, N. 2007. A Corpus of Early Medieval Inscribed Stones and Stone Sculpture in Wales Volume II South-West Wales, Cardiff: University of Wales Press Fisher, I. 2001. Early Medieval Sculpture in the West Highlands and Islands, Edinburgh: RCAHMS and Society of Antiquaries of Scotland Fisher, I. and Greenhill, F. A. 1972. Two unrecorded carved stones at Tower of Lethendy, Perthshire, Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland, 104 (1971–72), 238–41 Fleming, J. 2001. Graffiti and the Writing Arts of Early Modern England, London: Reaktion Books

209

210 

mark a. hall

Foster, S. M. (ed.) 1998. The St Andrews Sarcophagus A Pictish Masterpiece and its International Connections, Dublin: Four Courts Press Foster, S. M. 2013. The impact of Victorian and later casts of early medieval sculpture on understanding and appreciation of Insular art, in J. Hawkes (ed.), Making Histories: The Sixth International Insular Art Conference, York, 2011, 339–57, Donington: Shaun Tyas Foster, S. M. and Cross, M. (eds) 2005. Able Minds and Practised Hands Scotland’s Early Medieval Sculpture in the 21st Century, Society for Medieval Archaeology Monograph, 23, Leeds: Maney Fowler, C. 2004. The Archaeology of Personhood. An Anthropological Approach, London: Routledge Fowler, C. 2010. From identity and material culture to personhood and materiality, in D. Hicks and M. C. Beaudry (eds), The Oxford Handbook of Material Culture Studies, 354–85, Oxford: Oxford University Press Fraser, I. 2005. ‘Just an ald steen’: reverence, reuse, revulsion and rediscovery, in Foster and Cross (eds) 2005, 55–68 Fraser, I., Hall, M. A. and Scott, I. G. 2011. From holy rood to estate folly: chapters in the cultural biography of the Goodlyburn Cross, Perthshire, Scotland, Review of Scottish Culture, 23, 1–19 Fuglesang, S. H. 2011. Written sources to pre-Christian sanctuaries in northern Europe, in N. Y. Gvozdetskya, I. G. Konovalova, E. A. Melnikova and A. V. Podossinov (eds), Stanzas of Friendship Studies in Honour of Tatjana N. Jackson, 412–28, Moscow: Dmitriy Pozharskiy University Gondek, M. and Jeffrey, S. 2003. The re-use of a figurative panel from Eigg, Medieval Archaeology, 47, 178–85 Gosden, C. and Marshall, Y. 1999. The cultural biography of objects, World Archaeology, 31(1), 325–8 Gräslund, A.-S. 2003. The role of Scandinavian women in Christianisation: the neglected evidence, in M. Carver (ed.), The Cross Goes North: Processes of Conversion in Northern Europe AD 300–1300, 483–96, York: York Medieval Press Hall, M. A. 2003. Some Perthshire fairs and markets AD 700–1900, Review of Scottish Culture, 16, 44–57 Hall, M. A. 2005a. Burgh mentalities: a town-in-the-country case study of Perth, Scotland, in K. Gilles and C. Dyer (eds), Town and Country in the Middle Ages: Contrasts, Contacts and Interconnections, 1100–1500, Society for Medieval Archaeology Monograph, 22, 211–28, Leeds: Maney Hall, M. A. 2005b. Of holy men and heroes: the cult of saints in medieval Perthshire, Innes Review, 56(1), 60–87 Hall, M. A. 2006. 303. Lethendy, Tower of Lethendy, in Medieval Britain and Ireland in 2005, Medieval Archaeology, 50, 383–4 Hall, M. A. 2011. Tales from beyond the Pict: sculpture and its uses in and around Forteviot, Perthshire from the 9th century onwards, in S.

7 lifeways in stone 

Driscoll, J. Geddes and M. Hall (eds), Pictish Progress: New Studies on North Britain in the Early Middle Ages, 135–68, Leiden: Brill Hall, M. A. 2012a. Three stones, one landscape and many stories: cultural biography of the early medieval sculptures of Inchyra and St Madoes, Carse of Gowrie, Perthshire, Scotland, in S. Dudley, A. J. Barnes, J. Binnie, J. Petrov and J. Walklate (eds), Narrating Objects, Collecting Stories, 85–102, London: Routledge Hall, M. A. 2012b. Survival and significance: some concluding remarks on reuse as an aspect of cultural biography, in B. Jervis and A. Kyle (eds), Make Do and Mend: TAG 2010 Conference Session Proceedings, 115–22, Oxford: British Archaeological Research Reports, International Series, 2408 Hall, M. A. 2013a. Performing prehistory in early medieval Scotland: making sense of the meanings of masks on Pictish sculpture, in H. Meller and R. Maraszek (eds), 2012 Masken der Vorzeit in Europa [II], International Tagung vom 19. Bis 21. November 2010 in Hall (Saale), Tagungen Landesmuseum für Vorgeschichte Halle (Saale), 7, 93–110, Halle: Landesamt für Denkmalpflege und Archäologie Sachsen-Anhalt, Landesmuseum für Vorgeschichte Hall, M. A. 2013b. Re-making, re-mediating and re-mythopoesis: the sculptured stone cross in popular cinema, in J. Hawkes (ed.), Making Histories: The Sixth International Insular Art Conference, Donnington: Shaun Tyas Hall, M. A. 2015. The Meigle Stones: A Biographical Overview, Journal of the Scottish Society for Northern Studies, 46, 15–46 Hall, M. A. and Scott, I. G. Forthcoming. Forteviot, Dupplin, Invermay, Gask: The Forteviot Assemblage of Early Medieval Sculpture Catalogue, in E. Campbell and S. T. Driscoll (eds), Royal Forteviot: Forteviot in the first and second millennia AD, York: Council for British Archaeology Hall, M. A., Henderson, I. and Taylor, S. 1998. A sculptured fragment from Pittensorn Farm, Gellyburn, Perthshire, Tayside and Fife Archaeological Journal, 4, 129–44 Hall, M. A., Forsyth, K., Henderson, I., Scott, I. G., Trench-Jellicoe, R. and Watson, A. 2000. Of makings and meanings: towards a cultural biography of the Crieff Burgh Cross, Strathearn Perthshire, Tayside and Fife Archaeological Journal, 6, 154–88 Hall, M. A., Henderson, I. and Scott, I. G. 2005. The early medieval sculptures from Murthly, Perth and Kinross: an interdisciplinary look at people, politics and monumental art, in Foster and Cross (eds) 2005, 293–314 Haraway, D. 1997. Modest_Witness@Second_Millennium.FemaleMan©_ Meets_OncoMouse™: Feminism and Technoscience, New York: Routledge Hencken, H. O. 1932. The Archaeology of Cornwall and Scilly, London: Metheun

211

212 

mark a. hall

Henderson, G. and Henderson, I. 2004. The Art of the Picts: Sculpture and Metalwork in Early Medieval Scotland, London: Thames and Hudson Hobsbawm, E. and Ranger, T. (eds) 1983. The Invention of Tradition, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press Hoskins, J. 1998. Biographical Objects: How Things Tell the Stories of People’s Lives, London: Routledge Hutcheson, A. 1903. Notice of the discovery of a full-length stone cist containing human remains and a penannular brooch at Craigie, near Dundee, Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland, 37, 233–40 Ingold, T. 2011. Being Alive. Essays on Movement, Knowledge and Description, London: Routledge James, H., Henderson, I., Foster, S. M. and Jones, S. 2008. A Fragmented Masterpiece: Recovering the Biography of the Hilton of Cadboll Pictish Cross-slab, Edinburgh: Society of Antiquaries of Scotland Joy, J. 2009. Reinvigorating object biography, World Archaeology, 41(4), 540–56 Korner, S. 1858. Rambles Round Crieff and Excursions into the Highlands, Edinburgh: John Menzies Lamb, J. 2011. The Things Things Say, Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press Langdon, A. 1997. Stone Crosses in West Penwith, Cornish Cross Series no. 4, Truro: Federation of Old Cornwall Societies Langdon, A. G. and Allen, J. R. 1896. Old Cornish Crosses, Truro: J. Pollard Latour, B. 2007. Reassembling the Social. An Introduction to Actor-Network Theory, Oxford: Oxford University Press Law, J. and Hassard, J. (eds) 1999. Actor Network Theory and After, Oxford: Blackwell Lawson, J. P. 1847. The Book of Perth, Edinburgh: T. G. Stevenson Le Goff, J. 1988. The Medieval Imagination, Chicago: University of Chicago Press (trans. A. Goldhammer) Lewis, J. 1991. Fowlis Wester Cross Slab (Fowlis Wester parish), Discovery and Excavation in Scotland 1991, 73. Lowenthal, D. 1993. Memory and oblivion, Museum Management and Curatorship, 12(2), 171–82 Lucas, G. 2010. Review of L. Olivier, Le Sombre Abîme du Temps, European Journal of Archaeology, 13(2), 273–4 Lucy, S. and Reynolds, A. 2002. Burial in Early Medieval England and Wales, Society for Medieval Archaeology Monograph, 17, Leeds: Maney Publishing Macalister, R. A. S. 1945. Corpus Inscriptionum Insularum Celticarum, vol. 2, Dublin: Stationary Office McCormick, E. 2013. The highly interesting series of Irish Crosses: reproductions of early medieval Irish sculpture in Dublin and London, 1853–1937, in J. Hawkes (ed.), Making Histories: The Sixth International Insular Art Conference, York, 2011, 358–71, Donington: Shaun Tyas

7 lifeways in stone 

Macdonald, A. and Macdonald, A. 1904. The Clan Donald, Inverness: Northern Counties Publishing Company Mack, J. 2003. The Museum of the Mind, London: British Museum Press MacLagan, C. 1898. A Catalogue Raisonné of the British Museum Collection of Rubbings from Ancient Sculptured Stones, Edinburgh: privately printed MacLean, D. 1997. Maelrubai, Applecross and the late Pictish contribution west of Druimalban, in D. Henry (ed.), The Worm, the Germ and the Thorn: Pictish and Related Studies Presented to Isabel Henderson, 173–90, Balgavies: Pinkfoot Press Maldonado Ramírez, A. D. 2011. Christianity and Burial in Late Iron Age Scotland, AD 400–650, PhD thesis, University of Glasgow, available at http://theses.gla.ac.uk/2700/3/2011maldonadoramirezpdd.pdf Marshall, W. 1880. Historic Scenes in Perthshire, Edinburgh: William Oliphant & Co Melville, L. 1939. The Fair Land of Gowrie, Coupar Angus: Culross Meskell, L. 2004. Object Worlds in Ancient Egypt: Material Biographies Past and Present, Oxford: Berg Moreland, J. 1999. The world(s) of the cross, World Archaeology, 31(2), 194–213 Muir, E. 2005. Ritual in Early Modern Europe, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press Mylne, R. S. 1892. The Master Masons to the Crown of Scotland and their works, Edinburgh: Scott & Ferguson Neuman de Vegvar, C. 2003. Converting the Anglo-Saxon landscape: crosses and their audiences, in A. Minnis and J. Roberts (eds), Text, Image, Interpretation: Studies in Anglo-Saxon Literature and its Insular context in Honour of Éamonn Ó Carragain, 407–29, Turnhout: Brepols Newman, C. 2009. The sword in the stone: previously unrecognised archaeological evidence of ceremonies of the later Iron Age and early medieval period, in G. Cooney, K. Becker, J. Coles, M. Ryan and S. Sievers (eds), Relics of Old Decency: Archaeological Studies in Later Prehistory, Festschrift for Barry Raftery, 425–36, Dublin: Wordwell NSA 1844. The Statistical Account of Perthshire by the Ministers of the Respective Parishes, Edinburgh and London: Blackwood Oliver, J. and Neal, T. (eds) 2010. Wild Signs: Graffiti in Archaeology and History, Oxford: British Archaeological Reports, International Series, 2074 Olivier, L. 2008. Le Sombre Abîme du Temps, Paris: Éditions de Seuil OPS 1855. Origines parochiales Scotiae: the antiquities ecclesiastical and territorial of the parishes of Scotland, vol.2, 2, 684–5, Edinburgh: Bannatyne Club OSA 1791–99. Sinclair, J. (ed.) The statistical account of Scotland, drawn up from the communications of the ministers of the different parishes, Edinburgh

213

214 

mark a. hall

Pena, J. T. 2007. Roman Pottery in the Archaeological Record, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press Pickering, A. 2010. Material culture and the dance of agency, in D. Hicks and M. C. Beaudry (eds), The Oxford Handbook of Material Culture Studies, 191–208, Oxford: Oxford University Press Plesch, V. 2002. Memory on the wall: graffiti on religious wall paintings, Journal of Medieval and Early Modern Studies, 32(1), 167–98 RCAHMS 1984. The Royal Commission on the Ancient and Historical Monuments of Scotland. Argyll: An Inventory of the Monuments, Volume 5: Islay, Jura, Colonsay and Oronsay, Edinburgh: RCAHMS RCAHMS 1994. South-East Perth an archaeological landscape, Edinburgh: RCAHMS RCAHMS 1999. The Royal Commission on the Ancient and Historical Monuments of Scotland. Pictish Symbol Stones. An Illustrated Gazetteer, Edinburgh: RCAHMS Redknap, M. and Lewis, J. M. 2007. A Corpus of Early Medieval Inscribed Stones and Stone Sculpture in Wales Volume I. Breconshire, Glamorgan, Monmouthshire, Radnorshire and Geographically Contiguous Areas of Herefordshire and Shropshire, Cardiff: University of Wales Press Rhodes, P. J. 2010. Cultures of commemoration: War memorials, ancient and modern, London: Oxford University Press and British Academy. Ritchie, A. 1995. Meigle and lay patronage in Tayside in the 9th and 10th centuries AD, Tayside Fife Archaeological Journal, 1, 1–10 Saunders, N. J. 2010. Killing Time: Archaeology and the First World War, Stroud: The History Press Sawyer, B. 2000. The Viking-Age Rune-Stones. Custom and Commemoration in Early Medieval Scandinavia, Oxford: Oxford University Press Schechner, R. 2006. Performance Studies. An Introduction, 2nd edition, London: Routledge Schiffer, M. B. 1999. The Materiality of Human Beings, London: Routledge Schiffer, M. B. and Skibo, J. M. 1997. The explanation of artifact variability, American Antiquity, 62(1), 27–50 Semple, S. and Williams, H. (eds) 2007. Early Medieval Mortuary Practices, Anglo-Saxon Studies in Archaeology and History volume 14, Oxford: Oxford University Committee for Archaeology Sinclair, A. 2011. Dunning 500: A Celebration, Special issue of The Dunningite, Dunning Parish Historical Society Newsletter 77 (Autumn 2011) Skeates, R. 1995. Animate objects: a biography of prehistoric ‘axe-amulets’ in the central Mediterranean region, Proceedings of the Prehistoric Society, 61, 279–301 Stevenson, R. B. K. 1959. The Inchyra stone and other unpublished Early Christian monuments, Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland, 92, 33–55

7 lifeways in stone 

Stewart, A. I. B. 1979. Campbelltown cross, Kintyre Antiquarian and Natural History Society Magazine, 6, 3–9 Stiùbhart, D. W. (ed.) 2008. The Life and Legacy of Alexander Carmichael, Port of Ness: the Islands Book Trust Stiùbhart, D. M. 2009. Alasdair MacGhilleMhìcheil agus cultar dùthchasach, in R. Cox (ed.), Sin am Fearnan Caoin: Dualchas agus an Àrainneachd, 135–60, Clann Tuirc: Brig O’Turk Stocker, D. and Everson, P. 1990. Rubbish recycled: a study of the re-use of stone in Lincolnshire, in D. Parsons (ed.), Stone: Quarrying and Building in England AD 43–1525, 83–101, Chichester: Phillimore Stuart, J. 1856. Sculptured Stones of Scotland, Volume I, Aberdeen: Spalding Club Swift, C. 2008. Commentary: The Knowth Oghams in context, in Byrne et al. 2008, 120–32 Taylor, A. 2009. Leges Scociae and the lawcodes of David I, William the Lion and Alexander II, The Scottish Historical Review, LXXXVIII(2): No. 226 (October 2009), 207–88 Tiller, K. 2013. Remembrance and community: War memorials and local history, Ashbourne: British Association for Local History Van Der Kiste, J. 2010. Dartmoor from Old Photographs, Stroud: Amberley Publishing Van Houts, E. 2001. Medieval Memories Men, Women and the Past 700–1300, London: Longman Wainwright, F. T. 1961. The Inchyra Ogam, Dundee Archaeological Studies, 1, Dundee: Dundee Museum and Art Gallery Walls, S. 2011. ‘Lest we forget’: the spatial dynamics of the church and churchyard as commemorative spaces for the war dead in the twentieth century, Mortality, 16(2), 131–44 Williams, H. 1998. Monuments and the past in early Anglo-Saxon England, World Archaeology, 30(1), 90–108 Wilson, D. 1848. Memorials of Edinburgh in the Olden Times, Vol. II, Edinburgh: Hugh Paton Youngs, S. 1989. ‘The Work of Angels’: Masterpieces of Celtic Metalwork 6th–9th Centuries AD, London: British Museum

215

8

A Stone in Time: Saving Lost Medieval Memories of Irish Stone Monuments Jenifer Ní Ghrádaigh

Introduction

O

ne of the most frustrating aspects of our encounters with medieval art is our inability ever to know exactly how far our responses, aesthetic, emotional or intellectual, correspond with those of medieval viewers. Such dissatisfaction has, in the past, led scholars to concentrate on the making of monuments and artefacts, rather than their afterlife, as the technical processes of, for instance, filigree working, are more readily extractable from objects such as the Tara Brooch than are its owner’s or owners’ sentiments towards it (Whitfield 2001a; 2001b; 2004). Although also prevalent in archaeology, scholarly fixation with the moment of creation is particularly a commonplace of art-historical studies, given the discipline’s roots in artistic biography. This is a legacy peculiarly unhelpful for the study of medieval art, where the anonymity of artists is the norm, and even categor­ ization of the creator as artist, not craftsman, is potentially misleading (e.g. Fernie 1995, 10–21). Stylistic analysis, which helps fix that creative moment in time and place, although a useful tool when used with care, has a distressing tendency to eliminate the anonymous artist or craftsman altogether by substituting artistic choice with vague ‘influences’. This scholarly elimination of human actors from the artistic narrative is both alienating and marginalizing, leaving art objects stranded in a depersonalized vacuum, valued largely for their display of technical brilliance and little else. Such artworks, especially those without narrative, or even figurative scenes, may frequently now be perceived as incomprehensible and thus irrelevant not merely by contemporary viewers, but by art historians of other periods, and even by medievalists working in different disciplines. How can we repopulate this artistic world? It is difficult, although not always impossible, to examine the artist’s creative and imaginative role in the making of medieval works (see Heslop 2008). If artistic creativity

8 a stone in time 

217

frequently remains opaque, however, scholars have increasingly begun to acknowledge that reuse and spoliation may allow an often startling insight into the ongoing biography of an object or building after its initial creation: that is, into its reception if not by its contemporaries, by later users and spectators (Kinney 2006; 2011). This paper will attempt to resocialize Irish medieval art by exploring its reception (see Caviness 2006), particularly in terms of continuing interactions with medieval metalwork and stonework by different audiences from the ninth to twelfth centuries. By examining secondary inscriptions, spoliated stonework, the revival of older monument types and, especially, literary traces of known artworks, it will endeavour to reveal a more nuanced picture of medieval responses to existing works.

Inscribing memories: the Hunterston and Killamery brooches Patterns, flaws and manipulations of memory are embedded in any such study, even if not immediately visible. Although craftsmen surely intended their pieces, and masons their buildings, to have an ongoing function, that function might be more fluid than originally envisaged. Reworking, and particularly the addition of an inscription, could, retrospectively, ensure that objects or monuments retained or promoted the memory of a particular individual, who may have had little to do with its original manufacture or creation. One well-known Continental artwork which tells just such a complex story is the Eleanor Vase, in its original form a vase of rock crystal of sixth- to eighth-century date of Islamic or Sassanid manufacture. However, when Abbot Suger presented it to St Denis after a convoluted history, the twelfthcentury armature which he had added emphasized in its inscription not that Islamic origin, but instead its ties with Eleanor of Aquitaine, who had given it as a wedding gift to her husband, King Louis VII (Martin 2012, 8). By contrast, although comparable Insular examples (if not quite so elaborate) exist, such secondary reworking has not generally engaged scholarly attention. Perhaps the most famous such example is the Hunterston Brooch (Fig. 8.1). Of seventh- or eighthcentury date, this brooch bears on its reverse an owner inscription

Fig. 8.1 Hunterston Brooch, reverse with runic inscription.

218 

Fig. 8.2 Killamery Brooch, reverse with inscription (after Whitfield and Okasha 1991/92, 59).

jenifer ní ghrádaigh

which has been dated to the tenth century (Stevenson 1974; Blackwell 2011). Although in Old Norse, and written in Viking runes, the name of owner, Melbrigta, is clearly the Gaelic name Máel Brigte. This shows that the brooch remained a treasured possession some three centuries after its production, and was by then most likely in the hands of a Norse speaker whose name suggests that he may have been the offspring of a mixed marriage (Whitfield 2001b, 214, 239–40). Clearly its elaborate filigree work continued to be a source of delight, although whether the Christian symbolism was still understood or comprehensible to its later owner remains unknowable; that his name, roughly translatable as ‘devotee of Brigit’, was a Christian one certainly leaves this possibility open. At other times, chronological uncertainty prevents any sustained analysis of such inscriptions as indicative of later reactions. A case in point is the Irish inscription on the ninthcentury Killamery Brooch (Fig. 8.2), an item now regarded as exemplary in showing the fusion of Irish and Viking styles and techniques, which, in itself, raises interesting questions concerning the identity of its craftsman and original owner (Whitfield and Okasha 1992). As Niamh Whitfield has pointed out, the acceptability of areas of plain silver to its Irish creator shows a change in aesthetic taste, notably ‘a new appreciation of the beauty of silver’ which can only be attributable to Viking influence (Whitfield and Okasha 1992, 59). The damaged inscription is the genitive form of the Old Irish masculine name, Ciarodur, with an abbreviated patronymic, thus showing this owner, like Melbrigta, claiming his possession in a very definite way (Whitfield and Okasha 1992, 59–60). Elisabeth Okasha convincingly elucidated the meaning of the inscription and showed that it was unlikely to be the name of the craftsman, as its light incision, small

8 a stone in time 

scale and spatial layout showed its secondary nature and lack of technical expertise. However, are we right to leave it at that? The secondary nature of the inscription is in fact remarkable for what it can tell us of the brooch’s owner, whether this was its first, or a later one. He was Irish, he was literate and he was politically insufficiently important to appear in any other records. The fact that the name was simply incised in the surface indicates that this was done by the owner himself, and his script and use of abbreviated forms suggests competence in writing, perhaps unlikely in a king, and more probable in a man of learning, whether secular or ecclesiastical. This gives a valuable insight into who might have been wearing such novel-looking items in the late ninth or early tenth centuries. The inscriptions on the Hunterston and Killamery brooches help provide evidence for diversity of aesthetic appreciation at the turn of the tenth century, while also pointing to increasing uniformity of taste across ethnic boundaries in the Irish Sea region. Nonetheless, the difference in the prominence of the inscriptions on the two brooches, even if both are on the reverse, and the disparate technical proficiency of the lettering against the runes, indicate two very distinct approaches by their owners. The runes, although incised, are well composed and spaced, and although secondary to the other ornament, contrive to dominate it. Furthermore, by occupying the remaining blank space, not merely with runes on the ring, but with linear incised ornament on the terminals, Melbrigta ensured that no subsequent owner would be able to make such a claim. Like the runic spelling of his name, this recreates the brooch as hybrid and permanently renegotiates its meaning. The same cannot be said of the Killamery inscription, whose statement is rather less loaded and rather more private. Perhaps in this case, however, ownership itself made statement enough, as the complexity of workmanship is rather more than might be expected on an object in all likelihood owned either by a cleric, a poet or lawyer; these professions are suggested by our knowledge of patterns of literacy at this period. Indeed, given what we know of gift-giving in early Ireland, as well as the evidence of sumptuary laws as to what type of brooch was appropriate to those of royal status, it may well have passed from the hands of royalty to its owner in payment (see Whitfield 2004).* If so, the inscription of ownership may have been a means of privately recording and committing to memory the key element of a specific episode or incident, which the wearing of the brooch by its owner would be sufficient to impress upon the collective memory. Although this must remain in the realm of speculation, the evidence adduced above shows how important secondary reworking may be in what it tells us of the reception and continued agency of artefacts or monuments. * Regarding appropriate clothing and accessories, see the specifications in Cáin Íarraith (The Law of the Fosterage Fee): ‘a brooch of gold and gems to be worn by sons of kings of Ireland and sons of provincial kings, and a brooch of silver for the sons of petty kings’. This is discussed by Whitfield (2004, 71). For payment for poets and for lawyers, see Kelly 1988, 45, 53.

219

220 

jenifer ní ghrádaigh

Fig. 8.3 Temple Ciarán, Clonmacnoise. The reused slab WAS FORMERLY THE THIRD UP FROM THE BOTTOM OF THE LEFT DOOR JAMB.

A slab reused: different visions of the resurrection at Temple Ciarán, ClonmaCNoise The inscriptions just discussed are likely to be the result of changes in ownership. As such, it is no surprise that they occur on small, portable objects of considerable monetary value. In terms of manuscripts, later glossing, alterations or reuse can similarly attest to active engagement with the original, whether primarily as text or as artefact. The Southampton Psalter, an Irish manuscript of c. AD 1000, is an interesting example in showing not just glossing in Latin and Old Irish but also alterations to the texts of the psalms and canticles in a twelfth-century English hand (Faulkner 2008, 60–61). This suggests that it continued to be used for liturgical purposes some hundred years after its production, and in a different country. When it comes to stone sculpture, parallel types of intervention are seldom to be found, and the most obvious form of reaction to early medieval stones is their breaking up and reuse as spolia in later buildings.* Such reuse may not be purely destructive or utilitarian, but may show an attempt to assimilate the values of the *  This is somewhat surprising, as there is no inherent reason why stone sculpture should not be reinscribed to commemorate a new patron. The post-medieval inscriptions on the cross of Dysert O’Dea, Co. Clare (1683, 1871), and Kells Market Cross, Co. Meath (1688), are telling in showing that it is cultural practice that dictates such choices.

8 a stone in time 

221

earlier material within the later building; in effect, a treatment of the stone as a form of relic (see Ó Carragáin 2007). The most dramatic example from an Irish context is the incorporation of the older antae quoin stones, door jambs and lintel in the rebuilding of the pre-Romanesque cathedral at Glendalough, Co. Wicklow (Manning 2002). At Glendalough, the older stones, by reason of their placement in effectively the same position within the newer building, retain their original function, and their form is not obscured. The case is, ordinarily, rather different. At Clonmacnoise, Co. Offaly, Temple Ciarán (a late ninth-century shrine chapel and arguably one of the oldest stone churches to survive in an Irish context), incorporated within the north jamb of its doorway an early slab, possibly the broken shaft of a cross (Fig. 8.3) (Manning 2003, Disclaimer: Due to copyright restrictions 66; Ó Carragáin 2010, 82). This church, this image is not available in the eBook. although a simple, single-celled building, To view this image please refer to the printed is of unique importance in showing Irish version of this book. engagement with, and emulation of, the planning of the Holy Sepulchre complex at Jerusalem, and St Ciarán’s tomb within Fig. 8.4 Lion it was conceived as an equivalent to Slab from Christ’s tomb within the Anastasis Rotunda (Ó Carragáin 2003, 142–4). In Temple his Middle Irish life, St Ciarán is represented as rising again three days after Ciarán. death from his bed within this very building, like Christ, albeit in this case only briefly, to converse with St Kevin of Glendalough (Macalister 1921, 97; Ó Carragáin 2003, 144). This episode serves to highlight the importance of burial in close contiguity to the saint, so as to avail of his intervention at the general resurrection which will follow the Second Coming and precede the Last Judgment. Temple Ciarán attempts to express in its structure, location (within the monastic complex, and girt by crosses), and the literary constructions about it, the significance of Ciarán’s sanctity, which, ultimately, will be manifested at the end of time. In such a carefully thoughtout building, the placement of the broken slab within the jamb is unlikely to be fortuitous, but what intention might it serve? Removed from the jamb during restoration work, the iconography of the slab (Fig. 8.4), which shows two lions, affronted, raised on their hind legs, and with snouts intertwined, can now be examined. The style of the lions, which greatly resembles those shown on Pictish stones,

222 

jenifer ní ghrádaigh

as well as Conleth Manning’s judgment that the stone’s positioning within the church is original, confirm an early date for the slab, probably eighth century.* This places the iconography within a context of patristic exegesis, whose visual reflex has long been acknowledged in the manuscript art of the Book of Kells and the Book of Durrow, and in the stone carving of many Pictish cross slabs (Hicks 1993; Henderson 1996; O’Reilly 1998). Most useful for our understanding of such animal imagery is the Physiologus, a text which describes the natures of animals and interprets them allegorically as revealing of Christian doctrines; the Physiologus appears to have been known in Ireland in the eighth century (Henderson 1996, 3, 5). The symbolism of the lion within this tradition is rich. Particularly pertinent here may be the lion’s association with the resurrection, derived both from its sleeping with open eyes (see Veelenturf 1997, 140, n. 729) and from lion cubs being born dead, but brought to life on the third day by their father’s breath. Lions frequently appear on Pictish slabs, where their symbolism has provoked a great deal of debate. The Shandwick slab, with which the Clonmacnoise slab shares some stylistic traits, may indeed show a lion breathing life into a cub beneath what is, to the viewer, the left arm of the cross, but is more correctly read as the right side, where the saved will gather after resurrection.† An eighth-century cross-head surviving from the Anglo-Saxon foundation at Mayo, Co. Mayo, combines a depiction of the crucified Christ on the cross-head, with a crouching lion above, suggesting that this particular connection between the lion and resurrection was known within an Irish context (Hawkes 2001, 263). It seems likely, therefore, that on the Clonmacnoise slab the iconography represents a triumphal assertion of the power of the resurrection, particularly appropriate for a burial marker. Its incorporation into the fabric of Temple Ciarán, given that church’s own architectural iconography, suggests an ongoing rumination on, and awareness of, the significance of the slab’s message and its potential to contribute to that of the church. The richness of the slab’s carving, as well as its inclusion in what was, in some sense, Clonmacnoise’s most sacred structure suggests that the slab’s original function must have been at least congruent with such reuse. It is tempting to go further and see the slab as having been part of an earlier scheme to commemorate the reliquary grave of St Ciarán, although this is by no means certain. If so, it may have been regarded as a consecrated object and, therefore, although no longer actively required, * An eighth-century date was argued for by Hicks (1980, 9–12). Nancy Edwards (1984, 59) suggested a twelfth-century date for the lions, but, even setting aside stylistic considerations, Manning’s assessment of the context of the slab makes this untenable. †  The suggestion was first made in 1903 by Allen and Anderson (1993, 69). Meyer (2005) has disputed this but Pulliam (2013, 93–4) convincingly argues that this identification is correct and that it forms part of an overall iconographic scheme.

8 a stone in time 

could not be discarded, just as consecrated Eucharistic fragments from the mass required correct disposal within sacred space.* The correspondence in iconography between slab and structure are, then, not random at all, but indicate similar intentions of celebrating Ciarán’s sanctity and power, simply expressed in different ways. The slab’s disposal was not, however, intended to remain invisible, as its placement shows; but its visibility is liminal, as is its position. Within the door jamb, on the threshold of sacred space, all that remained to be seen of the slab was the interlace of one of its narrow edges. The significance of the carving’s iconography is obscured. Yet this in fact corresponds to the mystery of Christ’s death and resurrection, not immediately discernible or visible to the eye, but knowable only through faith. Did the builders of Temple Ciarán intend such subtle complexity? Or were they working within a more concrete register, where the visible interlace would simply remind all those who remembered the slab’s previous use of its relevance? In this case, memory was required to elucidate the reason for the slab’s placement, as, short of this, only disassembly (as happened in modern times) could serve to explain it. Memory was required, but the signposts that remained were elusive and easy to miss. The reuse of this slab was rather more radical than that of the brooches, but, like their inscriptions, serves to indicate the complexity of relations which ninth- and tenthcentury individuals formed with objects of some 200 years earlier.

Seeing tenth-century crosses in the twelfth century Reuse is one means whereby we can observe interactions between later audiences and medieval stones, but later documentary mention and emulation of earlier forms in a later period may also be very revealing. A question that has often been raised in the study of Ireland’s tenthcentury crosses is the extent to which they continued to have relevance, or to be understood, after the context of their immediate erection. Hitherto, an admission of ignorance, coupled with a degree of ambivalence as to the value of such a question, has served as answer. Although there are occasional mentions of crosses in the annals, such as the reference to the Cross of the Scriptures (c. AD 909) at Clonmacnoise in the Annals of Tigernach in 1058, this has been seen simply as indicating continuity of use as landmarks or boundary markers; certainly, this is the obvious context of most annalistic references (Stokes 1895–97, s.a. 1058; Hennessy 1866, s.a. 1058). Only a little reflection is required, however, to show * I am grateful to one of my peer reviewers for suggesting this point, although the inferences that I draw from the idea are somewhat distinct: I find such a concept likely, but only if the slab in question was part of a relatively well-elaborated commemorative scheme, such as the leachta found at sites such as Inismurray, Co. Sligo.

223

224 

jenifer ní ghrádaigh

that although the author of this annal entry may have intended to use the Cross of the Scriptures purely as a geographical marker, his very use of the name gives us a key insight into how the eleventh-century residents of Clonmacnoise viewed this cross. Firstly, it is as well to acknowledge, as Françoise Henry did, that the identification of the annalist’s ‘cros na screaptra’ with the figured cross standing immediately to the west of the cathedral (Figs 8.5 and 8.6) is a modern one, and one impossible absolutely to prove (Henry 1967, 137). However, as it is the only one of the three extant crosses at Clonmacnoise to feature an extensive cycle of narrative carving, it is a reasonable assumption, and one that we will follow. The annalist therefore provides us with one of the few known names of a medieval artefact. Among Irish crosses it is not, however, unique; the Cross of Patrick and Columba at Kells is identifiable as such by its original Latin inscription (‘patricii et columbae crux’) (Stalley 1997). At Kells, however, the inscription and name of the cross is clearly a dedicatory one. This is revealing of the context of the cross’s erection, which, it has been deduced, took place at a time when Kells and Armagh were closely aligned and had a joint abbot, c. 891–927 (Stalley 1997, 133). Furthermore, it suggests that some of the intended audience would have been literate in Latin, and therefore clerical rather than lay. However, it tells us nothing of the cross’s later audience or relevance. This is where the annalistic denomination, Cross of the Scriptures, is helpful for the ClonmacFIG. 8.5 It is very possible noise cross. that the cross was so-termed from its erecREPLICA OF THE CROSS tion. If so, it shows that in this case, despite the inscription on its lower OF THE SCRIPTshaft commemorating its patrons, King Flann, high king of Ireland, and URES IN FRONT OF Colmán, coarb or successor of Ciaran, the scriptural sculpture on the CLONMACNOISE cross dominated reactions to it. This may be because it was the first CATHEDRAL, 2004. THE CROSS high cross entirely dedicated to scriptural subjects; certainly the crosses IS NOW IN THE associated with Flann’s father, Máelsechnaill, at Clonmacnoise, Kinnitty HERITAGE and Tihilly bear a much more restricted range of subjects, and are interCENTRE FOR CONSERVATION. spersed with extensive panels of ornament (Ó Murchadha and Ó Murchú

8 a stone in time 

1988; de Paor 1987).* Alternatively, it may be a later name inspired by the nature of continued interaction with the cross, whose sculptured panels set out with remarkable economy Christ’s passion, death, resurrection (implied in the image of his wrapped body in the tomb, by the bird at his mouth) and Second Coming in glory, thus epitomizing the message of salvation from, as well as the basic narrative of, the scriptures. The role such crosses played in liturgical ceremonies remains a disputed point, but the continued and real relevance of the Cross of the Scriptures to the community into the eleventh century is inherent in its name. Lest such emphasis on the importance of a name be considered unjustified, it is worth comparing this with the name of the Cathach, literally the ‘battler’, a psalter of c. AD 600, enshrined in the eleventh century as a relic of St Columba (Henry 1965, 58–61). Its name has been variously ascribed to its role as the cause of the battle which led to St Columba’s exile, or to its use as a military talisman, carried in front of and around their army, by the O’Donnells in the fifteenth century. However, Martin McNamara’s research on the role of the psalms in Irish monastic spirituality and the work by Kathleen Openshaw on use of battle imagery within somewhat later Insular psalters suggests that the Cathach’s title, if it is an early one, may in fact reflect the role that the psalter in general and this psalter in particular, as hallowed by Columba’s use, was thought to play in the spiritual battle of each individual against the devil (Openshaw 1993; McNamara 2000). It may simply have accrued later explanations as the original use of the manuscript itself became nullified after its

*  The only possible exception to this is the cross at Durrow, Co. Offaly, which bears a much-worn inscription on its north side which appears to name Máelsechnaill. However, the similarities between this cross and the Cross of the Scriptures are so marked that the inscription at Durrow is likely to be commemorative of Máelsechnaill rather than indicating that the cross was erected by him; the inscription’s positioning on the north side rather than west or east faces might support this hypothesis.

225

Fig. 8.6 Cross of the Scriptures, east side: lowest scene on shaft.

226 

Fig. 8.7 Base of Market Cross, Tuam, c. 1127.

jenifer ní ghrádaigh

enshrinement in the eleventh century, the name inspiring, as much as inspired by, later usage. This analysis might suggest that, although the tenth-century crosses retained their religious and devotional value, they failed to work effectively commemoratively. Thus, Flann may have proclaimed himself king of Ireland from the Cross of the Scriptures (or do rig flaind ma..maelsechnaill oroit do rig herenn; ‘A prayer for King Flann, son (?) of Máelsechnaill, a prayer for the king of Ireland’), but, while the cross continued to proclaim a message of salvation, was his part in its erection, and therefore his use of the cross as symbol of legitimate rule ordained by Christ, occluded? The immediate context of Flann’s erection of this cross in the wake of the battle of Belach Mugna and as part of a redevelopment of Clonmacnoise, which included the rebuilding of the cathedral, has been explored at length elsewhere and there is no need to repeat it here (Manning 1998; Ó Carragáin 2010; 81–2, 121–3). Suffice it to say that Flann had not immediately succeeded his father’s claims to high kingship, but that such claims had clearly been his ambition, and that his use of crosses similar to those erected by his father, from which his father had originally proclaimed his overkingship of Ireland, presented a potent message of continuity and legitimacy within a specific political context, but one perhaps rapidly rendered redundant (Jaski 1995). If the legacy of Máelsechnaill and Flann was forgotten, however, this presents us with a very strange problem when it comes to the erection of crosses by kings in the twelfth century. In particular, Toirdelbach Ua Conchobair, like Máelsechnaill and Flann, erected stone crosses with

8 a stone in time 

inscriptions proclaiming his authority (Stalley 1981; Ní Ghrádaigh 2012, 12–15). Moreover, on the base of the Market Cross at Tuam, Co. Galway (Fig. 8.7), on either side are two figures, side by side, whose positioning is strongly reminiscent of the pair of figures at the base of the shaft of the east face of the Cross of the Scriptures, a point dealt with in further detail below. An attempt to date these crosses has linked their erection to Toirdelbach Ua Conchobair’s construction of an enclosure about Tuam in 1127, a development sponsored in conjunction with the successor of Jarlath, Aed Ua hOissín, abbot, later bishop of Tuam, who is likewise named on the crosses (Henry 1970, 140; see also Murray 2007). The recording of this enclosing work in the Annals of Tigernach is telling and, bearing in mind the difficulty of erecting high crosses in the first place, particularly those of a scale such as the Tuam crosses, the dramatic performative character of the whole process of erection must also be considered. Toirdelbach was visibly creating a city in his kingdom of Connacht, which would vie with Clonmacnoise, Armagh, Cashel and Glendalough in its layout.* If this correspondence of inscription, figural composition and geographical disposition of crosses is not intentionally imitative of the earlier high kings’ patronage, particularly at Clonmacnoise, it is surprisingly coincidental. It is more likely, however, that it suggests that, to kings in the twelfth century, tenth-century practice remained extremely significant. Moreover, Toirdelbach’s construction of similar monuments indicates a continuity of understanding of the earlier crosses through the eleventh century. In fact, evidence that Máelsechnaill’s propagandistic statements retained their efficacy, and that his son, Flann’s, did likewise, is relatively easy to find if we are willing to take the eleventh- and twelfth-century material on its own terms. Thus, in the literary tradition, Máelsechnaill is remembered as the last high king, not the first. Those after him were regarded in the pseudohistorical texts merely as ‘king with opposition’ (ríg co fressabra), a striking testament to his success in normalizing ideas of high kingship (Ní Mhaonaigh 1992, 155). When it comes to his son, Flann, a particularly interesting case may be made for the influence of one of the panels from the Cross of the Scriptures, the lowest scene on the east face of the shaft, on hagiographic literature. This scene shows two figures, that on the right in the short robes of a layman, that on the left in the long robes of a cleric, who jointly grasp the shaft of a long pole, their hands interleaved. The subject matter of the scene has provoked some debate, with some scholars arguing that it shows St Ciarán and King Diarmait founding Clonmacnoise, others that it shows the erection of the cross itself by Abbot Colmán and King Flann, their respective heirs, while Peter Harbison and Roger Stalley have preferred biblical * A parallel case is the building of the gatehouse and monumentalization of the enclosure at Glendalough c.1100, constructed partly as a revival of earlier practices, partly in emulation of the recent walling of Dublin, and carried out probably under the patronage of the king of Munster and pretender to high kingship of the time, Muirchertach Ua Briain (Ó Carragáin 2010, 250–51).

227

228 

Fig. 8.8 Cross of Muiredach with Adam and Eve scene, c. 900.

jenifer ní ghrádaigh

subjects, respectively, Joseph interpreting the dream of Pharaoh’s butler, and Moses and Aaron holding the pole with the brazen serpent (Manning 1998, 73–4; Harbison 1992, 49; Stalley 1990, 155–7). Despite his identification, Stalley noted that the depiction of the figures, with each of their two hands placed alternately upon the staff, was remarkably similar to a description in the Middle Irish tale Aided Diarmada meic Fergusa cerrbeoil (The Death of Dermot son of Fergus Cerrbeoil). This recounts the building of the eglais beg or ‘small church’ (possibly intended as Temple Ciarán) at Clonmacnoise by Ciarán himself. Questioned by the king as to the purpose of his task, Ciarán replied ‘Thrust in the upright with me […] and suffer my hand to be put over thine; so shall thy hand and thy royal rule ere this time after to-morrow have been imposed on the men of Ireland.’* This certainly appears to be an almost exact description of the scene on the cross. However, Stalley made the ingenious suggestion that, despite the intended subject matter being Moses raising the brazen serpent in the desert, an Old Testament type of Christ’s death on the cross, ‘with the original meaning of the sculpture either ignored or forgotten, the author used the carving as the basis of his tale’ (Stalley 1990, 157). This seems an unnecessarily convoluted argument, and Stalley himself has more recently acknowledged that the whole of this face of the cross is better understood as elaborating on the theme of kingship, with Christ as king and judge on the cross head, Christ delegating his powers to Peter and Paul in the topmost shaft panel and the middle

*  ‘Sáid in cleith lium [...] ocus léic mo lám uas do láim ocus biaid do lámsa ocus do righi for feraib Erenn sul bus tráthsa nach noirrther.’ (O’Grady 1892a, 72–82; O’Grady 1892b, 76–7).

8 a stone in time 

panel possibly depicting Máelsechnaill passing his rule on to his son Flann (Stalley 2009). In this context, the bottom panel may be intended to work in a multivalent fashion, alternately interpretable as Flann and Colmán or Diarmait and Ciarán. The stave which both are grasping is likely in fact to be a crosier, shown here with its drop facing directly towards the viewer; such crosiers were often used to swear oaths upon, and could, therefore, have a well-understood legal role. In this case, the description in Aided Diarmada in fact works more straightforwardly as proof of ongoing understanding of, and interaction with, the message of royal legitimacy proclaimed from the cross. Further echoes of response may, indeed, be found elsewhere in the tale. In a later dream, Diarmait sees a man in clerical dress and a man in lay dress coming towards him, who remove his crown and divide it between them (O’Grady 1892a, 78–9; 1892b, 84; see McCone 1990, 145). This is interpreted by his poet as a foretelling of the evils which will arise if lay and secular authorities become divorced from each other. Conversely, the image on the cross shows the ideal state: church and secular authority handin-hand, but with royal power legitimized by the church. On one level at least, the interpretation offered by the poet in the tale elucidates and strengthens, for a later audience, the message of the cross. However, neither of these two episodes offers a direct commentary on the cross. Rather, they suggest that, to the author, the meaning of the panel was sufficiently obvious that he could use its imagery as something of a reference point when thinking of how best to visualize symbolically certain concerns. Thus, while annalistic evidence reveals that the Cross of the Scriptures was seen as making, primarily, a religious statement, literary evidence reveals that the royal message of the cross also remained compelling. It is not possible to use the death tale’s description as firm evidence that the scene shows Diarmait and Ciarán as opposed to Flann and Colmán, as it is no straightforward borrowing. But it does serve to illustrate that neither of the Cross’s messages was forgotten into the eleventh century. The repetition of the scene of clerical and lay amity on the Market Cross at Tuam in the 1120s indicates, moreover, that not only was the panel still ‘legible’ to twelfth-century viewers, but that its message continued to resonate: it was worth copying.

229

Fig. 8.9 Cross of Roscrea with Adam and Eve scene, c. 1120–40.

230 

jenifer ní ghrádaigh

At Clonmacnoise, the evidence is plenteous, and it is possible to draw very precise parallels. The twelfth-century crosses may also illuminate more generally how audience response to the tenth-century crosses was maintained, or how it failed (Cronin 1998). The similarities between crosses of tenth- and twelfth-century date have been explored above; but what do differences tell us? One of the most notable is the diminution in the number and complexity of scenes, and the relative simplification of the iconography on later crosses at Tuam, Roscrea (Co. Tipperary), Cashel, Glendalough, and Dysert O’Dea (Co. Clare). It should be noted that such simplifications in composition and subject are a notable feature of Romanesque art across Europe, and that the Irish case is not therefore unique in any way (e.g. Heslop 2008). That said, such changes reflect more than simply stylistic trends. The contrast between, for instance, the Cross of Muiredach at Monasterboice, Co. Louth (Fig. 8.8), of c. 900, and the cross at Roscrea, Co. Tipperary (Fig. 8.9), of c. 1120–40, is very instructive. Both have, on the lowest part of the shaft, depictions of the temptation of Adam and Eve. At Monasterboice, however, this is placed within a complex programme, which, even at its most basic level, equates Eve’s introduction of sin into the world through the fruit of the tree, with the entry of salvation through the fruit of the Virgin’s womb, Christ (Karkov 2005). The message at Roscrea is far simpler. Adam and Eve beneath the tree are matched above only by a bishop’s figure (possibly St Cronán) on the cross head and, on the reverse, by Christ’s crucifixion. Sin and salvation are made clear to the most unlearned viewer, while, at the same time, the larger scale used for Christ, the subtle modelling of his torso and the pathetic angle of his head engage with the viewer’s empathy rather than just his intellect. This change in sculptural style and composition can clearly be equated with changes in emphasis within the liturgy and a greater interest in pastoral care, including preaching to the laity, as well as a move towards a more affective type of devotion (Ní Ghrádaigh 2013). At Dysert O’Dea there is slightly more complexity, as Adam and Eve are not the only subsidiary subjects; Daniel in the Lion’s Den and a possible Brazen Serpent scene on the cross base suggest an attempt to place understanding of the crucifixion within a typological scheme (Ní Ghrádaigh 2011). Nevertheless, the general uniformity of subjects chosen on these Romanesque crosses, with Christ’s crucifixion matched usually only by a depiction of an ecclesiastic, probably the local saint, also has repercussions for the tenthcentury crosses. Had they become largely unintelligible by this time? The fact that sites already possessing tenth-century crosses did not feel the need to commission new crosses in the twelfth century suggests otherwise. Distribution maps are striking in showing the lack of overlap between crosses of the two periods, and this at a time when older sites were clearly investing in the skills of sculptors to update and titivate their tenth- and eleventh-century churches. This, coupled with the evidence presented above for the Cross of the Scripture’s continuing significance, and its valued role as a model, suggests that the tenth-century crosses continued to fulfil their

8 a stone in time 

original roles. The very fact that there was a revival of cross carving should ensure that we do not fall into the error of supposing the tenth-century crosses somehow forgotten, despite their monumental physical presence. Indeed, that they remained largely unmolested in many sites until the nineteenth century makes mockery of the idea that they could simply have been overlooked by subsequent generations.* However, what alterations in subject and style may indeed show is a change in function, use and audience. It is very likely that the twelfth-century crosses, being designed to fulfil the needs of a reforming church, are indicative of particular emphases placed on crosses by this time. Thus, it is possible that while crosses such as the Cross of Muiredach continued to be valued, their more involved iconography was less important for its twelfth-century viewers than it had been for its original creators and audience.

Tomb slabs: liturgical remembrance and false memories When looking at high crosses which were erected during the lifetime of those named on the inscriptions, we are examining monuments with a function altogether more complex than simple commemoration. Yet high crosses, despite their starring role on the art-historical stage, represent a fraction of the stone carving carried out in medieval Ireland. Far more numerous and, therefore, more revealing of their value to medieval society are the carved tomb-slabs which are found at numerous Irish sites, but are concentrated to a remarkable degree at Clonmacnoise, where there are some 700 slabs (Macalister 1909; see also Petrie 1870; 1978; Lionard 1961; see O’Leary, this volume). Moreover, as intentionally commemorative monuments from their inception, these allow a sharpened focus on contemporary ideas of memory through time. The intense Insular interest in eschatology is indicative of the broader context in which such stones were conceived to carry out their function (e.g. Carey et al. 2014). Such a function was always projected by their patrons and makers as stretching into the future; indeed, they were intended to protect the body of the individual in question until the time when they would be called forth from their tomb beneath at the Second Coming. Although a slab’s lifespan was therefore considered by its makers to be of finite duration, it was nevertheless for all human intents and purposes required to last semi-permanently, and by means of its art and inscription to petition those of the intervening years towards prayer and intervention for whoever lay beneath. A consideration of the iconography of these slabs further suggests that * Unlike in England, most tenth-century crosses did not suffer abuse, but only neglect. Although many were re-erected in the nineteenth century and, indeed, even earlier, their monumental composition may have helped make them less prey to use as spolia than masonry work (O’Sullivan 2011; Moss 2008).

231

232 

jenifer ní ghrádaigh

they were not simply commemorative of the individual but were also intended to reinforce in viewers the memory of the burial itself, specifically the liturgical blessing of the tomb. This is enforced by the focus of the ornament, which is always the cross. Such a reading is implicit in a number of references to be found in hagiographical texts, which describe the making of the sign of the cross and a miraculous resulting artefact, which remains as evidence of the blessing to the present day. A case in point is the description of St Patrick’s baptism in the Irish Life of Patrick from the Book of Lismore. With no water to be found, the youth who is to baptise the saint is forced to recourse to the miraculous: ‘with the infant’s hand he made the sign of the Cross over the ground, and a well-spring brake therefrom. […] So a church was founded over that well wherein Patrick was baptized, and there stands the well by the altar, and it hath the form of the Cross, as the wise declare.’* This indicates how the crosses which ornament these tomb-slabs functioned in terms of memory: on the one hand they looked back to the blessing of the priest over the body, and thus in their ornament fixed immutably that blessing on the body beneath; on the other, the ornamented form of their crosses referenced the jewelled cross of the Parousia, and looked forward in time to the resurrection of the body beneath. The form of the cross above the grave meant that those who viewed it would in some sense bless it; as their eyes followed the outline of the cross, they reinforced the original cross-signing of the priest. Thus the prayer asked in the inscriptions is also actively invoked by the artwork. As with the high crosses, however, while some meanings remained active – and there is no reason to think that cross-slabs of the ninth and tenth centuries ceased to provoke an active response in later twelfthcentury viewers, as these too commissioned similar slabs – some meanings were lost or changed. A later poem celebrating the monastic city of Clonmacnoise, ‘Brónach ollamh déis a rígh’ (‘Mournful is the poet after his king’), includes within its evocative description of the site’s landscape some telling lines on the quantities of tomb slabs there visible, linking this, significantly, with the royalty who lay beneath (O’Donovan 1857). The dating of the poem is contentious, and it is possibly as early as the twelfth century, but may be later.† In any case, the burden of the poem implies

*  ‘cu tard sigin na croichi do laim na nuidhin tarsin talmain cur’ mebaidh topur as [...] Ro fothaiged immorro eclais forsin topar sin in ro baistedh Patraic, ocus is ann ita an topar oc unn altoir, techtaidh fuath na croichi, amal it-fiadhat ind eolaig.’ Stokes 1890, 2, 150, lines 57–65. † I am grateful to Professor Liam Breatnach for his opinion on the late dating of this poem. Based on the irregularities of the rhyme, the late twelfth-century date proposed by Edel Bhreathnach, which would associate it with the death of Fergal Ua Ruairc in 1157 is unlikely, although not impossible (see Bhreathnach 2003, 101). Swift (2003, 106) also points to one of the tomb descriptions as being more apt for a Gothic slab, but this is of course subjective.

8 a stone in time 

that the slabs at Clonmacnoise over which the poet is pouring out his grief are those of kings. Similarly, the more reliably dated poem of c. 1200 × 1224, ‘A reilec lāech Leithe Cuinn’ (‘O cemetery of the warriors of Conn’s Half ’), describes at length the arrangement of the burial sites of various kings at Clonmacnoise, mentioning the slabs underneath which each lies (Best 1905). Cathy Swift has shown that the great majority of slabs at Clonmacnoise, which date largely from the ninth to twelfth centuries, commemorate not kings or nobles but ecclesiastics (Swift 2003, 107–10). The poetic descriptions therefore show that although the slabs might remain immutable their meaning could and did change, with changing patterns of burial and patronage altering their interpretation in the eyes of later generations, who therefore read many as royal tombs when most were not. The intended secular audience of these poems may also have skewed the representation of who was buried beneath the slabs. Changes in burial practice among the laity, coupled with the increased centralization of power in the hands of an ever-shrinking number of more powerful kings, which brought with it anxious parading of ancestral rights, also must have played a role. In particular, royal families were invested in preserving the memory of their ancestors’ burial places in a way that ecclesiastics were not. Thus each coarb (successor) of Ciarán was of great importance in his own day, but his successors’ concerns were with preserving the status and power of Ciarán himself, not of any previous individual abbot. The same was not as true of royal families, which, owing to their inherently branching nature, often venerated ancestor kings of disparate dates, many much more recent than the age of the saints. So, although the literary evidence is valuable, it also must be interpreted through the lens of intended audience.

Alternative memories One other question might be raised in relation to the interaction between memory and monument, and this is the role of women. Elisabeth van Houts has explored the idea of longevity of memory through female remembrance in this very period, albeit not in Ireland, and has pointed to the role of Anglo-Saxon royal women, and their Ottonian descendents, as conduits to the past. She highlighted particularly the circumstances behind the translation into Latin of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle for Matilda, Abbess of Essen (d. 1011), by her distant kinsman in England, Ealdorman Æthelweard (van Houts 1999, 69–70, 151–2; see also van Houts 1992). The exemplary role he attributed to Matilda, when requesting her for information on their family, is particularly interesting: ‘But it is your task to bring information to our ears, for you have not only the family connection but the capacity’ (van Houts 1999, 70, 152). While there is no parallel case in Ireland, there are hints that women could be very tenacious mediators of family memory and that this is at times manifested in building projects,

233

234 

Fig. 8.10 Detail of low-relief foliate ornament, chancel arch, Nuns’ Church, c. 1167.

jenifer ní ghrádaigh

whose effect is to consolidate, visually, a woman’s ties with her natal family, even when married. In 1147, Gilla Mo-Duta composed the metrical Banshenchas, or ‘Lore of Women’, at the ecclesiastical centre of Devenish, Co. Fermanagh. This remarkable text preserves a huge amount of information on royal women to this date and their sons, and has been of immense use to historians in elucidating matrilineal connections otherwise lost. It includes a short eulogy to Tigernán Ua Ruairc, king of Bréifne, and a tribute to his wife, Derbforgaill of the Uí Máeleachlainn family of Mide, and to her parents, which led Muireann Ní Bhrolcháin to posit that it might have been commissioned by Tigernán in his wife’s honour (Ní Bhrolcháin 1995, 71). However, given its emphasis, and the successful memory strategies that Derbforgaill’s ancestors had perfected from King Máelsechnaill onwards, it is very possible that Derbforgaill herself may have commissioned it. Certainly she was responsible for the construction of a new church in the Romanesque style for her natal family’s nunnery at Clonmacnoise in 1167, an intervention sufficiently noteworthy to have warranted recording by chroniclers, although now only preserved in the later Annals of the Four Masters (Ní Ghrádaigh 2003). The visual ostentation of this church, at a time when real power and claims to overkingship had shifted from Máelsechnaill’s descendents to the kings of Connacht, could not but highlight the family’s continuing stake at Clonmacnoise, if now peripherally expressed in the enclosure of the nuns, rather than in the centre of the platea with the Cross of the Scriptures. It is the architectural sculpture of the church, however, which shows the most complex relationship with the past. In many respects it is typical of contemporary Romanesque work, using elaborate chevron motifs on its archivolts and multiple orders for doorway and chancel arch. However, it is amongst the earliest of the Hiberno-Romanesque churches to use eighth- to eleventh-century metalwork as the source of its most striking ornament: the high-relief animal-head voussoirs of the west doorway seem to have been based on earlier door fittings similar to the Donore mount of c. 800, but probably here deriving from fittings from Clonmacnoise itself. Similarly, the low-relief work of the chancel jambs (Fig. 8.10) reinterprets the foliate motifs of the Clonmacnoise Crucifixion Plaque (Fig. 8.11) of c. 1050, albeit translating HibernoViking foliate ornament into the Romanesque idiom. In their reworking of

8 a stone in time 

metalwork forms of an earlier date, these tied the church to a physical as well as a familial past. That the Cross of the Scriptures continued to be understood as a statement of royal power, as argued above, places the revivalist elements of the Nuns’ Church in a context in which Derbforgaill’s patronage is an assertion of familial power, and shows her active engagement with her royal ancestry. Finally, were such engagements with the past, and with monuments of that past, confined to the Christian period and, largely, to the upper echelons of society? Intriguingly, Clonmacnoise again provides evidence of a broader engagement. About 3 km south-east of Clonmacnoise lies the Clonfinlough Stone, a glacial erratic boulder whose carved face (3m × 2.45m) is covered in designs, some of which appear to be crosses, some of which, due to their shape, like a Greek letter φ, are known as phi figures, and some cupmarks. Elizabeth Shee Twohig recently demonstrated that the complexity of the figures is such as to suggest multiple phases of carving, with prehistoric incisions being deepened into Christian crosses, perhaps by pilgrims to Clonmacnoise (Twohig 2002, 108–9). Shee Twohig has emphasized the impossibility of knowing whether all, or different parts, of either the crosses or phi figures represent medieval, as opposed to prehistoric, intervention on the rock, but pointed to its position on the side of an early ‘boher’ or roadway to the site as a factor in its assessment which should not be ignored.

Conclusion The dramatic scale and enigmatic carvings of the Clonfinlough Stone force us to question accepted and simplistic chronologies, even though in this case it is impossible to be certain of the boulder’s sculptural evolution. It may reveal the interactions of ordinary pilgrims with the monuments of Ciarán’s city, as opposed to the royal memories which textual elaboration reinforced for the élite monuments within the inner enclosure, whether crosses, slabs or churches. Fundamentally, it helps us remember that, while stone monuments may be conceived, sculpted or constructed at a particular

235

Fig. 8.11 Clonmacnoise Crucifixion Plaque, c. 1050.

236 

jenifer ní ghrádaigh

moment in time, and in response to a particular set of circumstances, their later history may be of equal, or greater, moment. Why should we always privilege the golden interlace of the Hunterston Brooch over Melbrigta’s runic inscription when the latter can reveal so much fascinating information about society at the turn of the tenth century? Equally, why should we assume that the tenth-century high crosses ceased to be relevant as soon as evidence for their ongoing production stopped? Monuments, by their very nature, work through time, and medieval people, in commissioning tomb-slabs, acknowledged as much. Irish medieval artworks can present a much more interesting window on the past if we look at them within the totality of their chronological span, rather than concentrating on the moment of their artistic conception alone.

Acknowledgements The research leading to these results has received funding from the European Research Council under the European Union’s Seventh Framework Programme (FP7/2007–2013), ERC grant agreement n° 263036. I am grateful to my colleagues on the project ‘Reassessing the Roles of Women as ‘Makers’ of Medieval Art and Architecture’ for discussion of many of the issues to do with ‘making’ and audience discussed below, particularly to Therese Martin, Alexandra Gajewski and Stefanie Seeberg. I am grateful to Kellie Meyer for sending me an offprint of her work, and to Heather Pulliam for allowing me to read her article prior to publication. I am also grateful to the peer reviewers of this article for useful suggestions and comments.

Bibliography Allen, J. R. and Anderson, J. 1993. The Early Christian Monuments of Scotland, Volume 2, Balgavies: Pinkfoot Best, R. I. 1905. The graves of the kings of Clonmacnoise, Ériú, 2, 163–71 Bhreathnach, E. 2003. Learning and literature in early medieval Clonmacnoise, in H. King (ed.), Clonmacnoise Studies II, 97–104, Dublin: Dúchas Blackwell, A. 2011. The iconography of the Hunterston brooch and related medieval material, Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland, 141, 231–48 Carey, J., Nic Cárthaigh, E. and Ó Dochartaigh, C. (eds) 2014. The End and Beyond: Medieval Irish Eschatology, Aberystwyth: Celtic Studies Publications Caviness, M. H. 2006. Reception of images by medieval viewers, in Conrad (ed.), 65–85 Conrad, R. (ed.) 2006. A Companion to Medieval Art: Romanesque and Gothic in Northern Europe, Oxford: Blackwell

8 a stone in time 

Cronin, R. 1998. Late high crosses in Munster: tradition and novelty in twelfth-century Irish art, in M. A. Monk and J. Sheehan (eds), Early Medieval Munster: Archaeology, History and Society, 138–46, Cork: Cork University Press de Paor, L. 1987. The high crosses of Tech Theille (Tihilly), Kinnity, and related sculpture, in E. Rynne (ed.), Figures from the Past: Studies on Figurative Art in Christian Ireland in Honour of Helen M. Roe, 131–58, Dublin: Glendale Press for the Royal Society of Antiquaries of Ireland Faulkner, M. 2008. The Uses of Anglo-Saxon Manuscripts, c. 1066–1200, unpublished DPhil thesis, University of Oxford Fernie, E. 1995. Art History and its Methods, London: Phaidon Harbison, P. 1992. The High Crosses of Ireland: An Iconographical and Photographical Survey, Bonn: Rudolf Habelt Hawkes, J. 2001. An iconography of identity? The cross-head from Mayo Abbey, in Hourihane (ed.), 261–75 Henderson, I. 1996. Pictish Monsters: Symbol, Text and Image, Cambridge: Department of Anglo-Saxon, Norse and Celtic, University of Cambridge Hennessy, W. M. (ed.) 1866. Chronicum Scotorum, London: Longmans, Green, Reader, and Dyer Henry, F. 1965. Irish Art in the Early Christian Period, Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press Henry, F. 1967. Irish Art during the Viking Invasions, London: Methuen Henry, F. 1970. Irish Art in the Romanesque Period, 1020–1170 AD, London: Methuen Heslop, T. A. 2008. The implication of the Utrecht Psalter in English Romanesque Art, in C. Hourihane (ed.), Romanesque Art and Thought in the Twelfth Century, 267–89, Princeton: Index of Christian Art Hicks, C. 1980. A Clonmacnoise workshop in stone, Journal of the Royal Society of Antiquaries of Ireland, 110, 5–35 Hicks, C. 1993. Animals in Early Medieval Art, Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press Hicks, N. 1984. Two sculptural fragments from Clonmacnoise, Journal of the Royal Society of Antiquaries of Ireland, 114, 57–62 Hourihane, C. (ed.) 2001. From Ireland Coming, Princeton: Index of Christian Art Jaski, B. 1995. The Vikings and the kingship of Tara, Peritia, 9, 310–51 Karkov, C. 1995. Adam and Eve on Muiredach’s Cross: presence, absence and audience, in C. Bourke (ed.), From the Isles of the North, 205–11, Belfast: HMSO Kelly, F. 1988. A Guide to Early Irish Law, Dublin: Dublin Insitute for Advanced Studies Kinney, D. 2006. The concept of spolia, in Conrad (ed.), 233–52 Kinney, D. 2011. Introduction, in R. Brilliant and D. Kinney (eds), Reuse Value: Spolia and Appropriation in Art and Architecture from Constantine to Sherrie Levine, 1–12, Farnham: Ashgate

237

238 

jenifer ní ghrádaigh

Lionard, P. 1961. Early Irish grave-slabs, Proceedings of the Royal Irish Academy, 61C, 95–169 Macalister, R. A. S. 1909. The Memorial Slabs of Clonmacnois, King’s County, Dublin: Royal Society of Antiquaries of Ireland Macalister, R. A. S. 1921. The Latin and Irish Lives of Ciarán, London: Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge McCone, K. 1990. Pagan Past and Christian Present in Early Irish Literature, Maynooth: Sagart McNamara, M. 2000. The Psalms in the Early Irish Church, Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press Manning, C. 1998. Clonmacnoise Cathedral, in H. King (ed.), Clonmacnoise Studies I, Dublin: Dúchas Manning, C. 2002. A puzzle in stone: the cathedral at Glendalough, Archaeology Ireland, 16 (2), 18–21 Manning, C. 2003. Some early masonry churches and the round tower at Clonmacnoise, in H. King, (ed.), Clonmacnoise Studies, II, 63–95, Dublin: Dúchas Martin, T. 2012. Exceptions and assumptions: women in medieval art history, in T. Martin (ed.), Reassessing the Roles of Women as ‘Makers’ of Medieval Art and Architecture, 1–34, Leiden: Brill Meyer, K. S. 2005. Bird, beast or fish? Problems of identification and interpretation of the iconography carved on the Tarbat Peninsula cross slabs, in S. Foster and M. Cross (eds), Able Minds and Practised Hands: Scotland’s Early Medieval Sculpture in the 21st Century, Society for Medieval Archaeology Monograph, 23, 243–58, Leeds: Maney Moss, R. 2008. Appropriating the past: seventeenth-century preservation of the Romanesque in Ireland, Architectural History, 51, 63–86 Murray, G. 2007. Crosses and Enclosures: The Archaeology of Turlough O’Connor’s Ecclesiastical Patronage, Conference Paper given at the 21st Irish Conference for Medievalists, 30 June 2007 Ní Bhrolcháin, M. 1995. The Banshenchas Revisited, in M. O’Dowd and S. Wichert (eds), Chattel, Servant or Citizen. Women’s Status in Church, State and Society, 70–81, Belfast: Institute of Irish Studies, Queen’s University Ní Ghrádaigh, J. 2003. ‘But what exactly did she give?’: Derbforgaill and the nuns’ church at Clonmacnoise, in H. King (ed), Clonmacnoise Studies II, 175–207, Dublin: Dúchas Ní Ghrádaigh, J. 2011. Mouthing obscenitites, Christological typologies? Complexities of meaning at Dysert O’Dea, in R. Stalley (ed.), Medieval Art and Architecture in Limerick and South-West Ireland, 42–62, Leeds: Maney Ní Ghrádaigh, J. 2012. Style over substance: architectural fashion and identity building in medieval Ireland, in J. Ní Ghrádaigh and E. O’Byrne (eds), The March in the Islands of the Medieval West, 97–138, Leiden: Brill

8 a stone in time 

Ní Ghrádaigh, J. 2013. An emotive Christ? Changing depictions of the crucifixion on the Irish high cross, in J. Mullins, R. Hawtree and J. Ní Ghrádaigh (eds), Envisioning Christ on the Cross in the Early Medieval West, 262–85, Dublin: Four Courts Press Ní Mhaonaigh, M. 1992. Bréifne bias in Cogad Gáedel re Gallaib, Ériu, 43, 135–58 Ó Carragáin, T. 2003. The architectural setting of the cult of relics in early medieval Ireland, Journal of the Royal Society of Antiquaries of Ireland, 133, 130–76 Ó Carragáin, T. 2007. Skeumomorphs and spolia, the presence of the past in Irish pre-Romanesque architecture, in R. Moss (ed.), Making and Meaning in Insular Art, 95–109, Dublin: Four Courts Press Ó Carragáin, T. 2010. Churches in Early Medieval Ireland, London and New Haven: Yale University Press Ó Murchadha, D. and Ó Murchú, G. 1988. Fragmentary inscriptions from the West Cross at Durrow, the South Cross at Clonmacnoise and the Cross of Kinnitty, Journal of the Royal Society of Antiquaries of Ireland, 118, 53–66 O’Donovan, J. 1857. Elegy of Erard Mac Coise, chief chronicler of the Gaels, pronounced over the tomb of Fergal O’Ruairc, chief of Brefny, at Clonmacnoise, Journal of the Royal Society of Antiquaries of Ireland, 4, 341–56 O’Grady, S. H. (ed. and trans.) 1892a. Silva Gadelica: A Collection of Tales in Irish, Volume 1, London and Edinburgh: Williams and Norgate O’Grady, S. H. (ed. and trans.) 1892b. Silva Gadelica: A Collection of Tales in Irish, Volume 2, London and Edinburgh: Williams and Norgate O’Reilly, J. 1998. Patristic and Insular traditions of the Evangelists: exegesis and iconography, in A. M. Luiselli Fadda and É. Ó Carragáin (eds), Le isole britanniche e Roma in èta romanobarbarica, 49–94, Rome: Herder Editrice e Libreria O’Sullivan, D. 2011. Normanising the North: the evidence of Anglo-Saxon and Anglo-Scandinavian sculpture, Medieval Archaeology, 55, 163–91 Openshaw, K. M. 1993. Weapons in the daily battle: images of the conquest of evil in the early medieval psalter, Art Bulletin, 75(1), 17–38 Petrie, G. 1870. Christian Inscriptions in the Irish Language, Vol. 1, ed. M. Stokes, Dublin: Royal Historical and Archaeological Association of Ireland (RSAI) Petrie, G. 1878. Christian Inscriptions in the Irish Language, Vol. 2, ed. M. Stokes, Dublin: Royal Historical and Archaeological Association of Ireland (RSAI) Pulliam, H. 2013. Beasts of the desert: marginalia in the Book of Deer, Medieval Archaeology, 57, 83–110 Stalley, R. 1981. The Romanesque sculpture of Tuam, in A. Borg and A. Martindale (eds), The Vanishing Past: Studies of Medieval Art, Liturgy

239

240 

jenifer ní ghrádaigh

and Metrology presented to Christopher Hohler, 179–95, Oxford: British Archaeological Report International Series, 111 Stalley, R. 1990. European art and the Irish high crosses, Proceedings of the Royal Irish Academy, 90C, 135–58 Stalley, R. 1997. The Tower Cross at Kells, in C. E. Karkov, R. T. Farrell and M. Ryan (eds), The Insular Tradition, 115–41, Albany, NY: State University of New York Press Stalley, R. 2009. The Cross of the Scriptures: Unresolved Questions, paper delivered at the Clonmacnoise Studies 3 Seminar, Clonmacnoise, 3 October 2009. Stevenson, R. B. K. 1974. The Hunterston brooch and its significance, Medieval Archaeology, 18, 16–42 Stokes, W. (ed. and trans.) 1890. Betha Pátraic/Life of Patrick, in Lives of Saints from the Book of Lismore, Oxford: Clarendon Press Stokes, W. (ed. and trans.) 1895–97. Annals of Tigernach, Paris: Revue Celtique Swift, C. 2003. Sculptors and their customers: a study of Clonmacnoise grave-slabs, in H. King (ed.), Clonmacnoise Studies II, 105–23, Dublin: Dúchas Twohig, E. S. 2002. Context and chronology of the carved stone at Clonfinlough, County Offaly, Journal Royal Society of Antiquaries of Ireland, 132, 99–113 van Houts, E. 1992. Women and the writing of history in the early Middle Ages: the case of Abbess Matilda of Essen and Aethelweard, Early Medieval Europe, 1, 53–68 van Houts, E. 1999. Memory and Gender in Medieval Europe 900–1200, Toronto: University of Toronto Press Veelenturf, K. 1997. Día Brátha: Eschatological Theophanies and the Irish High Crosses, Amsterdam: Stichtung Amsterdamse Historische Reeks Whitfield, N. 2001a. The earliest filigree from Ireland, in M. Redknap, N. Edwards, S. Youngs, A. Lane, and J. Knight (eds), Pattern and Purpose in Insular Art, 141–54, Oxford: Oxbow Whitfield, N. 2001b. The ‘Tara’ brooch: an Irish emblem of status in its European context, in Hourihane (ed.), From Ireland Coming, 211–47 Whitfield, N. 2004. More thoughts on the wearing of brooches in early medieval Ireland, in C. Hourihane (ed.), Irish Art Historical Studies in Honour of Peter Harbison, 70–108, Dublin: Four Courts Press Whitfield, N. and Okasha, E. 1992. The Killamery brooch: its stamped ornament and inscription, Journal of Irish Archaeology, 6 (1991/92), 55–60

Hogbacks: the Materiality of Solid Spaces Howard Williams

Introduction

T

he hogbacks of northern England and southern Scotland have long been seen as a distinctive category of tenth- and early eleventhcentury early medieval stone monument resulting from Hiberno-Norse influence and settlement. This chapter reviews previous research and suggests a new foundation for their interpretation, arguing that hogbacks were an effective commemorative media because of the mnemonics of their materiality. Specifically, I focus upon the skeuomorphic allusions inherent in the ornamentation and form of hogbacks. Combined with their solidity and lithic weight, hogbacks cited a multi-scalar network of architectural material cultures and buildings already established within Britain and Ireland prior to, as well as during, the Viking Age. Rather than exclusive translations of secular halls into stone as often portrayed in both popular and scholarly research (e.g. Stocker 2000; Eriksen 2013), hogbacks cited a complex network of buildings (including secular halls but potentially also churches) and small-scale architectures (from biers and coffins to caskets and reliquaries) which were distilled into a solid lithic architectural form in various fashions. In this regard, hogbacks operated as elite commemorative monuments because their form connected to this shared elite network of architectural ‘things’ and implied the presence of the dead as inhabiting, or at least accessible through, the monument. Endbeasts and other themes of conflict were apotropaic in this context. The monstrous, sometimes ursine, beasts threaten to engulf some hogbacks – although sometimes they are demonstrably curtailed by their binding and muzzling. The emphasis upon bound beasts reveals the significance of sealing and fixing the tomb in place through its hogback design. This approach aims to embrace, rather than obscure, the internal variability of the hogback tombs by focusing on their architectural materiality

9

242 

howard williams

Fig. 9.1 Schematic representations of the ten sub-types of hogback tomb recognized by the Corpus of Anglo-Saxon Stone Sculpture. Lang’s rare wheel-rim type and the Scottish End-beast types are not depicted.

and lithic solidity as well as the hitherto close attention afforded to hogbacks’ form and ornamentation. Hence, hogback tombs were a commemorative strategy that installed and bound the dead in place within the church or churchyard by citing not a single source of influence but a range of other mythical and biblical as well as quotidian architectural spaces in which heroes, saints and other powerful figures were honoured and recalled. Hogbacks created a mnemonic network linking imagined pasts and projected aspired futures for the groups creating, installing and performing around them. Hogbacks can therefore be subtly but significantly resituated in interpretations of tenth- and eleventh-century northern Britain as a specific strategy of linking elite bodies to specific mortuary locations and protecting them from unwanted physical intervention and spiritual harm. This chapter sees no reason why those of Norse and native descent alike might not adopt this commemorative medium within a postcolonial context as well as one of socio-political and religious fluidity. The pertinence of this theme to this book lies in the attention to the weight, solidity and skeuomorphic materiality of a category of early medieval carved stone grave-covers. As such, hogbacks created the sense of an

9 hogbacks 

absent presence, citing the body (or bodies) of the dead beneath or elsewhere, and affording the sense of an inhabited tomb, akin to the shrines of saints. Moreover, this approach shifts the interpretation of hogbacks from being an index of Norse settlement to a technology of corporeal and architectural commemoration that would have made a powerful statement to Insular audiences as well as those of Hiberno-Norse origin.

Introducing hogbacks For over a century the early medieval commemorative monuments known as ‘hogbacks’ – perhaps more neutrally referred to as a specific range of ‘coped stones’ (Preston-Jones and Okasha 2013, 163) – have intrigued and frustrated early medieval scholarship (see Collingwood 1927, 164–73). As part of the rapid increase in the volume of sculptural production in the tenth century, including the rise of recumbent grave-slabs at this time (see Stocker 2000), hogbacks are distinctive but incredibly varied. The lack of a consistent and pervading form for the hogback monument is exemplified by Lang’s research (1972–74; 1984). Lang created a complex classification of the monuments into eleven different sub-types (see also Cramp 1984a, xix–xx: ten of these, excluding a distinctive Scottish variety, are reproduced in Fig. 9.1). These types are distinguished by the presence/ absence and character of the end-beasts and the character of their ornament. Despite this variety, which might prepare us in accepting that any single interpretation of these monuments might prove challenging (e.g. Hall 2015), many share in having a bow-walled, building-shaped form with a curved (‘hogbacked’) roof, often (but not always) framed by endbeasts that embrace and often also press their (usually bound) muzzles over the gable-ends. Illustrative scenes appear on a minority and, where present, they focus on mythological conflicts with beasts and monsters, with some scenes interpreted as depicting stories from Norse mythology (Kopár 2012). While there are local concentrations, perhaps ‘workshops’, producing these styles (Lang 1984, 88), it is important to emphasize that many of Lang’s sub-types have wide and interleaving distributions (e.g. Bailey and Cramp 1988, 29). Therefore, their form is eclectic even from a local perspective. For example, Brompton (North Yorks.) has three sub-types (a, c and d: Lang 2001, 23, 74–9), Lythe (North Yorks.) has four (e, i, j and k: Lang 2001, 159–66) and Sockburn-on-Tees (Durham) has at least four, possibly five (c, d, f, g and possibly j; Cramp 1984b, 140–44; Lang 1984, 162–6). The earliest monuments are traditionally dated to the second and third quarters of the tenth century on stylistic grounds and similarities have been identified between the ‘roofs’ on some hogbacks and tenth-century buildings from southern Scandinavia (Schmidt 1973). However, precise historical parameters cannot be reliably imposed on the beginnings or the ends of either the production or the use of hogbacks without recourse to circular

243

Fig. 9.2 Type a hogback, Brompton 17A (Lang 2001, plate 82).

Fig. 9.3 Composite of illustrations by W. G. Collingwood of hogbacks from (top to bottom) Brompton, type d (North Yorkshire), and Penrith, Cumbria, types h (Penrith 6) and g (Penrith 7). While some details of Collingwood’s illustrations are problematic and interpretative, his images remain a valuable resource for communicating the varied size and character of the monuments. Scale is approximate.

9 hogbacks 

argumentation relating to the Hiberno-Norse diaspora. Lang warns against equating their typology with their chronology but was probably correct to assume that the hogbacks with muzzled beasts of Allertonshire (North Yorkshire) were among the earliest (Lang 1984, 97). He argued that the naturalistic bears rapidly becoming more dragonesque, stylized and vestigial with time (Lang 1984, 95). Therefore, Brompton has been considered the most likely place of origin for the hogback monument because the site has produced eleven high-quality monuments, but this is by no means certain (Lang 2001, 47; Figs 9.2, 9.3 and 9.4). Meanwhile, other foci of the monument are Sockburn-on-Tees (nine monuments) and Lythe (seventeen monuments). These three sites, together with York, constitute a core of the hogbacks’ use during the course of the tenth century and possibly beyond. East of the Pennines hogbacks are therefore primarily distributed in North Yorkshire with a few outliers elsewhere in West and East Yorkshire. To the west of the Pennines, hogbacks are known in coastal Cumbria and the Eden Valley, with outliers in Lancashire and the Wirral peninsula, and are less precisely dated and might extend into the eleventh century. All these areas reflect, in broad terms, the place-name, archaeological and historical evidence for some degree of settlement, and certainly of strong maritime connections with, Hiberno-Norse groups in later Viking Age (Figs 9.3 and 9.4). Outside these core areas, there is a distinct group of coped stones classed as hogbacks in the Trent Valley, seemingly reflecting a later adoption of the monument by elites in parts of the heartland of the former kingdom of Mercia (Everson and Stocker 1999; Biddle and Kjøbye-Biddle 2001; Stocker and Everson 2001). To the north, the southern Scottish hogbacks also appear to reflect the spread of the monument form along maritime networks outside its original core, with a concentration at Govan that might reflect exposure and close interactions between the British kingdom of Strathclyde’s ‘Govan School’ and the Kingdom of York from later tenth century, thus inspiring a longer use of this monument type into the eleventh century and possibly later (Lang 1972; 1972–4; 1976; 1984; 1994; Bailey 1980; see also Driscoll et al. 2005; Fig. 9.4). Notwithstanding the problem that some of these ‘hogbacks’ display only some of the monument form’s key characteristics (e.g. Hall 2015), it seems likely that hogbacks were adapted for new contexts as part of commemorative strategies by elite groups with extensive maritime connections. This helps to explain their core distribution but it also helps provide an appreciation of the thin scatter of possible ‘hogback’ monuments known from elsewhere through these islands, including St Ninian’s Isle (Shetland), Kirkwall (Orkney), Castledermot (Co. Kildare), Aberarth (Ceredigion), Winchester (Hants) and Lanivet (Cornwall) (Lang 1971; 1972–4; 1984, 86; Tweddle et al. 1995, 278–80; Edwards 2007, 146–7; Preston-Jones and Okasha 2013, 163–4; Fig. 9.4). A crucial point in thinking about this distribution and chronology is to take on board the observation by Tweddle et al. (1995, 279) that recumbent

245

246 

howard williams

Fig. 9.4 Distribution of sites producing hogbacks (small dots = 1 or more monuments, large dots = 5 or more monuments). Scottish ‘kindred monuments’ and other coped grave-covers of likely late eleventh and twelfth-century date are omitted.

gravestones with architectural allusions might be the tip of an iceberg comprised of wooden monuments. There are indications that the Christian holy and secular elite early medieval dead over a wider geographical span and a longer chronological duration were commemorated with houseshaped shrines and tombs during the early Middle Ages. The implication is that we need not necessarily seek for a single point of origin for these

9 hogbacks 

monuments, or indeed regard them as a singular coherent artefact type. Inspired by multiple sources, Insular and Norse, it remains, however, a distinctive choice to deploy solid stone grave-covers and hence it remains legitimate to explore hogbacks as a varied but significant phenomenon (see also Stocker 2000).

Hogbacks as composite monuments Regarding their function, hogbacks are universally presumed to have originally been a form of ‘recumbent tombstone’ and thus are regarded as part of the church or churchyard environment (Collingwood 1927, 164). However, the obvious limitation to this argument is that no demonstrably in situ hogbacks have been found in their original context over a contemporary grave or graves. One exception is the Winchester monument which might be in situ over a grave (Tweddle et al. 1995). A further possible instance is Heysham (Lancs.) but the account of the hogback’s discovery with a skeleton and a spearhead is early and unreliable (Bailey 2010, 201). Likewise, it is unclear whether hogbacks should be viewed as intramural or churchyard monuments. Some appear very fresh and unweathered, but this might have resulted from them being outside but canopied, rather than fully intramural. In any case, the artefact biographies of many hogbacks hint that, as with other stone monuments, their afterlives were punctuated with reuse that sometimes might have constituted a deliberate strategy of forgetting their original commemorative function (see Lang 1984; 1994; cf. Moreland 1999; O’Sullivan 2011). It remains possible that hogbacks were recumbent grave-covers, but they might have equally served as head-stones for a single grave or a group of graves, or were situated away from the graves they commemorated at stations within the church or churchyard. Given their form and character, it is possible that hogbacks might have originally been composed for other contexts and only later displaced to churches and churchyards. However, their form and character and the predominant association with church sites with other sculptural fragments, which together make most sense as components of an ecclesiastical environment, provide strong circumstantial evidence that hogbacks were made for, and installed in, the church or churchyard context. The possibility that some monuments were originally composite monuments – or at least a close connection with crosses (whether marking a single grave or a burial plot) – is suggested by their association with stone crosses of comparable ornamentation and date at Gosforth, Penrith, Aspatria and Brompton. Moreover, hogbacks are usually far shorter, and narrower, than a full grave’s length. The latter point is well-made in Figure 9.2, where the Brompton hogbacks are usually under 1.5 m in length in comparison with the larger Penrith monuments. Therefore, the frequent lack of overt Christian associations in hogback decoration

247

248 

Fig. 9.5 Brompton cross 1A (Lang 2001, plate 30).

howard williams

might be deceptive, caused by post-construction disassociation (perhaps from as early as the eleventh century) of the hogbacks from crosses that may have frequently formed an integral part of their design. Although it remains different to substantiate with certainty, we might regard some hogbacks as the most enduring centrepiece of composite mortuary monuments made up of perhaps two or three sculpted stones or, alternatively, as the stone centre-pieces originally framed by elements composed of other materials including cloth, leather, wood and both base and precious metals. It is even possible that hogbacks were once covered with tentlike canopies that have failed to survive. Some antiquarian reports, while not fully reliable, support the composite view of hogbacks. Early records from Inchholm in the Firth of Forth, Scotland, suggest that they were associated with a standing cross in the sixteenth century (Lang 1976, 209). Lang refers to an antiquarian tradition at Gosforth (Cumbria) of hogbacks associated with upright stones (Lang 1984, 97) and the collection of four hogback monuments and two crosses together called the ‘Giant’s Grave’ at Penrith (Cumbria) may allude to an earlier composite configuration, but it is highly unlikely that these preserve original arrangements at either site (see Bailey 1980, 99–100; Lang 1984, 96, 156–7). Likewise, assemblages of stones discovered from the same location also suggest that hogbacks were composite monuments. At Lythe (North Yorks.), the type i hogbacks lacked gable-end decoration and there are eight stumpy ‘grave-marker’ crosses with small crosses from the site which match the hogbacks closely in execution and likely date (Lythe 8–16). While it is possible that crosses and recumbent grave-covers were simply alternative and contemporary commemorative media, marking different households, social groups or genders, there is a case to be made that each recumbent monument was originally flanked by crosses or each had a cross at one end (Lang 1994, 129; 2001, 157–9). At Brompton, the surviving crosses have matching interlace with some of the hogbacks and were broadly contemporary if not associated with the hogbacks (Collingwood 1927, 144; Lang 1984, 97; 2001, 65–6; Figs 9.2 and 9.5). Moreover, the short cross-shaft known as Brompton 1 (Lang 2001, 65) is blank near its base, perhaps to accommodate a hogback in that position (Fig. 9.5). Similarly, while cut back at one end (B), the hogback Burnstall 11 may well have been originally framed by the contemporaneous crosses found at the same site (Coatsworth 2008, 113).

9 hogbacks 

Further support for the argument that hogbacks could be central elements of composite monuments is found by analogy with the headand foot-stones associated with the grave-covers from York Minster, although admittedly these are stones of tenth-century date reused in the eleventh century (Lang 1972–4, 211; 1984, 97; 2001, 49). An additional analogy arises from the work of Everson and Stocker, who have argued that mid-Kesteven grave-covers were never decorated at either end because they may have often been framed by crosses, a view supported by surviving composite monuments (as with the Lincolnshire monuments Cranwell 1 and 2 and possibly also from Burton Pedwardine: Everson and Stocker 1999, 44). This composite argument might not work for all hogbacks, however. The Gosforth 4 and 5 (Bailey and Cramp 1988) are relatively rare in having figural inscribed end-panels, showing that a minority of hogbacks were demonstrably not designed for arrangement with end-crosses (Fig. 9.7). However, not only are these exceptional, they do indicate the Christian affiliations of the monuments and their probable framing by Christian apotropaic scenes, as with the late ninth-century house-shaped tomb cover Dewsbury 15 with cross-inscribed gable-ends; this monument might be regarded as a proto-hogback (Coatsworth 2008, 147–8). Likewise, the possible Norse mythological scene on the gable-end of York Minster 46 (Lang 1991, 77–8) and Bedale 6B (Lang 2001, 61–2) show that hogbacks could operate as stand-alone monuments, but perhaps in these instances other components, such as crosses, stood some distance from, but not fully disassociated from, their ends. In summary, while almost all hogback stones were found reused in later church fabric or else situated in secondary contexts within the churchyard with no verification as to their original location, it is clear that hogbacks were certainly a commemorative medium, and sometimes they were parts of composite mortuary monuments flanked by crosses. Still, they need not have marked single graves, but might have readily marked burial plots reserved for specific families. However, because they drew on transformations of other materials and things – buildings and beasts – that eschewed texts, none bear inscriptions attesting to the motives of those who commissioned or made them, let alone those whom were commemorated.

Hogbacks as corporeal metaphors Despite the challenges in understanding the functions of hogbacks, the foundations of their interpretation have been advanced over the last forty years by a small number of influential investigations. Aided by, and contributing towards, the Corpus of Anglo-Saxon Stone Sculpture, studies by Richard Bailey (1980; 1996), James Lang (1971; 1972; 1972–74; 1976; 1984; 1994) and, most recently, Paul Everson and David Stocker

249

250 

howard williams

(Stocker 2000; Stocker and Everson 2001) have explored hogback monuments in terms of their form, decoration, date, distribution and function. With different degrees of emphasis, most have followed Lang’s interpretation that hogbacks are ‘colonial’, reflecting Scandinavian settlement and these newcomers’ mercantile affinities and ideologies, and including some scenes from Norse mythology (Abrams, n.d; Lang 1984; Crawford 1994; Stocker 2000, 195–7; Edwards 2007; Kopár 2012). Having said that, Karkov (2011, 253–5) has recently and rightly emphasized that hogbacks are better described as ‘post-colonial’, indicative of the interplay between settlers and indigenes conversant in Insular traditions of Christian art. As such, and as Lang and others have already conceded, there are no immediate precedents of stone-carved hall-shaped structures known from pre-Christian Scandinavia and hogbacks operated within, and spoke to, Christian audiences (e.g. Bailey 1980). Richard Bailey has rightly described them as: ‘an insular art form being pursued with such enthusiasm in the new Anglo-Scandinavian north’ (Bailey 1996, 80), and hence the medium of stone and the mortuary context of their use reveal long-standing Christian influences. Moreover, while the Scandinavian mythological elements of northern English Viking-Age sculpture have received most attention (most recently, Kopár 2012), they remain rare in the full corpus of hogbacks. Furthermore, Bailey emphasized that much of the sculpture retains traditional Christian symbolism and iconography from the vine scroll to the crucifixion. Indeed, many of the interlace designs and other abstract patterns upon hogbacks were of Insular origin (Bailey 1980; 1996, 81–2). David Stocker (2000) has retained an association with Norse groups, but rightly connects hogbacks with churches upon wealthy estates linked to principal road and river networks, whether new foundations or re-foundations of preexisting churches. Hogbacks were thus an active means of consolidating and commemorating elite power (Abrams 2000, 139–43; Hadley 2000, 119). In his view, hogbacks drew upon pagan motifs to articulate the act of religious conversion to Christianity with the building being suckled by bears as a metaphor for salvation through the Church. Hogbacks were almost certainly innovative products of a socio-political and religious hybrid commemorative environment associated with the new networks and socio-political context of the later Viking Age in which the scale and range of stone sculpture increases immensely. Hadley’s (2008) exploration of the sculptural representation of martial elite masculinity in the tenth-century northern Danelaw offers an invaluable context. Hadley only tangentially addresses hogbacks, noting their inherent multi-vocality (Hadley 2008, 278) and how they might have commemorated kin-groups and households, not simply elite males (Hadley 2006, 260–61; 2008, 280). Moreover, hogbacks might be seen in relation to her discussion of hegemonic masculinity (see also Gilchrist 2009) at a time of socio-politic flux, not because they were exclusively

9 hogbacks 

‘masculine’ monuments but because they probably asserted the claims to lordship and its inheritance and legitimization of martial elites in which men and womenfolk were key agents. What is important is that, while hogbacks emphasize beastly bodies and architecture in tension, their subject is clearly the protection and mortuary transformation of select human cadavers. It is in this regard that we can extend the importance of Thompson’s (2004) exploration of later Anglo-Saxon vernacular literature and the varied role of wyrmas in relation to corpses. While largely avoiding hogback monuments, her interpretation of grave-slabs from York and cross-shafts from Masham (North Yorkshire) and Middleton (East Yorkshire) foregrounds the varied representations and multi-vocal power of beastly serpentine guardians in mediating the transformations associated with the death, burial and rebirth of the body and soul in a Christian theological and cultural environment. Significantly for the discussion of hogbacks, Thompson emphasizes how different kinds of beastly form (including snakes and winged serpents), and different types of human body – both martial and seemingly without weapons and perhaps unclothed – can be employed in relation to wyrmas to articulate the fate of body and soul and hence punctuate the transformation and commemoration of the dead (Thompson 2004, 132–69). In combination, the work of Stocker, Hadley and Thompson together reveals important insights into how we consider hogbacks as active statements of elite identity in death in Viking-Age northern Britain. Certainly many hogbacks (especially types b, e and f) materialize buildings framed by dragonesque beasts which can be readily interpreted as comparable to Thompson’s literary and sculptural wyrmas. Yet the broad themes of mythological conflict as integral to Norse pagan worldviews which sometimes appear on the stones (see Kopár 2012) and the specific links between bears and Viking warrior cultures (e.g. Price 2002) might suggest that endbeasts, including bears, were a distinctive way of articulating the aspired fate of the body and soul upon death. The Christian symbolic associations of bears, including their association with rebirth from hibernation and the belief that bears licked their bodies into life (Stocker 2000), extend the multi-vocality of these beasts as aggressive forces tamed by faith. Likewise, bears’ hibernatory and thus subterranean associations make them another powerful metaphor for death and promised resurrection. As powerful wild animals with mythological and legendary associations, bears, like wolves, can be considered as spanning early medieval pagan and Christian imagination and material culture (see Pluskowski 2006). It is evident, therefore, that hogbacks would have been an apotropaic and transformative medium with which to commemorate the dead, a mnemonic strategy which may have spoken to pagan, converting and multi-faith audiences, but they are indisputably compatible with Christian thinking about death and the afterlife. Hence, as with Viking-period

251

252 

howard williams

furnished graves dated to the later ninth and tenth centuries elsewhere in Britain and Ireland, we should not assume all those deploying hogbacks were of Scandinavian descent or affinity (Halsall 2000). Equally, it is important not to explain away their secular resonances. Furthermore, the locally diverse and changing nature of hogbacks suggests no correlation to a single religious and socio-political process. Instead, hogbacks are better seen as taking on varying manifestations and contexts of deployment in and around ecclesiastical settings. For example, while in their heartland, they might have communicated messages of elite dynastic claims to the inheritance of land and power as well as to shared Hiberno-Norse identities and origin myths, for later generations and in areas away from their core use, as in Lincolnshire (Everson and Stocker 1999; see also Stocker 2000; Stocker and Everson 2001), Wirral (Bailey 2010; Bailey and Whalley 2006) and southern Scotland (Lang 1994), these monuments may have reflected and asserted different sociopolitical allegiances and perhaps even a shared resistance to West Saxon hegemony experienced by much of northern Britain during the course of the tenth century (cf. Sidebottom 1999; 2000). The selectivity with which hogbacks were used is evident even in the heartland of their occurrence, suggesting this was a monumental form selected only by some. Hence, while Brompton in the Vale of York has eleven hogback monuments, in nearby sites where sculpture of the ‘Brompton School’ has been recognized none have been found (Lang 2001, 47). Strikingly, there are few in West Yorkshire despite many sites yielding sculpture of the period (Coatsworth 2008, 36) and, likewise, few are found north of the Tees and none from the Isle of Man (Lang 1984, 87–90). The hogback monuments’ discrete distribution therefore conceals their rhizomic rather than dendritic adoption as a commemorative medium: they crop up stemming from unseen networks of influences and ideas in discrete clusters and yet are absent in other sites close by that have produced contemporary sculpture.

Hogbacks as skeuomorphic citations This study has shown how previous work has addressed coherently the date and distribution, iconography and ornament of hogbacks. However, what has been lacking thus far has been attention to the materiality of hogbacks created by their skeuomorphic citations to beasts, wood, textile and other materials and substances. As mentioned above, the architectural form (curved walls and curved roof) of many hogback stones resonates with contemporary bow-sided halls known from Scandinavia (Collingwood 1927, 164; Lang 1976; 1984; 2001; Bailey 1980, 86–7; 1996; Bailey and Cramp 1988; Cramp 1988; Schmidt 1973; 2007). Ornamentation supports their house-like design, with sculpted tegulated roofs adorning some examples. However, other elements of their design find an origin not in contem-

9 hogbacks 

porary house-designs but in early Christian metal house-shaped reliquaries that so often have beasts surmounting the gable ends (Youngs 1989, 134–40). Moreover, there are church/building-shaped caps on early medieval Irish crosses (Bailey 1980, 92; Lang 1972–74, 206). Both crosses and reliquaries demonstrate the prevalence of the house-form in contemporary religious monuments and mobilary art and artefacts. This range of associations challenges our desire to identify a single, exclusive inspiration for hogbacks from contemporary wooden secular architecture. Indeed, while none survive, we surely have to imagine that a tenth-century timber church could have been constructed in a comparable fashion to a lord’s hall, reflecting the interplay between their functions and the symbolism of places of protected, public gathering. Perhaps the closest parallels for hogback monuments are indeed commemorative monuments such as the house-shaped shrines from early medieval Britain and Ireland (e.g. Herity 1993), including the composite and hollow Northumbrian shrine from Jedburgh (Scottish Borders; Bailey 1980, 96). Closer still, Hedda’s Tomb, Peterborough (Cambs.), and Bakewell (Derbys.) are seen as the closest solid stone shrines, yet there are hints that examples may have once been present in northern England. For instance, Bailey regards Oswaldkirk 2 and Sinnington (both North Yorks.) as examples of solid Anglian (i.e. eighth- or ninth-century) shrines (Bailey 1980, 96), although Lang recognizes only Oswaldkirk 2 and notes its uncertain date and fragmentary survival (Lang 1991, 198). Coatsworth (2008, 38) assigns the now-lost Leeds 8 monument (West Yorks.) as a shrine-tomb fragment and suggests that Dewsbury 15 (West Yorks.) – regarded by Lang (1984, 130) as a hogback – might be a pre-Viking (possibly late ninth-century) shrinetomb and hence a precursor to the hogbacks (Coatsworth 2008, 38; 148). Yet again, however, this monument is not indisputably pre-Viking in date. We do have to entertain the possibility that other house-shaped architectures were deployed in Viking-Age mortuary practice, including biers and temporary tents covering graves in addition to tombs themselves. Lang (1984, 95) sums up these many potential influences on hogbacks by foregrounding the enchained relationship between skeuomorphic translations. He does this by regarding hogbacks as ‘a skeuomorph of a skeuomorph: a grave-cover designed as a casket which is in turn based on a building’ (Lang 1984, 95). However, we might dispute the precise character and exclusivity of this chain of influence. Still, the key point is that the subtle nature of his argument is often lost on later commentators, who presume a direct translation from full-sized wooden churches and halls to hogbacks and predicate their interpretations on this relationship between hogbacks and full-sized buildings (e.g. Stocker 2000). Lang also goes on to suggest that the arrangement of recumbent slab with head and foot stones found in excavations at York Minster might provide the inspiration for the hogback design (Lang 1984, 96). Rather than a conclusive indication of origins (or a sequence of origins and inspirations which is far more

253

254 

howard williams

likely) on monument design from a single source, Lang’s crucial interpretation can be more profitably framed as a network of interconnected materialities spanning both Insular and Viking worlds and their zones of intersection. Clearly, hogbacks received both multiple and successive influences from both secular and religious materials and architectures of Insular and Scandinavian origin. Rather than simply being ‘miniatures’, hogbacks were simultaneously related through an array of citations, operating as miniatures, gigantisms and broadly same-size material cultures. Hence, hogbacks would have been encountered by those familiar with a range of materials and buildings employing architectural forms. Rather than citing ‘the aristocratic hall’ exclusively, hogbacks simultaneously cited tents, canopies, biers, caskets, crosses, churches, shrines and tombs that together comprised an architectural understanding of the cosmos, society, the body and the tomb. Regardless of the precise balance of influences upon the design of individual hogbacks, which as we have seen are, in any case, extremely varied in form and ornament, it is more profitable to recognise how these influences gained significance through translation and incorporation into the hogback’s materiality. In stark contrast to Lang (1984), who regards the skeuomorphism of hogbacks as not to be taken too seriously, I regard the skeuomorphic character of hogbacks as central to their commemorative significance in protecting and transforming the dead. As an active commemorative strategy, rather than simply a result of passive influence, skeuomorphic allusions connected hogbacks to a wide range of other materials and substances and the contexts in which they were experienced and used. Hogbacks adopted and adapted pre-existing material motifs and forms from a range of commemorative media and distilled them into a new materiality. Thus, hogbacks were a mnemonic tool for enchaining people and things by drawing upon the associations and significations of these other architectures, material cultures and ornamentations. Hogbacks from this perspective can be regarded as making citations to a range of high-status architectures and material cultures in the mortuary arena. Hence, alongside the reuse of earlier tombs as a commemorative strategy (e.g. Rawlin-Cushing 2011), tenth-century tombs were condensing citations from a range of existing media, distilling them into a new solid form and taking on their power through the act of material transformation. This approach has been previously applied to the sequence of citations made between burial events in early medieval cemeteries (Williams 2006, 61–5) and draws from Hawkes’s (2003) agenda to explore the multi-media qualities of early medieval stone sculpture and the range of materials they related to (see also Williams 2011). Thus, hogbacks can be theorized as a technological choice of material and form and as strategic skeuomorphism. These themes operated within a ‘technology of remembrance’ (Jones 2007; Williams 2006), projecting and constituting a distinctive vision of the dead and their identities in relation to a variegated constituency of survivors.

9 hogbacks 

In this context, hogbacks can be regarded as constituting and commemorating social status and identity and social memories of either de novo dynasties or established elites reformulating their identities within a new socio-political context. In either scenario, yet specifically, they were effective as technologies of remembrance because they afforded the dead body with a tangible materiality within an implied but solid architectural space. In summary, rather than following Lang, who sees hogbacks’ architectural references as ‘purely decorative’ (Lang 1984, 93), their non-functional skeuomorphic nature made them powerful mnemonic devices. Hogbacks thus cited the idea of the tomb as an inhabited space, protected by faith and exhibiting martial power and authority through allusions to halls, churches, saints’ shrines and a wide range of other elite material cultures and buildings. As such, hogbacks operated to legitimize exclusive imagined pasts, claims in the present and aspirations for the future for elites establishing and consolidating, or else refashioning, their identities during mortuary practice (Lang 1984, 89–90; Hadley 2008).

Hogbacks as solid spaces Exploring the skeuomorphic citations of hogbacks is, therefore, an important avenue for investigating the commemorative power of the materiality of hogbacks and thus appreciating how specific monuments operated distinctively and individually as well as as emergent cumulative assemblages at specific locales. The remainder of this paper takes forward the different ways in which the skeuomorphism of hogbacks, as well as their weight and size, created distinctive interplays between beasts, apertures and solidity. Together these dimensions relate to the mnemonic ramifications in creating the illusion of an inhabited architectural space within a solid block of stone. As Devlin (2011) discusses for other kinds of early medieval stone sculpture, whether covering single graves or burial plots, hogbacks singly and in combination created a powerful presence within the commemorative topography of tenth- and eleventh-century churchyards, whether newly founded sites or long-established Christian loci, as exemplified by sites such as Heysham (Lancs.) (Potter and Andrews 2004; Bailey 2010; Nash 2010). Rather than offering a focus of healing and worship in these environments, as with the tumba of St Chad described by Bede, hogbacks materialized inhabited space yet also protected and closed off physical access to the dead. Spaces within the solid architectural form are implied first and foremost by the hall-shaped form, but also by its indivisible and weighty solidity. Moreover, for those hogbacks with end-beasts, the gable-ends where end-doors and smoke-holes would have provided ventilation and access to contemporary buildings are literally stopped by the gripping beasts. Therefore, the animals further emphasize the ‘closing’ and sealing of the apertures of the architectural space. The closed mouths of the bears and

255

256 

Fig. 9.6 Type c hogback, Ingleby Arncliffe 4A (Lang 2001, plate 335).

howard williams

grip of their paws fix and protect the lithic architecture in place (Fig. 9.6). Lang (1984, 103) refers to the horror vacui of hogbacks leading to ‘density (even clutter) of design and a tendency to cover the surface to the maximum of ornament’. A palpable set of exceptions, which might imply apertures through lack of decoration, are the spaces between the forearms and muzzles of bears, as upon Ingleby Arncliffe 4A and Brompton 25 (Lang 2001, plates 104–6, 335–6). Hogbacks’ ridges and roofs are by definition tangible and sturdy yet simultaneously imply permeability and the potential for access into and movement out of their cracks, corners and surfaces. Wooden shingle roofs fit this category themselves, but so might the diamonded roof of Gosforth 5 (Fig. 9.7). This is an elaborate hogback and its simple decorated roof has been taken to reflect poor-quality work. However, rather than regarding this hogback as bearing a poor rendition of a shingle roof, instead, with its plait surround, we could consider it as a skeuomorphic representation of a leather, textile or other semi-permeable surface of organic mater­ial (Bailey and Cramp 1988). Another example of permeable roofing is Aspatria 6A (Fig. 9.8), where the type 9 tegulation, each uniquely bearing triquetra patterns, has large arch-shaped gaps in between that are potentially to be considered as a series of apertures into the space within (Bailey and Cramp 1988, 53–4, plate 35). Rather than simply a tegulated roof, are we here seeing instead a depiction of the multiple apertures of a church clerestory, screen or shrine? Indeed, triangular windows are a well-known feature of later Anglo-Saxon architecture in both stone and wood (e.g. Ayre and Wroe-Brown 2015). The same point applies for the large type 2 tegulae on Crathorne 5 (Lang 2001, 86–7). It is evident that the architectural inspirations and material forms of many hogbacks imply permeable canopies or roofs guarded by end-beasts when

Fig. 9.7 Type k hogback Gosforth 5.

Fig. 9.8 Type b hogback, Aspatria 6A (Bailey and Cramp 1988, plate 35).

258 

howard williams

Fig. 9.9 Type g hogbacks from Lowther 4 and Sockburn 21.

present. Hogback sides often explicitly allude to permeability in a range of fashions. Lang’s (1984, 98) types c and d – ‘niche’ and ‘extended niche’ – are particularly powerful in this regard. For example, Brompton 16, 20 and 22 (Lang 2001, 73–4; 76–7; Fig 9.3), Ingleby Arncliffe 4 (Lang 2001, 126; Fig. 9.6) and Sockburn 17 (Cramp 1984b, 141–2) each afforded arched niches that lead into inaccessible solid spaces. We might speculate as to whether these niches, as with the illustrative panel hogbacks (see below), once contained portraits of the dead or mythological scenes. It is important to remember that, in these examples, roofs are not depicted at all. Instead, the structure is comprised of a curving ridge and it is possible that, rather than skeuomorphic of a house primarily, these ridges allude to canopies covering biers for

9 hogbacks 

the conveyance of the corpse, tents utilised to cover the open grave and/or tent-like canopied tombs and shrines within churches and chapels. Allusions to permeable apertures on the sides of hogbacks are not restricted to the niche and extended-niche type hogbacks. It might be tempting to see the vertical panels of plaitwork and interlace on the sides of type a and b hogback tombs, like Brompton 17 (Fig. 9.2), 18 and 23 and Aspatria 6 (Fig. 9.8), as purely decorative infill in contrast to the skeuomorphic roof sections. An alternative view might be to see these as vertical hangings of leather, wood or embroidered textile whose presence as a surface simultaneously implies an accessible space within, like the curtain or curtains implied by the former presence of a railing that might once have covered the images of saints on the Hedda Stone from Peterborough Cathedral (see above). The horizontal panels of scroll and plait upon type h hogbacks, as with Gainford 22 (Cramp 1984b, 87–8) and Penrith 6 (Fig. 9.3), just like those upon type b hogbacks, might be further allusions to textile or other permeable materials. Type g hogbacks, with their illustrative panels, might be further manifestations of this theme. Whether considering examples such as the Lowther 4, 5 and 6 hogbacks, with human figures of uncertain identity and confronting armies (Bailey and Cramp 1988), Sockburn 21 with its possible representation of Tŷr and Fenrir (Lang 1972; Cramp 1984b, 143–4) (Fig. 9.9), or the Heysham hogback with scenes quite possibly from the legend of Sigurd (Ewing 2003, Bailey 2010, 201–4) (Fig. 9.10), these type g hogbacks might be regarded as providing visions of mythological

259

Fig. 9.10 Type g hogback from Heysham.

260 

howard williams

narratives involving human conflicts with monsters, evoking pasts to be honoured and remembered and/or visions into subterranean realms and the trials that the souls of the dead must navigate. If so, these hogbacks are as much portals as buildings and only type i and type j hogbacks remain without implied permeability. Rather than attempting to force the variability of hogback stones into the same theme, it might be appropriate to accept that there are different commemorative strategies at work here. For some hogbacks, the solidity and inaccessibility of the structure is clear, while for others allusions to implied and represented apertures are more evident. Still, we have identified here a clear theme of spatial solidity and implied but denied accessibility as an important dimension to the design of many hogback tombs. Together, these allusions to solid space may have been powerful in creating a sense of hogbacks as protective and yet also intercessory loci between the living and the dead: secular equivalents to saints’ shrines as loci resurrectionis (Ní Ghrádaigh and Mullins 2013). This is not as speculative as it might at first sound. After all, one of the contended meanings of the shape of Gotlandic picture stones is a doorway (Andrén 1993; Nylén and Lamm 1988) and Thompson (2004) argues the same for some late Anglo-Saxon Cambridgeshire grave-slabs. From this perspective, hogbacks were ‘doorways into other worlds’ as much as a ‘house for the dead’. In both senses they were solid spaces into which the living could not travel but where the dead who inhabit them were perceptible, implied and perhaps also communicated with and prayed for: sacred vessels and apertures comparable to the coffins and shrines of saints (Ní Ghrádaigh and Mullins 2013). Hogbacks thus operated as conduits as much as residences, places of sustained dialogues with the dead mirroring broader archaeological traces of thresholds as mortuary portals recently explored by Eriksen (2013) for Viking Age Scandinavia. This need not imply that hogbacks were exclusively linked to pre-Christian Norse worldviews, however, since beast-guarded thresholds have a long precedent in Late Antique and Insular Christian art (e.g. Kitzinger 1993, 4–5). Setting aside details of ornamentation and form, hogbacks’ solidity and weight are in themselves powerful spatial deployments of the scalar and material transformations embodied in the hogback form. For example, the overarching sense of size and weight of the Govan hogbacks has been repeatedly observed (e.g. Bailey 1994), yet is rarely a foregrounded dimension to their significance as commemorative monuments. Linked to this argument are the gestures of the beasts on type a and b hogbacks. In a striking manner unparalleled in early medieval sculpture, hogbacks freeze in three dimensions the temporal act of beasts grasping and bound to the hall – thus emphasizing the protection and integrity of this solidity. Moreover, it reveals the potential of seeing the beasts as not merely intercessors with the thresholds – both doorways and smoke-holes – but also beings able to communicate with those within, breathing, growling and talking

9 hogbacks 

into solid space. If so, the tomb as material mediation between the living and the dead is apparent in its form, shape and material.

Discussion Hogbacks are here considered first and foremost as solid spaces, commemorative strategies deployed to foreground absent presences and the transformation of the dead. The context for this is significant: the later Anglo-Saxon period was a time when the furnishing and investment in the protection of the body is manifest in elite mortuary practice. The dead were afforded a range of coffins, stones and other grave structures to seal and protect the body. These structures rendered the corpse sealed and prevented it touching and leaking into the surrounding earth. This was a material discourse on protection, care and the inviolate nature of the elite dead (Thompson 2004; Williams 2006; Buckberry 2007; Holloway 2010). Architectural allusions on recumbent stones also constituted a secular play on concepts of corporeal presence awaiting resurrection. Likewise, later Anglo-Saxon heroic poetry was obsessed with venturing into perceptible but usually inaccessible spaces, such as the dragon’s mound in Beowulf (see Williams 2015). Moreover, in this period grave-disturbance was increasingly common owing to the pressures of population, urbanization and the spatial definition of and competition for premier locations within churchyards (Cherryson 2007). This is witnessed very clearly in the reuse of tenth-century sculpture within eleventh-century graves at York Minster (Lang 1991). Hogback monuments might be set in a context where mortuary geography remained complex, with churchyards as only one potential burial location, and numerous factors might lead to the abandonment of burial sites (see Hadley 2000; 2006; Astill 2009; Halsall 2000, 264). Equally, the micro-topography of the cemetery itself rendered it a place of power where clerical, family and broader community agencies interacted in the construction of social memory (Stocker 2000; Stocker and Everson 2001; Williams 2006; Devlin 2011). Against this background, elites attempting to assert their foundation – no matter how short-lived they proved to be – wished to instil a sense of permanence, codifying prospective memories for future generations (Stocker 2000, 180; see also Holtorf 1996). Equally, they may have desired to afford a controlled access to the corporeal remains of the dead and counter attempts by rivals to desecrate and disperse their ancestral tombs. Hogbacks therefore simultaneously afforded solidity and weight to protect graves and impose the dead into the churchyard space. The apotropaic and place-making qualities of hogbacks also had spiritual dimensions. The late Anglo-Saxon landscape was one of demonized places – a landscape of fear, both supernatural and tangible (Semple 1998;

261

262 

howard williams

2004). Concern over the fate of the soul and disturbance of the besieged body pervaded, as well as fears of the interred body reanimating to harm the living (see Blair 2009). This might explain the particular social and religious emphasis on weighty grave-covers as conveying genealogical permanence and transtemporality (see also Guttridge 2010; Williams 2011) as well as preventing unsanctioned interventions by the living and demonic forces, and thus unwelcome spiritual dialogues between the living and dead. Rather than a reflection of a colonial context and a primarily Norse monumentality, hogbacks were an overt elite Christian strategy in corporeal commemoration in a post-colonial context, a medium to convey and conflate myths and legends – many undoubtedly of pre-Christian origin – in relation to a distinct conception of body and soul. This encouraged the projection of the identities of the deceased and mourners, and more specifically the relationship between the living and the dead, back to myths and legends of origin and future to ensure commemoration through subsequent generations. The relative brevity of this monument’s use should not distract us from the strong aspirations of those commissioning them and thus transforming churchyard space. This can be considered a form of prospective memory (see Holtorf 1996); the hogback can be regarded as a mnemonic prompt to narratives about past, present and future focusing on the solid space and an inhabited, animated presence for the dead that it implies (see Williams 2006; also Price 2010). If the complexity of this argument to date is set aside, hogbacks were ‘weighty’, heavy solid stones that impressed the dead physically into the earth of the churchyard and figuratively into the future.

Conclusion The striking commemorative significance of hogback monuments reveals the potential of foregrounding the materiality of carved stone monuments from the early Middle Ages. In this chapter, I have not dwelt on the process of carving or the texture and colour of the stone or the vivid colours in which these monuments may have originally been painted. Instead, my focus has been upon the probable composite form of hogbacks and their skeuomorphic citations to a range of hall-like architectures and material cultures. It has been argued that there is a tension created between the solidity, weight and integrity of the tomb’s materiality and the perceptible apertures and permeable surfaces created by skeuomorphic citations. When imposed on ecclesiastical space as heavy and prominent recumbent monuments within the churchyard – bearing in mind that the widespread use of stone grave covers was an innovation for the tenth century of northern Britain (Stocker 2000) – they were powerful ‘art with agency’ (Gell 1998), operating as an index of the relationship between commissioners and the commemorated upon public spaces. Through their assertion of solid

9 hogbacks 

space framed by bound beasts, these monuments may have legitimized origin myths, ancestry and inheritance by dynasties both new and old within the troubled and shifting socio-economic and political context of northern England in the tenth and early eleventh centuries. This striking and powerful statement by mourners about the dead that resonated both with Scandinavian and Insular aristocratic cultures reflected a ‘heroic’ ideal of real and imagined pasts (see Bailey 1980, 30) and aspired futures, as well as chiming closely with an overt Christian message concerning the integrity of body and soul awaiting Salvation played out for secular elites. The short-lived nature, rapid adaptation and commonplace reuse of many by the Norman Conquest, if not before, should not distract us from the potential of exploring the interplay between material and space for those commissioning and designing, sculpting and installing, mourning and encountering hogbacks.

Acknowledgements This research was supported by the Leverhulme Trust Research Project Grant ‘Speaking with the Dead: Histories of Memory in Sacred Space’. Some preliminary ideas for this paper were originally aired in research seminars presented at the University of York in 2000 and the University of Exeter in 2004. I then presented an early version of this paper at the conference Living through the Dead: The Material Culture and Social Context of the Commemoration of the Dead from Antiquity to the Eighteenth Century, held at the University of Sheffield between 25 and 27 May 2006 and organized by Maureen Carroll, Dawn Hadley and Jane Rempel. I thank the organizers and audience of these seminars and conference for their positive response to my ideas. During this long process of writing and rewriting, I am indebted to the following for subsequently discussing ideas and sharing views on early medieval material culture and commemoration related directly to this paper: an anonymous referee for the chapter and the anonymous reader of the book, Lesley Abrams, Steve Ashby, Richard Bailey, Derek Craig, Meggen Gondek, Joanne Kirton, Carl Knappett, Anna Mackenzie, Ruth Nugent, Hilary Paterson, Elizabeth Pierce, Sarah Semple, Sarah Tarlow and Victoria Whitworth. I am grateful to the Corpus of Anglo-Saxon Stone Sculpture for permission to reproduce Figures 9.2, 9.5, 9.6 and 9.8 and to Patricia Murrieta-Flores for her work and guidance in the production of Figure 9.4.

Bibliography Abrams, L. 2000. Conversion and assimilation, in D. Hadley and J. D. Richards (eds), Cultures in Contact: Scandinavian Settlement in England in the Ninth and Tenth Centuries, 135–54, Turnhout: Brepols

263

264 

howard williams

Abrams, L. n.d. The Problem of the Hogbacks, unpublished draft manuscript Andrén, A. 1993. Doors to other worlds: Scandinavian death rituals in Gotlandic perspectives, Journal of European Archaeology, 1, 33–56 Astill, G. 2009. Anglo-Saxon attitudes: how should post-AD 700 burials be interpreted? in D. Sayer and H. Williams (eds), Mortuary Practices and Social Identities in the Middle Ages, 222–35, Exeter: University of Exeter Press Ayre, J. and Wroe-Brown, R. 2015. The post-Roman foreshore and the origins of the Late Anglo-Saxon waterfront and dock of Ætheldred’s Hithe: Excavations at Bull Wharf, City of London, Archaeological Journal, 172, 121–94 Bailey, R. 1980. Viking Age Sculpture in Northern England, London: Collins Bailey, R. 1994. Govan and Irish Sea sculpture, in A. Ritchie (ed.), Govan and its Early Medieval Sculpture, 113–21, Stroud: Sutton Bailey, R. 1996. England’s Earliest Sculptors, Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Medieval Studies Bailey, R. 2010. Corpus of Anglo-Saxon Stone Sculpture Volume IX: Cheshire and Lancashire, Oxford: Oxford University Press Bailey, R. and Cramp, R. 1988. Corpus of Anglo-Saxon Stone Sculpture Volume II: Cumberland, Westmorland and Lancashire North-of-theSands, Oxford: Oxford University Press Bailey, R. N. and Whalley, J. 2006. A miniature Viking-age hogback from the Wirral, Antiquaries Journal, 86, 345–56 Biddle, M. and Kjølbye-Biddle, B. 2001. Repton and the ‘great heathen army’, 873–4, in J. Graham-Campbell, R. Hall, J. Jesch and D. N. Parsons (eds), Vikings and the Danelaw, 45–96, Oxford: Oxbow Blair, J. 2009. The dangerous dead in early medieval England, in S. Baxter, C. Karkov, J. L. Nelson and D. Pelteret (eds), Early Medieval Studies in Memory of Patrick Wormald, 539–59, 5, Farnham: Ashgate Buckberry, J. 2007. On sacred ground: social identity and churchyard burial in Lincolnshire and Yorkshire, c. 700–1100 AD, in S. Semple and H. Williams (eds), Early Medieval Mortuary Practices, AngloSaxon Studies in Archaeology and History, 14, 117–29, Oxford: Oxford University School of Archaeology Cherryson, A. 2007. Disturbing the dead: urbanisation, the church and the post-burial treatment of human remains in early medieval Wessex, c. 600–1100 AD, in S. Semple and H. Williams (eds), Early Medieval Mortuary Practices, Anglo-Saxon Studies in Archaeology and History, 14, 130–42, Oxford: Oxford University School of Archaeology Coatsworth, E. 2008. Corpus of Anglo-Saxon Stone Sculpture Volume VIII: Western Yorkshire, Oxford: Oxford University Press Collingwood, W. G. 1927. Northumbrian Crosses of the Pre-Norman Age, London: Faber and Faber Cramp, R. 1984a. Grammar of Anglo-Saxon Ornament. A General

9 hogbacks 

Introduction to the Corpus of Anglo-Saxon Stone Sculpture, Oxford: Oxford University Press Cramp, R. 1984b. Corpus of Anglo-Saxon Stone Sculpture Volume I: County Durham and Northumberland, 2 vols, Oxford: Oxford University Press Cramp, R. 1988. Corpus of Anglo-Saxon Stone Sculpture in England: General Introduction, Oxford: Oxford University Press Crawford, B. 1994. The ‘Norse’ background to the Govan hogbacks, in A. Ritchie (ed.), Govan and its Early Medieval Sculpture, 103–12, Stroud: Sutton Devlin, Z. 2011. Putting memory in its place: sculpture, cemetery topography and commemoration, in M. F. Reed (ed.), New Voices on Early Medieval Sculpture in Britain and Ireland, 32–41, Oxford: British Archaeological Report, British Series, 542 Driscoll, S., O’Grady, O. and Forsyth, K. 2005. The Govan school revisited: searching for meaning in the early medieval sculpture of Strathclyde, in S. Foster and M. Cross (eds), Able Minds and Practised Hands: Scotland’s Early Medieval Sculpture in the 21st Century, 135–58, Leeds: Maney Edwards, N. 2007b. A Corpus of Early Medieval Inscribed Stones and Stone Sculpture in Wales, Volume II, South-West Wales, Cardiff: University of Wales Press Eriksen, M. H. 2013. Doors to the dead: the power of doorways and thresholds in Viking Age Scandinavia, Archaeological Dialogues, 20(2), 187–214. Everson, P. and Stocker, D. 1999. Corpus of Anglo-Saxon Stone Sculpture Volume V: Lincolnshire, Oxford: Oxford University Press Ewing, T. 2003. Understanding the Heysham hogback: a tenth-century sculpted stone monument and its context, Transactions of the Historical Society of Lancashire and Cheshire, CLII, 1–20 Gell, A. 1998. Art and Agency: An Anthropological Theory, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Gilchrist, R. 2009. Rethinking later medieval masculinity: the male body in death, in D. Sayer and H. Williams (eds), Mortuary Practices and Social Identities in the Middle Ages, 236–52, Exeter: University of Exeter Press Guttridge, A. 2010. The depiction of time on the Arch of Constantine, in D. Borić (ed.), Archaeology and Memory, 158–70, Oxford: Oxbow Hadley, D. 2000. ‘Hamlet and the Princes of Denmark’: lordship in the Danelaw, c. 860–954, in D. M. Hadley and J. D. Richards (eds), Cultures in Contact: Scandinavian Settlement in England in the Ninth and Tenth Centuries, 107–32, Turnhout: Brepols Hadley, D. 2006. The Vikings in England: Settlement, Society and Culture, Manchester: Manchester University Press Hadley, D. 2008. Warriors, heroes and companions: negotiating masculinity in Viking-Age England, in S. Crawford and H. Hamerow (eds), Anglo-

265

266 

howard williams

Saxon Studies in Archaeology and History, 15, 270–84, Oxford: Oxford University School of Archaeology Hall, M. 2015. The Meigle stones: a biographical overview, Northern Studies 46: 15–46. Halsall, G. 2000. The Viking presence in England? The burial evidence reconsidered, in D. M. Hadley and J. D. Richards (eds), Cultures in Contact: Scandinavian Settlement in England in the Ninth and Tenth Centuries, 259–75, Turnhout: Brepols Hawkes, J. 2003. Reading stone, in C. E. Karkov and F. Orton (eds), Theorizing Anglo-Saxon Stone Sculpture, 5–30, Morgantown: West Virginia University Press Herity, M. 1993. The forms of the tomb-shrine of the founder saint in Ireland, in R. M. Spearman and J. Higgitt (eds), The Age of Migrating Ideas: Early Medieval Art in Northern Britain and Ireland, 188–95, Edinburgh: National Museums of Scotland Holloway, J. 2010. Material symbolism and death: charcoal burial in later Anglo-Saxon England, in J. Buckberry and A. Cherryson (eds), Burial in Later Anglo-Saxon England, c. 650–1100 AD, 83–92, Oxford: Oxbow Holtorf, C. 1996. Towards a chronology of megaliths: understanding monumental time and cultural memory, Journal of European Archaeology, 4, 119–52 Jones, A. 2007. Memory and Material Culture, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Karkov, C. 2011. The Art of Anglo-Saxon England, Woodbridge: Boydell Kitzinger, E. 1993. Interlace and icons: form and function in early Insular art, in R. M. Spearman and J. Higgitt (eds), The Age of Migrating Ideas: Early Medieval Art in Northern Britain and Ireland, 3–15, Edinburgh: National Museums of Scotland Kopár, L. 2012. Gods and Settlers: The Iconography of Norse Mythology in Anglo-Scandinavian Sculpture, Turnhout: Brepols Lang, J. 1971. The Castledermot hogback, Journal of the Royal Society of Antiquaries of Ireland, 101(2), 154–8 Lang, J. 1972. Illustrative carving of the Viking Period at Sockburn on Tees, Archaeologia Aeliana, Series 4, 50, 235–48 Lang, J. 1972–74. Hogback monuments in Scotland, Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland, 105, 206–35 Lang, J. 1976. Sigurd and Weland in pre-Conquest carving from northern England, Yorkshire Archaeological Journal, 48, 83–94 Lang, J. 1984. The hogback: a Viking colonial monument, in S. C. Hawkes, J. Campbell and D. Brown (eds), Anglo-Saxon Studies in Archaeology and History, 3, 83–176, Oxford: Oxford University Committee for Archaeology Lang, J. 1991. Corpus of Anglo-Saxon Stone Sculpture Volume III: York and Eastern Yorkshire, Oxford: Oxford University Press

9 hogbacks 

Lang, J. 1994. The Govan hogbacks: a reappraisal, in A. Ritchie (ed.), Govan and its Early Medieval Sculpture, 123–31, Stroud: Sutton Lang, J. 2001. Corpus of Anglo-Saxon Stone Sculpture Volume VI: Northern Yorkshire, Oxford: Oxford University Press Moreland, J. 1999. The world(s) of the cross, World Archaeology, 31(2), 194–213 Nash, G. 2010. Death and memorial in an early medieval ecclesiastical landscape in north-west England: an appraisal of St Patrick’s Chapel and St Peter’s Church, Heysham, Lancashire, in A. George, D. Hawley, G. Nash, J. Swann and L. White (eds), Early Medieval Enquiries, 299–317, Bristol: The Proceedings of the Clifton Antiquarian Club, 9 Neuman de Vegvar, C. 2007. Remembering Jerusalem: architecture and meaning in Insular canon table arcades, in R. Moss (ed.), Making and Meaning in Insular Art, 242–57, Dublin: Four Courts Press Ní Ghrádaigh, J. and Mullins, J. 2013. Apostolically inscribed: St Cuthbert’s coffin as sacred vessel, in J. Ashbee and J. Luxford (eds), Medieval Art and Architecture in Newcastle and Northumberland, 73–89, British Archaeological Association Transactions Series, 36, Leeds: Maney Nylén, E. and Lamm, J. P. 1988. Stones, Ships and Symbols, Stockholm: Gidlunds O’Sullivan, D. 2011. Normanising the North: The evidence of Anglo-Saxon and Anglo-Scadninavian Sculpture, Medieval Archaeology, 55, 163–91 Pluskowski, A. 2006. Wolves and the Wilderness in the Middle Ages, Woodbridge: Boydell Potter, T. W. and Andrews, R. D. 2004. Excavation and survey at St Patrick’s Chapel and St Peter’s Church, Heysham, Lancashire, 1977–8, Antiquaries Journal, 74, 55–134 Preston-Jones, A. and Okasha, E. 2013. Corpus of Anglo-Saxon Stone Sculpture Volume XI: Early Cornish Sculpture, Oxford: Oxford University Press Price, N. 2002. The Viking Way: Religion and War in Late Iron Age Scandinavia, Uppsala: Uppsala Universitet Price, N. 2010. Passing into poetry: Viking-Age mortuary drama and the origins of Norse Mythology, Medieval Archaeology, 54, 123–56 Rawlin-Cushing, H. 2011. Commemoration at York: the significance of Minster 42, ‘Costaun’s’ grave-cover, in M. F. Reed (ed.), New Voices on Early Medieval Sculpture in Britain and Ireland, 48–56, Oxford: British Archaeological Report, British Series, 542 Schmidt, H. 1973. The Trelleborg house reconsidered, Medieval Archaeology, 17, 52–77 Schmidt, H. 2007. Reconstruction of the Lejre hall, in J. D. Niles (ed.), Beowulf and Lejre, 103–8, Arizona: Arizona Center for Medieval and Renaissance Studies, Tempe, Arizona Semple, S. 1998. A fear of the past: the place of the prehistoric burial

267

268 

howard williams

mound in the ideology of middle and later Anglo-Saxon England, World Archaeology, 30(1), 109–26 Semple, S. 2004. Illustrations of damnation in late Anglo-Saxon manuscripts, Anglo-Saxon England, 32, 231–45 Sidebottom, P. 1999. Stone crosses of the Peak District and the ‘sons of Eadwulf ’, Derbyshire Archaeological Journal, 119, 206–19 Sidebottom, P. 2000. Viking Age stone monuments and social identity in Derbyshire, in D.M Hadley and J. D. Richards (eds), Cultures in Context: Scandinavian Settlement in England in the Ninth and Tenth Centuries, 213–35, Turnhout: Brepols Stocker, D. 2000. Monuments and merchants: irregularities in the distribution of stone sculpture in Lincolnshire and Yorkshire in the tenth century, in D. M. Hadley and J. D. Richards (eds), Cultures in Contact: Scandinavian Settlement in England in the Ninth and Tenth Centuries, 179–212, Turnhout: Brepols Stocker, D. and Everson, P. 2001. Five towns funerals: decoding diversity in Danelaw stone sculpture, in J. Graham-Campbell, R. Hall, J. Jesch and D. N. Parsons (eds), Vikings and the Danelaw, 223–44, Oxford: Oxbow Thompson, V. 2004. Dying and Death in Later Anglo-Saxon England, Woodbridge: Boydell Tweddle, D., Biddle, M. and Kjølbye-Biddle, B. 1995. Corpus of AngloSaxon Stone Sculpture Volume IV: South-East England, Oxford: Oxford University Press Williams, H. 2006. Death and Memory in Early Medieval Britain, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press Williams, H. 2011. Remembering elites: early medieval stone crosses as commemorative technologies, in L. Boye, P. Ethelberg, L. Heidemann Lutz, S. Kleingärtner, P. Kruse, L. Matthes and A. B. Sørensen (eds), Arkæologi i Slesvig/Archäologie in Schleswig. Sonderband ‘Det 61. Internationale Sachsensymposion 2010’ Haderslev, Denmark, 13–32, Neumünster: Wachholtz Williams, H. 2015. Beowulf and archaeology: megaliths imagined and encountered in Early Medieval Europe, in M. Diaz-Guardamino Uribe, L. García Sanjuán and D. Wheatley (eds), The Lives of Prehistoric Monuments in Iron Age, Roman and Medieval Europe, 77–97, Oxford: Oxford University Press Youngs, S. (ed.) 1989. ‘The Works of Angels’: Masterpieces of Celtic Metalwork, 6th–9th Centuries AD, London: British Museum

Contributors

Gaining her PhD in archaeology in 2007, Ing-Marie Back Danielsson is a researcher at Uppsala University, Sweden. Apart from an interest in stone monuments and memory work her research also includes investigations of Late Iron Age burials, the materiality of images, the history of archaeology and the archaeology of contemporary death. Between 2015 and 2017 she was the leader of a project funded by the Swedish Research Council and Marie Sklodowska Curie Actions (EU) concerned with central elite places in the Late Iron Age in Middle Sweden and Norway. Iris Crouwers is a doctoral candidate at the Department of Archaeology, History, Cultural Studies and Religion of the University of Bergen in Norway. Her research project revolves around late Viking-Age and medieval stone crosses and related monuments of western Norway. Jenifer Ní Ghrádaigh is an honorary fellow at the University of Sheffield and an associated scholar with the ‘Women as Makers Project’, Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, Madrid. Her interests lie in Insular art, particularly sculpture but also manuscripts, and Romanesque architecture, and how these relate to the society that produced them. As well as publishing widely on her research she is co-editor of two collections of essays, The March in the Islands of the Medieval West (2012) and Envisioning Christ on the Cross (2013). Specialising in the archaeology of early medieval northern Britain, Meggen Gondek is Reader in Archaeology at the University of Chester and co-director of the Rhynie Environs Archaeological Research Project. Her research has been published in the journals Antiquity, Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland and Medieval Archaeology. Mark A. Hall is History Officer at Perth Museum & Art Gallery and is principally responsible for the curation of the archaeology collections, which notably include the medieval excavation assemblages from

270 contributors

Perth. His interest in medieval material culture principally focuses on Pictish sculpture, the cult of saints, play and reception studies (especially cinematic portrayals of the medieval past), on which he has published in several journals and books, including a biographical overview of the Meigle Stones and (with David Caldwell) a contextual monograph on the Lewis chessmen. After receiving her undergraduate and Masters degrees at Durham University, Joanne Kirton completed her doctoral thesis at the University of Chester in 2015. Her doctoral research explored the locations and biographies of early medieval carved stone monuments in Cheshire. Joanne is Project Manager for Big Heritage CIC, whilst continuing long-standing research with the Bamburgh Research Project. A doctoral candidate in the Archaeology Department, University College Cork, Clíodhna O’Leary is a member of the Early Medieval and Viking Research Group there. Her research, which is funded by the Irish Research Council and UCC, seeks to interpret the early medieval mortuary and ritual sculpture from counties Clare and Limerick. It investigates how sculpture expressed ideological and religious beliefs, socio-political power, social status, identity and memory. With research interests focusing on early medieval mortuary archaeology, archaeologies of memory and the history of archaeology, Howard Williams is Professor of Archaeology at the University of Chester. He is co-director of Project Eliseg, investigating the context of the Pillar of Eliseg (Denbighshire, Wales).

Index

Page numbers in bold indicate illustrations, tables (t) and maps (m). Aberlemno 1 (Angus), pillar  187 Adam and Eve  154, 169, 228, 229, 230 Adomnán of Iona  7 Aided Diarmada meic Fergusa cerrbeoil (Middle Irish tale)  228, 229 Allen, J. Romilly  100, 206, 222n Anderson, Joseph  100, 206, 222n Andreeff, Alexander  23 Andrén, Anders  13, 63 Ängby, Uppland (Sweden), rune-stone  72 animal carvings  2 bear  92–3t, 94, 98, 105, 106 hogbacks  245, 250, 251, 255–6 boar  92–3t, 94, 98–9, 104, 105 bull  92–3t, 94, 102, 106 lion 221–3, 221, 230 ox/steer  92–3t, 94, 106 Annals of the Four Masters (1630)  234 Annals of Tigernach (1058)  223, 227 Anundshög, Västmanland (Sweden), raised stones 72–3 Aspatria (Cumbria), hogbacks  247, 256, 257, 259 assembly sites  52–3, 53–6, 167–8, 191–2 Astbury (Cheshire), round-shaft  37 ätt (family/kinship)  77 Bailey, Richard N.  6, 52, 153, 249, 250, 253 Bakewell (Derbys.)  48, 253 Balblair stone (Inverness-shire)  187 Banshenchas (Irish metrical text)  234 Barad, Karen  184–5 bautas (standing stones)  72–3 bear carvings  92–3t, 94, 98, 105, 106 on hogbacks  245, 250, 251, 255–6

Bedale 6 (North Yorks.), hogback  249 Bede  5–6, 7–8 Bewcastle monument (Northumb.)  1–2, 197 biography of monuments, theoretical approaches  17–20, 183–5 Birkeli, Fridtjov  151, 159, 174 Birkle Hill, Keiss (Caithness)  90t, 92–3t, 95m, 96, 97, 100 Black, Ronald I. M.  197 'Blayklow Cross' (Cheshire)  41m, 49 boar carvings  92–3t, 94, 98–9, 104, 105 Boniface, Saint  171, 172, 190 Borgund, Vicar of  155, 156 Bowstones  see Disley Lyme Handley (Cheshire) Bradbourne cross (Derbys.)  18, 185 Brash, Richard  127 Breeze, Andrew  53 bridges  see footbridges, monuments reused as Bristow, Clement R.  51 British Museum, Hilton cross-slab  195 Broch of Burrian  see Knowe of Burrian (Orkney), broch complex Broch of Gurness (Orkney), broch complex  90t, 92–3t, 95m, 101, 102–3, 106 Brompton (North Yorks.), hogbacks a composite view  247–9, 248 design  256, 258, 259 as place of origin  245, 252 sub-types 243, 244 brooches 219n Hunterston Brooch  217–18, 217, 219 Killamery Brooch  218–19, 218 penannular 191 Brookes, Stuart  48



272 index

Bucklow Hill (Cheshire)  53 bull carvings  92–3t, 94, 102, 106 bullaun stones  115 Bullstones burial site  42, 42 Burghead (Morayshire), fort  90t, 92–3t, 95m, 101, 102, 106 burial, cist  19, 23, 89, 91, 100, 189 burial, cremation  20, 23, 98 burial, deviant  131, 168–9 Burström, Mats  19–20 Caimín, Saint  see St Caimín, Life of (metrical text); St Caimín's Church, Iniscealtra (Co. Clare) Caiplie Caves (Fife)  91 Carew 1 (Pembs.), cross  15 Carmichael, Alexander  193 Carver, Martin  22 Cassidy, Brendan  18 Çatalhöyük, Konya Plain, Anatolia  89 Cathach, psalter  225 Cathasach's Cross, Iniscealtra (Co. Clare) 128–9, 128, 134, 137, 139 cave sites  91, 94, 108 cemeteries 122 and cist burials  19, 23, 89, 91, 100, 189 consecration  123–4, 140 and deviant burials  131, 168–9 execution  131, 168 subdivision and status  135–6, 140–1 see also Faughart Lower (Co. Louth), cemetery; rune-stones (Sweden), and burial grounds Chapel Cave (Fife)  91 Cheshire, round-shaft crosses  36–9, 37m, 43–4, 46, 49 see also Cleulow Cross, Wincle (Cheshire) Christian Gulating Law  69–70 Christianization Norway  150–1, 161–2 of monuments  163–9, 172 Pictish sculpture  187, 188 see also religion, Irish reform Church of the Wounded Men (Teampall na bhFear nGonta)  see Saints' Graveyard, Iniscealtra (Co. Clare) Ciarán, Saint (6C Ireland)  233, 235 Cross of the Scriptures  223–4, 224, 225, 225 Temple Ciarán, Clonmacnoise  220, 221, 228 Lion slab  221–3, 221

Cille Bharra, Barra (Hebrides), runic crossslab 193 cist burials  19, 23, 89, 91, 100, 189 Clarke, David  19, 89, 187, 188 Cleulow Cross, Wincle (Cheshire) cultural topography  42–3 form and decoration  43–4 location  38, 39–40, 40 meaning of Cleulow 53 natural topography  41m, 44–50, 45m, 47m potential for assembly  52–6 production and memory  51–2 route-ways 46–9, 47m viewsheds 45–6, 45m, 50 Wincle mound  39–40, 40, 41–2 Clonfinlough Stone (Co. Offaly)  235 Clonmacnoise (Co. Offaly), monastic complex carved tomb-slabs  231–2, 233 Cross of the Scriptures  223–4, 224, 225, 225 see also Flann mac Máelsechnaill (d. 916) Crucifixion Plaque  234, 235 Nuns' Church  234, 234, 235 poems 232–3 Temple Ciarán  220, 221, 228 Lion slab  221–3, 221 see also Ciarán, Saint (6C Ireland) Clunie (Perths.)  191–2 Coatsworth, Elizabeth  253 Cogadh Gaedhel Re Gallaibh (Irish text)  129 Collectio Canonum Hibernensis (Irish text)  118, 121, 123 Collingwood, William Gershom, hogbacks  244 Colmán, Abbot (10C Ireland)  224, 227, 229 Colmán Mac Lúacháin, Life of (Lann, 7C Ireland)  134, 140 Columba, Saint  7, 102, 124, 224, 225 Confessional, Iniscealtra (Co. Clare)  115, 122, 126, 127, 134 Congleton (Cheshire)  48 consecration, Christian spaces  123–4, 140, 153, 168, 170, 222–3 see also burial, deviant Constantine's Cave (Fife)  91 Constantine’s Cross  see Dupplin Cross, Dunning (Perths.) Corpus of Anglo-Saxon Stone Sculpture 12– 13, 36, 242, 249–50 Cramp, Rosemary  12, 13, 184

index 273 Crathorne 5 (North Yorks.), hogback  256 Craw Stane, Pictish stone  see under Rhynie (Aberdeens.) Creich (Sutherland), standing stone  199 Crichie stone (Aberdeens.)  187 Crieff Burgh Cross, Strathearn (Perths.) 197–8, 198 Cross of Muiredach, Monasterboice (Co. Louth)  228, 230 Cross of Roscrea (Co. Tipperary)  229, 230 Cross of the Scriptures (Clonmacnoise) 223–4, 224, 225, 225 see also Flann mac Máelsechnaill (d. 916) Crucifixion Plaque, Clonmacnoise (Co. Offaly) 234, 235 Curman, Carl (1833-1913)  75 Curman, Sigurd (1879-1966)  75 Cwyfan, Saint  see Maen Achwyfan cross (Flints.) Cwyfan's Stone  see Maen Achwyfan cross (Flints.) Dál Cais, dynasty  129–30, 141 Dal Riata, kings of  105 Dargie church, Invergowrie (Perths.), sandstone slab  203 de Paor, Liam  116, 123, 126 Deane, Thomas  127–8 Deleuze, Gilles  76 Derbforgaill  see Nuns' Church, Clonmacnoise (Co. Offaly) Devlin, Zoë  131, 133, 255 Dewsbury 15 (West Yorks.), hogback  249, 253 Diarmait, abbot of Iniscealtra (8C Ireland) 119 Diarmait mac Cerbaill (d. 565), high king of Ireland  227, 229 Disley (Cheshire), Church Field  36–7, 37m Disley Lyme Handley (Cheshire)  37m, 46, 46m Dodgson, John McN.  53 Drosten Stone no. 1, St Vigeans (Angus), cross-slab 94 Duff, Alexander, and his three wives (1676) 194–5 Dunadd (Argyll), fort  90t, 92–3t, 95m, 104, 105 Dunnicaer (Aberdeens.), fort  90t, 92–3t, 95m, 104, 106 Dupplin Cross, Dunning (Perths.)  195, 197, 200–1, 201 Durrow, Book of 120, 222

Durrow cross (Co. Offaly)  225n Dysert O'Dea (Co. Clare)  220n, 230 Dyserth (Denbighs.)  2 Early Christian Monuments of Scotland, The (ECMS) 187 Eassie cross-slab (Angus)  202–3 East Lomond Hill (Fife), fort  90t, 92–3t, 95m, 104, 106 East Wemyss Caves (Fife)  91 Eaton, Tim  18, 96 ECMS (The Early Christian Monuments of Scotland) 187 Edinburgh mercat cross, poem  184 Edinburgh, symbol stone  202 Edssjön, Lake (Sweden)  73m, 75, 75, 77 Edwards, Nancy  2, 18, 54, 55, 56, 222n Eigg (Inner Hebrides), cross-slab  192 Eleanor Vase  217 Eriksen, Marianne Hem  260 Ernán, monk  7 Etchingham, Colmán  121 Everson, Paul  18, 186, 249–50 Eystein, Bishop of Oslo  171 face-masks, Pictish sculptures  193 fairs and markets  see market (mercat) crosses Falconer, Lt. William Keay, memorial  195, 195, 196 Faughart Lower (Co. Louth), cemetery  121, 122 Fisher, Ian  191 FitzPatrick, Elizabeth  139 Flann mac Máelsechnaill (d. 916), king of Mide and high king of Ireland  224, 226, 227, 229 folktales and legends  151, 155–6, 170–2, 173–4 footbridges, monuments reused as  201–3, 202 footprint carvings  92t, 105, 139–40 footwear, episcopal significance  139–40 Forsyth, Katherine  89, 116, 119 forts  90t, 102, 105, 106 Fowlis Wester, Strathearn (Perths.), crossslab 199 Friesen, Otto von  65, 67 Fröjel Stenstugu, Gotland (Sweden), picture stone 23 Frösö stone, Jämtland (Sweden)  161 funerals, pre-Christian  68–9 Fursey, Saint  124–5

274 index Gainford 22 (Co. Durham), hogback  259 Galloway Picts Project  105 Gard, Haugesund, Rogaland (Norway), mound cross  163, 165 Gask (Perths.), cross-slab  203, 205, 206 Geographical Information Systems (GIS)  46, 48 Giles, Kate  14 Gilla Mo-Duta, Banshenchas (1147)  234 Gille, Bishop of Limerick  130–1, 132, 137, 138, 139–40 GIS (Geographical Information Systems)  46, 48 Giske cross, Møre og Romsdal (Norway) 155–6, 155 Glendalough (Co. Wicklow), cathedral  131, 221, 227 Golgotha, Mount  6–7, 56, 153, 169, 173 Gondek, Meggen  52, 192 Goodlyburn Cross (Perths.)  199–200, 206 Gosden, Chris  79 Gosforth (Cumbria), hogbacks  247, 248, 249, 256, 257 Gotland (Sweden) mound burial  168 picture stones  19–20, 23, 75 rune-stones  63, 77, 78 Govan (Glasgow)  21, 206, 245, 260 graffiti 204–6, 205 Greenhill, Frank Allen  191 Griffiths, David  2–3 Grindheim, Hordaland (Norway), runic cross-slab 162, 162 Gulaþing law (Norway)  166, 168 Gulating Law, Christian  69–70 Hadley, Dawn  250–1 Hadrian's Wall  7 Hákon the Good  150, 161 Halket, Capt. John Fisken, memorial  196, 196 Hall, Mark A.  18–19, 192–3, 195 Hamestan Hundred (Derbys.)  36, 56 Haraldsson, Óláfr (c. 995-1030)  see Óláfr, Saint (c. 995-1030, Norway) Haraway, Donna  184–5 Hauge, Klepp, Rogaland (Norway), mound cross 163, 164, 167, 168 Hawkes, Jane  13, 16, 254 Hawkstone, the (Perths.), standing stone 189 hearths 91, 93t, 98–9, 104, 106 Heavenfield cross, Nr Hexham (Northumb.) 5–8, 5

Hedda’s Tomb, Peterborough (Cambs.)  253, 259 Hefenfelth  see Heavenfield cross, Nr Hexham (Northumb.) Heimskringla sagas (c. 1230), Sturluson, Snorri  151, 170–1, 173 Henry, Françoise  153, 224 Herjolfsnes (Greenland), wooden mortuary crosses  154, 155, 166 Hermelin, Olof (1827-1913), landscapist  63 Heysham (Lancs.), hogback  247, 255, 259–60, 259 High Island (Co. Galway), cross-slabs  128 Higham, Nicholas  56 hill-forts  see forts Hilton of Cadboll (Easter Ross), crossslab  16, 18, 194–5 Historia Ecclesiastica  see Bede hogbacks 241–3 commemorative significance  260–2 distribution and chronology  243, 244, 245–7, 246m form and function  247–9 sub-types  242, 243, 244, 256, 257–9 interpretation and origins  249–52 skeuomorphism design influences  252–5 and solidity  255–60 Hogrän, Gotland (Sweden), rune-stone  77, 78 Hooke, Della  53 horse racing, evidence  199–200 Hunter, John  99–100 Hunterston Brooch  217–18, 217, 219 Hutcheson, Alexander  189 Hyllestad, Sogn og Fjordane (Norway), quarries  152, 159–60, 170 Ihre, Hellvi parish, Gotland (Sweden)  19– 20 Inchyra symbol stone (Perths.)  187–9, 189, 190 graffiti  189, 204, 205, 206 Ingleby Arncliffe 4 (North Yorks.), hogback 256, 256, 258 Ingold, Tim  35, 207 Iniscealtra (Co. Clare), monastic complex 114–15, 114–15 Cathasach's Cross  128–9, 128, 134, 137, 139 the Confessional  115, 122, 126, 127, 134 cross-slabs (Group 1)  116, 123 inscribed 117, 117, 119 prayer and burial  118–20, 121, 122–3

index 275 grave-slabs (Group 2)  125–8, 125, 129 high-status commissions  140–1 inscriptions  136–7, 138–9 procession routes  134–5 and religious reform  130–1, 132, 137 St Brigid's church  115, 132, 134 St Caimín's Church  115, 123, 128, 132, 133 St Mary's Church  115, 132 St Michael's Church  115, 132, 134 Saints' Graveyard  115, 126, 127 composite burial plot  127, 135, 135–6, 137 cross-base  127, 129, 129, 136 desirable plots  131, 132, 133 grave-slabs  116, 125–8 prayer request inscriptions  136–7 procession route  134–5 Teampall na bhFear nGonta (Church of the Wounded Men)  115, 126, 127, 127, 132, 135, 140–1 Inishmurray (Co. Sligo)  21, 134, 136 inscriptions and symbols  see animal carvings; Ogham inscriptions; runestones (Norway); Södermanland (Sweden), rune-stones; symbol stones, Pictish; Uppland (Sweden), rune-stones Insular art  see symbol stones, Pictish Iona, Isle of (Scotland)  7, 124, 193–4 ‘it narratives’  184 James, Heather F.  18, 21, 194 Jarlabanke bridge, Uppland (Sweden)  72, 72 Jeffrey, Stuart  192 Jelling stone (Denmark)  161 Johnstown 1 (Co. Meath), cemetery  122, 131 Jones, Andrew Meirion  11, 76, 77, 89, 107 jougs, punishment  198–9 Joyce, Rosemary  80 Karesson, Asmund  72 Karkov, Catherine E.  250 Kells (Co. Meath)  220n, 222, 224 Kettins (Perths.), cross-slab  201–2, 202 Kieran The Younger  see Ciarán, Saint (6C Ireland) Kilchoman Parish Church (Isle of Islay) 194, 194 Killaloe (Co. Clare)  114m, 129, 132, 137 Killamery Brooch  218–19, 218 Kilwinning Abbey (Ayrs.), war memorial  196, 197 Kirriemuir no. 2 (Angus)  190 Klos, Lydia  67, 68t, 69t

Knightslow (Warwicks.)  54 Knocknagael (Inverness-shire)  94 Knowe of Burrian (Orkney), broch complex 88, 90t, 92–3t, 95m, 96, 97, 100 Knowth (Co. Meath), passage tomb  98, 204 Korsstranda, Sogn og Fjordane (Norway), cross  159m, 169 Krosshaug (Norway), mound cross  167 Kuli stone, Møre og Romsdal (Norway)  161, 162 kuml (runes)  72, 79 landscape, theoretical approaches  20–4 Lang, James (hogbacks) classification  242, 243, 244 composite monuments  248 origins  245, 250 and skeuomorphism  253–4, 256, 258 Langlands, Alexander  41, 47, 49, 50 Last, Jonathan  89 Le Goff, Jacques  118 leachta  21, 136, 223n lead (metal), mortuary crosses  165–7, 165 Lebor na hUidre (Irish manuscript)  133 Leeds 8 (West Yorks.), monument  253 legends and folktales  151, 155–6, 170–2, 173–4 Lethendy (Perths.), cross-slab  190, 191, 191, 192 Libri vitae (memorial books)  120 Lindisfarne, name stones  17 lion carvings  221–3, 221, 230 Lion slab, Temple Ciarán, Clonmacnoise (Co. Offaly)  221–3, 221 Llanbadarn Fawr 1 (Ceredigion), cross  14 Lochardill (Inverness-shire), ox/steer  94 Lorrha (Co. Tipperary), Stowe Missal 119 Lowther (Cumbria), hogbacks  258, 259 Lythe (North Yorks.), hogbacks  243, 245, 248 Macalister, Robert Alexander Stewart  115, 127, 128, 138, 139 MacLean, Douglas  186 MacNeills of Barra (Hebrides)  193 Maddern, Christine  14 Máelsechnaill mac Máelruanaid (d. 862), king of Mide and high king of Ireland  224, 225n, 226, 227, 229, 234 Maen Achwyfan cross (Flints.)  2–5, 3, 4 Maeshowe (Orkney), graffiti  204–5 Mail, Cunningsburgh (Shetland), stones  91 Mälar Valley (Sweden)  66m

276 index Manning, Conleth  222 market (mercat) crosses  184 Crieff Burgh Cross, Strathearn (Perths.) 197–8, 198 Dupplin Cross, Dunning (Perths.)  200– 1, 200 Tuam (Co. Galway)  226, 227, 229 materiality of stone, approaches  13–17 Matilda, Abbess of Essen and Aethelweard 233 McNamara, Martin  225 Meaney, Audrey  52–3 meeting-sites  see assembly sites Melbrigta  see Hunterston Brooch memory stones  see rune-stones (Sweden), as memory stones memory work, stone monuments  8–11 mercat crosses  see market (mercat) crosses mnemonic devices  15, 80–1, 107–8, 118, 254–5 see also rune-stones (Sweden), as memory stones Moloney, Rev. Michael  120 Monasterboice (Co. Louth), graveyard  185– 6, 228, 230 Moreland, John  14, 18, 184 mortuary crosses, lead (metal)  165–7, 165 mortuary crosses, wooden  154, 155, 166 mound crosses, Rogaland (Norway)  163–9, 164, 165 see also Cleulow Cross, Wincle (Cheshire) Mount Gamble (Co. Dublin), cemetery  131 Mountblow Cross, Sandford Burn, Old Kilpatrick (Dunbartonshire)  202 Muiredach's cross, Monasterboice (Co. Louth)  228, 230 name stones  14, 17, 117, 120 naming traditions, Viking  162 National Museums Scotland (NMS)  see Society of Antiquaries' Museum, Edinburgh Nevern 4 (Ceredigion), cross  15 Newman, Conor  190–1, 192 Nigg (Easter Ross), cross-slab  16, 197 Nilssøn, Jens, Bishop of Oslo  171 Njærheim, Rogaland (Norway), stone cross 158–9, 158, 159m, 160 Nuns' Church, Clonmacnoise (Co. Offaly) 234, 234, 235 Ó Carragáin, Tomás  21, 123–4 Ó Floinn, Raghnall  116, 117, 121

oath stones  190–1, 191, 192, 229 O'Brien, Elizabeth  121–2 Ogham inscriptions  100, 188, 189, 204 Okasha, Elizabeth  116, 119, 218–19 Óláfr, Saint (c. 995-1030, Norway)  150–1, 157, 161, 170–2 Old Scatness (Shetland)  90t, 95m symbol stones  92–3t, 96, 98–9 thresholds and movement  104, 104, 105–6 Ollamurray leacht, Inishmurray (Co. Sligo) 136 Openshaw, Kathleen  225 Ordnance Survey Letters (1838)  127 Östergötland (Sweden)  63, 66m Østfold (Norway), Tune stone  152 Oswald, Saint (king of Northumbria)  5–6, 7 Oswaldkirk 2 (North Yorks.), shrine  253 ox phalange, Knowe of Burrian (Orkney) 88 ox/steer carvings  92–3t, 94, 106 Pantos, Aliki  40, 53, 54 Parc-an-Caipel, Congash (Invernessshire)  90t, 91 Patrick, Saint  137, 224, 232 penance, sacrament of (7C)  124–5 Penitential Commutations, Old Irish Table of 124 Penitential of Cummian (penance book)  120 Penrith (Cumbria), hogbacks  244, 247, 248, 259 personhood, material entanglements  183–4, 185 Peterhead Farm, Gleneagles (Perths.)  90t, 91 Physiologus (Greek text)  222 picture stones  19–20, 23, 75 pilgrimage  7, 21, 136, 171 Pillar of Eliseg (Denbighs.)  22, 23, 23 assembly site  53–4, 55, 56 Pool, Sanday (Orkney)  90t, 92–3t, 95m, 96, 97, 99–100 post-holes, wooden markers  132–3 prayer requests, inscriptions  137, 138, 139 prayers, for the dead  118, 119, 120 Prestbury (Cheshire)  see Cheshire, roundshaft crosses procession, crosses  see skeuomorphism procession, routes  21, 50, 134–5 see also pilgrimage Pulliam, Heather  222n punishment, jougs  198–9

index 277 purgatory  118, 137–8 Queranus of Clonmacnoise  see Ciarán, Saint (6C Ireland) Rainow (Cheshire), round-shaft  36, 37, 37m, 42–3 Ralston, Ian  102 Relickoran, Inishmurray (Co. Sligo), procession circuit  134 religion, Irish reform  130–2, 137–40 see also Christianization Reynolds, Andrew  41, 47, 49, 50 Rhynie (Aberdeens.)  95m Craw Stane, Pictish stone  87–8, 88, 90t, 91, 104, 108 symbols  92–3t Rhynie Man  90t, 91 Richards, Colin  52 Ridge Hall Farm (Cheshire)  49 Ritchie, Anna  102, 103–4 Rogaland (Norway), mound crosses  163–9, 164, 165 Roscrea (Co. Tipperary)  140, 229, 230 round-shaft crosses, Cheshire  36–9, 37m, 43–4, 46, 49 see also Cleulow Cross, Wincle (Cheshire); Disley Lyme Handley (Cheshire); Pillar of Eliseg (Denbighs.) Roy, Maj. Gen. William  102 Rundkvist, Martin  20 runes, brooch inscriptions  see Hunterston Brooch; Killamery Brooch rune-stones (Norway) inscriptions 160–3, 165, 166, 167, 170 Tune stone, Østfold  152 rune-stones (Sweden) by borders and route-ways  63, 73, 74, 75, 75, 76 and burial grounds  63, 64, 67, 68–71, 70 and Christianity  62, 63 distribution 62–3, 66m environment  65, 67, 68t, 69t materiality of stone and images  78–9 materials of affect  76–8 as memory stones  62, 64, 65, 70, 77, 79–80 as mnemonic agents  80–1 as multi-media  76–8 and other stones  68t, 69t, 71–3 painted 76–7 reorientation  65, 67 Södermanland  66m, 72, 77

Södermanland 41, Björke  70, 71, 71, 78, 79 Södermanland 106, Kjula  63, 64, 71 Södermanland 175, Lagnö  78, 78 studies  63–4, 67 Uppland  62, 63, 66m, 72 Uppland 112, Ed parish  73m, 74–5, 75 Ruthven Cross (Perths.)  see Goodlyburn Cross (Perths.) Ruthwell cross (Dumfries and Galloway)  1, 15, 185 St Brigid's Church, Iniscealtra (Co. Clare)  115, 132, 134 St Caimín, Life of (metrical text)  127, 132, 136 St Caimín's Church, Iniscealtra (Co. Clare)  115, 123, 128, 132, 133 St Davids (Pembs.)  21 St John's church, Chester (Cheshire)  44 St Madoes stone (Perths.), cross-slab  187–8, 188, 189, 190 St Mary-le-Wigford 6, Lincoln (Lincs.)  18 St Mary's Church, Disley (Cheshire)  36–7 St Mary's Church, Iniscealtra (Co. Clare)  115, 132 St Michael's Church, Iniscealtra (Co. Clare)  115, 132, 134 St Peter's church, Invergowrie (Perths.)  see Dargie church, Invergowrie (Perths.), sandstone slab St Serf ’s church, Dunning (Perths.), Dupplin Cross  200–1 St Vigeans (Angus), cross-slabs  94 Sainter, Dr. J. D.  42, 45 Saints Boniface  171, 172, 190 Caimín see St Caimín, Life of (metrical text); St Caimín's Church, Iniscealtra (Co. Clare) Ciarán (6C Ireland)  233, 235 Cross of the Scriptures  223–4, 224, 225, 225 Temple Ciarán, Clonmacnoise  220, 221–3, 221, 228 Columba  7, 102, 124, 224, 225 Cwyfan see Maen Achwyfan cross (Flints.) Fursey 124–5 Óláfr (c. 995-1030, Norway)  150–1, 157, 161, 170–2 Oswald (king of Northumbria)  5–6, 7 Patrick  137, 224, 232 Willibrord 171

278 index Saints' Graveyard, Iniscealtra (Co. Clare)  115, 126, 127 composite burial plot  127, 135, 135–6, 137 cross-base  127, 129, 129, 136 desirable plots  131, 132, 133 grave-slabs  116, 125–8 prayer request inscriptions  136–7 procession route  134–5 Teampall na bhFear nGonta (Church of the Wounded Men)  115, 126, 127, 127, 132, 135, 140–1 see also Iniscealtra (Co. Clare), monastic complex Samnordisk runtext Fornminnesregistret tabas 65 Sancreed churchyard (Cornwall), pillar crosses  186, 188 Sandbach (Cheshire), crosses  15, 16, 16 Sanmark, Alexandra  40, 54–5 Sawyer, Birgit  63–4 Scatness  see Old Scatness (Shetland) Schottenklöster, German monasteries  137 Sculptor's Cave, Covesea (Morayshire)  94, 108 Sculptured Stones of Scotland (1856)  202 Semple, Sarah J.  40, 41, 43, 54–5 Shandwick (Easter Ross), cross-slab  222 Shee Twohig, Elizabeth  235 Shell Brook Valley (Cheshire)  40, 45, 49, 53 ship-soke tax  54 shoe-print carvings  see footprint carvings shrines 103–4 Confessional, Iniscealtra (Co. Clare)  122–3, 126 influence on hogbacks  253, 260 Saint Óláfr (c. 995-1030, Norway)  170 see also Temple Ciarán, Clonmacnoise (Co. Offaly) Skeggjason, Hjalti  167–8 skeuomorphism  7, 14–15, 16 free-standing crosses (Norway)  153, 159 hogbacks  252–5, 255–60 Skjálgsson, Erlingr  157, 158, 159, 170, 172 Snorrason, Oddr, Benedictine monk  167–8, 170 social memory, approaches  see memory work, stone monuments Society of Antiquaries' Museum, Edinburgh  193, 195 Sockburn-on-Tees (Durham), hogbacks  243, 245, 258, 258, 259 Södermanland (Sweden), runestones  66m, 72, 77

Södermanland 41, Björke  70, 71, 71, 78, 79 Södermanland 106, Kjula  63, 64, 71 Södermanland 175, Lagnö  78, 78 souterrain  90t, 91, 103, 107 see also subterranean structures, Pictish Southampton Psalter (Irish manuscript)  220 spindle whorls  100, 106 spolia (reuse)  10, 14, 217, 220, 231n Stalley, Roger  227–9 standing stones Balblair stone (Inverness-shire)  187 bautas 72–3 Creich (Sutherland)  199 the Hawkstone (Perths.)  189 Stedje, Sogn og Fjordane (Norway)  170 Sutton Cross (Cheshire)  41, 49, 49 Statu Ecclesiae, De (c. 1111)  130 see also Gille, Bishop of Limerick Stavanger cross, Rogaland (Norway)  156, 157, 157, 158, 159, 159m, 160 Stiùbhart, Dr Domhnall Uilleam  193 Stocker, David  18, 186, 249–50, 251 Stowe Missal (Irish manuscript)  119 Strowan (Perths.), cross  197–8, 198 Stuart, John  102, 202, 203 Sturluson, Snorri (1179-1241)  151, 170–1, 173 subterranean structures, Pictish  92–3t, 98, 100, 101–4, 101 see also souterrain Sueno's stone (Morayshire)  190 Sutton Cross (Cheshire), standing stone,  41m, 49, 49 Swift, Catherine  121, 232n, 233 swords, stones and  190–1, 191, 192 symbol stone, Edinburgh  202 symbol stones, Pictish  90t, 92–3t, 95m function and meaning  89, 90 reuse and memory building  96–101, 97 social memories  107–8 in structures  90, 91, 92–3t, 94, 96 subterranean 101–4, 101 thresholds and movement  104–6, 104 symbols and inscriptions  see animal carvings; Ogham inscriptions; runestones (Norway); Södermanland (Sweden), rune-stones; symbol stones, Pictish; Uppland (Sweden), rune-stones Synod of Cashel  130 Synod of Ráith Bressail  130, 138, 139 Täby, Uppland (Sweden)  22 Tarvin (Cheshire), cross-head  16

index 279 Teampall na bhFear nGonta (Church of the Wounded Men)  see Saints' Graveyard, Iniscealtra (Co. Clare) technologies of remembrance, Jones, Andrew Meirion  11, 107, 254–5 Temple Ciarán, Clonmacnoise (Co. Offaly)  220, 221, 228 Lion slab  221–3, 221 Theorising Anglo-Saxon Sculpture 13 Thomas, Charles  105 Thomas, R. J.  53 Thompson, Victoria  13, 251, 260 Tjora, Rogaland (Norway), stone crosses 158, 158, 159, 159m, 160 Tnugdal, Vision of (c. 1149)  137–8 Toureen Peacaun (Co. Tipperary), name stones 120 Tower of Lethendy  see Lethendy (Perths.), cross-slab Tractatus de Purgatorio Sancti Patricii 137 Trusty's Hill (Kirkcudbrightshire), fort  90t, 92–3t, 95m, 104, 105 Tryggvason, Óláfr (c. 964-1000), king of Norway  150–1, 157, 167–8, 170 Tuam (Co. Galway), Market Cross  226, 227, 229 Tune stone, Østfold (Norway)  152 turas (pattern)  135 Tweddle, Dominic  245, 246 Twohig, Elizabeth Shee  235 Ua Briain, Muirchertach (c. 1050-1119), king of Munster and high king of Ireland  130, 131–2, 227n Ua Conchobair, Toirdelbach (d. 1156), king of Connacht and high king of Ireland 226–7 Uí Briain, family  129–30, 131–2, 137, 138, 141, 227n underground structures  see souterrain; subterranean structures, Pictish

Uppland (Sweden), rune-stones  62, 63, 66m, 72 Uppland 112, Ed parish  73m, 74–5, 75 van Houts, Elisabeth  233 Veøy, Møre og Romsdal (Norway), Christian cemetery  150, 151 Vereide churchyard, Sogn og Fjordane (Norway), stone cross  153, 153 Vision of Tnugdal (c. 1149)  137–8 Voss, Hordaland (Norway), cross  172 war memorials individual 195, 195, 196, 196 Kilwinning Abbey (Ayrs.)  196, 197 Warner, Richard  56 weather stones  203–4 wells  102, 103 Whitfield, Niamh  218, 219n Williams, Howard  43, 54, 56, 98 Willibrord, Saint  171 Wilson, James  184 Wincle (Cheshire)  see Cleulow Cross, Wincle (Cheshire) Wincle Grange (Cheshire)  41m, 44, 49 Witch Knowe (Perths.), mound  188 women, family remembrance  233–5 Wood, Ian  6 wooden markers, post-holes  132–3 wooden monuments  see Giske cross, Møre og Romsdal (Norway); Heavenfield cross, Nr Hexham (Northumb.); hogbacks, skeuomorphism wooden mortuary crosses  154, 155, 166 Wulfstan, Archbishop of York  203 wyrmas, Anglo-Saxon  251 York Minster (North Yorks.), hogback  249, 253 Young, Hugh  102

Howard Williams is Professor of Archaeology, University of Chester Joanne Kirton is Project Manager, Big Heritage, Chester Meggen Gondek is Reader in Archaeology, University of Chester Contributors: Ing-Marie Back Danielsson, Iris Crouwers, Meggen Gondek, Mark A. Hall, Joanne Kirton, Jenifer Ní Ghrádaigh, Clíodhna O’Leary, Howard Williams.

an imprint of Boydell & Brewer Ltd PO Box 9, Woodbridge, Suffolk IP12 3DF (GB) and 668 Mt Hope Ave, Rochester NY 14620–2731 (US) www.boydellandbrewer.com

(eds) Williams, Kirton and Gondek

Cover image: A rare example of an early medieval stone monument still located in situ: a mid- to late tenth-century monolithic cross slab set in its original base known as Maen Achwyfan (‘Cwyfan’s Stone’) located near Whitford, Flintshire, Wales. The photograph depicts the richly decorated eastfacing side C, showing the cross-head decorated with roll mouldings and interlace and the upper half of the shaft ornamented with plait and a closed-circuit motif. Photograph: ©Howard Williams, November 2012.

Early Medieval Stone Monuments 

Often fragmented and without context, early medieval inscribed and sculpted stone monuments of the fifth to eleventh centuries AD have been mainly studied via their shape, their decoration and the texts a fraction of them bear. This book, investigating stone monuments from Ireland, Britain and Scandinavia, advocates three relatively new, distinctive and interconnected approaches to the lithic heritage of the early Middle Ages. Building on recent theoretical trends in archaeology and material culture studies in particular, it uses the themes of materiality, biography and landscape to reveal how carved stones created senses of identity and history for early medieval communities and kingdoms. An extensive introduction and eight chapters span the disciplines of history, art-history and archaeology, exploring how shaping stone in turn shaped and re-shaped early medieval societies.

Early Medieval Stone Monuments Materiality, Biography, Landscape

Edited by Howard Williams Joanne Kirton and Meggen Gondek