Insular Iconographies: Essays in Honour of Jane Hawkes 1783274115, 9781783274116

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Edited by Meg Boulton & Michael D.J. Bintley

INSULAR ICONOGRAPHIES

Essays in Honour of Jane Hawkes

INSULAR ICONOGRAPHIES

BOYDELL STUDIES IN MEDIEVAL ART AND ARCHITECTURE ISSN  2045–4902 Series Editors Dr Julian Luxford Professor 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 Professor 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 Previously published titles in the series are listed at the back of this volume.

INSULAR ICONOGRAPHIES

ESSAYS IN HONOUR OF JANE HAWKES

Edited by Meg Boulton and Michael D. J. Bintley

THE BOYDELL PRESS

© Contributors 2019 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 2019 The Boydell Press, Woodbridge

ISBN 978 1 78744 496 6

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 A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library This publication is printed on acid-free paper

Cover image: Blessed panel on the Rothbury Cross base, c. early ninth century, Great North Museum, Tyne and Wear. Photograph Heidi Stoner, by permission of the Society of Antiquaries of Newcastle upon Tyne. Great North Museum: Hancock.

CONTENTS List of Illustrations Foreword Acknowledgements List of Abbreviations Introduction

1 2 3 4 5 6

ix xiii xv xvi 1

Recutting the Cross: The Anglo-Saxon Baptismal Font at Wilne Carolyn Twomey

7

The Fountain Sealed Up in the Garden Enclosed: A Vine Scroll at Kells Colleen M. Thomas

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The Art of the Church in Ninth-Century AngloSaxon England: The Case of the Newent Cross Elizabeth A. Alexander

49

‘The Stones of the Wall Will Cry Out’: Lithic Emissaries and Marble Messengers in Andreas Michael D. J. Bintley

61

Conversion, Ritual, and Landscape: Streoneshalh (Whitby), Osingadun, and the Anglo-Saxon Cemetery at Street House, North Yorkshire Tom Pickles

81

Outside the Box: Relics and Reliquaries at the Shrine of St Cuthbert in the Later Middle Ages Philippa Turner

101

viii Contents

7 8 9 10 11 12

An Unusual Hell Mouth in an Old Testament Illustration: Understanding the Numbers Initial in the Twelfth-Century Laud Bible Harry Stirrup

123

The Problem of Man: Carved from the Same Stone Heidi Stoner

143

Glass Beads: Production and Decorative Motifs Mags Mannion

167

Unmasking Meaning: Faces Hidden and Revealed in Early Anglo-Saxon England Melissa Herman

187

Alcuin, Mathematics and the Rational Mind Michael N. Brennan

203

Looking Down from the Rothbury Cross: (Re)Viewing the Place of Anglo-Saxon Art Meg Boulton

217

Bibliography of Jane Hawkes’ Writings Index  Tabula Gratulatoria 

235 241 254

ILLUSTRATIONS PLATES I

Two birds flanking the Tree of Life on the Wilne baptismal font, sandstone, early ninth century, St Chad’s Church, Wilne (Derbyshire). Photograph author’s own. Reliquary cross, walrus ivory with silver fittings, c. 1050, Victoria II & Albert Museum (inv. A.6–1966). © Victoria & Albert Museum, London. III The Arrest of Christ, Book of Kells (Trinity College Dublin MS 58), fol. 114r, c. 800. Reproduced by permission of The Board of Trinity College, Dublin. IV Abraham and Isaac panel on the Newent Cross, ninth century, St Mary’s Church, Newent (Gloucestershire). Photograph author’s own. V Streoneshalh (Whitby) and its satellites. Crown Copyright/database right 2017. An Ordnance Survey/EDINA supplied service. VI Coffin of St Cuthbert, c. 698, Durham Cathedral. Reproduced by kind permission of the Chapter of Durham Cathedral. VII Thomas of Elmham, plan of the east end of the Abbey of St Augustine, Canterbury, in his Historiae Abbatiae S. Augustini (Trinity Hall, Cambridge MS 1), fol. 77r, c. 1410. Reproduced by kind permission of The Master and Fellows of Trinity Hall, Cambridge. VIII The Numbers initial, detail of the Laud Bible (Oxford, Bodleian Library MS Laud Misc. 752), fol. 49v, c. 1165–75. Reproduced by permission of The Bodleian Libraries, The University of Oxford. IX Last Judgement, ivory carving, c. 800, Victoria & Albert Museum (inv. 253–1867), detail. © Victoria & Albert Museum, London. X The Destruction of Dathan and Abiron, detail of Ælfric’s Hexateuch (London, British Library Cotton MS Claudius B. IV), fol. 120r, c. 1025. © The British Library Board. XI Melon bead. Image courtesy of National Museum of Ireland © National Museum of Ireland. XII Spiral motif bead. Image courtesy of National Museum of Ireland © National Museum of Ireland.

x Illustrations XIII Foil fragment, silver, seventh century, Hammerwich (Staffordshire). Photo © Birmingham Museums Trust. XIV Horned helmet mount, mercury-gilded copper alloy, early seventh century, Stamford Bridge (Yorkshire). Reproduced courtesy of the Portable Antiquities Scheme.

FIGURES 1.1

1.2 2.1 2.2 2.3 2.4

3.1

3.2 5.1 6.1

6.2

Late nineteenth-century antiquarian rubbing of the font at St Chad’s Church, Wilne (Derbyshire), which preserves the original upper register of figural ornament. From G. F. Browne, ‘On a Supposed Inscription upon the Font at Wilne’, Derbyshire Archaeological Journal, 7 (1885), 185–94, at 186, pl. xiii.1. S. Bailey, drawing of the baptismal font at St Chad’s Church, Wilne (Derbyshire), detail. From J. Charles Cox, Notes on the Churches of Derbyshire, vol. 4 (Chesterfield, 1879), pl. xix. South Cross, Kells (Co. Meath), c. ninth century. Photograph author’s own. Tree-scroll panel on the South Cross, Kells (Co. Meath), c. ninth century. Photograph author’s own. Vine scroll on the Ruthwell Cross (Dumfriesshire), c. eighth century. Photograph author’s own. Fragment of a chancel barrier with Holy Sepulchre decoration, late sixth to seventh century, Byzantine, Dumbarton Oaks Collection (BZ.1938.56). © Dumbarton Oaks, Byzantine Collection, Washington, DC. The four sides of the shaft of the Newent Cross, ninth century, Anglo-Saxon, St Mary’s Church, Newent (Gloucestershire). Left to right: the Fall of Adam and Eve; David slaying Goliath; Abraham sacrificing Isaac; two stylised quadrupeds, two birds, and a centrally stemmed plant. Photograph author’s own. The Sacrifice of Isaac, sarcophagus, c. seventh century, Basilica Papale di San Lorenzo fuori le Mura, Rome. Photograph author’s own. Plan of Street House cemetery (North Yorkshire). © Steve Sherlock and Tees Archaeology. Reproduced by permission of Steve Sherlock and Robin Daniels. Inventory of relics at Durham Cathedral Priory, from Cambridge, Trinity College MS O.3.55, fol. 2r, twelfth century. Reproduced by kind permission of the Master and Fellows of Trinity College, Cambridge. Head reliquary of St Ursula, c. 1300–c. 1320 (bust), c. 1325–50 (collar), Upper Rhineland, possibly Basel, Historiches Museum Basel (inv. no. 1955.207). Reproduced by kind permission of HMB – Historisches Museum Basel (photograph by P. Portner).

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17 24 25 28 40

50

52 85 108

116

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Illustrations

Head reliquary of St Pantalus, c. 1270, Upper Rhineland, possibly Basel. Historiches Museum Basel (inv. no. 1882.87). Reproduced by kind permission of HMB – Historisches Museum Basel (photograph by P. Portner). 7.1 The Last Judgement, detail of the New Minster Liber Vitae (London, British Library Stowe MS 994), fol. 7r, c. 1030. © The British Library Board. 7.2 Illustration to Psalm 102, detail of the Utrecht Psalter (Utrecht University Library MS 32), fol. 59r, c. 800. Reproduced by permission of Utrecht University Library. 7.3 Illustration to Psalm 140, details of the Utrecht Psalter (Utrecht University Library MS 32), fol. 79r, c. 800. Reproduced by permission of Utrecht University Library. 8.1 IOM Andreas 128 (102), ninth to eleventh century. Photograph author’s own. 8.2 IOM Bride 124 (97), ninth to eleventh century. Photograph author’s own. 8.3 IOM Jurby 127 (99), ninth to eleventh century. Photograph author’s own. 8.4 IOM Jurby 127 (99), ninth to eleventh century, rubbing from the Manx Museum. Drawing © Royal Commission on the Ancient and Historical Monuments of Scotland. 8.5 Iona, no. 94, ninth to eleventh century. Photograph author’s own. 8.6 Iona, no. 95, ninth to eleventh century. Photograph author’s own. 10.1 Replica of the Sutton Hoo helmet (original, seventh century). © Trustees of the British Museum. 10.2 Horned helmet mount, gilt-copper alloy, seventh century, Melton (Leicestershire). Reproduced courtesy of the Portable Antiquities Scheme. 10.3a Mount, gilded silver, seventh century, Thetford (Suffolk). Reproduced courtesy of the Portable Antiquities Scheme. 10.3b Marina Elwes, drawing of the knob of a square-headed brooch, copper alloy, sixth century, South Kesteven (Lincolnshire). Courtesy of the Portable Antiquities Scheme. 12.1 Reconstructive diagram of the Rothbury Cross, informed by the drawings and diagrams produced by C. C. Hodges in 1925, which were subsequently revised by W. G. Collingwood in 1927. Reproduced from Irene Sieberger, ‘Reconstructing the Rothbury Cross: How the Discovery of One Mistake Changes Almost a Century of Scholarship’, Archaeologia Aeliana, 41 (2012), 237–50, by courtesy of the Society of Antiquaries of Newcastle upon Tyne.

6.3

119

132 135 137 159 160 161 162 164 165 193 199 200 201 220

xii Illustrations Rosemary Cramp’s 1984 reconstruction of the Rothbury Cross base, drawn by Keith McBarron. Reproduced by the kind permission of Professor Cramp and the Corpus of Anglo-Saxon Stone Sculpture. 12.3 Irene Sieberger’s reconstruction of the Rothbury Cross base. Reproduced from Irene Sieberger, ‘Reconstructing the Rothbury Cross: How the Discovery of One Mistake Changes Almost a Century of Scholarship’, Archaeologia Aeliana, 41 (2012), 237–50, by courtesy of the Society of Antiquaries of Newcastle upon Tyne and with permission of Irene Sieberger and Aly Slack. 12.4 The Damned panel on the Rothbury Cross base, c. early ninth century, All Saints Church, Rothbury (Northumberland). Photograph author’s own. 12.5a The Blessed panel on the Rothbury Cross base, c. early ninth century, The Great North Museum, Tyne and Wear. Photograph Heidi Stoner, by permission of the Society of Antiquaries of Newcastle upon Tyne. Great North Museum: Hancock. 12.5b Detail of the Blessed panel on the Rothbury Cross base, c. early ninth century, The Great North Museum, Tyne and Wear. Photograph Heidi Stoner, by permission of the Society of Antiquaries of Newcastle upon Tyne. Great North Museum: Hancock. 12.2

221

230

231 232

233

The editors, contributors and publisher are grateful to all the institutions and persons listed for permission to reproduce the materials in which they hold copyright. Every effort has been made to trace the copyright holders; apologies are offered for any omission, and the publisher will be pleased to add any necessary acknowledgement in subsequent editions.

FOREWORD

PROFESSOR JANE HAWKES: FROM STUDENT TO COLLEAGUE AND FRIEND RICHARD BAILEY

I

t was in the mid-1980s. The normally calm and immaculate University Registrar arrived for our meeting, dishevelled and abstracted. ‘I’ve just been academically mugged by one of your research students in a session with postgraduates’, he said. ‘She was in the right of course – but I have to say that is an impressive and determined person!’ The postgraduate, of course, was Jane. She had arrived in Newcastle in the late 1970s with none of the qualifications needed for university entry. Displaying all that determination and academic acuity that was later to impress the Registrar, within a year she had acquired the relevant certificates at a local college and promptly enrolled in the most demanding course our Faculty then offered – English Language and Literature. Three years later she emerged with a first-class degree – something which in those far-off days we awarded only with grudging reluctance. To my delight, she then agreed to undertake a PhD study on aspects of Anglo-Saxon sculptural iconography. I knew this to be a field ripe for exploration. Apart from the crosses at Bewcastle and Ruthwell, earlier scholars had largely ignored the subject – thus a glance through Gertrude Schiller’s multi-volume Iconography of Christian Art (which was one of our major reference books in the 1960s and 1970s) reveals hardly a single image of pre-Norman English sculpture, despite the fact that many of her arguments would have been immeasurably strengthened by their inclusion. It was as if the entire corpus did not exist. This was, however, a subject which demanded a range of skills and an understanding of varying disciplines: visual awareness, an engagement with both Old English and Latin, familiarity with liturgical and patristic sources. With determination – that word again! – Jane set about acquiring these tools, and the resulting doctoral study was a magisterial achievement. Since then, of course, she has established herself as a major figure in

xiv Foreword

the field, publishing insights into early medieval iconography of which my generation had been totally unaware: of how the figural art of the Sandbach crosses closed gaps in the seeming discontinuities in European art between the late antique world and the art of the Ottonian empire; of how the Wirksworth Annunciation scene hinted at the presence in England of a model type known briefly in Eastern art in the sixth century (with all that this implies about Mercian cultural roots); of how traditional pictorial organisations and images were manipulated to express new meanings on carvings at Rothbury and Repton; of how imperial triumphal columns fed through a medieval filter to sculptures at Masham and Dewsbury; of how foregrounding and overlapping of planes could translate two-dimensional models into three-dimensional icons; of a Columban element in Insular Marian iconography … and bravely probing the theoretical grounds on which insular sculptural studies had been based for over a century. Much of this work has benefited from the partnerships Jane has developed across Britain and Europe. Whilst in her first substantive post at the University of Cork, she helped develop joint funding programmes with European institutions; both in Ireland and in York, she has actively encouraged cross-departmental postgraduate study. She has become a crucial member of the small group involved in the production of the British Academy’s Corpus of Anglo-Saxon Stone Sculpture, as well as organising a series of exhibitions and publications which have drawn upon her international contacts. As every university departmental head will recognise, a colleague’s impressive research activity is not always accompanied by a commitment to teaching. Jane has never ignored that academic obligation. As a postgraduate at Newcastle – at a time when such arrangements were somewhat unusual – she was asked to take small tutorial and seminar groups beginning their Old English language courses. Their response to her teaching was one of huge enthusiasm as she stretched the most able, cajoled the obstreperous – and spent hours in encouraging those who were finding the subject difficult. Decades later that same ability to stimulate and excite students is manifest in the large number of postgraduates she has gathered around her at York; this book, with its contributions from those young scholars, makes clear her contribution to the next generation as well as showing the great affection in which she is held. As someone who owes much to her friendship and intellectual stimulation, I join with the contributors in expressing my admiration for all that she has achieved. Emeritus Professor Richard N. Bailey University of Newcastle on Tyne

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

O

ur heartfelt thanks are due to the contributors, without whose hard work and dedication this volume would not have been possible. Sincere thanks are also due to Caroline Palmer and the team at Boydell & Brewer for their work in overseeing and producing the volume. The History of Art Department and the Centre for Medieval Studies at the University of York were generous in their support for the symposium that generated this volume in its initial form, both in terms of financial aid and in providing space for the event. Thanks are due to the Corpus of Anglo-Saxon Stone Sculpture; the Hohe Domkirche, Trier Domschatz; Trinity College, Dublin; the British Library; the V&A; the Chapter of Durham Cathedral; the Masters and Fellows of Trinity Hall, Cambridge; the National Museum of Ireland; Birmingham Museum and Art Gallery; the Masters and Fellows of Trinity College, Cambridge; the Historisches Museum Basel; the Musée de Cluny; the British Museum; the Manx Museum; the Portable Antiquities Scheme; the Society of Antiquaries of Newcastle upon Tyne; the Great North Museum; Steve Sherlock, Tees Archaeology; and Robin Daniels, Rosemary Cramp, Andrew Parkin, Irene Sieberger and Aly Slack for their assistance in sourcing and providing images for the volume, which has been made possible by a grant from the Scouloudi Foundation in association with the Institute of Historical Research, without which we would not have been able to realise the project. Special thanks are due to Richard Bailey for his time, the introduction to this volume and his continued support of this endeavour; to Celia Chazelle and Diarmuid Scully, who were endlessly supportive of the project; and to the anonymous reader, whose generous feedback and insight were invaluable. It has been a real pleasure working on a volume in honour of Jane. As ever, any errors that remain are our own.

ABBREVIATIONS AntJ ASE ASSAH BAR CASSS CCSL MedArch NM PL

Antiquaries Journal Anglo-Saxon England Anglo-Saxon Studies in Archaeology and History British Archaeological Reports Corpus of Anglo-Saxon Stone Sculpture Corpus Christianorum Series Latina Medieval Archaeology Neuphilologische Mitteilungen Patrologia Latina, ed. Jacques-Paul Migne (Paris, 1841–55)

INTRODUCTION MEG BOULTON AND MICHAEL D. J. BINTLEY

T

his volume has its origins in a symposium honouring Professor Jane Hawkes’ contribution to early medieval studies, acknowledging her research and celebrating the scholarly legacy she has created through her teaching practice and her pedagogical relationships with (and mentoring of) emerging and early-career scholars, several of whom went on to contribute to this volume in its published form. This is, in some ways, an unconventional tribute. Jane, however, is a fairly unconventional figure (wonderfully so), and we are sure she will forgive the liberties taken by the emerging and early-career scholars who are brought together here to mark her engagement with the field and celebrate her achievements. Jane’s career and academic output have been particularly noteworthy and wide-ranging, addressing Old English literature, archaeology, iconography, stone sculpture, exegesis, the institutional, cultural, and material identities of Rome and stone, cultural transfer between East and West, eschatology, the role of imagery in the medieval period and subsequent medievalisms, and materiality and modes of viewing, as well as the iconography-based art history for which she is perhaps best known. She has devoted her scholarly career to the study of Anglo-Saxon stone, exploring its iconographies, symbolic significances and scholarly contexts in depth and detail, shedding light on the obscure and understudied sculpted stone monuments of early medieval England for members of the academy and public alike. This lithic corpus, initially addressed through antiquarian studies and archaeological approaches, remains somewhat under-represented in art-historical scholarship even today, but the fact that it is studied in these terms at all owes much to Jane, who was one of the first scholars to address these monuments and sculpted fragments from an interdisciplinary, art-historical, and predominantly iconographical standpoint. This art-historical emphasis changed the way these objects were viewed and understood by students, peers, and scholars – and her work revolutionised the study of Anglo-Saxon stone. Indeed, from her doctoral thesis on ‘The Non-Crucifixion Iconography of the Pre-Viking Sculpture of the North of England’, funded by the British Academy and

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awarded by Newcastle University in 1989, to her more recent publications on the relationships between icons and Anglo-Saxon sculpture – such as her 2013 piece ‘Stones of the North: Sculpture in Northumbria in the “Age of Bede”’ – her research has remained at the very forefront of Anglo-Saxon Studies.1 As a teacher, Jane is both dedicated and inspiring, more than happy to take her postgraduates out of the classroom and into the field, where she is endlessly enthusiastic about seeking out and studying Anglo-Saxon sculpture and its Continental exemplars in situ. Her postgraduate modules – ‘Scrolls and Serpents’, ‘Impacts of the Late Antique’ and ‘Churches and High Crosses’ – taught at the University of York (where she was appointed as lecturer in the History of Art Department in 2000, following posts in Cork, Edinburgh, and Newcastle) are comprehensive and immersive. These modules are often the first encounter students have with the art, texts, and culture of the medieval period, and have inspired in many a love for Anglo-Saxon material culture – indeed, a significant number of them have gone on to pursue doctoral study largely because of Jane’s teaching. The significance of her work as a scholar and as a teacher is reflected in a wide range of publications, papers, and other scholarly contributions, such as her work on the Corpus of Anglo-Saxon Stone Sculpture, whose pioneering volumes have done much to highlight the range and significance of the carved stones of this period. The collection of interdisciplinary papers in this volume represents a selection of work by new voices from various areas of Medieval Studies, all of whom have been directly influenced by Jane’s extraordinary contribution to scholarship and the academy. Their range of methodological approaches and subjects not only highlights her own wide-ranging and commanding approach to discussing the artwork, texts, and material outputs of the medieval period, but also demonstrates that scholarly interest in the Early Medieval has become increasingly multidisciplinary – an approach practised and fostered by her work. Following this precedent, and Jane’s approach to Anglo-Saxon material culture, the volume brings together new research on a range of medieval textual and visual material, underpinned by an emphasis on the role and significance of visual culture and the material object. The contributors address significant objects and texts from the period through a variety of methodologies that encompass several disciplinary backgrounds and time periods, largely focusing on the Insular world as it intersects with the wider global context of the early Middle Ages. As such, the essays here function as a celebration of Jane’s work, focusing on the period and topics she has spent her career studying, discussing, and teaching. 1 Jane Hawkes, ‘Stones of the North: Sculpture in Northumbria in the “Age of Bede”’, Northumberland: Medieval Art and Architecture, BAA Conference: Newcastle upon Tyne 2010, ed. Jeremy Ashbee and Julian Luxford (Leeds, 2013), pp. 34–53.

Introduction

In approaching the contributors, we asked them to address an aspect of material or textual production of their choosing while reflecting on Jane’s own research. The diversity of the submissions speaks to the affection and respect in which she is held by her mentees and students, as well as by her peers and colleagues, many of whom have also supported and encouraged the production of this volume.2 Carolyn Twomey opens the volume in Anglo-Saxon England, discussing the iconography and material culture of baptism in relation to the stone font at Wilne, which survives from the pre-Conquest period. Her discussion concentrates on a reused cross shaft in the church of St Chad in Wilne that was inverted and transformed into a font, demonstrating the symbolic coherency of this act, and showing how it can be understood in the context of both the sculpted crosses discussed by Hawkes, and a new interpretation of Anglo-Saxon stone fonts. Colleen Thomas also addresses stone crosses, discussing them as products of the broader European Christian tradition stemming from late antiquity and earlier periods. She discusses the inhabited vine scroll that adorns these monuments throughout Ireland and Britain, focusing on the Tower Cross at Kells, and arguing that it should be understood not only as inhabited vine scroll, but also as a Tree of Life rooted in the cross of Christ. Elizabeth Alexander’s essay focuses on the Newent Cross, one of relatively few Anglo-Saxon stone crosses to feature figures from the Old Testament, addressing the manner in which the Abraham and Isaac scene contributes to the salvific message of the cross and its role in Christ’s crucifixion. Michael Bintley’s essay is similarly interested in stone and salvation, but takes the Old English Andreas as its subject, reflecting Hawkes’ interest in the relationship between texts and objects, and discussing the didactic role of two stone objects in the poem; first, a walking and talking stone sculpture from the walls of Solomon’s temple that obeys the commands of Christ, and second, a marble pillar that releases a cataclysmic baptismal flood at the poem’s climax. Following the textual evangelising of Andreas, Tom Pickles discusses the expression of this process in the landscape. He takes the conversion-era cemetery at Street House, Loftus, as a case study, and demonstrates the way archaeology, onomastics, and spatial theory can enhance our understanding of the complex processes that mediated the conversion to Christianity. Philippa Turner’s essay discusses the conversion-era saints Cuthbert and Oswald, considering the treatment of their relics post-mortem, with a focus on the movement of Cuthbert’s relics from coffin to shrine. Turner explores the relationship between the Sadly, it has proved impossible for several of Jane’s current and former students to contribute to this volume, who would in other circumstances have wished to do so. That being so, they would nevertheless like to join us in honouring and celebrating her. They include: Nick G. Baker, Amanda Doviak, Megan Henvey, Luisa Izzi, Beth Kaneko, Christine Maddern, Elizabeth McCormick, Kellie Meyer, Madeline Saltzman, Irene Sieberger, Magdalena Skoblar and Lyndsey Smith.

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relics of these saints and the status of Durham Cathedral Priory, to whose ‘sacred patrimony’ they offered a significant contribution following their translation in 1104. Harry Stirrup takes his lead from iconographical types, namely serpentine creatures and the common iconographic motif of biting jaws, addressing the appearance of a hell mouth in the twelfth-century Laud Bible, where it appears in an uncommon Old Testament context. Stirrup focuses on the illustrations accompanying Numbers, in which Dathan and Abiron are consumed by a hell mouth, raising questions about the origins of the hell mouth (considered by Hawkes in an earlier context), and calling attention to the decisions made by twelfth-century artists in relation to their visual sources. Heidi Stoner returns us to the examination of stone sculpture, discussing the categorisation of stone monuments and the shared iconographies of ‘Anglo-Saxon’ and ‘Viking’ sculpture, considering the various coexistent sculptural styles that may have contributed to the viewing experiences and scholarly understandings of these objects. Stoner argues that representations of localised identity articulated through these monuments should be understood in the context of wider Insular sculptural traditions, questioning the familiar categories and taxonomies employed by those examining these sculpted objects. Mags Mannion considers decorative motifs and cultural understandings in the context of glass beads, discussing their perceived apotropaic properties, and the potential symbolic significances of particular combinations of colours and styles. She explores other possibilities of meaning and influence including cross-cultural contact and, like Stoner, enquires into the inheritance and reimagining of older visual traditions. Maintaining the focus on patterns and motifs, Melissa Herman’s essay examines the role of faces and masks in early Anglo-Saxon metalwork. Like Mannion, she is interested in the hidden potential of these images, and like Mannion and Stoner, she identifies artistic continuities in the decorative schemes that emphasise their lasting symbolic potency. Michael Brennan addresses puzzles and patterns of a different sort, namely those presented by Alcuin’s ‘mathematical tutorial in logic, enumeration and measurements’, his Propositiones ad acuendos juvenes, and questions whether the approaches to logic and puzzles espoused in this text are also visible in Alcuin’s approach to contemporary religious and socio-political issues. Finally, Meg Boulton addresses the eschatological iconography of the Rothbury Cross shaft, considering the construction of sacred place and space in Anglo-Saxon art. Discussing the iconographic and conceptual complexities of these sculpted fragments (as also recognised by Hawkes), Boulton asks wider questions concerning whether, when reviewed in the light of our modern understandings of the medieval, the study of such objects and images should be more fully integrated into the discipline of art history, as Jane has continually argued in her own research. While all the contributors to this volume owe an academic debt to

Introduction

Jane and were happy to express their gratitude to her, other factors also had a bearing on this volume’s appearance. Jane recently celebrated both personal and professional milestones, turning sixty in 2015 and being awarded her professorship from the History of Art department at the University of York in 2016. This thus seemed a fitting moment to mark her many contributions to the field of Anglo-Saxon studies, and to celebrate her myriad intellectual and pedagogical achievements, giving rise to the symposium from which this volume emerged. For a scholar who has been so focused on the importance of teaching, and who has consistently and generously prioritised the encouragement of new voices in the field, there seemed no more appropriate way to honour her than a volume of essays written by her students and mentees, all of whom have benefited from her kindness, insight, and brilliance. In compiling these essays, we aim to honour her achievements thus far, while looking forward to her continuing research and contributions to the field, and sincerely thanking her for all she has done to promote the study of Anglo-Saxon stone and the raising of these new voices.

5

RECUTTING THE CROSS: THE ANGLO-SAXON BAPTISMAL FONT AT WILNE CAROLYN TWOMEY

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he baptismal font from St Chad’s Church in Wilne (Derbyshire) is a rare surviving piece of the material history of baptism in early medieval England (Pl. I). The large bowl (61 cm height, 67 cm diameter) bears upside-down foliate interlace with beasts, griffins, and birds entangled within a sequence of roundels. A fire in the early twentieth century damaged the interior of the church and another register of figural ornament on the font, the feet of six human figures. Now standing in the west end of the nave, this vividly carved font originated as a standing cross in the early ninth-century ecclesiastical landscape of Mercia. While the recycling of material culture – and stone spoliation in particular – during the early Middle Ages is well known, the recutting of stone cross shafts for baptismal fonts has only been suggested for a discrete group of fonts dated to the Anglo-Saxon period.1 In this chapter, I explore what the stone font at Wilne and the study of material things can tell us about baptism in early England. Baptism inside the hollowed shaft of a Christian cross incorporated the earlier meanings of the monument into the performance of this essential ritual of rebirth. Through an investigation of the Wilne font’s iconography, John Blair, ‘The Prehistory of English Fonts’, Intersections: The Archaeology and History of Christianity in England, 400–1200: Papers in Honour of Martin Biddle and Birthe Kjølbye-Biddle, ed. Martin Henig and Nigel Ramsay, BAR British Series 505 (Oxford, 2010), pp. 149–77; Paul S. Barnwell, The Place of Baptism in Anglo-Saxon and Norman Churches, Deerhurst Lecture 2013 (Deerhurst, 2014); Sarah Foot, ‘“By Water in the Spirit”: The Administration of Baptism in Early Anglo-Saxon England’, Pastoral Care before the Parish, ed. John Blair and Richard Sharpe (Leicester, 1992), pp. 171–92, at 182–3.

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form, and strategic reuse, I show how contemporary understandings of stone, romanitas, and the cross were all present at the baptismal moment through the material of the font. The stone cross that marked the mission of the Church in the early medieval landscape was brought inside the physical church building through its new use as a liturgical object. Repurposed as a font, the Wilne cross became an interior monument to baptismal victory in Christ.2 The study of baptismal fonts offers a material perspective on baptism in early medieval lived religion that is often absent from textual sources. Most narrative accounts of historical baptisms in works such as the Historia ecclesiastica of the Venerable Bede (c. 672–735) consist of brief references to the baptisms of elite figures, which stand in for the conversion of whole regions and peoples.3 Early medieval authors and compilers such as Alcuin (c. 735–804) and Wulfstan (d. 1023) emphasise baptismal ideals but have less to tell us about baptismal practice. Four surviving baptismal instructions from the Anglo-Saxon period originate from a common core of liturgical practices modelled after Carolingian and Roman elements, but differ from one another both in their organisation and in the context of the manuscripts that contain them.4 Interdisciplinary inquiry incorporating art-historical, archaeological, and landscape evidence opens new doors to historians interested in religious practice and their subjects’ relationships with the material world. Human actors created places and things, imbuing them with meaning and agency; in turn, these physical environments and objects took on the active qualities of historical actors in themselves, to form and reform their relationships to other things, human beings, and the divine, sometimes over several generations of use and reuse.5 2 The contributions that Jane Hawkes has made to the interdisciplinary study of early medieval monuments in the Christian landscape anchor my investigation of the Wilne font. I am particularly grateful to her for sharing her detailed iconographic analysis of the Wilne sculpture from the Corpus of Anglo-Saxon Stone Sculpture volume prior to its publication, on which the following pages will rely. See Jane Hawkes and Philip C. Sidebottom, Derbyshire and Staffordshire, CASSS 8 (Oxford, 2018), pp. 234–38. 3 Bertram Colgrave and R. A. B. Mynors, eds., Bede’s Ecclesiastical History of the English People (Oxford, 1969). See Carolyn Twomey, ‘Kings as Catechumens: Royal Conversion Narratives and Easter in Bede’s Historia ecclesiastica’, The Haskins Society Journal, 25 (2014), 1–18. 4 For detailed examination of the liturgical books containing baptismal rites from later Anglo-Saxon England, see Sarah Larratt Keefer, ‘Manuals’, The Liturgical Books of AngloSaxon England, ed. Richard W. Pfaff, Old English Newsletter, Subsidia 23 (Kalamazoo, MI, 1995), pp. 101–2; M. Bradford Bedingfield, The Dramatic Liturgy of Anglo-Saxon England (Woodbridge, 2002), ch. 7; David Dumville, Liturgy and the Ecclesiastical History of Late Anglo-Saxon England: Four Studies (Woodbridge, 1992), chs. 3 and 4; Richard W. Pfaff, The Liturgy in Medieval England: A History (Cambridge, 2009), pp. 72–75, 88–91, and 94–6; Joseph H. Lynch, Christianizing Kinship: Ritual Sponsorship in Anglo-Saxon England (Ithaca, NY, 1998), pp. 57–60; see also Helen Foxhall Forbes, Heaven and Earth in AngloSaxon England: Theology and Society in an Age of Faith, Studies in Early Medieval Britain (Burlington, VT, 2013), pp. 103–8, and table 2.1. 5 Alfred Gell, Art and Agency: An Anthropological Theory (Oxford and New York, NY, 1998); Ian Hodder, Entangled: An Archaeology of the Relationships between Humans and

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The baptismal font at Wilne is one such material object with a complex history of reuse. It is one of a small group of baptismal fonts that has been dated to before the Conquest on various iconographic, formal, and archaeological grounds. Stone fonts generally appeared in large numbers in the late eleventh and twelfth centuries alongside the proliferation of stone churches during the period of the Great Rebuilding and, as argued by Paul Barnwell and Frances Altvater, the increasingly codified nature of the sacraments.6 Within this small corpus of fonts dated from the ninth to the eleventh centuries, there were a number of plain stone tubs and bowls that would have existed alongside wooden prototypes, and which pre-dated the later ornamented Romanesque forms in stone and lead.7 The inscriptions on the fonts at Potterne (Wiltshire) and Bingley (W. Yorks), the entwined spirals, vines, and beasts at Wilne (Derbyshire), Deerhurst (Gloucestershire), and Melbury Bubb (Dorset), and the skeuomorphic characteristics of the Tintagel (Cornwall) and Little Billing (Northants) fonts compose the bulk of the early group identified by John Blair.8 This grouping is complicated by the fact that the reuse of stone during the early medieval period was considerable, and fonts were likely originally carved for other purposes before being recut. Francis Bond’s pioneering survey of fonts included several he believed were adapted from Roman

Things (Malden, MA, 2012); see also Bill Sillar, ‘The Social Agency of Things? Animism and Materiality in the Andes’, Cambridge Archaeological Journal, 19.3 (2009), 367–77; and the survey of the field in Andrew Jones and Nicole Boivin, ‘The Malice of Inanimate Objects: Material Agency’, The Oxford Handbook of Material Culture Studies, ed. Dan Hicks and Mary C. Beaudry (Oxford, 2010), pp. 333–51. 6 Richard Gem, ‘The English Parish Church in the 11th and Early 12th Centuries: A Great Rebuilding’, Minsters and Parish Churches: The Local Church in Transition, 950–1200, ed. John Blair (Oxford, 1988), pp. 21–30; Barnwell, Place of Baptism; Frances Altvater, ‘In Fonte Renatus: The Iconography and Context of Twelfth-Century Baptismal Fonts in England’ (unpublished doctoral thesis, Boston University, 2003); Carolyn Twomey, ‘Living Water, Living Stone: The History and Material Culture of Baptism in Early Medieval England, c. 600–c. 1200’ (unpublished doctoral thesis, Boston College, 2017); see also Paul S. Barnwell, ‘The Laity, the Clergy and the Divine Presence: The Use of Space in Smaller Churches of the Eleventh and Twelfth Centuries’, Journal of the British Archaeological Association, 157 (2004), 41–60; and Frances Altvater, Sacramental Theology and the Decoration of Baptismal Fonts: Incarnation, Initiation, Institution (Cambridge, 2017). For the development of the sacrament of baptism into the central Middle Ages, see John D. C. Fisher, Christian Initiation: Baptism in the Medieval West, a Study in the Disintegration of the Primitive Rite of Initiation (Chicago, IL, 2004); and Marcia L. Colish, Faith, Fiction, and Force in Medieval Baptismal Debates (Washington, DC, 2014). 7 Blair, ‘The Prehistory of English Fonts’; Barnwell, Place of Baptism, p. 14; Frances Altvater also sees a strong break between late pre-Conquest/Anglo-Saxon fonts ‘related to but distinct from’ the Anglo-Norman twelfth-century baptismal fonts; Altvater, ‘In Fonte Renatus’, pp. 19, 22. 8 Blair, ‘The Prehistory of English Fonts’; Paul Barnwell adds Wells (Somerset), West Hanney (Berkshire), Poltimore (Devon), Bromyard (Herefordshire), and Buscot (Berkshire), all of which he identifies as early skeuomorphs, the latter being two small bowls similar to that at Tintagel (Cornwall). Barnwell, Place of Baptism, p. 2.

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and Anglo-Saxon stones,9 with other scholars such as David Stocker and Blair later refining and adding to the category.10 Rather than suggest a definitive solution to the recutting question as a whole, or try to reclassify ‘Anglo-Saxon’ versus ‘Norman’ font groups, here I approach the Wilne font on its own terms as a unique stone monument. Each font had its own circumstances of creation and potential reworking, including different stone sources, patrons, models, and masons. The long post-medieval histories of fonts also provide new challenges to reading these stones because of modern-day weathering, iconoclasm, ex situ movement, and continued liturgical use. By understanding each font as a distinct piece of material culture that participated in a long tradition of stone working across the divide of 1066, we are free to focus on individual contexts and material histories. The fragmented iconographic programme at Wilne, as well as its strong similarities in size and ornament with contemporary circular monuments, suggest that this font was recut at a later date alongside a burgeoning trend in stone building, rather than commissioned originally as a font.11 Limiting my exploration to the Wilne font, I consider its fashioning from a standing cross and how its later repurposing brought ideas of Christian community and Roman identity into both the church building and the moment of baptism. We will begin by exploring the complex and damaged iconography of the Wilne font before focusing on the significance of its form, stone, and reuse. Although a fire in 1917 destroyed a portion of the font, a late nineteenth-century rubbing and drawing preserve the original decorative programme, which, along with a 3D model of the existing font, allows us to analyse the iconography in detail (Figs. 1.1 and 1.2).12 The upper register of the current font consists of various animals entwined with interlace in six broad roundels, now upside-down to the modern viewer. Some of the 9 Francis Bond, Fonts and Font Covers, Church Art in England 2 (London, 1908), pp. 95–106. 10 Blair, ‘The Prehistory of English Fonts’; Francis Drake listed Dolton and Melbury Bubb as recut from cross shafts, with Wilne, Penmon, Deerhurst, and Wroxeter (Shropshire) reused from other material. See C. S. Drake, The Romanesque Fonts of Northern Europe and Scandinavia (Woodbridge, 2002), pp. 32–3. Catherine Karkov includes only Little Billing, Deerhurst, Potterne, Wells, and Melbury Bubb: see Catherine E. Karkov, The Art of Anglo-Saxon England (Woodbridge, 2011), p. 85. David Stocker lists Bassingham (Lincolnshire), Bingley, Deerhurst, Dolton (Devon), Melbury Bubb, and Wilne as recut from standing crosses, with many more recut from Roman material. David Stocker, ‘Fons et Origo: The Symbolic Death, Burial and Resurrection of English Font Stones’, Church Archaeology, 1 (1997), 17–25, at 25, lists 2–4. See also Edmund Tyrrell Green, Baptismal Fonts: Classified and Illustrated (London, 1928), pp. 21–4; Altvater, ‘In Fonte Renatus’, pp. 22–3. 11 Richard Bryant has made a similar suggestion concerning the lower portion of the Deerhurst font; see Richard Byrant, Making Much of What Remains: Reconstructing Deerhurst’s Anglo-Saxon Paint and Sculpture, Deerhurst Lecture 2014 (Deerhurst, 2015). 12 For an open-access PhotoScan model of the Wilne font, see Carolyn Twomey, ‘3D Model of Wilne Baptismal Font’, Harvard Dataverse, V1.1, 2018, [accessed 16 March 2019]. An interactive digital model is also available to view online via Sketchfab.com at [accessed 16 March 2019].

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creatures are marked with ribbed lines, indicating feathers in some cases, and their necks, limbs, and tongues twist within the space of the roundels, the spandrels of which also display foliate patterns. Each roundel bears a different contorted animal, except for two similar (but not identical) scenes which feature a central tree flanked by two birds with ovoid eyes. Their slender beaks grasp the curled fronds of the tree (Pl. I). Other than these birds, and one griffin-like beast with a prominent wing and beak, Jane Hawkes has described the creatures as beasts and quadrupeds, some with defined collars, whose limbs are entwined with interlace.13 The lower register of the font, now lost, depicted the feet of six human figures and some of the hems of their robes within arcaded panels aligned with the animal ornament (Fig. 1.1). Five of the pairs of feet point in one direction, while one figure appears to have been marked for distinction by the positioning of its feet in the opposite direction and the presence of the end of a staff beside the feet.14 Similarly, the location of this figure in relationship to the other register of ornament also suggests a special status. On the original cross shaft this figure stood above a panel with a long-necked creature twisting forward to bite its own leg. On either side of this beast are the two similar scenes of mirrored birds and tree, flanking the central animal panel and framing the figure with staff and distinctively positioned feet above. Based on her stylistic analysis of the scenes, Hawkes has suggested that the Wilne sculpture dates from the early ninth century, with parallels seen in the contemporary animal art sculpture of Mercia and the West Midlands, the ivory Gandersheim Casket, and the foliate motifs and roundels found in the Vespasian Psalter and the Vale of York cup.15 Other than the Wilne font itself, there is some evidence for the existence of an early church on the site of the present thirteenth-century church. Hawkes and Sidebottom, CASSS 8, pp. 234–36; G. F. Browne, ‘On a Supposed Inscription upon the Font at Wilne’, Derbyshire Archaeological Journal, 7 (1885), 185–94. 14 Panel i of the analysis in Hawkes and Sidebottom, CASSS 8, fig. 46. 15 Vale of York, British Museum 2009, 8023.1, and London, BL Cotton MS Vespasian A. I, fol. 30b. Specifically the sculpture at St Alkmund’s, Derby (1 and 2), Sandbach, Cheshire (1), Gloucester, Cropthorne (Worcestershire), and Acton Beauchamp (Herefordshire). The latter is particularly diagnostic for the collar feature on some of the Wilne beasts. For a more detailed discussion of the iconographic parallels of the Wilne font, see Hawkes and Sidebottom, CASSS 8, pp. 236–38. 13

FIG. 1.1 ​LATE NINETEENTHCENTURY ANTIQUARIAN RUBBING OF THE FONT AT ST CHAD’S CHURCH, WILNE (DERBYSHIRE), WHICH PRESERVES THE ORIGINAL UPPER REGISTER OF FIGURAL ORNAMENT. FROM G. F. BROWNE, ‘ON A SUPPOSED INSCRIPTION UPON THE FONT AT WILNE’, DERBYSHIRE ARCHAEOLOGICAL JOURNAL, 7 (1885), 185–94, AT 186, PL. XIII.1.

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Domesday Book recorded the bishop of Chester, formerly of Lichfield, as the local landowner, noting two churches and a priest for the area of Sawley, Draycott, and Hopwell, likely including the church at Wilne.16 J. Charles Cox hypothesised a ninth-century connection to the community at Lichfield thirty miles away, which may be supported by the dedication of the church to St Chad.17 Archaeological excavations to the south and east of the church have revealed iron slag, pottery, and animal bones from the Roman period through to the Middle Ages, as well as structures dating from the twelfth to the fifteenth centuries from a deserted settlement.18 Some pot sherds and a copper-alloy strap end are the only Anglo-Saxon materials discovered on the site. Excavation indicated that the ground around the church had been artificially raised with timber and infill during the medieval period to combat flooding from the watercourses of the River Derwent, which at that time ran close to the church building.19 These factors combine to suggest a site with local importance, but with a small residual footprint, dating from the Anglo-Saxon period. In the late eighth and early ninth centuries, the Wilne monument would not have been an isolated piece of ecclesiastical material culture in the Derbyshire landscape. Within the marshy floodplain of the Derwent, any potential early church community would have been only eleven miles from the church of St Wystan at Repton via the nearby River Trent. Although damage to the Wilne font sculpture prevents a definitive reading of the register of six figures, the presence of both figural and animal ornament at Wilne, in addition to the stone’s size and shape, prompts comparisons with similar ninth- and tenth-century columnar monuments with depictions of Christ and the apostles. Hawkes places the Wilne font in context with the columns at Masham (N. Yorkshire), Dewsbury (W. Yorkshire), Reculver 1 (Kent), Winchester, Priors Barton 1 (Hampshire), and Wolverhampton (W. Midlands), specifically the Christ in Majesty scenes at Masham, Reculver, and Dewsbury.20 The arcaded figures 16 Philip Morgan, ed., Domesday Book: A Survey of the Counties of England: Derbyshire, Domesday Book 27 (Chichester, 1978), 273b; ‘there can be no doubt that the two churches here mentioned were those of Sawley and Wilne’, J. Charles Cox, Notes on the Churches of Derbyshire, vol. 4 (Chesterfield, 1879), p. 377. See also William Page, ed., Victoria County History of Derby, vol. 1 (London, 1905), pp. 283–4 and 334. 17 Cox, Churches of Derbyshire, vol. 4, p. 377; supported by Browne, ‘On a Supposed Inscription’, p. 185. 18 David Knight, Church Wilne Deserted Settlement: Assessment of Archaeological Potential (Nottingham, 2014), pp. 17–26, 33–56, and 61–97; David Knight, ‘Introduction to the Archive and Project Summary’, Church Wilne Deserted Medieval Settlement, Derbyshire, Derby City Museum and Art Gallery DBYMU 1997–75/6, unpublished Trent and Peak Archaeological Trust report, p. 3 and fig. 3. 19 Knight, Church Wilne Deserted Settlement, pp. 4–5 and 8. 20 Hawkes and Sidebottom, CASSS 8, pp. 236–38; Jane Hawkes, ‘The Art of the Church in Ninth-Century Anglo-Saxon England: The Case of the Masham Column’, Hortus Artium Medievalium, 8 (2002), 337–48; Jane Hawkes, ‘“Iuxta Morem Romanorum”: Stone and Sculpture in the Style of Rome’, Anglo-Saxon Styles, ed. Catherine Karkov and George Hardin Brown (Albany, NY, 2003), pp. 69–100, at 77–8; Jane Hawkes, ‘The Church

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of Christ and the apostles on the top of the Masham Column ring the monument like the figures within the rounded panels at Wilne.21 The six figures on the Wilne font, however, lack the total number of apostles and a centrally flanked Christ found on the Masham, Reculver, and Dewsbury examples. If we understand the surviving sequence of animal ornament at Wilne as the bottom register of the monument, the Wilne figures might have been part of a register of saints or holy persons similar to the two middle registers with biblical and ecclesiastical figures at Masham, which are placed between the Christ in Majesty above and a bottom register of beasts. The staff of the distinctive figure at Wilne may indicate, rather than Christ, the person of a bishop or abbot with a crozier and long ecclesiastical garment, or, as suggested by Hawkes, a more select group of Christ and five individual apostles as on the late eighth-century Hedda Stone.22 The presence of these ecclesiastical figures and the mirrored birds on the original Wilne cross suggests a relationship between the iconographic programme and the ecclesial meaning of the monument in the landscape. Christ and the apostles represented the institution and mission of the Church on earth, and was a popular motif which notably decorated the iconic interior of Old St Peter’s in Rome until the sixteenth century.23 Importantly, the image of Christ standing with the apostles – rather than seated and enthroned – emphasised the active roles of preachers and teachers of the evangelising Church, whose work was ongoing in the surrounding landscape at the time the cross was raised.24 The register of animal ornament at Wilne similarly stressed the manner in which one should join and participate in the community of Christ in the Church through the sacraments. The paired birds eating from the central tree in the two Wilne panels were common Christian iconographic symbols for the Eucharist; on the Masham Column, two birds flank a chalice from which a vine curls.25 Hawkes notes the presence of a mound from Triumphant: The Figural Columns of Early Ninth-Century Anglo-Saxon England’, Form and Order in the Anglo-Saxon World, AD 600–1100, ed. Sally Crawford, Helena Hamerow, and Leslie Webster, ASSAH 16 (Oxford, 2009), pp. 31–44, at 32, 34, and 39; see also Blair, ‘The Prehistory of English Fonts’; Bryant, Making Much of What Remains; Browne, ‘On a Supposed Inscription’; and G. F. Browne, ‘On the Pre-Norman Sculptured Stones of Derbyshire’, Journal of the Derbyshire Archaeological Natural History Society, 8 (1886), 164–84. 21 Hawkes, ‘Church Triumphant’, pp. 35–6. Hawkes and Sidebottom, CASSS 8, pp. 237–38. 22 Hawkes and Sidebottom, CASSS 8, p. 238. For the six figures in individual arcades on the eighth-century Hedda Stone (Peterborough, Cambridgeshire), see R. N. Bailey, The Meaning of Mercian Sculpture, Vaughan Paper 34 (Leicester, 1988) pp. 8–11. 23 Gertrud Schiller, Iconography of Christian Art, trans. Janet Seligman, vol. 2 (London, 1971), pp. 24–30, 36–7; Hawkes, ‘Church Triumphant’, pp. 34–5. 24 Hawkes, ‘Church Triumphant’, p. 34. 25 Hawkes, ‘Art of the Church’; Hawkes and Sidebottom, CASSS 8, p. 238. See also Schiller, Iconography of Christian Art, vol. 2, p. 135, and the eucharistic vine scroll of the Ruthwell Cross specifically in Éamonn Ó Carragáin, Ritual and the Rood: Liturgical Images and the Old English Poems of the Dream of the Rood Tradition (Toronto, 2005).

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which the tree emerges in one of the Wilne roundels, a detail that leads her to interpret this scene as not only eucharistic, but also a depiction of heaven. Perched on the branches of the Tree of Life, the birds eat in a paradisal setting on top of Mt Sion, revealing the promise of heaven available to the viewer through Christ.26 Together, the animal and figural iconographic registers of the monument emphasise the community of Christians growing closer to Christ in heaven both through the example of holy teachers and through participation in the sacraments of his body. In addition to its iconography, the material form of the Wilne font as a cross shaft and column also speaks to the role of the Church on earth with explicit connections to Rome. Along with wooden and stone churches, columns and crosses marked the early ecclesiastical landscape of England.27 The incised, rectangular stone slab of the late seventh- or early eighth-century Jarrow cross, which bears the inscription ‘IN HOC SINGULARI SIGNO VITA REDDITUR MUNDO’, has long provided the rationale behind these highly visible monuments as symbols of the Christian victory over the physical pre-Christian landscape of early medieval England.28 Crosses were constructed not only to commemorate individuals and holy sites, but also to denote places of prayer, preaching, and sacraments in polyfocal religious communities.29 The fragmentary nature of most surviving carved stone crosses requires some educated reconstruction of their original iconographic programmes, accounting for their original contexts in the landscape, painted features and inset precious stones, as well as post-medieval alterations, something seen most famously in the reconstructed portions of the Ruthwell Cross (Dumfriesshire). While there is only one complete register of original ornament remaining at Wilne, we can speculate that other sequences of sculpture continued up the tapered sides and that a cross head crowned the monument.30 Based on the size of the surviving font, which corresponds to the circumference of the column at Wolverhampton, we can estimate that the Wilne cross would once have been approximately the same height: fourteen feet.31 Hawkes and Sidebottom, CASSS 8, p. 238. For how this ritual tradition was adapted from pre-Christian wooden posts, see Michael D. J. Bintley, Trees in the Religions of Early Medieval England, Anglo-Saxon Studies 26 (Woodbridge, 2015), pp. 28–51. 28 ‘In this unique sign life is restored to the world’, in Cramp, ‘Early Northumbrian Sculpture’, p. 139. 29 See Twomey, ‘Living Water, Living Stone’, pp. 91–7. John Blair, ‘Churches in the Early English Landscape: Social and Economic Contexts’, Church Archaeology: Research Directions for the Future, ed. John Blair and Carol Pyrah (York, 1996), pp. 1–18, at 11; Richard Bailey, ‘Crosses, Stone’, The Blackwell Encyclopaedia of Anglo-Saxon England, ed. Michael Lapidge et al. (Oxford, 2001), pp. 129–30. 30 See Richard Bryant’s consideration of the Deerhurst font reconstruction alongside other round cross shafts, including that at Wilne. Bryant, Making Much of What Remains, pp. 21–4. 31 First indicated by Browne, ‘On A Supposed Inscription’, pp. 189–94; The Wolverhampton monument is 76.2 cm in diameter (tapering to 56 cm) and Wilne is 67 cm in diameter. The Masham Column is 67 cm tapering to 63.5 cm in diameter, and 26 27

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While standing crosses have been variously interpreted as memorial stones, signposts, didactic monastic art, and preaching crosses, the cross at Wilne was a specific type of columnar stone monument that evoked a clear Roman identity.32 Circular columns – with or without cross heads – would have conjured the same spirit of the Christianisation of the landscape of England as squared stone crosses, but within a marked and established material tradition of romanitas. The antique columns and arches that so frequently proclaimed the military victories of Rome throughout the Mediterranean participated in a shared culture of stone commemoration. As a column itself, the Wilne sculpture emulated Roman monuments to imperial victories, such as the columns of Trajan and Marcus Aurelius in Rome.33 Hawkes places these columnar monuments in relationship to wider imitations of Rome in Anglo-Saxon ecclesiastical building in general, as well as the contemporary landscape of ruined Roman columns and buildings in England at places like Catterick and York.34 Understanding the form and iconography of these monuments together, we can see how such columnar crosses emphasised not just the triumph of the Christian mission in the landscape, but a triumph connected to a particular Roman past and under the authority of the contemporary Roman Church. The form of the column also reinforced the missionary role of the apostle figures in the Wilne iconography as pillars of the faith. The early medieval saints and clergy who inherited the apostolic mission were figurative columnae of the Church (Galatians 2:9; Revelation 21:14), who supported the spiritual as well as the physical construction of the body of Christ through preaching and the sacraments.35 The frequent appearance of apostles and ecclesiastical figures on monumental Anglo-Saxon stone sculpture led James Lang to identify them as ‘apostle shafts’ where preaching and baptisms took place.36 This contemporary connection the Deerhurst font stem is 64.7 cm in diameter. Bryant, Making Much of What Remains, p. 23. 32 Hawkes, ‘Masham Column’; Hawkes, ‘Church Triumphant’. 33 Hawkes, ‘Church Triumphant’, pp. 39–40. See also Roger Stalley, Early Medieval Architecture (Oxford, 1999), p. 234 for Roman monuments visible in the medieval landscape, citing Caecilia Davis-Weyer, Early Medieval Art, 300–1150: Sources and Documents (Englewood Cliffs, NJ, 1971), p. 159; see also Webster, Anglo-Saxon Art, pp. 87–8. 34 Hawkes, ‘Church Triumphant’, pp. 38–40. 35 Robert Deshman, ‘The Imagery of the Living Ecclesia and the English Monastic Reform’, Sources of Anglo-Saxon Culture, ed. Paul E Szarmach, Studies in Medieval Culture 20 (Kalamazoo, MI, 1986), pp. 261–82, at 261–2; James Lang, ‘The Apostles in AngloSaxon Sculpture in the Age of Alcuin’, Early Medieval Europe, 8.2 (2003), 271–82; Gittos, Liturgy, Architecture, and Sacred Places, p. 23; and especially Jennifer O’Reilly, in Seán Connolly, trans., Bede: On the Temple (Liverpool, 1995), pp. xvii–xxxiii; Jennifer O’Reilly, ‘Reading the Scriptures in the Life of Columba’, Studies in the Cult of Saint Columba, ed. Cormac Bourke (Dublin, 1997), pp. 80–116, at 84; and Jennifer O’Reilly, A Sealed Book: Interpreting Scripture in the Anglo-Saxon Church, Brixworth Lecture 2014 (Brixworth, 2016). 36 Lang, ‘Apostles in Anglo-Saxon Sculpture’, p. 280.

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between the role of Church leaders and stone monuments continued in later manuscript art. Key figures of the tenth-century reform were depicted as enmeshed within literal columns supporting illuminated scenes, such as the figure of St Swithun supporting heavenly arches in the Benedictional of Æthelwold.37 The monumental Wilne cross represented the apostolic role of Christian preachers and teachers through both its ornamentation and its physical stone form in the landscape. The recutting of a cross shaft into a baptismal font was more than the strategic reuse of a valuable sculpted material; the many layers of meaning obtained from its history as a standing cross remained present during its reuse for baptism. This choice to reuse the cross deliberately incorporated the sculpture’s saintly and ecclesiastical figures, birds and beasts, and monumental form into a new sacramental context which emphasised key aspects of the baptismal ceremony for those gathered around the font. This new identity for the Wilne cross was most likely accomplished after the ninth century. Stone fonts were rare during the Anglo-Saxon period, which saw a flourishing of flexible baptismal objects including wooden examples and the adaptation of both ecclesiastical and everyday lay vessels.38 It was during the Great Rebuilding in the late eleventh and twelfth centuries that the shift to stone took place in many churches across England, in parallel with increased investment in stone ecclesiastical architecture. Due to its size and iconographic similarities with contemporary ninth-century columnar monuments, I propose that the decision to recut the Wilne cross shaft into a deluxe stone baptismal font was made during this later period, which would also suit an approximate dating of the moulded ‘Norman’ base of the Wilne font surviving in Bailey’s antiquarian drawing (Fig. 1.2).39 The exegetical appreciation of the Wilne cross shaft survived its transition into a new liturgical object where its iconography and monumentality now spoke to Christian messages of baptism as well as to the triumph of the Church. The act of turning the Wilne cross shaft upside down was both a practical and a symbolic act of reuse. Its inverted position has long perplexed scholars. Cox thought that the lower register bore a runic inscription until Brown suggested that the original stone had been turned upside down, and that Cox’s mysterious ‘runes’ were, in fact, upside-down

37 London, British Library Add MS 49598, fol. 97v. See also fol. 1r for a similar columnar depiction of the choir of confessors, including St Gregory the Great, St Benedict, and St Cuthbert. O’Reilly, A Sealed Book; see also Robert Deshman, ‘St Swithun in Medieval Art’, The Cult of St Swithun, ed. Michael Lapidge, Winchester Studies 4.ii (Oxford, 2003), pp. 179–90, especially p. 180 n. 6 for the text of the New Minster missal comparing Swithun to columnan rutile claritatis olimpicam (‘an Olympic column of shining glory’). 38 Twomey, ‘Living Water, Living Stone’; Blair, ‘The Prehistory of English Fonts’. 39 Cox, Derbyshire Churches, vol. 4, p. 399. The thirteenth-century rebuilding of the church would have provided another possible context for font recutting with a ready supply of available labour.

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FIG. 1.2 ​S. BAILEY, DRAWING OF THE BAPTISMAL FONT AT ST CHAD’S CHURCH, WILNE (DERBYSHIRE), DETAIL. FROM J. CHARLES COX, NOTES ON THE CHURCHES OF DERBYSHIRE, VOL. 4 (CHESTERFIELD, 1879), PL. XIX.

feet.40 In the case of the similarly upside-down Melbury Bubb font carved with entwined animals, Rosemary Cramp has explored the possibility that the iconography of the standing cross was deliberately turned upside down to emphasise the defeat of evil at the new font, and that the larger quadrupeds were destroying the monstrous representations of sin represented by the font’s smaller beasts.41 John Blair, however, has argued that the Melbury Bubb font was originally intended as a font, and that the earlier font stone was subsequently turned upside down and recut for a second font bowl in the eleventh century.42 Whether designed to evoke the archetypal defeat of death and sin at baptism or simply the practical reuse of a valuable material, this repurposing demonstrated the intent of the community to prolong the use of such an important local object, a consideration that also likely applied to the Wilne sculpture. Among baptismal fonts in general, more Romanesque fonts survive in English parish churches than fonts from any other period; there is an emphasis on and an effort to protect their antiquity.43 Those who recut the Melbury Bubb and Wilne fonts sought to keep an ancient stone in use. Browne complained that ‘it was a laborious business working at it upside down, hanging over it in the attempt to see the most decayed parts in their natural position’, Browne, ‘On a Supposed Inscription’, p. 186. 41 Rosemary Cramp, South-West England, CASSS 7 (Oxford, 2006), pp. 38–40 and 104–6. Cramp ultimately concurs with Blair, stating that the font was originally planned as a baptismal font that was subsequently turned upside down and another bowl was cut. For the common iconography of monsters and beasts on baptismal fonts, see Davies, Architectural Setting, pp. 80–2; Schiller, Iconography of Christian Art, vol. 1, pp. 140–1; F. Nordström, Mediaeval Baptismal Fonts: An Iconographical Study (Stockholm, 1984), pp. 131–2 and 137–9; Faith Mann, Early Medieval Church Sculpture: A Study of 12th-Century Fragments in East Yorkshire (Beverley, 1985), p. 31. 42 Blair, ‘The Prehistory of English Fonts’. 43 Bond, Fonts and Font Covers, p. 144; Mann, Early Medieval Church Sculpture, p. 9; Blair, Church in Anglo-Saxon Society, p. 462 n. 164; Sarah Hamilton, Church and People 40

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It was possible that the surviving stone of the Wilne cross shaft was the only suitable piece available for carving and that injury to the stone – the register of ecclesiastical figures – required the inversion of the fragment. Quarried stone was an important resource frequently reused in England, as is known from the widespread spoliation of Roman forts and villas to build early stone churches such as those at Ripon, Escomb, and Brixworth.44 Even after the large-scale reestablishment of the stone industry by the eleventh century, it remained a valuable resource and was frequently reused into the later Middle Ages. Turning the fragment of the cross shaft upside down would also, in practical terms, provide a larger surface for creating the deep hollow of the Wilne font and would give the font a familiar (and perhaps preferred) bucket-like shape with sides sloping inward. As John Blair and Paul Barnwell have explored, early stone fonts often bore skeuomorphic features of wooden vessels that indicate the original use of stave-built barrels as baptismal fonts, features that were later recast in stone.45 Those who turned the stone fragment upside down for recutting as a font preserved the monumental meanings of the original cross intact at baptism. As a column in the church rather than in the landscape, the Wilne font continued to act as a material manifestation of the mission of Christ and the apostles. The apostolic mission began with baptising; performing the sacrament inside the Wilne font reinforced the work of the leaders of the Church carved around it to spread the Gospel to the ends of the earth. Lang and Éamonn Ó Carragáin have interpreted such stone crosses as places of baptism in the landscape; this symbol of Christ’s mission on earth, once converted into a baptismal font, was both a new pillar of the sacrament supporting the heavenly Church, and a literal recut column.46 As we have seen with the apostles and the saints, the bodies of the faithful metaphorically formed the physical church building.47 These leaders and in the Medieval West, 900–1200 (London, 2013), p. 38. See also Aleksandra McClain and Carolyn Twomey, ‘Baptism and Burial in Stone: Materializing Pastoral Care in AngloNorman England’, Fragments: Interdisciplinary Approaches to the Study of Ancient and Medieval Pasts 7 (2018): 4–36. 44 Tyler Bell, ‘Churches on Roman Buildings: Christian Associations and Roman Masonry in Anglo-Saxon England’, MedArch, 42.1 (1998), 1–18; and Tyler Bell, The Religious Reuse of Roman Structures in Early Medieval England, BAR British Series 390 (Oxford, 2005); for wider studies of the reuse of Rome in Anglo-Saxon and AngloNorman England, see Hella Eckardt and Howard Williams, ‘Objects without a Past? The Use of Roman Objects in Early Anglo-Saxon Graves’, Archaeologies of Remembrance: Death and Memory in Past Societies, ed. Howard Williams (New York, NY, 2003), pp. 141–70; Robin Fleming, ‘Recycling in Britain after the Fall of Rome’s Metal Economy’, Past and Present, 217 (2012), 3–45; Robin Fleming, ‘The Ritual Recycling of Roman Building Material in Late 4th- and Early 5th-Century Britain’, European Journal of PostClassical Archaeologies, 6 (2016), 147–64. 45 Blair, ‘The Prehistory of English Fonts’. 46 Lang, ‘Apostles in Anglo-Saxon Sculpture’, pp. 280–2; see also Ó Carragáin, Ritual and the Rood, pp. 54–6 and 296–7. 47 Deshman, ‘The Imagery of the Living Ecclesia and the English Monastic Reform’,

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members of the Christian community were the ‘living stones’ (1 Peter 2:4–7, also Ephesians 2:19–22, and 2 Corinthians 5:1) that built the Church and formed the body of Christ, who was the ‘cornerstone’, unifying the baptised from all nations into one holy edifice (Isaiah 28:16; 1 Corinthians 10:4).48 The living Ecclesia was both the faithful community of the Church on earth and the eschatological kingdom of God, often represented as a building by medieval authors.49 Even the Gelasian rite for dedicating a church bore liturgical similarities to the baptismal ritual.50 Christians, through their baptism, became the building blocks of the Temple rebuilt by Christ into the heavenly city of Jerusalem; the church building was the Temple recreated, and each stone an individual Christian holding up both the Church and the promise of the new heavenly Jerusalem to come.51 Through the materiality of stone, the Wilne font memorialised its role in creating ‘living stones’ out of baptismal recipients and materialised the eschatological message of rebirth open to all Christians who gathered around the font opposite the saints and apostles. Significantly, the recut font preserved part of the original iconography, meaning that original viewers would have recognised it as a reworked standing cross. Parents, godparents, community members, and celebrants would have encircled the Wilne font like the standing bodies carved around it.52 Through the font’s iconography, the gathered community at Wilne drew connections between the bodies of those reborn inside and those holy followers of Christ. The upside-down feet of the human figures around the base of the font imitated the inverted positions of the bodies of the infants dipped within it and reborn as children of God. The act of dipping a child in the font, which the size of the Wilne font suggests was possible, turned the infant recipients upside down ontologically and, to a

p. 268; O’Reilly, ‘Introduction’, pp. xvii–xxxiii; Dawn Marie Hayes, Body and Sacred Place in Medieval Europe, 1100–1389 (London, 2004), pp. 11–17; Jennifer O’Reilly, ‘The Multitude of Isles and the Corner-Stone: Topography, Exegesis, and the Identity of the Angli in Bede’s Historia Ecclesiastica’, Anglo-Saxon Traces, ed. Jane Roberts and Leslie Webster (Tempe, AZ, 2011), pp. 201–27. 48 Gerhart B. Ladner, ‘The Symbolism of the Biblical Corner Stone in the Medieval West’, Mediaeval Studies, 4 (1942), 43–60; J. C. Plumpe, ‘Vivum Saxum, Vivi Lapides: The Concept of “Living Stone” in Classical and Christian Antiquity’, Traditio, 1 (1943), 1–14; Günter Bandmann, Early Medieval Architecture as Bearer of Meaning (New York, NY, 2005), pp. 61–74; O’Reilly, ‘Multitude of Isles’, pp. 216–24; Conor O’Brien, Bede’s Temple: An Image and Its Interpretation (Oxford, 2015), p. 84. 49 Gem, ‘English Romanesque Architecture’, p. 37; Deshman, ‘Imagery of the Living Ecclesia’, p. 268. 50 Henry Mayr-Harting, The Coming of Christianity to England, 3rd edn (University Park, PA, 1991), pp. 180–1; Hayes, Body and Sacred Place, p. 14; Gittos, Liturgy, Architecture, and Sacred Places, pp. 236–40. 51 Bandmann, Early Medieval Architecture, pp. 61–4. 52 When care and expense was taken to carve them, saints and ecclesiastical figures were popular ornament on Romanesque fonts. See Frances Altvater, ‘Saintly Bodies, Mortal Bodies: Hagiographic Decoration on English Twelfth-Century Baptismal Fonts’, Peregrinations: Journal of Medieval Art and Architecture, 3.4 (2012), 45–102.

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degree, physically.53 Despite its fragmentary and upside-down nature, the iconographic program of the font spoke to the mission of the apostles and saints, and the deep connection between the bodies of the baptised and the physical place of baptism within the church building. While only the feet of the apostles remained to remind the baptised that they were the building blocks of the Church, the striking animal ornament and the place of the font in St Chad’s Church emphasised the deep relationship between baptism and the Eucharist. The birds that flank and consume the central tree on the two Wilne panels were highly visible references to the sacrifice of the Eucharist and the future of heaven open to the baptised. Hawkes’ interpretation of the iconography as paradisal also has a baptismal angle: the Tree of Life from which the birds eat is watered from a stream of living water that flows from the throne of God (Revelation 22:1–2). The roots of the tree, now inverted on the font, stem from the font bowl full of baptismal water. Of the many things required for the baptismal ceremony, the Eucharist was the paramount conclusion of the ritual, celebrated at the altar to the east of the nave. The font in the local church was typically oriented with both the south door – for the introductory rites of the catechumens – and the altar, another object that was increasingly made of stone in this period.54 Though the Wilne font has likely been reset since the modern restoration of the church interior, its current position in the nave – in alignment with both the main door of the church and the main altar – approximates its likely early medieval placement. This association with the altar would have been made even clearer based on how the participants stood around it, and whether its eucharistic iconography was oriented toward the altar or south door. The routes of procession within the church building linked the ritual places together and emphasised the participation of the baptised in the sacrifice of Christ and the hope of heaven. The Roman character of the Wilne column was another likely reason why it was chosen for adaptation into a baptismal font. Columns and pillars were connected to the ecclesial mission of the apostles to baptise all nations, and they also served as referents to the Roman past and the contemporary Roman Church. We see this take place most directly in an Anglo-Saxon context through the spoliated column in the Old English poem Andreas, which releases a flood that baptises the Mermedonians.55 In early medieval

53 John Blair has shown how a minimum depth of 20 cm was required to immerse a child. Blair, ‘The Prehistory of English Fonts’, p. 150. 54 Wall, Porches and Fonts, p. 12; Stocker and Everson, Summoning St Michael, p. 81; Roberta Gilchrist, Medieval Life: Archaeology and the Life Course (Woodbridge, 2012), pp. 185 and 206; Gittos, Liturgy, Architecture, and Sacred Places, p. 269. 55 Richard North and Michael D. J. Bintley, eds. and trans., Andreas: An Edition (Liverpool, 2016), ll. 1498–553 and pp. 86–9; see also Penn R. Szittya, ‘The Living Stone and the Patriarchs: Typological Imagery in “Andreas”, Lines 706–810’, Journal of English and Germanic Philology, 72.2 (1973), 167–74; Denis Ferhatović, ‘Spolia-Inflected Poetics of

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England, stone was not only a heavenly material: stone was Rome.56 In a specific number of cases, Roman columns and altars were recut into baptismal fonts, such as those at Hexham (Northumberland), Wroxeter (Shropshire), and Haydon Bridge (Northumberland).57 The emergence of the font in stone in the late eleventh and twelfth centuries created a permanently bounded place for baptism within the church, which looked back to earlier Roman baptistery traditions. Just when baptism began to acquire a uniform theology and stable physical form in the font – a form which would define the sacrament for the rest of the Middle Ages – we also see an investment in baptistery-like spaces in the churches of Potterne (Wiltshire), St Mary de Lode (Gloucestershire), and Barton-upon-Humber (Lincolnshire) in the eleventh century.58 The fixed and round form of the font echoed the centralised plan of the late antique baptistery, as well as the traditional symbolism of the circular: that of the eternity and unity of Christ.59 Similar allusions to the ritual death of baptism have been read in the circular shape of most early fonts, as well as in the appearance of beasts on fonts like those at Wilne, as monstrous representations of sin defeated in the font.60 The biblical emphasis is unmistakably on death and rebirth: baptismal recipients died to sin as Christ died on the Cross (Romans 6:1–8) and were reborn through water and the Holy Spirit (John 3:3–6).61 The very act of recutting the cross emulated the Crucifixion and

the Old English Andreas’, Studies in Philology, 110.2 (2013), 199–219; see also Bintley below, pp. 61–80. 56 Hawkes, ‘Iuxta Morem Romanorum’; see also Roberta Gilchrist, ‘Medieval Archaeology and Theory: A Disciplinary Leap of Faith’, Reflections: 50 Years of Medieval Archaeology, 1957–2007, ed. Roberta Gilchrist and Andrew Reynolds (Leeds, 2009), pp. 385–408, at 395. Stone would have been rapidly replacing wooden churches in the late eleventh and twelfth centuries; cf. the transitory properties of wood discussed in Michael Shapland, ‘Meanings of Timber and Stone in Anglo-Saxon Building Practice’, Trees and Timber in the Anglo-Saxon World, ed. Michael D. J. Bintley and Michael Shapland (Oxford, 2013), pp. 21–44, at 34. See also the discussion by Bintley in this volume, pp. 61–80. 57 Bond, Fonts and Font Covers, pp. 95–9; Green, Baptismal Fonts, pp. 21–2; Altvater, ‘In Fonte Renatus’, pp. 22–3. 58 Twomey, ‘Living Water, Living Stone’, pp. 75–91. 59 Blair, ‘The Prehistory of English Fonts’, p. 177; the round or octagonal baptistery was traditionally both womb and tomb in late antiquity due to architectural similarities between centrally planned baptisteries like the Lateran in Rome and contemporary mausolea. J. G. Davies, The Architectural Setting of Baptism (London, 1962), pp. 16–18; Stalley, Early Medieval Architecture, p. 59; Altvater, ‘In Fonte Renatus’, pp. 121–4; Barnwell, Place of Baptism, pp. 4–5; Robin M. Jensen, ‘Mater Ecclesia and Fons Aeterna: The Church and her Womb in Ancient Christianity’, The Feminist Companion to Patristic Literature, ed. Amy-Jill Levine and Maria Mayo Robbins (Cleveland, OH, 2008), pp. 137–55. 60 Davies, Architectural Setting, pp. 80–2; Schiller, Iconography of Christian Art, vol. 1, pp. 140–1; Nordström, Mediaeval Baptismal Fonts, pp. 131–2, 137–9; Mann, Early Medieval Church Sculpture, p. 31. 61 David Stocker’s investigation of baptismal fonts in Lincolnshire highlighted one font that had been adapted from a tenth-century grave slab and demonstrated how the burial of fonts beneath their predecessors within the church building derived from an understanding of baptism as a ritual death. Stocker, ‘Fons et Origo’, pp. 18–19, 23.

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Resurrection, incorporating the significance of the physical cross of Christ into the baptismal rebirth. The triumphal Christian landscape established through stone sculpture in the ninth century was now commemorated as a baptismal victory over the forces of sin in the new monumental font. All these features of the Wilne font tell a complex story of the exegetical reuse of stone in the early medieval landscape, one layered with meanings that connected the early English to Rome and the local community to the body of Christ. Like the birds and beasts of the Wilne font, early medieval women and men were entangled with the many material things in their lives. The baptismal font was one such powerful object that served not only as a prominent focal point in the busy local church, but also acted as a nexus between theology and lived religion, elite and everyday participants, and ritual and routine moments. By examining the iconography, form, and materiality of the Wilne font, we can see how past uses and metaphorical meanings of the stone as a monument were recycled into a new baptismal context. The font was more than a stage for the performance of the liturgy, it was an active participant in the rite. The Wilne font promoted Christian ideas of monumentality and romanitas at baptism and drew material connections between the stone of the font and the built environment of the physical as well as heavenly churches. Embracing an interdisciplinary methodology is key to understanding complex pieces of material culture such as the Wilne font, which participated in multiple historical contexts including its commission and creation, subsequent recutting and repurposing, and later damage and destruction in the modern era. There are more questions to be answered about the Wilne font and the corpus of early English fonts as a whole – questions that would benefit from further individual examinations of the histories of the churches themselves, consideration of potential contexts for ecclesiastical or monastic patronage, and from detailed geological analyses and digital reconstructions. The Wilne font is a unique church monument, but its story speaks broadly to the diverse and flexible character of early medieval baptismal practice and the meaningful adaptability of material objects.

THE FOUNTAIN SEALED UP IN THE GARDEN ENCLOSED: A VINE SCROLL AT KELLS COLLEEN M. THOMAS 1

T

he South Cross at Kells (Fig. 2.1) – also known as the Cross of Patrick and Columba, after the inscription on the base of the monument, and as the Tower Cross for its proximity to the round tower – is one of four free-standing, sculpted stone crosses (along with the base of a now lost fifth cross) surviving from the early Middle Ages at Kells.2 An entry in the Annals of Ulster records that the Kells community was founded in the early ninth century from Iona, the influential monastery established off the west coast of Scotland by the Irish monk Colum Cille (d. 597).3 It is generally agreed that the Kells crosses were made from the late ninth

It is a pleasure to recognise the contributions which Jane Hawkes has made to the scholarship of Insular art and particularly Insular sculpture. While the topic I offer here is not one she would be likely to pursue herself, having professed more interest in figures than ornament, I hope it will please her nonetheless. Inspired by her research, my approach in this essay has been to apply an art-historical methodology underpinned by a grounding in patristic sources to the interpretation of a panel on a monumental stone cross surviving at Kells, an early medieval ecclesiastical site in Ireland. I am grateful to the editors, Meg Boulton and Mike Bintley, as well as my anonymous reader, for their comments on my essay. Errors, of course, remain my own. 2 Helen Roe, The High Crosses of Kells (Longford, 1959), p. 10. In addition to these names for the South Cross, Roe adds another, local name: The Cross of Kells, so designated ‘as though no other cross were there’. 3 Rachel Moss, ed., Art and Architecture of Ireland, vol. 1: The Medieval Period, c. 400–1600 (Dublin, New Haven, CT, and London, 2014), pp. 131–2. 1

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FIG. 2.1 ​SOUTH CROSS, KELLS (CO. MEATH), C. EARLY NINTH CENTURY.

Colleen M. Thomas

to the tenth century, with Peter Harbison specifying the period 835–950.4 Helen Roe considered the South Cross to be the earliest of the sculpted monuments at Kells because it is more highly ornamented than the others, especially in the case of the Market Cross, where the visual programme is rendered almost entirely with figural scenes. Informing Roe’s analysis was the established scholarly view that because manuscript painting was understood to have developed earlier than stone carving in early medieval Irish art (where stonework used vegetal designs that were more often employed in manuscript decoration), the stone monument must have been made early, before sculptors developed their craft independent of their manuscript models.5 Roe described the South Cross as a ‘manuscript’ cross because, ‘in its profusion, quality and variety, and by a sort of controlled wildness of concept, the decoration of this cross most nearly approaches the characteristic expression of manuscript art’.6 An understudied panel with an inhabited vine-scroll on the narrow, north face of the South Cross (Fig. 2.2), fits Roe’s description especially well.7 The vine scroll 4 Peter Harbison, The High Crosses of Ireland: An Iconographical and Photographic Survey, 3 vols (Bonn, 1992), I, pp. 372–4. 5 Henry S. Crawford, Irish Carved Ornament (Dublin, 1926), p. 4. 6 Roe, The High Crosses of Kells, p. 10. 7 Roe, The High Crosses of Kells, p. 23, pl. vi.

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The Fountain Sealed Up in the Garden Enclosed

FIG. 2.2 ​TREE-SCROLL PANEL ON THE SOUTH CROSS, KELLS (CO. MEATH), C. EARLY NINTH CENTURY.

would arguably have been understood by its makers and viewers as a representation of a Tree of Life.8 In formal terms, Trees of Life are vines that bear fruit and support a variety of animals. In early Christian thought, they functioned as an allegory for the cross on which Christ died, but also for the new world which his resurrection was expected to provide. The formal qualities and symbolic intent of Trees of Life in early Christianity combined to present a cosmic vision encompassing all creation, a motif which Insular cross monuments reproduced in several forms. See discussion by Twomey and Boulton elsewhere in this volume, pp. 7–22 and 217–34 respectively, and in Michael D. J. Bintley, Trees in the Religions of Early Medieval England (Woodbridge, 2015).

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THE STRUCTURE OF VINE SCROLLS IN INSULAR SCULPTURE The inhabited vine at Kells is situated in a small panel at the top of the stem just below the junction of the ring around the cross head. Its eight rinceaux have been twinned and aligned in registers on either side of a central vertical axis, in what might appear to be an effort to save space. The scrolls and their inhabitants are confined to their panel by a rolled moulding border on three sides. The bottom edge of the piece is clearly defined by the implied ground line upon which rests the base of the origin of the vine. Here, two quadrupeds stand opposite one another. The Kells vine scroll is a singular example within a wider range of Insular expressions of this motif. To understand how it is distinct, some initial consideration of Insular vine scroll imagery is in order. Examples of vine scroll are known from Anglo-Saxon sculpture, from Pictish stones, and from other Irish crosses. These have been catalogued and discussed by a number of scholars, including Rosemary Cramp, Isabel Henderson, and Nancy Edwards.9 Following Cramp, who identified varieties of vine scroll on Anglo-Saxon monuments, Henderson distinguished six types of vine scroll on Pictish sculpture including inhabited vine scrolls and ‘tree-scrolls’.10 Edwards found only two variations on Irish crosses: inhabited and uninhabited.11 This scholarship laid a critical foundation of stylistic categorisation for further studies of inhabited vine scrolls, employing a methodology that was well suited to answering questions of chronology and transmission. For the purposes of this discussion, which seeks to explore the composition of sacred space and the visual play of perspectives as a means of representing the cosmos, it is more useful to consider what placement of the vine motif and the use of sculptural space on such crosses may have signified in an early medieval Insular context.12 Consideration of this motif permits the identification of three approaches taken by Insular artists to presenting vine scrolls on sculpture. The resulting vine scroll images appear as either: 1) a single vine ascending the cross stem; 2) a single vine framing a panel; or 3) as a tree-scroll.

9 Rosemary Cramp, Early Northumbrian Sculpture, Jarrow Lecture 1965 (Jarrow, 1965), esp. pp. 7–11; Isabel Henderson, ‘Pictish Vine-Scroll Ornament’, From the Stone Age to the ‘Forty-Five: Studies Presented to R. B. K. Stevenson, ed. Anne O’Connor and D. V. Clarke (Edinburgh, 1983), pp. 243–68; Nancy Edwards, ‘The South Cross, Clonmacnoise (with an Appendix on the Incidence of Vine-Scroll on Irish Sculpture)’, Early Medieval Sculpture in Britain and Ireland, ed. John Higgitt, BAR British Series 152 (Oxford, 1986), pp. 23–48, at 31–3. 10 Henderson, ‘Pictish Vine-Scroll Ornament’, pp. 243–4. 11 Edwards, ‘The South Cross’, pp. 31–2. 12 See also Boulton elsewhere in this volume, pp. 217–34.

The Fountain Sealed Up in the Garden Enclosed

SINGLE VINE ASCENDING Most scholarly attention has been given to the approach which uses a single vine ascending the face of a sculpture as the primary decorative element. Early English monuments at Ruthwell (Fig. 2.3), Bewcastle, Sandbach, and the fragment from Easby all have fine examples of this type of inhabited vine.13 The Pictish Sueno’s Stone and Drosten Stone at St Vigeans present uninhabited versions.14 These vine scrolls are set in the long narrow spaces of the cross shaft and run vertically up the panel, a single vine loop at a time. When inhabited, it is by one bird or beast per scroll. For visual pleasure, the animals face in alternating directions. The tendrils of the vines often produce fruit in single berries or clusters which the fauna almost always sample. The ascending vines typically fill the face on which they are carved, while figured panels feature on other sides of the monument. By dedicating significant sculptural space to the vine scroll, which then traces the lines of the cross, the motif reiterates the formal link between the plant matter of the vine and the wood of the True Cross which the sculpture represents. This relationship was articulated through a chain of associations connecting these Insular cross monuments with the tree, Christ’s cross, and commemorative metalwork crosses erected in late antiquity and the early Middle Ages at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre complex in Jerusalem. It has been persuasively argued that the form of the Irish cross alluded to the bejewelled commemorative crosses in the Holy Land,15 the first of which was erected near Christ’s tomb in the fifth century and replaced by another metalwork cross in the seventh century.16 On the Irish and some Anglo-Saxon stone versions, the stepped or trapezoidal base likely recalled the hill at Golgotha where Christ was crucified and where the memorial crux gemmata was subsequently located atop a set of marble steps.17 Stone bosses in relief imitated metalwork and gemstones, For Bewcastle see, Richard N. Bailey and Rosemary Cramp, Cumberland, Westmorland and Lancashire North-of-the-Sands, CASSS 2 (Oxford, 1988), pp. 61–74, figs. 111–15; for Easby see, James Lang, Northern Yorkshire, CASSS 6 (Oxford, 2001), pp. 98–102, figs. 198–200; for Sandbach North see, Jane Hawkes, The Sandbach Crosses: Sign and Significance in Anglo-Saxon Sculpture (Dublin, 2002), figs. 2.26–8. 14 Henderson, ‘Pictish Vine-Scroll Ornament’, figs. 107c, 113c. 15 Helen Roe, ‘The Irish High Cross – Morphology and Iconography’, The Journal of the Royal Society of Antiquaries of Ireland, 95.1 (1965), 213–26; Hilary Richardson, ‘The Concept of the High Cross’, Ireland and Europe: The Early Church, ed. P. N. Chathain and M. Richter (Stuttgart, 1984), pp. 127–34; Martin Werner, ‘On the Origin of the Form of the Irish High Cross’, Gesta, 29.1 (1990), 98–110. 16 Richard Bailey, ‘“What Mean these Stones?” Some Aspects of Pre-Norman Sculpture in Cheshire and Lancashire’, Bulletin of the John Rylands Library of Manchester, 78.1 (1996), 21–46, at 45. 17 Roe, ‘The Irish High Cross’, pp. 220–1; Jane Hawkes graciously allowed me to read her recent essay prior to publication where she lists the now lost cross from Lindisfarne and the Auckland St Andrews Cross as examples of Anglo-Saxon crosses with trapezoidal bases comparable to the Irish works: Jane Hawkes, ‘Planting the Cross in Anglo-Saxon 13

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FIG. 2.3 ​VINE SCROLL ON THE RUTHWELL CROSS (DUMFRIESSHIRE), C. EIGHTH CENTURY.

Colleen M. Thomas

The Fountain Sealed Up in the Garden Enclosed

and the chapel- or beehive-shaped capstones on the stone crosses may have functioned as a reference to the shrine over Christ’s tomb.18 The resonance between this series of crosses (wood, metal, jewelled, stone) and the tree was only deepened at Ruthwell, where lines close to those of the later Vercelli Book Dream of the Rood poem were inscribed in runes on the frames surrounding the vine scroll panels. As Richard Bailey has noted and Éamonn Ó Carragáin has argued more substantially, the Dream of the Rood – an Old English poem about the Crucifixion from the perspective of Christ’s cross – makes reference at one point to a jewelled cross that may have invoked the commemorative metalwork cross in Jerusalem.19 The same confluence of identity occurring between Christ’s cross and the monument in Jerusalem exists in the poem, extending to the tree-narrator, whose story begins by recalling how it was cut down at the edge of a wood to become the instrument of Christ’s crucifixion.20 Ó Carragáin has demonstrated that the appearance of both the poem and the vine on the same monument served to transform the stone into wood.21 The Ruthwell monument provides significant evidence of the metaphorical relationship between the Insular stone crosses and a living tree. The formal characteristics of the Ruthwell vine layer further significance onto the motif, which encloses the full stem of the monument up to the cross head, bracketing the narrative panels on the broad faces. An ivory reliquary cross, made in the eleventh century and now in the collection of the Victoria & Albert Museum, makes use of a related scheme (Pl. II).22 Here, vine scroll ornament on the narrow sides of the cross surrounds the small sculpture almost completely. The faces contain Evangelist symbols, the Agnus Dei, an archer, birds, and beasts in what is almost certainly a presentation of a Tree of Life. The vines envelop the monument, functioning much as a border would on a two-dimensional work. In much the same way, the Ruthwell vine scroll can be identified as an arbor vitae through its association with the runic poem, while simultaneously serving as a frame for the entire monument. As I will discuss below, the framing function of the vine scroll has been innate to its use from its earliest appearance in Insular art, a facet of its identity which, as a formal device, is an inheritance from antiquity.

England’, Place and Space in the Medieval World, ed. Meg Boulton, Jane Hawkes, and Heidi Stoner (New York, NY, 2017), pp. 47–62. 18 Roe, ‘The Irish High Cross’, p. 223; Richardson, ‘The Concept of the High Cross’. 19 Bailey, ‘“What Mean these Stones?”’, p. 45; Éamonn Ó Carragáin, Ritual and the Rood: Liturgical Images and the Old English Poems of the Dream of the Rood Tradition (Toronto, 2005). 20 Michael Swanton, ed., Dream of the Rood, Exeter Medieval Texts and Studies (Exeter, 1996); see also Bintley, Trees in the Religions of Early Medieval England, pp. 52–8. 21 Ó Carragáin, Ritual and the Rood, p. 286. 22 Paul Williamson, Medieval Ivory Carvings: Early Christian to Romanesque (London, 2010), pp. 248–53, cat. no. 64; Victoria and Albert Museum A.6–1966.

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SINGLE VINE FRAMING The second approach to representing vine scrolls is found mainly on Pictish monuments. Here, single vine scrolls surround figured panels. On the Hilton of Cadboll cross-slab, an inhabited vine scroll forms the exterior border on either side of the monument.23 Within the boundary of the vine are panels with figures and ornament: a hunt scene and Pictish symbols. Similarly, a fragment of a cross-slab from Tarbat shows a stylised inhabited vine scroll used in the border below, and on both sides of, a panel with figures. In both cases, the animals are encircled by the rinceaux as they are on ascending vines. Like the birds and beasts populating the vine scrolls of the early English monuments, the Pictish creatures peck at berries that hang from the vine. The vine scrolls in this second approach act as a frame on the edges of the cross-slabs. They enclose other panels which feature figures or other abstract imagery and form a border for central panels, in much the same fashion as the vine on the Ruthwell Cross. Ó Carragáin has suggested that the three-dimensionality of the Ruthwell Cross encouraged viewers to read the significance of the vine scroll in tandem with the meaning of the figured panels as they moved around the sculpture. He writes that ‘the vine-scrolls on the narrow sides make it clear that this cross cannot be appreciated simply in terms of a two-sided programme: all four sides […] are vital to it’.24 The vegetal ornament reinforces the concept of the cross as a tree and, together with the runic poem, provides a unifying concept through which to interpret the figured panels on the broad sides of the monument. Viewers were encouraged to move around the monument in a sun-wise direction to read the inscribed texts. The events depicted in the narrative panels were thus presented as part of the great cosmic plan for which the Tree of Life was a metaphor. The preference in early medieval Scotland was often to sculpt large stone slabs rather than free-standing crosses. The designers of the Hilton of Cadboll and Tarbat cross-slabs may have revised the format of the threedimensional cross to accommodate the fundamentally two-dimensional display space available to them. On the Pictish monuments, the structure of vine scroll and image panel is formed as though the intention was to represent three sides of a free-standing cross like Ruthwell on a single face of a cross-slab. In reorganising these elements, a clearer statement was made about the relationship of the vine scroll to the other panels and its role as a border or, more properly, a framing element. This function, like the vine scroll itself, had antecedents in antiquity. It is generally accepted that the vine scroll motif is an inheritance from

23 24

Henderson, ‘Pictish Vine-Scroll Ornament’, pp. 243–68. Ó Carragáin, Ritual and the Rood, pp. 286–7.

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the Mediterranean world.25 However, it is less widely recognised that the compositional structure where vine scrolls were used as framing devices, and the significance resulting from this arrangement, also ultimately derived from antique sources. On late antique pavement and wall decoration vine scroll was often employed as a framing device for a central or featured image, called an emblema. Ernst Kitzinger has demonstrated that Christian art adopted this means of organising visual programmes so that the main structure consisted of two basic components: framing elements and framed panels.26 One useful example is the sixth-century cathedra made for Maximian, bishop of Ravenna.27 The vertical elements of the chair are decorated with vine ornament: inhabited vines grow up two sides of the front posts, and two more form a pendant pair at either end of the curved chair back. These vines fit into narrow spaces, include only birds, and look comparatively delicate. More substantial and scrolling vines are situated in vertical panels on the interior and exterior of the back of the chair. Laden with berries, these vines support both birds and beasts who stand or perch on the thick shoots, sampling fruit. The remaining panels feature narrative images from the life of the Old Testament figure Joseph, the life of Christ, and portraits of the Evangelists and John the Baptist. These are organised into columns and registers separated in places by horizontal panels of vine ornament. The structure of Maximian’s throne clearly delineates framing elements from framed images.28 Kitzinger argued that this strategy, which was also used for the mosaic programme at San Vitale in Ravenna, reconciled traditional naturalistic imagery and the emerging taste for abstraction. Antique emblema would have rendered space naturalistically, giving the illusion that the frame defined a window into a space with depth. The contrasting approach in Ravenna was to accept the surface and use it to serve the needs of abstraction. Central panels lost naturalistic depth and instead, as Kitzinger observed, presented landscape vistas as though they were curtains draped behind the figures.29 Rather than receding into space, elements were stacked vertically to the top of the frame, overlapping slightly to indicate relative position. Perhaps to compensate, framing elements became wildly verdant. This structural combination permitted the expression of an overgrown, uncontrollable infinity stabilised through

Jane Hawkes, ‘The Plant-Life of Early Christian Anglo-Saxon Art’, From Earth to Art: the Many Aspects of the Plant World in Anglo-Saxon England, ed. Carole P. Biggam (New York, NY, 2003), pp. 263–86, at 265; George Henderson and Isabel Henderson, The Art of the Picts: Sculpture and Metalwork in Early Medieval Scotland (London, 2004), p. 24. 26 Ernst Kitzinger, Byzantine Art in the Making: Main Lines of Stylistic Development in Mediterranean Art, Third–Seventh Century (London, 1977), pp. 82–91. 27 Kurt Weitzmann, Age of Spirituality: Late Antique and Early Christian Art, Third to Seventh Century (New York, NY, 1979), fig. 60. 28 Kitzinger, Byzantine Art in the Making, pp. 94–6. 29 Kitzinger, Byzantine Art in the Making, p. 83. 25

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reason and order: a cosmic vision compatible with Christian theology.30 Vine scrolls that frame panels on Pictish monuments and those that enclose cross sculptures as at Ruthwell and the Victoria & Albert reliquary pendant repeat this structure. The lush, undulating vine scroll is a foil for the central image with its rational figures and geometric shapes.31 As the frame for a main panel, it is an eternity delimiting a quantifiable space.

TREE-SCROLLS The third approach to vine scrolls in Insular art is the one adopted by the Kells panel. It presents rinceaux in a varying number of registers on either side of a central vertical axis. Isabel Henderson has usefully described these vines as tree-scrolls.32 A Pictish fragment from Rosemarkie features an uninhabited version.33 The axis on the inhabited vines of the sculptural fragments from a shrine at Jedburgh and a cross at Croft-on-Tees is a single plant stem.34 The latter panel compares well with the vine scroll on Muiredach’s Cross, which also organises its scrolls in registers. Both compositions are framed with a rolled moulding border on all four sides, and so the three registers of scrolls on each are thus the complete vine. The plant spirals end in fruit clusters which the resident creatures peck at, or outright gobble. As on Muiredach’s Cross, the vine scroll on the South Cross at Kells is arranged in registers on either side of a central vertical axis. Where Muiredach’s Cross has three pairs of scrolls, the Kells panel has four. It is nearly identical to the vine scroll on the South Cross at Clonmacnoise, except that the latter seems to have five registers.35 Unlike the examples from Jedburgh and Croft-on-Tees, none of the Irish examples has a central stem running the length of the panel to support the scrolls. Instead, at Kells and Clonmacnoise, the vines criss-cross the central vertical axis as they ascend the panel. Despite deterioration of the stones, it is possible to discern that the sequence of animals at Kells is initiated by creatures facing one another and followed by quadrupeds facing out, then birds facing inward and another set of quadrupeds facing out. Berries are even more difficult to recognise, though a few clusters may be seen on the outer Kitzinger, Byzantine Art in the Making, p. 91. Joan Barclay Lloyd, The Medieval Church and Canonry of S. Clemente in Rome (Rome, 1989), p. 47. 32 Henderson, ‘Pictish Vine-Scroll Ornament’, p. 244. 33 Henderson and Henderson, The Art of the Picts, p. 55; Henderson, ‘Pictish Vine-Scroll Ornament’, fig. 112a. 34 For Jedburgh see, Rosemary Cramp, ‘The Anglian Sculptures from Jedburgh’, From the Stone Age to the ‘Forty-Five: Studies Presented to R. B. K. Stevenson, ed. Anne O’Connor and D. V. Clarke (Edinburgh, 1983), pp. 269–84, at 281, fig. 120a; Henderson, ‘Pictish Vine-Scroll Ornament’, fig. 109b; for Croft-on-Tees see, Lang, CASSS 6, pp. 89–92, figs. 150, 152. 35 Edwards, ‘The South Cross’, pp. 23–48. 30 31

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edge of the vine at Kells. The fauna and their four registers of fruiting vine scrolls are contained by a rolled moulding border at the top and on the sides. At the bottom, the Kells tree-scroll is bordered by an interlace motif initiated with addorsed beast heads. Inevitably, the resulting form of this third approach, the tree-scroll, is more compact than the single-vine designs. The motif does not fill an entire side of a sculpture but is one element within a larger visual programme. Instead of surrounding the monumental cross or framing other panels, the vine is itself enclosed within a border. The framing/framed structure used in the other approaches to Insular vine scrolls has been turned inside out. No longer acting as a framing element, the vine scroll is now the framed image. As with the use of most plant imagery in Insular art, the transformation was made to serve a specific purpose.36 The composition differentiates its two main elements – the scrolls of the vine inhabited by all manner of creatures, and the root from which the vine springs. By framing them together, the structure highlights their interdependence. The tendrils of the plant are nourished by the root, an arrangement that preserves an element of their formal role as a framing device by surrounding the root. The root is vital to the continuing existence of the vine, and at Kells the Christian symbolism of this natural phenomenon is a notable feature of the panel, owing to the fact that the composition renders the root as a central feature.

ROOTS All vines must have roots, or at least a point of origin. To create a rational vine scroll image, Insular artists had to accommodate this necessity.37 Late antique representations opted for natural forms which were later imitated in early Christian examples. On the throne of Maximian, each vine scroll is potted in a krater-style urn. Similarly, many of the vines in the mosaics at San Vitale begin in containers. An alternative source for a vine was the sort of bushy shrub seen in the Dionysian harvest mosaic in the vault at Santa Constanza in Rome.38 The roots of Insular vine scrolls can be unclear due to wear. Root ball, scroll, and knot are all terms used to describe the beginning point of vines. Of the five examples where vine scrolls are presented in registers, an origin point for the vines is clear in three of them. On the panel from Croft-onTees, the vines spring from a small horizontal band which rests on top of Hawkes, ‘The Plant-Life of Early Christian Anglo-Saxon Art’, p. 276. Hawkes argues that on Anglo-Saxon crosses, where the bases were typically buried below ground so only the stem of the cross upwards was visible, the vine scrolls would have appeared to be planted directly in the earth. Hawkes, ‘Planting the Cross in AngloSaxon England’, pp. 47–62. See also Bintley, Trees in the Religions of Early Medieval England. 38 Weitzmann, Age of Spirituality, fig. 17. 36 37

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vertical lines flowing downwards and out to fill the available triangular space. This could be a vessel, but reads more as a bundle of plant stems or roots. It compares well with the vine scroll embossed on the cover of the binding for the Cuthbert Gospel (London, British Library Additional MS 89000).39 Like its sculptural counterparts, the motif on the Gospel book is a tree-scroll, albeit rendered in two uninhabited registers. It begins with an element of similar shape to the base of the Croft-on-Tees vine, but as it has a smooth surface rather than incised vertical lines, this element reads more clearly as a vase. An analogous vessel serves as the base for a set of vine scrolls – one inhabited, the other unoccupied – on panels for the casket and lid of an eighth-century chrismatory.40 Taking a completely different form, the origin point of the vine scroll on Muiredach’s Cross can best be described as a wedge-shaped object at the base of the panel. The intention may have been to represent roots or a root ball. Henry Crawford saw a more abstract element and interpreted this shape as a double-ended spiral, with volutes curling downwards.41 The root of the vine on the South Cross at Kells, however, is decidedly not a vessel. Nor can it be taken for a triangular wedge or strands of roots filling the available space. This object has a distinct trapezoidal base combined with a vertical stem much like the cross on which it is carved. It appears to lack only the arms of a cross to definitively identify it as such, a point that will be considered below. In representing a monumental cross as the root of the vine scroll, the Kells panel appears to be unique in Insular sculpture. Unlike the Ruthwell Cross, which relies on a relationship between text and image, the Kells vine is a purely visual articulation of the confluence of Christ’s cross and the plant which signifies the cosmic Tree of Life.

THE TREE OF LIFE Although most scholars who mention the Kells panel describe it as an inhabited vine scroll, those who work on Anglo-Saxon sculpture, including Hawkes, identify analogous inhabited vine scrolls on AngloSaxon monuments as Trees of Life: Depictions of inhabited plant-scrolls, at their most general, occupy a common iconographic ground with the cosmological tree and images of the Tree of Life and the Vine (as well as the spiritual ladder). As such, the plant-scroll has the potential to 39 Leslie Webster, ‘Decoration and Binding’, The St Cuthbert Gospel: Studies on the Insular Manuscript of the Gospel of John, ed. C. Breay and B. Meehan (London, 2015), pp. 65–82, fig. 3.1; Martin Werner, ‘The Binding of the Stonyhurst Gospel of St John and St John’, Insular and Anglo-Saxon Art and Thought in the Early Medieval Period, ed. C. Hourihane (Princeton, NJ, 2011), pp. 287–311. 40 Leslie Webster, ‘A Recently Discovered Anglo-Carolingian Chrismatory’, Matter of Faith: An Interdisciplinary Study of Relics and Relic Veneration in the Medieval Period, ed. J. Robinson, L. de Beer, and A. Harnden (London, 2014), pp. 66–74, pl. 8. 41 Crawford, Irish Carved Ornament, pl. xxxviii, fig. 108.

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function as a multivalent symbol that encompasses Christ, the Church founded on him, the sacraments of the Church (the means by which Christians are brought into, and maintained within the Church), the life of faith leading to salvation, and eternal life itself.42

The Kells tree-scroll should be classified as an arbor vitae. An early Christian poem called alternately De pascha and De ligno vitae, cited by Eleanor Greenhill as an encapsulation of the cosmological nature of the arbor vitae, describes the great tree. Its characteristics were initially defined by two Old Testament passages.43 The prophet Daniel offered an image based in nature – an immense tree with branches that reached far and wide and produced fruit which nourished all the beasts and birds who inhabited it. Nebuchadnezzar, recounting a portentous dream to Daniel, tells him that: This was the vision of my head in my bed: I saw and beheld a tree in the midst of the earth, and the height of it was exceedingly great. The tree was great, and strong: it reached unto heaven: the sight of it was even to the ends of all the earth. Its leaves were most beautiful, and its fruit plentiful: and in it was food for all: under it dwelt cattle, and beasts, and in the branches of the tree the fowls of the air had their abode: and all flesh ate from it. (Daniel 4:7–9)44

Ezekiel’s vision of the cosmic tree was somewhat more triumphant. His tree towered over all the others and acted as a statement of divine authority in the world.45 Thus says the Lord God: I myself will take of the marrow of the high cedar, and will set it: I will crop off a tender twig from the top of the branches of the tree, and I will plant it on a mountain high and eminent. On the high mountains of Israel I will plant it, and it shall shoot forth into branches, and shall bear fruit, and it shall become a great cedar: and all birds shall dwell under it, and every fowl shall make its nest under the shadow of the branches of this tree. And all the trees of the country shall know that I the Lord have brought down the high tree, and exalted the low tree: and have dried up the green tree, and have caused the dry tree to flourish. I the Lord have spoken and have done it. (Ezekiel 17:22–4) Hawkes, The Sandbach Crosses, pp. 90–1. Eleanor Simmons Greenhill, ‘The Child in the Tree: A Study of the Cosmological Tree in Christian Tradition’, Traditio, 10 (1954), 323–71, esp. 331–41. 44 All Biblical texts are given from Holy Bible: Douay-Rheims Version, with Challoner Revisions, 1749–52 (Baltimore, MD, 1899). In some cases the language has been modernised by the present author for the convenience of the reader. 45 Jennifer O’Reilly, ‘The Trees of Eden in Medieval Iconography’, A Walk in the Garden: Biblical, Iconographical and Literary Images of Eden, ed. Paul Morris and Deborah Sawyer (Sheffield, 1992), pp. 167–204, at 170–1. 42 43

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The Gospel writer John recalled similar vine imagery as an analogy for Christ himself, who said that: I am the true vine; and my Father is the husbandman. Every branch in me, that does not bear fruit, he will take away: and every one that bears fruit, he will purge it, that it may bring forth more fruit. Now you are clean by reason of the word, which I have spoken to you. Abide in me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit of itself, unless it abides in the vine, so neither can you, unless you abide in me. I am the vine: you the branches: he that abides in me, and I in him, the same bears much fruit: for without me you can do nothing. If any one does not abide in me, he shall be cast forth as a branch, and shall wither, and they shall gather him up, and cast him into the fire, and he will burn. (John 15:1–6)

There are few finer examples of the visualisation of such a cosmology than the thirteenth-century apse mosaic at San Clemente in Rome.46 Rooted in the basin of a bushy shrub, the tendrils of the vine curl out into neatly ordered scrolls arranged in registers. A cross is plainly depicted as the stem of this plant, the trunk of this tree. While there is no evidence that the San Clemente mosaic replicates an earlier apsidal programme, the work nevertheless specifically references early Christian forms, including the composition for its Tree of Life.47 For example, the surviving mosaic in the apse of the fifth-century Lateran Baptistery renders a Christian cosmos with a Tree of Life.48 Like the later version at San Clemente, its main stem aligns on the central vertical axis and supports registers of vine scrolls. A comparison of formal elements in the mosaic at San Clemente and the panel on the Kells cross supports an interpretation of the Kells vine as a Tree of Life. In both, the vine scrolls are organised into registers. Four rivers of paradise flow from the base of the San Clemente vine, and the water attracts two harts who drink to refresh themselves. This is standard iconography for the decoration of early Christian baptisteries, symbolising the thirst of the soul for the divine (Psalm 42:1), was also associated with the rich network of symbolism linking baptismal rites to creation and the promise of resurrection implied by the image of the cross in the Tree of Life.49 46 Joan Barclay Lloyd, ‘A New Look at the Mosaics of San Clemente’, Omnia Disce: Medieval Studies in Honor of Leonard Boyle, OP, ed. Anne J. Duggan, Joan Greatrex, and Brenda Bolton (New York, NY, 2005), pp. 9–28, fig. 1. 47 Barclay Lloyd, Medieval Church and Canonry, p. 46. 48 Hugo Brandenburg, Ancient Churches of Rome from the Fourth to the Seventh Century: The Dawn of Christian Architecture in the West (Turnhout, 2005), pp. 43–4, figs. 16–17. 49 Paul A. Underwood, ‘The Fountain of Life in the Manuscripts of the Gospels’, Dumbarton Oaks Papers, 5 (1950), 41–138, at 51–3, 87–9; Ernst Kitzinger, ‘The Town of Stobi’, Dumbarton Oaks Papers, 3 (1946), 81–162, at 134–41, fig. 193; O’Reilly, ‘The Trees of Eden in Medieval Iconography’, p. 171. See also Twomey above, pp. 7–22.

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At Kells, the fauna are similarly organised into registers, beginning with beasts which flank either side of the cross stem. Although Nancy Edwards, in her brief catalogue of vine scroll ornament in Irish sculpture, does not commit beyond calling the pair ‘confronted quadrupeds’, Helen Roe identifies the animals as fawns.50 To satisfy the requirements of a Tree of Life design, both fowl and beasts (Genesis 1:26) had to be represented in order to encompass all, or most of, creation. Insular design principles demanded that the creatures alternate between confronted and addorsed stances for the sake of visual interest. By initiating the sequence with confronted deer, the makers further confirmed this iconography as a Tree of Life. Most significantly, of all the Insular tree-scrolls, Kells provides the clearest example of a tree trunk rendered in the form of a cross akin to that at San Clemente. On this point, a comparison between the two works is especially interesting. Joan Barclay Lloyd has asserted that the cross functions as an emblema at San Clemente, and by surrounding this central element the rinceaux act to contextualise it.51 It has already been demonstrated that in Insular tree-scroll compositions, the framing/framed structure has been inverted, situating the root as the central element of the vine scroll composition. By comparing the Kells panel with the apse mosaic at San Clemente, two key points about the former are clarified. First, that the elements of the tree-scroll (including the fauna representing the orders of creation, the confronted deer at the base, and the intentional use of a cross stem as the trunk) firmly identify the composition as an arbor vitae. Second, by virtue of this compositional structure, that the cross itself is depicted in a space distinct from that of the surrounding vine. Contained within a frame, they are individual components of a unified whole, a structure which lends itself to the cosmic geography of the Tree of Life.

GARDENS AT THE CENTRE OF THE COSMOS For early Christians, the Tree of Life was a multi-layered image. It was both the literal tree from which Christ’s cross was made, and the symbolic cosmos. Christ’s nativity, life, death, resurrection, and subsequent mission to the Christian Church were measured by the expanse of the trunk and its branches. It was synonymous with the paradisal tree in the Garden of Eden (Genesis 2:8–9) which, according to the sixth-century Syrian text Book of the Cave of Treasures, prefigured the cross of Christ.52 In turn, the tree referenced the anticipated the paradise of heavenly Jerusalem. Edwards, ‘The South Cross’, p. 32; Helen Roe, The High Crosses of Kells (Longford, 1959), p. 23. 51 Barclay Lloyd, Medieval Church and Canonry, p. 47. 52 Martin Werner, ‘The Cross Carpet Page in the Book of Durrow: The Cult of the True Cross, Adomnan and Iona’, Art Bulletin, 72.2 (1990), 174–223, at 210; O’Reilly, ‘Trees of Eden’, p. 170. 50

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The tree was planted at the centre of the world, a location affirmed as the terrestrial Jerusalem by Scripture (‘Thus says the Lord God: This is Jerusalem, I have set her in the midst of the nations, and the countries round about her’, Ezekiel 5:5; Psalm 73:12; Psalm 84:12) and reasserted by the Ionan abbot Adamnán, whose text acted as a source for Bede:53 A summary account must be given of a very high column which stands in the centre of the city to the north of the holy places […] It is remarkable how this column fails to cast a shadow at midday during the Summer solstice when the sun reached the centre of the heavens […] And so this column, which the sunlight surrounds on all sides blazing directly down on it during the midday hours (when at the Summer solstice the sun stands in the centre of the heavens), proves Jerusalem to be situated at the centre of the world. Hence the psalmist, because of the holy places of the passion and resurrection, which are contained within Helia [Jerusalem] itself, prophesying sings: ‘God our king before the ages hath wrought our salvation in the centre of the earth; that is Jerusalem, which is said to be the centre of the earth and its navel’ [Ps 73:12].54

Patristic authors further specified the Holy Sepulchre as the umbilicus terrae. With even greater precision, Jerome identified the cross-marked hill of Golgotha as the absolute location for the centre of the cosmos.55 A navel of the universe, centered on Jerusalem, was vital to Christian cosmology.56 To validate Christianity’s new paradigm, it was necessary to demonstrate continuity between the cosmology of the Old Testament and the events of Christ’s life.57 From late antiquity, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem was the location of both the shrine to Christ’s tomb and the associated bejewelled cross commemorating his crucifixion. The ecclesiastical centre combined two important foci for pilgrimage and adoration. Situated in a courtyard near the sepulchre’s rotunda was the site of Christ’s crucifixion.58 The two spaces acted as a pendant pair, commemorating the most sacred events in Christian history. Pilgrim accounts recorded elaborate rituals at this site which resulted in souvenirs that were then carried back home. In one, described by a pilgrim from Piacenza, oil was poured over the True Cross and collected in small flasks.59 An ampulla made in Jerusalem for such a purpose c. 600, now in the Dumbarton Oaks Collection, features rich imagery linking Greenhill, ‘The Child in the Tree’, pp. 335–6; O’Reilly, ‘Trees of Eden’, p. 171. Dennis Meehan, ed., Adamnán’s De Locis Sanctis (Dublin, 1958), p. 56. See also Werner, ‘The Cross Carpet Page in the Book of Durrow’, p. 202. 55 Jerome, In Ezechielem 5 (PL 25, p. 52); Werner, ‘The Cross Carpet Page’, p. 210. 56 Werner, ‘The Binding of the Stonyhurst Gospel’, pp. 287–311, at 293. 57 For further discussion of this topic see Elizabeth Alexander in this volume, pp. 49–60. 58 Roger Stalley, Early Medieval Architecture (Oxford, 1999), p. 66. 59 Garry Vikan, Byzantine Pilgrimage Art (Washington, DC, 1982), p. 22. 53

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the two spaces.60 On one side it illustrates the three women at the empty tomb of Christ, depicted on the flask as the shrine chapel erected over it in the mid-fourth century.61 The obverse is decorated with a portrait of Christ triumphant over death, flanked by the two crucified thieves all surrounding a more contemporary image of the veneration of the True Cross at Golgotha. Through this powerfully curated spatial programme, the complex at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre signified its celestial importance and its identity as the navel of the world – the nexus between humanity and the divine. This place was widely visualised as marked by a cross. A crux gemmata featured in the apsidal decoration at Santa Pudenziana in Rome, and another at Sant’ Apollinare in Classe in Ravenna, attest this point.62 So too does the sculptural fragment of a chancel barrier, now in the collection of Dumbarton Oaks, which portrays the shrine of Christ’s tomb (Fig. 2.4). The fragment depicts a cross, raised above the ground line on a stepped base and situated on the central vertical axis, which is sheltered by the distinctive roof of the shrine.63 If only by its association with the shrine, the cross designates the centre of the world. Like the cross on the Kells panel, it is centred and enclosed within a symbol of celestial importance. It is perhaps curious to see provincial Christians as far removed from the Holy Land as the community at Kells invoke Jerusalem in a cosmic vision. Michael King, however, has convincingly argued that iconography of a pine-cone on a stepped base in the decoration of one of the shoulder clasps from Sutton Hoo likely derived from Roman sources and signified the navel of the earth. King proposes that, given its funerary context, the motif represents a vision of paradise.64 It is equally probable that the Tree of Life on the Kells panel presents a Christian cosmos. It is not without significance that the cosmic events which construct the Tree of Life, from creation to salvation, take place in a paradisal garden. The tree itself was planted in the middle of the Garden of Eden (Genesis 2:9–10). Medieval legends about Christ’s cross claimed it was made from the wood of the Tree of Life, thus associating the Crucifixion with a garden.65 The Gospel of John (19:41–2) located the site of Christ’s tomb in a garden. Finally, in the apocalyptic vision of John (Revelation 22:1–2), Weitzmann, Age of Spirituality, pp. 585–6, cat. 524; Washington, DC, Dumbarton Oaks Collection, 48.18. 61 Kurt Weitzmann, ‘“Loca Sancta” and the Representational Arts of Palestine’, Dumbarton Oaks Papers, 28 (1974), 31–55, at p. 42. 62 For the example at Santa Pudenziana see, Werner, ‘The Cross Carpet Page in the Book of Durrow’, pp. 209–10, fig. 20; for Sant’ Appolinare in Classe see, Weitzmann, Age of Spirituality, p. 562, cat. 505. 63 Underwood, ‘The Fountain of Life in the Manuscripts of the Gospels’, fig. 39; Washington, DC, Dumbarton Oaks Collection, BZ.1938.56. 64 Michael King, ‘Besette Swinlicum: Sources for the Iconography of the Sutton Hoo Shoulder-Clasps’, The Anglo-Saxons: The World through their Eyes, ed. G. R. OwenCrocker and B. W. Schneider, BAR British Series 595 (Oxford, 2014), pp. 89–102. 65 Werner, ‘The Cross Carpet Page in the Book of Durrow’, p. 182. 60

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FIG. 2.4 ​ FRAGMENT OF A CHANCEL BARRIER WITH HOLY SEPULCHRE DECORATION, LATE SIXTH TO SEVENTH CENTURY, BYZANTINE, DUMBARTON OAKS COLLECTION (BZ.1938.56).

the Tree of Life reappears in the paradise of the heavenly Jerusalem.66 Late antique liturgies at the Holy Sepulchre reinforced its paradisal identity as a garden omphalos.67 In a lecture for catechumens, Cyril of Jerusalem, a fourth-century bishop and patristic commentator, emphasises this point: But would you know the place also? Again He says in Canticles, I went down into the garden of nuts (Song of Songs 4:11); for it was a garden where He was crucified. For though it has now been most highly adorned with royal gifts, yet formerly it was a garden, and the signs and the remnants of this remain. A O’Reilly, ‘Trees of Eden’, p. 170. Omphalos is the Greek term for navel. See King, ‘Besette Swinlicum’, p. 98; Werner, ‘The Cross Carpet Page in the Book of Durrow’, pp. 210–11. 66 67

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garden enclosed, a fountain sealed (Song of Songs 4:12), by the Jews who said, We remember that that deceiver said while He was yet alive, After three days, I will rise: command, therefore, that the sepulchre be made sure; and further on, So they went, and made the sepulchre sure, sealing the stone with the guard (Matthew 27:63, 65). And aiming well at these, one says, and in rest You shall judge them. But who is the fountain that is sealed, or who is interpreted as being a well-spring of living water (Song of Songs 4:15)? It is the Saviour Himself, concerning whom it is written, For with You is the fountain of life (Psalm 35.9–10).68

In selecting the scriptural references to describe the garden in which Christ was crucified, Cyril of Jerusalem built a sacred landscape by linking successive layers of Christian events to the same location. In such an understanding, Christianity’s past, present and future are simultaneously pinned to the same space envisioned as both the terrestrial and heavenly Jerusalem. The Kells tree-scroll presents an icon of this scheme, with images on the adjoining sides of the cross further detailing the distinct events in Christian history which occupied this sacred landscape. On the east face of the cross, there are representations of Old Testament events which recount key moments in human history. Augustine identified six ages for the world, the first of which was bracketed by Adam and Abraham.69 On the east face, the figure of Abraham (about to sacrifice Isaac) appears on the left arm of the cross, whilst on its stem Adam and Eve are pictured in the panel second from the bottom.70 Seen in this light, the east face of the cross could be understood as the beginning of Christian history, complete with the paradisal garden and the cosmic tree situated between the earliest man and woman in the Adam and Eve panel. Like the tree-scroll on the adjacent face, the trunk is the central vertical axis of the panel and the foliage envelops the human figures, enclosing them in a bounded space. If the theme of the east face is the Christian past, then the west face represents its future. There in the centre of the cross head, above a depiction of the Crucifixion, is an image of Christ in Majesty. Like the Adam and Eve panel, this image depicts a paradise, although now an eschatological one. Christian iconography for this image typically shows Cyril of Jerusalem, Cathechesis 14.5, ed. Jacques-Paul Migne, Patralogiae Cursus Completus, Series Graeca 33 (Paris, 1857–66), pp. 805–6; Philip Schaff and Henry Wace, eds., Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, 2nd ser. 7 (repr. Peabody, MA, 1999), p. 95. 69 Augustine, ‘On the Catechising of the Uninstructed’, Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, ed. Philip Schaff, ser. 1, 3 (Edinburgh, 1998), pp. 282–314; see discussion of this treatise in relation to the Old Testament images on the Irish Barrow Valley crosses in Colleen M. Thomas, ‘David Composing the Psalms on Irish Monumental Sculpture’, Islands in a Global Context: Proceedings of the Seventh International Conference on Insular Art, ed. Conor Newman, Mags Mannion, and Fiona Gavin (Dublin, 2017), pp. 215–21, at 220–1. 70 For further discussion of the significance of such motifs, see Alexander in this volume, pp. 49–60. 68

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Christ enthroned in the heavenly Jerusalem at the centre of the cosmos, as in the Maiestas Domini in the Codex Amiatinus (Florence, Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana, MS Amiatino 1, fol. 796v).71 At Kells, as on other Irish crosses invoking this image, Christ stands holding two rods – a sceptre and a cross staff – in what is sometimes referred to as the Osiris pose.72 The figure of Christ himself takes the place of the Edenic tree and the monumental cross in the other panels. Christ is flanked by two beasts, confronted quadrupeds, which may have been intended as lions (a point which will be considered below). At this point in the discussion the significance of the two beasts is twofold. The depiction of Christ between the two beasts likely references the recognition given to the triumphant saviour of the universe by the humblest of creatures in the Canticle of Habakkuk.73 In this vision, the course of Christian history is complete and victorious. The beasts also visually reference the confronted quadrupeds at the base of the tree-scroll on the adjacent face, and to a lesser extent the fauna in the scrolls. Thus, through the Tree of Life panel and its cosmic metaphor of overlapping sacred spaces, there is a visual link between the Garden of Eden on the east face of the Kells cross and the heavenly Jerusalem on the west face.

GATEKEEPERS Cyril of Jerusalem’s paradisal garden is also guarded and protected by a boundary.74 It is an enclosed garden in which stands the sacred tree watered by the rivers of paradise. The Kells tree-scroll faithfully reproduces this formula. Its garden, whose centre is an omphalos marked by a cross, is safeguarded by its surrounding boundary. The cosmic tree was linked by scriptural associations to the place of Jerusalem, but existed conceptually outside time and space, and could thus be reimagined as situated in an Insular context. The Kells tree is enclosed on three sides by a rolled moulding border. At the bottom of the panel, the cross stem sits on its trapezoidal base at the aperture made by the loop of interlaced tongues between the heads of two beasts most likely intended to represent lions. This demarcates the 71 Peter Darby, ‘The Codex Amiatinus Maiestas Domini and the Gospel Prefaces of Jerome’, Speculum, 92.2 (2017), 343–71, fig. 1. 72 This is due to its parallels with the iconography of the Egyptian god; Kees Veelenturf, Dia Brátha: Eschatological Theophanies and Irish High Crosses (Amsterdam, 1997), pp. 107–12. 73 Éamonn Ó Carragáin, ‘The Meeting of Saint Paul and Saint Anthony: Visual and Literary Uses of a Eucharistic Motif ’, Keimelia: Studies in Medieval Archaeology and History in Memory of Tom Delaney, ed. Gearóid Mac Niocaill and Patrick F. Wallace (Galway, 1988), pp. 1–58, at 4–6. 74 Heather Pulliam made this link between Psalm 35 and the notion of protection in a paper presented at the ‘Scotland and Beyond’ conference at the University of Edinburgh (2011).

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border of paradise. From as early as the fifth century, Christian writers understood spirituality as having an interior and an exterior. For early monks, it was defined by the purity and asceticism of monastic practice against the pleasures of the world.75 Later in the early Middle Ages, as Anne Matter has shown, the interior was conceptualised as the ideal of monasticism and the exterior as the constructs of earthly power.76 Together with Revelation, the text of the Song of Songs was understood to reveal a divine plan with implications for both cosmic and terrestrial orders.77 Commentaries on the Song of Songs were used to express concerns over the relationship between Church and polity and to advocate the superiority of the enclosed life. The earliest commentary on the Song of Songs was written by Origen, who read it allegorically, but thereafter the text was increasingly given an ecclesiological interpretation instead.78 The Song represented the love between God and his Church, and helped define the role of Christian communities both within and outside of ecclesiastical settings. Commentaries on the Song of Songs consistently reflected their authors’ concerns about the Church as an institution. Bede’s promoted just such an ecclesiological reading of the text, and formed the foundation for a series of influential works of the ninth century. In his interpretation of the passage that refers to the enclosed garden (Song of Songs 4:12), Bede envisioned the paradise under the protection of Christ, fortified by the gospels and tended by faithful clerics: Now the church is a garden because she brings forth diverse buds of spiritual works, which are subsequently enumerated under the names of various species; she is a fountain because she is overflowing with saving doctrine, with which she waters the minds of her faithful as if they were seedbeds that she herself had prepared […] Now that garden is enclosed because the church continues steadfast under the fortified protection of her Lord and Redeemer, so that she may never be violated by the malicious intrusion of faithless people or unclear spirits, or hindered from producing celestial fruits as a result of being trampled on from every direction. That fountain is sealed because the word of faith that is defended by the seal of the gospel can never be disturbed by any incursion of those who go astray.79 In a letter dated to 411 Jerome declares, ‘but to me a town is a prison, solitude is paradise’. Jerome, ‘Letter to Rusticus’, 125.8, in Schaff and Wace, Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, ser. 2, 6, p. x. 76 E. Ann Matter, The Voice of my Beloved: The Song of Songs in Western Medieval Christianity (Philadelphia, PA, 1990), pp. 96–7. 77 Matter, The Voice of my Beloved, p. 89. 78 Hanna W. Matis, ‘Early-Medieval Exegesis of the Song of Songs and the Maternal Language of Clerical Authority’, Speculum, 89.2 (2014), 358–81, at 363. 79 Bede, In Cantica canticorum libri III, Beda Venerabilis: Opera Exegetica: In Tobiam; In 75

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Following Bede, Alcuin of York, Haimo of Auxerre, and Angelomus of Luxeuil each produced an interpretive text that framed the allegory of the Song as a model of the perfection of monastic life, particularly in relation to temporal power.80 The resulting order prioritised spiritual authority. The spiritual elite of the Church were identified as doctores by the ninthcentury commentators, a term used by Bede to refer to monks and bishops. According to Matis, these doctores were positioned as gatekeepers of the flow of spiritual sustenance between the divine and the greater community of the Christian Church. The lions on the Kells cross can thus be interpreted as the gatekeepers of the enclosed garden, mediating the divide between the space of the Tree of Life and the panel of interlaced knots below (see Fig. 2.1). Formed by the entwined tongues of the lions, the four pairs of knots in the lower panel mirror the four registers of vine scrolls in the upper, and may have been intended to indicate the dual spaces of human existence and the eternal. Both panels finish with what appear to be a pair of beasts, though they are difficult to identify because the stone is so worn.81 These bookend the indeterminate beasts at the bottom of the knotwork panel at the base of the monument. Lions, as boundary or framing elements, are not entirely unprecedented in Insular art. The Anglo-Carolingian chrismatory with the vine scroll panels discussed above also features ‘winged lion-like creatures’ on each end panel. Leslie Webster has interpreted these as symbols of Christ triumphant,82 a reading which supports the identification of the confronted beasts in the Christ in Majesty image as lions, further linking the Tree of Life panel to the heavenly Jerusalem. Webster’s attribution is indeed a reasonable one, because Revelation (5:5) compares Christ to a lion. The same passage also identifies Christ as the ‘root of David’. This would support an interpretation of the panel on the end of the cross arm as a depiction of David, although the iconography is not typical in showing David killing the lion.83 Rather than invoking David or Christ, it is possible that the pair of lions may be a reference to the monastic community. As we have seen, Bede positioned elite monks as inheritors of the apostles’ mission, serving as a conduit for the transmission of scripture; their place in the cosmic order was as mediators between humanity and the divine. Near the top of the cross, above the arm with the David panel, are the figures of two seated clerics holding books. Formally, they reiterate the pattern of organising the compositional elements in pairs. Proverbia; In Cantica canticorum; In Habacuc, ed. David Hurst and J. E. Hudson, CCSL 119B (Turnhout, 1983), book 3, lines 748–75; Arthur Holder, trans., Bede: On the Song of Songs (New York, NY, 2011), pp. 130–1. 80 Matis, ‘Early-Medieval Exegesis of the Song of Songs’, p. 363. 81 Helen Roe tentatively suggested the animals at the top of the tree-scroll, just under the arm of the cross, might be a set of lizards. Roe, The High Crosses of Kells, p. 15. 82 Webster, ‘A Recently Discovered Anglo-Carolingian Chrismatory’, p. 70. 83 Helen Roe, ‘The “David Cycle” in Early Irish Art’, The Journal of the Royal Society of Antiquaries of Ireland, 79.1/2 (1949), 39–59, at pp. 42–7.

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Multiple identifications have been offered for the pair, but none has been particularly satisfactory.84 They should perhaps be read as a complement to the lions on the lower stem: a direct statement of the monks’ role as the gatekeepers of paradise.

PERSPECTIVES ON THE COSMOS AND KELLS The cosmic interpretation of the Kells tree-scroll has implications for rest of the visual programme on the same face, which, as this essay has argued, may offer a commentary on the role of the monastic community in the Christian world. To describe this cosmology, and perhaps situate Kells within it, the Tree of Life composition employs perspectival play. The cross, like an emblema, was intended to be seen as spatially distinct from the surrounding vine, but contained within the same frame. It is here suggested that the panel should be viewed not with modern perspective,85 but instead as several multivalent planes. The vine scroll occupies one, and is presented as a plan which can be understood to measure the space of the universe. The cross fills the other plane and is represented in elevation so that it can mark the centre of the world and so that its full height can be appreciated. This visual play may explain the lack of arms on the cross serving as the root of the tree-scroll. If the tree-scroll cross was depicted as though a viewer faces the same narrow side on which its panel is carved, then the arm would not appear to project into space but would flatten into the rectangular field of the stem. It would then appear just as the monumental cross does to a viewer looking at its narrow side in reality. The ‘Arrest of Christ’ painting on folio 114r in the Book of Kells (Dublin, Trinity College, MS 58) (Pl. III) provides a visualisation analogous to the play of multivalent perspectives on the Kells cross. In the manuscript painting, a figure presumed to be Christ takes a semi-orant pose at the centre of the image, and is flanked by two other figures who each grasp one of his arms. The group is enclosed by two columns – one on either side – which are, in turn, surmounted by an arch. Each column rests on a stepped base. The innermost panel of each column is filled with a vine, framed by two borders. The columns are capped by equalarmed crosses. Between the vine and the cross head on each column, two narrow rectangular panels of framed interlace flank a larger square panel of interlace. The arch springs from the cross heads and terminates at the apex in confronted beast heads. Their tongues are entangled in an interlace knot between them. The architectural elements of the Book of

Roe, The High Crosses of Kells, p. 25, suggests the two clerics are Peter and Paul. Meg Boulton, ‘“The End of the World as We Know It”: Viewing Eschatology and Symbolic Spaces in Late Antique and Insular Art’, Making Histories: Proceedings of the Sixth International Conference on Insular Art, ed. Jane Hawkes (Donington, 2013), pp. 279–90.

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Kells image recall the complex at the Holy Sepulchre. The columns sit on stepped bases like the bejewelled cross at Golgotha. The arch opens to the heavens at the centre in the same fashion as the oculus in the rotunda over Christ’s shrine. Potted vines curl under the arch and around the text which identifies the garden space not as Eden or the eternal Jerusalem, but as Mount Olivet, where Christ and his apostles gathered after the Last Supper. Jennifer O’Reilly, in her analysis of folio 114r, argued that the image was the result of meditation on chains of texts which, through word play, ultimately linked the olive tree to the paradisal Tree of Life.86 As Douglas MacLean has observed, ‘Insular exegesis successively layers the locus sanctus with Christ’s Passion, Ascension and final return.’87 On this basis, the domed space guarded by crosses in the Book of Kells miniature becomes, like our Tree of Life on the sculpted Kells panel, one of Christianity’s overlapping paradisal gardens. A compelling comparison can be made between the multivalent perspectives of these works. The columns in the miniature have the main attributes of an early Irish free-standing cross. The stepped base, long stem, and cross head reproduce the silhouette of a high cross. Of interest is the variation in the width of the panels which sit between the vine and the cross head, which suggests a schematic representation of the narrow side of the monument where the square panel represents the end of the cross arm. In this aspect, it resembles the cross stem in the Kells Tree of Life panel, as well as the real view of the narrow side of the sculpted monument. The manuscript image would then present two perspectives of the cross-columns simultaneously. As Ó Carragáin has noted, ‘central to liturgical spirituality was multivalence, the idea that one perspective coexisted quite naturally with several others. Monastic writers like Bede rejoiced in the variety of perspectives available to them at any one time.’88 The same principles informed the work of visual artists in the Insular world. Both the ‘Arrest of Christ’ miniature and the Tree of Life panel signify garden locations of cosmic importance and communicate the complexity of their spaces through the sophisticated rendering of an abundance of perspectives.

86 Jennifer O’Reilly, ‘The Book of Kells, Folio 114r: A Mystery Revealed Yet Concealed’, The Age of Migrating Ideas: Early Medieval Art in Northern Britain and Ireland, ed. Michael R. Spearman and John Higgit (Stroud, 1993), pp. 106–13, at 110–11. 87 Douglas Mac Lean, ‘Northumbrian Vine-scroll Ornament and the Book of Kells’, Northumbria’s Golden Age, ed. Jane Hawkes and Susan Mills (Stroud, 1999), pp. 178–90, at 180; Carol Farr, ‘Textural Structure, Decoration, and Interpretive Images in the Book of Kells’, The Book of Kells: Proceedings of a Conference at Trinity College Dublin, ed. F. O’Mahoney (Dublin, 1994), pp. 437–49, esp. 445–8. 88 Ó Carragáin, Ritual and the Rood, p. 280.

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CONCLUSION At Kells, the plant scroll on the South Cross reinterprets a sophisticated composition established in antiquity and repeated on other Insular sculpture to render an arbor vitae – a Tree of Life. By inverting the traditional framing function of the vine scroll and instead presenting it as framed, the composition focuses attention on the two interdependent elements within the border. The first, the root of the tree, is featured at the centre of the panel, like an antique emblema; and the second element, the inhabited vine scrolls, fills the surrounding space. Unlike other Insular examples, the root of the Kells Tree of Life was rendered as a sculptured cross monument. Patristic texts established chains of association which linked the cross at the centre of the Tree of Life to the bejewelled commemorative cross at the complex of the Holy Sepulchre, located at the centre of the Christian universe. The site of Christ’s crucifixion and tomb were identified as the cosmic omphalos and visualised as a paradisal garden, which signified not only the temporal Jerusalem, but also the origin of humanity in the Garden of Eden and the eventual salvation in heavenly Jerusalem. A Tree of Life provided a visual metaphor for the cosmos where the expanse of the vine scrolls measured sacred history and the tree trunk anchored it in a protected garden. By depicting the root of the tree as a cross, the motif asserts the centrality of Christianity in the cosmos. The interpretation of a vine scroll at Kells as a Tree of Life provided an opportunity for creative visual play with multivalent perspectives. The two elements of the panel – the scrolls and the cross stem – were presented in distinct spaces offering what in architectural terms would be identified as both an elevation of the cross and a plan of the surrounding garden. This compositional choice served to describe the extent and complexity of the cosmos which the Tree of Life represented. Arguably, the play of perspectives extended to the cross within the Tree of Life panel, depicting the root of the vine as a stone cross monument viewed from the narrow side, the precise perspective one would have when looking at the Kells panel in reality. In so doing, the Kells Tree of Life reproduces the monument on which it is carved. Like the cosmic tree, the carved stone monument was situated within the enclosed boundaries of the Kells monastery, a spiritual haven spatially and temporally distinct from the terrestrial world. In referencing its own community within the Tree of Life motif, the Kells cross reiterates the role of monks and clerics as gatekeepers of the Christian paradise, acting as a conduit of spiritual sustenance for humanity. By layering multivalent significance and perspective, the inhabited vine scroll at Kells offers a vision of the Christian cosmos and orders the realms of the secular and the sacred. As a component of the complete sculptural programme on the South Cross, the Tree of Life affirms a Christian cosmology, and the place of the Kells community within it.

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THE ART OF THE CHURCH IN NINTHCENTURY ANGLO-SAXON ENGLAND: THE CASE OF THE NEWENT CROSS ELIZABETH A. ALEXANDER

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he depiction of the Old Testament on the stone sculptures of AngloSaxon England has, on the whole, been largely ignored by scholars, with Jane Hawkes, along with her supervisor Richard Bailey and thesis advisor Jim Lang, being among the notable few to discuss this topic.1 This scholarly lacuna is, in part, due to the extraordinarily limited survival of such imagery in the corpus of Anglo-Saxon sculpture, with only eleven likely Old Testament scenes surviving from the pre-Viking period. Furthermore, over half of these scenes survive on just two sculptures: one in Masham (North Yorkshire), and the other in Newent (Gloucestershire). There is not a large amount of material to study, and some of what remains is in rather poor condition. Although Bailey, Lang, and Hawkes have all offered iconographic readings of the sadly degraded Masham scenes, Jane Hawkes, ‘Old Testament Heroes: Iconographies of Insular Sculpture’, The Worm, the Germ and the Thorn: Pictish and Related Studies Presented to Isabel Henderson, ed. David Henry (Balgavies, 1997), pp. 149–58; ‘The Art of the Church in Ninth-Century Anglo-Saxon England: The Case of the Masham Column’, Hortus Atrium Medievalium, 8 (2002), 337–48; ‘The Church Triumphant: The Figural Columns of Early Ninth-Century Anglo-Saxon England’, Form and Order in the Anglo-Saxon World, AD 400–1100, ed. Sally Crawford, Helena Hamerow, and Leslie Webster, ASSAH 16 (Oxford, 2009), pp. 29–42; Richard N. Bailey, ‘Another Lyre’, Antiquity, 46 (1972), 145–6; James T. Lang, ‘The Apostles in Anglo-Saxon Sculpture in the Age of Alcuin’, Early Medieval Europe, 8.2 (1999), 271–82; James T. Lang, ‘Monuments from Yorkshire in the Age of Alcuin’, Early Deira: Archaeological Studies of the East Riding in the Fourth to Ninth Centuries AD, ed. Helen Geake and Jonathan Kenny (Oxford, 2000), pp. 109–19; James T. Lang, Northern Yorkshire, CASSS 6 (Oxford, 2001), pp. 168–71.

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FIG. 3.1 ​THE FOUR SIDES OF THE SHAFT OF THE NEWENT CROSS, NINTH CENTURY, ANGLO-SAXON, ST MARY’S CHURCH, NEWENT (GLOUCESTERSHIRE). LEFT TO RIGHT: THE FALL OF ADAM AND EVE; DAVID SLAYING GOLIATH; ABRAHAM SACRIFICING ISAAC; TWO STYLISED QUADRUPEDS, TWO BIRDS, AND A CENTRALLY STEMMED PLANT.

similar studies of the iconography surviving on the ninth-century cross shaft at Newent are notably lacking in the scholarship to date.2 Discovered buried in the churchyard in 1907, the cross at Newent is the most complete ninth-century Anglo-Saxon sculpture related to the Old Testament to have survived. Its burial, relatively late discovery, and subsequent placement inside the porch of the church mean it has been very well preserved.3 As the cross head had been sticking out of the ground, the carvings on this section are sadly worn, almost to the point of complete obliteration. Thankfully, the shaft remains virtually untouched. The scenes carved on all four sides of this shaft can be clearly identified, and include: the Fall of Adam and Eve; David slaying Goliath; Abraham sacrificing Isaac; and a final panel depicting two stylised quadrupeds, two birds, and a centrally stemmed plant (Fig. 3.1).4 Each panel contains an extremely dense iconographic programme; when taken together, they form a rich whole steeped in a deep understanding of the writings of the early Church Fathers and contemporary early medieval exegesis. All the Old Testament scenes clearly demonstrate familiarity with early Christian and 2 In fact, the only in-depth analysis to date is the entry for the monument in the Corpus of Anglo-Saxon Stone Sculpture, see Richard Bryant, The West Midlands, CASSS 10 (Oxford, 2012), pp. 232–6. 3 Edward Conder, ‘In Proceedings … 13 June 1907’, Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of London, 2.21 (1905–7), 478–9. 4 For parallel readings of this motif elsewhere in this volume see Twomey, pp. 7–22 and Thomas, pp. 23–48.

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continental exemplars, which were probably used as models. This essay will examine one of these scenes – the Sacrifice of Isaac – to demonstrate the multivalent meanings potentially lying behind the construction of the Newent Cross, though more scholarly attention is needed to fully appreciate the significance of this monument.5

THE SACRIFICE OF ISAAC IN EARLY CHRISTIAN AND PRE-VIKING ANGLO-SAXON ART Before examining the Newent panel, it is prudent to examine early Christian and other pre-Viking depictions of the scene so as better to situate Newent within the wider tradition of Sacrifice of Isaac iconography. In early Christian art the layout of the scene is almost formulaic, with Abraham usually looking skywards, his sword raised, ready to strike Isaac, whom he holds down by placing his hand on his son’s head. In some examples an angel – in the form of a man – holds Abraham’s arm.6 Isaac is always bound, and frequently bent over a flaming altar, which is often depicted as a rectangular pillar surmounted by a swirling flame (Fig. 3.2). In the majority of examples, a hand (the manus Dei) appears in the top left of the scene (as if emerging from the sky), and a ram is present, which does not have a standardised location or appearance (sometimes it is only partially shown, whilst in other examples it is depicted in full). Nevertheless, the ram is often shown with its body facing away from the scene, but with its head turned backwards to look at Abraham. While there are slight variations between the early Christian examples – such as the representation of the Sacrifice of Isaac on the sixth-century mosaic at San Vitale, Ravenna, where Isaac is shown kneeling on the altar, rather than bending over it – it appears that the iconography was well established in early Christian art across various media, including carved stone sarcophagi, catacomb frescoes, gold glass, oil lamps, and mosaics. In addition to the scene at Newent, three further examples of the Sacrifice of Isaac have survived from Anglo-Saxon England in the pre-Viking period, all of which share a number of similarities, despite being geographically distant and preserved in different media. These are: in sculptural form on the early ninth-century fragmentary remains of a column from Reculver;7 In addition to the discussion here I have attempted a full iconographic reading of the monument elsewhere. See Elizabeth A. Alexander, ‘Recovering the Old Testament in Anglo-Saxon Art: The Ninth-Century Cross at Newent’, forthcoming. 6 See, for example, inv. 31546, ex. 184; inv. 31551, ex. 189; and inv. 31483, ex. 147 in the Pio-Christian Museum, Vatican Museums, Rome, Vatican City. 7 Now housed in Canterbury Cathedral; see Jane Hawkes, ‘The Legacy of Constantine in Anglo-Saxon England’, Constantine the Great: York’s Roman Emperor, ed. Elizabeth Hartley, Jane Hawkes, and Martin Henig (York, Aldershot, and Burlington, VT, 2006), pp. 104–14, 247–50, at 249; Elizabeth A. Alexander, ‘Visualising the Old Testament in Anglo-Saxon England: From the Seventh to the Mid-Eleventh Century’, 2 vols (unpublished doctoral thesis, University of York, 2017), pp. 123–5, 315–16. 5

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FIG. 3.2 ​THE SACRIFICE OF ISAAC, SARCOPHAGUS, C. SEVENTH CENTURY, BASILICA PAPALE DI SAN LORENZO FUORI LE MURA, ROME.

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in manuscript form in a ninth-century Carolingian copy of a Northumbrian version of Sedulius’s Carmen Paschale;8 and in ivory, on an eighth- to ninth-century plaque now housed at the Musée national du Moyen Âge, Paris.9 Two of these scenes (Reculver and the Antwerp Sedulius) feature a long pillar-like altar topped by a flame, while a figure bent over the altar is present in all three. In the two complete examples (the ivory and the Antwerp Sedulius) Abraham is shown holding a sword while a hand emerges from the sky to prevent the sacrifice, while in the fragmentary example at Reculver an angel intercedes instead. Although this represents a slight iconographic divergence from the other surviving Anglo-Saxon examples, Reculver still appears to follow early Christian depictions of the scene (albeit a slightly different type), where a wingless angel holds Abraham’s arm – a detail which may have been included to present a more scripturally accurate depiction of the Old Testament narrative.10 From these surviving examples, therefore, it appears that in Anglo-Saxon England there was a relatively standardised way to depict the Sacrifice of Isaac, and that this clearly and consciously evoked early Christian exemplars.

THE SACRIFICE OF ISAAC ON THE NEWENT CROSS Set against this background it is now possible to (re)examine the panel at Newent.11 The scene in question fills one of the broad faces of the crossshaft (Pl. IV); the left half contains a figure (Abraham), facing the viewer, who wears a long robe with drapery hanging over his right shoulder. The head has curled hair, and the face has a pointed chin and deeply drilled

Antwerp, Museum Plantin-Moretus MS M. 17. 4, fol. 8r; Wilhelm Levison, England and the Continent in the Eighth Century (Oxford, 1946), pp. 133–4; Michael Lapidge, The Anglo-Saxon Library (Oxford, 2006), pp. 26–7. 9 John Beckwith dates this to the eighth century, while Lyndsey Smith proposes a late ninth-century date. See, John Beckwith, ed., Ivory Carvings in Early Medieval England, exhibition catalogue (London, 1972), p. 119 no. 6; Lyndsey Smith, ‘Reconsidering Tusk and Bone: An Analysis of the Forms, Functions and Perceptions of Anglo-Saxon Ivories, c. 500–1066’, 3 vols (unpublished doctoral thesis, University of York, 2015), p. 290; Alexander, ‘Visualising the Old Testament in Anglo-Saxon England’, pp. 123, 313–14. 10 […] et ecce angelus Domini de caelo clamavit dicens Abraham Abraham qui respondit adsum dixitque ei non extendas manum tuam super puerum neque facias illi quicquam nunc cogovi quod timeas Dominum et non peperceris filio tuo uigenito propter me (‘And behold an angel of the Lord from Heaven called to him, saying: Abraham, Abraham. And he answered: Here I am. And he said to him: Lay not thy hand upon the boy, neither do thou any thing to him: now I know that thou fearest God, and hast not spared thy only begotten son for my sake’); Genesis 22:11–12. In this essay all English biblical citations are from Holy Bible: Douay-Rheims Version, with Challoner Revisions, 1749–52 (Baltimore, MD, 1899), and all Latin citations are from the Vulgate. 11 The following interpretation of the layout of the scene differs from that given in the Corpus of Anglo-Saxon Stone Sculpture on several key points, such as the position (and presence) of each of the figures, and the object held by Abraham. For the layout given in the Corpus, see Bryant, CASSS 10, pp. 232–6. 8

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eyes. The right arm of Abraham, bent at the elbow, grasps a long, pointed object (likely a sword) held up towards the right corner of the panel. To the right of Abraham’s head is a clothed arm whose hand grips this object (the Hand of God), the thumb extending over the front and the four fingers curling round the back to emerge below in a convincing gripping motion. Centrally placed, to the right of Abraham, is a long, triple-stepbased pillar that fills approximately one third of the panel, from which flames emerge and flicker to the right towards a four-legged animal shown in profile (the ram), which faces left. It appears to stand in interlace and a horn emerges from the top of the back of its head. On the right side of the panel, above the ram and the flames, it is possible to discern the head, neck, and shoulders of a second figure (Isaac) standing in profile, his head at an angle, looking downwards, with his neck and shoulders positioned to suggest he is bent over the flames below. It is possible that Isaac’s head is held by the left arm of Abraham, but as the panel is worn this is difficult to confirm. Nevertheless, by following the curve of Isaac’s back down through the break in the stone, his clothed legs can be discerned, with his feet pointing to the right and standing on a box-like object. Running up the length of Isaac’s back is a long rectangular object, which leaves the confines of the frame, crossing over into the border of the panel immediately adjacent to the Hand of God. Due to the position of Isaac’s right arm, which can clearly be discerned bending upwards behind his back, it appears that he is holding a large plank of wood. This was most likely included to make visually explicit Genesis 22:6,12 conflating four key points in the narrative into a single image: Isaac carrying the wood for his own sacrifice, Abraham carrying out God’s command, God’s intervention, and the presentation of the alternative sacrifice – the ram caught in the thicket/interlace. Isaac bent over an altar with the swirling flame, the presence of the ram, and Abraham wielding a sword all seem to fit comfortably within the wider tradition of the Sacrifice of Isaac found across the early Christian world, alongside other pre-Viking examples. However, there are some slight divergences in the depiction of the scene at Newent. Abraham, for example, looks towards the viewer (rather than looking at the Hand of God), and the Hand of God physically grabs the sword, which crosses the body of Abraham rather than being raised upwards. This latter detail could be due to the confines of the panel, as it is not unknown for AngloSaxon artists to adapt scenes to fit specific spaces, such as the Raising of Lazarus scene preserved at the top of the late eighth-century Rothbury cross shaft, as discussed by Hawkes.13 However, the majority of early 12 Tulit quoque ligna holocausti et inposuit super Isaac fillium suum ipse vero portabat in minibus ignemet gladium (‘And he took the wood for the holocaust, and laid it upon Isaac his son: and he himself carried in his hands fire and a sword’). 13 Jane Hawkes, ‘The Rothbury Cross: An Iconographic Bricolage’, Gesta, 35 (1996), 77–94, at 85–7, see also discussion by Meg Boulton below, pp. 217–34.

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Christian examples also work within narrow borders (they are often contained within arches or occupy a small space where multiple scenes are depicted), and so it is more than likely that although those responsible for the design of the Newent panel could have represented an early Christian ‘standard’ of the sacrifice scene, they chose to retain certain elements while adapting others. In the case of the position of Abraham’s sword this could be a conscious decision to use all available space, allowing the artist to enlarge the figures to fill the panel, while still retaining the key element of Abraham brandishing a sword above his son’s head. Furthermore, the decision to portray Abraham looking outwards at Newent, rather than in profile as in early Christian examples, changes the viewer’s engagement with the scene from passive bystander to participant. Meg Boulton has demonstrated that the act of viewing was regarded as a transformative process during the early medieval period, and involved a complex exchange between the eyes and mind of the viewer and the visualisation of the space and surface of an object.14 Hawkes, in applying such concepts to the Cuthbert coffin (Durham), has demonstrated that while the bodies of the Virgin and Child on the foot-board continue the directional movement of the figures presented on the side panels, their gaze towards the viewer recalls icons. These objects, most frequently painted on wooden boards,15 have long been understood as prompting the viewer to contemplate the spiritual and incorporeal nature of that which lies beyond the material surface of the image. The direct gaze of the Virgin and Child, therefore, may indicate that similar considerations underpinned the creation of the coffin panel, and other such Anglo-Saxon iconographies. Thus it is thus possible that at Newent the repositioning of Abraham could have also functioned to invite the viewer to contemplate the spiritual and immaterial nature that lay beyond the carved scene, in a manner analogous to icons and the Cuthbert coffin.16 The change in Abraham’s gaze, therefore, can be understood as an attempt to demonstrate to observers that they were not only viewing a historical event only (as recorded in the Bible), but

Meg Boulton, ‘(Re)Viewing “Iuxta Morem Romanorum”: Considering Perception, Phenomenology and Anglo-Saxon Ecclesiastical Architecture’, Sensory Perception in the Medieval West: Manuscripts, Texts, and other Material Matters, ed. Simon Thomson and Michael D. J. Bintley (Turnhout, 2016), pp. 206–26, at 217. See further Meg Boulton, ‘Art History in the Dark Ages: (Re)Considering Space, Stasis and Modern Viewing Practices in Relation to Anglo-Saxon Imagery’, Stasis in the Medieval West? Questioning Change and Continuity, ed. Michael D. J. Bintley, Martin Locker, Victoria Symons, and Mary Wellesley (London, 2017), pp. 69–86. See also below, pp. 217–34. 15 Although not exclusively. See, for example, Jane Hawkes, ‘Stones of the North: Sculpture in Northumberland in the “Age of Bede”’, Newcastle and Northumberland: Roman and Medieval Architecture and Art, ed. Jeremy Ashbee and Julian M. Luxford, The British Archaeological Association Conference Transactions 36 (Leeds, 2013), pp. 34–53. 16 Jane Hawkes, ‘The Body in the Box: the Iconography of the Cuthbert Coffin’, Crossing Boundaries: Interdisciplinary Approaches to the Art, Material Culture, Language and Literature of the Early Medieval World, ed. Eric Cambridge and Jane Hawkes (Oxford, 2017), pp. 78–89, at 85. 14

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that this event prefigured Christ, his Crucifixion, and salvific death, which reversed the consequences of Original Sin (the act of which is depicted on the other broad face of the monument) and allowed humanity to once again achieve life-everlasting through actively participating in the sacraments of the Church. It seems, therefore, that the slight iconographic divergences from the early Christian ‘standard’ at Newent are key to understanding the scene’s deeper symbolic significance, particularly in relation to the other scenes presented on the cross. One further example of this type of adaptation seen on the Newent stone is Isaac carrying wood on his back. This detail is not common in the corpus of early Christian art, or in medieval depictions of the scene, but it is found in Insular contexts. Another example is preserved on the east face of the West Cross at Durrow, Co. Offaly, where Isaac is shown holding an axe and bent over a table-shaped altar with the wood strapped to his back. This differs from Newent, however, where he is shown carrying one large beam on his back. This detail was surely intended to reference the Crucifixion, and Christ’s bearing the beam of the cross on his back on the way to Golgotha.17 It seems, therefore, that those responsible for the design of the Newent Sacrifice adapted the established early Christian iconography of the scene to emphasise the Christological significance of the Old Testament episode, through the visual depiction of complex exegetical themes. This mode of cross-referencing was well established in early Christianity, and was mentioned in the writings of Anglo-Saxon churchmen.18 The Newent Cross is not alone in linking the story of Isaac with the Crucifixion; both Bede and Ælfric make the connection in their exegetical and homiletic writings, following the tradition of earlier exegetes, such as Ambrose and Augustine, whose works were known in early medieval England.19 Augustine, in his third exposition on Psalm 30, for example, provides a 17 […] et baiulans sibi crucem exivit in eum qui dictur Calvariae locum hebraice Golgotha (‘And bearing his own cross, he went forth to that place which is called Calvary, but in Hebrew Golgotha’); John 19:17. 18 Bede, for example, describes the pairing of panels hanging at Wearmouth-Jarrow, which displayed Isaac bearing the wood and Christ bearing the cross. Bede, Historia abbatum monasterii in Wiremutha et Gyruum, 9; original and translation in Christopher W. Grocock and Ian N. Wood, eds. and trans., Abbots of Wearmouth and Jarrow: Bede’s Homily I. 13 on Benedict Biscop, Bede’s History of the Abbots of Wearmouth and Jarrow, the Anonymous Life of Ceolfrith, Bede’s Letter to Ecgbert, Bishop of York (Oxford, 2013), pp. 44–5. 19 Bede, De Templo 1.5:3. For the Latin text see, David Hurst, ed., Beda Venerabilis: Opera Exegetica: De tabernaculo; De templo; In Ezram et Neemiam, CCSL 119A (Turnhout, 1969), p. 158; for a translation see, Seán Connolly, trans., Bede: On the Temple, introd. Jennifer O’Reilly (Liverpool, 1995), p. 20. Ælfric, ‘Homily on the Second Sunday of the Lord’s Epiphany’; translated in Benjamin Thorpe, ed. and trans., The Homilies of the AngloSaxon Church II: The First Part Containing the Sermones Catholici, or Homilies of Aelfric (London, 1844), p. 62. Helmut Gneuss and Michael Lapidge, Anglo-Saxon Manuscripts: A Bibliographical Handlist of Manuscripts and Manuscript Fragments Written or Owned in England up to 1100 (Toronto, 2014), pp. 887–937.

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detailed account of how the sacrifice of Isaac foreshadowed the Crucifixion. As he explains it, God gave Abraham a son born to his barren wife Sara, as a consequence of his iustus et placens (‘righteous and pleasing’) faith. When told to offer this son in sacrifice, Abraham nec dubitavit, nec disceptavit (‘neither doubted nor questioned’) God’s command.20 Therefore, as Augustine explains it: Quaere quid sit: figura est Christi involuta sacramentis. Denique ut videatur discutitur, ut videatur pertractatur, ut quod involutum est evolvatur. Isaac tamquam filius unicus dilectus figuram habens Filii Dei, portans ligna sibi, quomodo Christus crucem portavit. Ille postremo ipse aries Christum significavit. Quid est enim haerere cornibus, nisi quodam modo crucifigi? The story is a figure of Christ shrouded in mystery […] Isaac is the one beloved son, typifying the Son of God, bearing the wood for himself, just as Christ bore His cross […] the ram itself was a type of Christ, for what is being caught by the horns except, after a fashion, being crucified?21

In De Civitate Dei, while discussing the same set of Christological parallels, Augustine adds that the thickets in which the ram was caught are symbolic of the crown of thorns worn by Christ for the Crucifixion.22 Bede, drawing on this tradition in his commentaries on Tobias and the Temple, again links the sacrifice of Isaac with the Passion and Crucifixion, recalling Augustine’s Enarrationes in Psalmos and De Civitate Dei, alongside Ambrose’s De Abraham.23 Here, however, visual experience was also important, as a pictorial representation of the sacrifice was placed next to the one of the Crucifixion in the church of the Wearmouth-Jarrow

Augustine, Enarrationes in Psalmos 30, enarratio 2, sermo 2 (PL 36, pp. 44–5); translated in Scholastica Hebgin and Felicitas Corrigan, eds. and trans., St Augustine: On the Psalms, vol. 2: Psalms 30–37, Ancient Christian Writers 29 (New York, NY, 1960), p. 38. 21 Augustine, Enarrationes in Psalmos 30, enarratio 2, sermo 2 (PL 36, pp. 44–5); translated in Hebgin and Corrigan, St Augustine: On the Psalms, p. 38. 22 Augustine, De Civitate Dei 16.32; Latin in Bernard Dombart and Alfonso Kalb, eds., Augustinus: De Civitate Dei, CCSL 47–8 (Turnhout, 1955), p. 536; translated in Henry Bettenson, ed. and trans., St Augustine: Concerning the City of God against the Pagans (London, 1972), p. 695. Richard N. Bailey, ‘The Meaning of the Viking-Age Shaft at Dacre’, Transactions of the Cumberland and Westmorland Antiquarian and Archaeological Society, 2nd ser. 77 (1977), 61–74, at 67. 23 Ambrose, De Abraham 1, 8, 71 and 77–8 (PL 14, pp. 469B, 471BC). Augustine, De Civitate Dei 16.32 (Augustinus: De civitate dei, pp. 536–7); Augustine, Enarrationes in Psalmos 30, sermo 2 (PL 36, pp. 44–5). Bede, In librum beati patris Tobiae; Latin in David Hurst and J. E. Hudson, eds., Beda Venerabilis: Opera Exegetica: In Tobiam; In Proverbia; In Cantica canticorum; In Habacuc, CCSL 119B (Turnhout, 1983), p. 119, at 4; translated in W. Trent Foley and Arthur G. Holder, eds. and trans., Bede: A Biblical Miscellany (Liverpool, 1999), pp. 57–80, at 61–2. Bede, De Templo 1.5:3; Latin in Beda Venerabilis: Opera Exegetica: De tabernaculo; De templo; In Ezram et Neemiam, p. 158; translated in Connolly, Bede: On the Temple, pp. 43–4. 20

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complex.24 In his Historia abbatum, Bede describes the items brought back from Rome by Benedict Biscop on his return from his fifth trip to the city, in 679. These included: imagines quoque ad ornandum monasteriumn ecclesiaamque beati Paul apostli de concordia ueteris et noui Testamenti summa ratione compositas exbuit. Verbi gratia, Isaac ligna quibus immolaretur portantem, et Dominum crucem in qua pateretur aeque portantem, proxima super inuicem regione pictura coniunxit. pictures which were intended for the adornment of the monastery and the church of the blessed apostle Paul about the agreement of the Old and New Testaments, painted with the utmost skill: for example, one painting juxtaposed Isaac carrying the wood with which he was to be burned and the Lord likewise carrying the cross on which he was to suffer, one image over the other.25

It was thus well understood in Anglo-Saxon England that the Sacrifice of Isaac prefigured the Crucifixion. At Wearmouth-Jarrow this was made explicit by the pairing of Isaac bearing the wood with Christ bearing the cross. Isaac bearing the wood, coincidentally, is the same detail added to the Newent scene and must have been intended to indicate the same association between Isaac and Christ.

CONCLUSION It seems clear, therefore, that at Newent the depiction of the Sacrifice of Isaac was intended to reference Christ’s crucifixion. This is made most apparent through the addition of the plank of wood on Isaac’s back, which allows the viewer to draw parallels between the sacrifices of Isaac and of Christ. This is not the only adaptation of the almost standardised early Christian layout for this iconography. The Newent ram, for example, is depicted caught in thickets, rather than standing near them (in several instances of this iconographic scheme the thicket is absent altogether). This is likely a deliberate choice by those responsible for the design of the Newent panel in order to recreate faithfully the biblical account of Genesis 22:13,26 perhaps in a conscious effort to invite the viewer to contemplate exegetical connections between the ram caught in the thicket and Christ’s Bede, Historia abbatum 9; translated in Grocock and Wood, Abbots of Wearmouth and Jarrow, pp. 44–5. Paul Meyvaert, ‘Bede and the Church Paintings at Wearmouth-Jarrow’, ASE, 8 (1979), 63–77, at 66. 25 Bede, Historia abbatum 9; translated in Grocock and Wood, Abbots of Wearmouth and Jarrow, pp. 44–5. 26 […] levavit Abraham oculos viditque post tergum arietem inter vepres herentem cornibus quem adsumens obtulit holocaustum pro filio (‘Abraham lifted up his eyes, and 24

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crucifixion. As previously stated, Augustine demonstrated how the thickets in which the ram was caught were symbolic of the crown of thorns placed on Christ’s head during his Passion (Matthew 27:29; Mark 15:17; and John 19:2–5).27 It is possible, therefore, that the inclusion of the thickets on the Newent panel functioned in a comparable manner to the addition of the wood on Isaac’s back, further prompting the viewer to consider the hidden Christological message prefigured by the Sacrifice of Isaac: that through Christ’s sacrificial death, mankind was once again able to achieve life-everlasting. This invitation to contemplate the symbolic significance of this particular Old Testament narrative is also demonstrated through the repositioning of Abraham; through turning this figure to face outwards and confront the observer directly, the panel invites the viewer to participate actively in the scene through an exchange of witnessing gazes, and thus to participate actively in both the (halted) sacrifice of Isaac and the mystery of Christ and his crucifixion, prefigured and foreshadowed by Abraham’s sacrifice of his son. Furthermore, when considered alongside the two other Old Testament episodes preserved on the cross shaft – the Fall of Adam and Eve, and David slaying Goliath – the Sacrifice of Isaac can be seen as part of a multivalent iconographic programme whose significance is fully immersed in complex exegetical thought surrounding the manner in which key Old Testament events were thought to prefigure and foreshadow Christ’s death, descent, and resurrection. This is perhaps most clearly articulated through the adaptation of the Tree of Knowledge on the Adam and Eve panel, the branches of which terminate in a series of crosses, making explicit the role Adam, Eve, and Original Sin played in the crucifixion of Christ. This is echoed in the other scenes of the Newent cross, such as David slaying Goliath, preserved on one of the narrow faces of the shaft, which was considered to symbolise and prefigure Christ’s overcoming the Devil. Small additional features of the Sacrifice of Isaac panel likewise draw out the Christological significance of this Old Testament narrative. The inclusion of the wood, the Hand of God physically preventing the sacrifice, the ram depicted among the thickets, and the shift in Abraham’s gaze all prompt the observer to contemplate how Abraham’s sacrifice of his son prefigured Christ’s sacrifice. It is in these slight iconographic divergences from the ‘standard’ early Christian layout that the message behind the Newent panel is revealed, demonstrating that those responsible for its design not only had access to such models, but also sought to adapt those models to reflect complex exegetical concepts surrounding this Old Testament narrative.

saw behind his back a ram amongst the briers sticking fast by the horns, which he took and offered for a holocaust instead of his son’); Genesis 22:13. 27 Augustine, Enarrationes in Psalmos 30 sermo 2 (PL 36, pp. 44–5); Augustine, De Civitate Dei 16.32 (Dombart and Kalb, Augustinus: De civitate dei, pp. 536–7).

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‘THE STONES OF THE WALL WILL CRY OUT’: LITHIC EMISSARIES AND MARBLE MESSENGERS IN ANDREAS MICHAEL D. J. BINTLEY

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What is the value of a graven idol, because the maker has made it, a molten, and a false image? Because the maker has trusted in a thing of his own making, to make dumb idols. Woe to him who says to wood, ‘awake’, or to the dumb stone ‘arise’. Can it teach? Behold, it is covered with gold and silver, and there is no spirit within it. The Lord is in his holy temple, let all the earth keep silence before him.1 (Habakkuk 2:18–20)

hus writes the prophet Habakkuk, in terms that were echoed throughout Christendom in the Middle Ages, and are found in abundance in law codes and other prohibitions from early medieval England, condemning the veneration of, and donation of votive offerings to, wooden and stone idols. There are numerous supposedly inanimate objects whose voices were recognised in various contexts: in riddling texts, devotional works such as The Dream of the Rood, or as objects inscribed with words that validate their existence, such as the ‘Alfred’ Jewel or the Ruthwell Cross. Quid prodest sculptile, quia sculpsit illud fictor suus, conflatile, et imaginem falsam? quia speravit in figmento fictor ejus, ut faceret simulacra muta. Vae qui dicit ligno: Expergiscere; Surge, lapidi tacenti! Numquid ipse docere poterit? ecce iste coopertus est auro et argento, et omnis spiritus non est in visceribus ejus. Dominus autem in templo sancto suo: sileat a facie ejus omnis terra! All references to the Vulgate from Biblia Sacra: Iuxta Vulgatam Versionem, ed. R. Weber et al., 2 vols (Stuttgart, 1969); translations modernised from Holy Bible Douay-Rheims Version, with Challoner Revisions, 1749–52 (Baltimore, MD, 1899).

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This study focuses on a rare instance, in the Old English poem Andreas, in which Christ himself gives the power of speech and movement to a sculpted stone – a wall carving in the temple of Jerusalem – and in doing so offers a lesson to his disciple St Andrew about the didactic properties of this material, whose permanence echoes both Christ’s eternity and the permanence of the heavenly kingdom. The incident in the temple is shown in a flashback. Andrew is dispatched by God to the city-stronghold of Mermedonia to rescue St Matthew from the clutches of its cannibalistic, devil-worshipping inhabitants, who have imprisoned and plan to eat him. The voyage to Mermedonia takes place over the open seas, in a ship piloted by Christ, who has disguised himself as its helmsman. Though initially reluctant to undertake this mission, Andrew’s confidence increases over the course of the journey, and he delights in recounting the (apocryphal) story of how Christ and the apostles visited the Temple in full force, and Christ demonstrated both his divinity and his human ancestry. Upon arriving at the Temple, they were mocked by an ealdorsacerd (‘high priest’, line 670), who declared Christ to be of low birth.2 Christ then departed from the Temple to perform miracles in the wilderness, before returning some time later to reveal his power: Swylce he wrætlice  wundor agræfene, anlicnesse  engla sinra geseh, sigora frea,  on seles wage, on twa healfe  torhte gefrætwed, wlitige geworhte;  he worde cwæð: ‘Ðis is anlicnes  engelcynna þæs bremestan  mid þam burgwarum in þære ceastre is;  Cheruphim et Seraphim þa on swegeldreamum  syndon nemned. Fore onsyne  ecan dryhtnes standað stiðferðe,  stefnum herigað, halgum hleoðrum,  heofoncyninges þrym, meotudes mundbyrd.  Her amearcod is haligra hiw  þurh handmægen awriten on wealle,  wuldres þegnas.’ Þa gen worde cwæð  weoruda dryhten, heofonhalig gast,  fore þam heremægene: ‘Nu ic bebeode  beacen ætywan, wundor geweorðan  on wera gemange, ðæt þeos onlicnes  eorðan sece wlitig of wage,  ond word sprece, secge soðcwidum,  þy sceolon gelyfan eorlas on cyððe,  hwæt min æðelo sien.’ ‘Ne dorste þa forhylman  hælendes bebod 2 All references to Andreas and translations from Richard North and Michael Bintley, eds., Andreas: An Edition, Exeter Medieval Texts and Studies (Liverpool, 2016).

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‘The Stones of the Wall Will Cry Out’

wundor fore weorodum,  ac of wealle ahleop, frod fyrngeweorc,  þæt he on foldan stod, stan fram stane.  Stefn æfter cwom hlud þurh heardne,  hleoðor dynede, wordum wemde;  wrætlic þuhte stiðhycgendum  stanes ongin.

(lines 712–41)

So with the wondrously carved marvels, graven images of his own angels, that He saw, Lord of Triumphs, in the hall panels, brilliantly painted on both sides of the hall, beautifully made; He uttered these words: ‘This is the likeness of the most illustrious division of angels the inhabitants of that City have; Cherubs and Seraphs are their names in the joys of heaven. They before the face of the Lord Eternal stand stout to attention, praise with voices in sacred strains the Heaven-King’s majesty, Measurer’s protection. Depicted here are the forms of these holy beings, by hand’s skill carved on the wall, my thanes of glory.’ The Lord of Hosts pronounced words again, Heaven-Holy Guest, before the war-troop: ‘Now I command a beacon to appear, a miracle to take place in the people’s midst, that this image to the earth find its way fair from its panel and speak some words, make a true declaration, the that they believe, gentlemen in this country, what My lineage is.’ Dared not neglect then the Healer’s command this wonder before hosts, but from the wall leapt the wise ancient monument, to stand on the ground, stone from the stone. The voice came straight after, loud through the hardness, the sound boomed, echoed out the words; extraordinary they seemed, actions of the stone to this stubborn people.

These lines tell the reader in no uncertain terms that the figure that leaps down from the wall is a painted carved stone sculpture in the likeness of an angel, though it is not described as an angel in its own right, and serves instead as a representative of Christ’s power.3 This is a particularly The poem’s analogues, the Greek Praxeis and the Latin Casanatensis version, describe the statue as a sphinx and a cherub, respectively. Accessible translations are available in Robert Boenig, trans., The Acts of Andrew in the Country of the Cannibals: Translations from the Greek, Latin, and Old English (New York, NY, 1991), pp. 8–10, 37–9. The Greek

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important point, as it removes agency from the stone object itself, avoiding any risk of mistaken idolatry, and attributes all responsibility for its movement and speech to God.4 The sculpture proclaims the lineage and divinity of Christ, as commanded, in doing so demonstrating – as Hannah Bailey has put it – that it ‘has superior understanding to men who have eyes and ears but do not believe’.5 Following this, Jesus sends the sculpture to the oaks of Mamre, to raise Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob from the grave: ‘Ða se þeoden bebead  þryðweorc faran, stan stræte  of stedewange, ond forð gan  foldweg tredan, grene grundas,  Godes ærendu larum lædan  on þa leodmearce to Channaneum,  cyninges worde, beodan Habrahame  mid his eaforum twæm of eorðscræfe  ærest fremman, lætan landreste,  leoðo gadrigean, gaste onfon  ond geogoðhade, edniwinga  andweard cuman frode fyrnweotan,  folce gecyðan hwylcne hie God mihtum  ongiten hæfdon. ‘Gewat he þa feran,  swa him frea mihtig, scyppend wera,  gescrifen hæfde, ofer mearcpaðu,  þæt he on Mambre becom beorhte blican,  swa him bebead meotud, þær þa lichoman  lange þrage, heahfædera hra,  beheled wæron.

(lines 773–91)

and Latin texts can be found in Franz Blatt, ed., Die lateinischen Bearbeitungen der Acta Andreae et Matthiae apud anthropophagos, Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für Neutestamentliche Wissenschaften 12 (Giessen and Copenhagen, 1930). 4 This would have been a concern for contemporary audiences, as prohibitions against the veneration of stones are found in various legal and ecclesiastical texts throughout the period, including the penitentials of Theodore and Ecgberht, the Canons of Edgar, Ælfric’s homily De auguriis, the laws of Cnut, and the Northumbrian priests’ laws, with the latter two probably written under the influence of Wulfstan of York. As I have argued elsewhere, the veneration of aspects of the natural world in pre-Christian Insular belief helped, not hindered, the conversion to Christianity, hence the apparent continuation of unchristian practices involving stones, trees, springs, and so on; see discussion in Michael D. J. Bintley, Trees in the Religions of Early Medieval England (Woodbridge, 2015), pp. 20–3. These prohibitions ultimately stem from the many prohibitions and condemnations of the worship of stones and stone idols (explicitly or by example) found in the Old Testament, such as Leviticus 26:1; Deuteronomy 4:27, 7:5, 12:3, 16:22, 28:36, 28:64, 29:17; 1 Kings 14:23; 2 Kings 10:27, 17:10, 18.4, 19.18, 23.14; 2 Chronicles 14:3, 31:1; Isaiah 27:9, 37:19; Jeremiah 2:27, 3:9; Ezekiel 20:32; Daniel 5:4, 5:23; Hosea 3:4, 10:2, Micah 5:13; Habakkuk 2:19; and Revelation 9:20. 5 Bailey makes a compelling argument for architectural features in both Andreas and Christ III obeying the commands of Andrew and Christ; see Hannah Bailey, ‘Architecture as Authoritative Reader: Splitting Stones in Andreas and Christ III’, Leeds Studies in English, new ser. 48 (2017), 125–43, at 133. I also am grateful to Dr Bailey for her insightful comments on an earlier draft of this chapter.

‘The Stones of the Wall Will Cry Out’

Then the Chief bid the monument set off, a stone on the street, from the city precinct, and go forth to tread the country road, the green lands, to take God’s mission by his instructions into the territory of the Canaanites, then in the King’s name to command Abraham with son and grandson first to move out of the earth-grave, to leave their land-rest, gather their limbs, receive their souls and quality of youth, newly to come forth in physical presence wise sages of old, to reveal to the nation which man by his powers they grasped to be God. Off it went walking as the Mighty King, Creator of Men, had prescribed, on paths through the march, in Mamre to arrive brightly gleaming as Measurer had bid him, where those bodies for a long while, high-fathers’ corpses, had lain concealed.

Notable in both of these passages is the emphasis on the properties of the stone. At the end of the first, the fact that the stone speaks at all is astonishing – stone is doing what it should not do. But it has been separated from the walls of the temple by God’s command, stan fram stane (‘stone from the stone’), and when it speaks its voice comes hlud þurh heardne (‘loud through the hardness’), reverberating through the rock and presumably booming around the walls of the temple. That the stone has the shape of an angel, and moves in a bipedal manner, is further implied by its movement along the stan (‘stone’) of the stræte (‘street’), and by its moving out to foldweg tredan (‘tread the country road’) on its way to Mamre. The implied irony of this, of course, is that a piece of stone, which usually lies still like these other stones, is now marching upon them. There is also a marked contrast between the appearance of the angel and its surroundings. In the sort of departure that is characteristic of the poet’s making-familiar of the landscape to a contemporary audience, the sculpture’s path passes through grene grundas (‘green lands’). The sculpture itself, by contrast, is described in terms which suggest that it is torhte gefrætwed (‘brilliantly painted’) – and it is certainly wlitige geworhte (‘beautifully made’) – a piece of human artifice that contrasts with the verdant landscape. When it arrives in Mamre to awaken Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob it is beorhte blican (‘brightly shining’), in comparison not only with the greenery through which it has travelled, but also with the darkness of the eorðscræf (‘earth-grave’) and landrest (‘land-rest’) in which the patriarchs’ bodies have lain. Whereas in the poem’s analogues, the Greek Praxeis and Latin Casanatensis version, the statues in the Temple of Jerusalem are free-standing, this angel has been awriten on wealle (‘carved

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on the wall’, line 726), from which it leaps in line 736.6 As elsewhere, the poet’s adaptation of the (lost) source, probably a Latin version of the Praxeis, demands that one consider the nature of the adaptation for a contemporary audience. This seems fairly straightforward in this case: the reader is asked to imagine figural sculpture, and in this context the image of the angel Gabriel carved in limestone for ‘the shrine chest associated with the cult of St Chad’ offers an appropriate image of the sort of painted angel that the Andreas poet aimed to call to mind.7 As noted, there are numerous prohibitions against and condemnations of the veneration of stones in the Old Testament, which led directly to those found in the law codes, penitentials, etc. of early medieval Europe and elsewhere. At the same time, there are plenty of encouraging things said about stone in the New Testament by Christ and others, which offered scope for Bede to construct the exegesis of De Templo, in which all Christians are called to recognise themselves as building blocks of the universal Church. This builds on Christ’s description of himself as the cornerstone that the builders rejected (Matthew 21:42; Mark 12:10; Luke 20:17; Acts 4:11), which is founded in turn on Psalm 118:22, and the pun on Peter’s name, which for Bede and others showed that the apostles and their successors should be thought of as the building stones of the Church (Matthew 16:18). As Bede writes: Si ergo ille templum Dei per assumptam humanitatem factus est et nos templum Dei per inhabitantem spiritum eius in nobis efficimur, constat utique quia figuram omnium nostrum et ipsius domini uidelicet et membrorum eius quae nos sumus templum illud materiale tenuit, sed ipsius tamquam lapidis angularis singulariter electi et pretiosi in fundamento fundati, nostri autem tamquam lapidum uiuorum superaedificatorum super fundamentum apostolorum et prophetarum, hoc est super ipsum dominum.8 If, therefore, he became the temple of God by assuming human nature and we become the temple of God through his Spirit dwelling in us, it is quite clear that the material temple was a figure of us all, that is, both of the Lord himself and his members which we are. But of him as the uniquely chosen and precious cornerstone laid in the foundation, and of us as the living stones built upon the foundation of the apostles and prophets, i.e. on the Lord himself.9 North and Bintley, Andreas, p. 250. See description in Warwick Rodwell, Jane Hawkes, Emily Howe, and Rosemary Cramp, ‘The Lichfield Angel: A Spectacular Anglo-Saxon Painted Sculpture’, AntJ, 88 (2007), 48–108. 8 Bede, De Templo I.i, quoted from D. Hurst, ed., Bedae Venerabilis Opera: Pars II: Opera Exegetica: 2A De Tabernaculo, De Templo, In Ezram et Neemiam (Turnhout, 1969), p. 147. 9 Seán Connolly, trans., Bede: On the Temple, introd. Jennifer O’Reilly (Liverpool, 1995), pp. 5–6. 6

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Later, Bede goes on to explain how each course of stones laid upon the foundations of the holiest must be fittingly arranged, carefully dressed, and properly situated in order to support the weight that they themselves must bear in turn (4.4). Ælfric, responding not explicitly to Bede, but clearly drawing on the same idea complex and set of scriptural precedents in his In dedicatione ecclesiae homily, a homily which like Bede’s De Templo comments directly on the physical structure of a church, writes that Crist is se lybbenda stan þone awurpon ða ungeleaffullan iudei (‘Christ is the living stone that the unbelieving Jews cast away’), þe us eall gehylt (‘who supports us all’), and who is se grundweall þære gastlican cyrcan (‘the foundation of the holy Church).10 Even more explicit reference to the same idea can be found in Wulfstan of York’s church dedication homily, which Patrick Wormald thought likely to have been delivered by Wulfstan himself at the dedication of Cnut’s battle church at Ashingdon in 1020, and in which the souls of the faithful are compared with buildings fittingly constructed to house God himself:11 And soþ is þæt ic secge, miclum fremeð se him sylfum þe Gode to lofe cyrcan gegearwað. And ealra getimbra huru is Gode gecwemast þæt se man hine sylfne getimbrige to ðam þingum þæt he sylf sy gecweme hus and God licwurðe on to wunianne […] Se gegearwað Gode licwyrðe hus on him sylfum se þe anrædlice and rihtlice God lufað, and se hine lufað rihtlice se þe his bebodu gehealt, and simble geornlicest ymbe þæt smeað, hu he Gode fyrmest gecweman mæge; and witodlice on þam þe swa deð, God wunað and eardað.12 And true is that which I say; a great thing does he who for love of God prepares himself as a church. And all that is done is indeed pleasing to God that that man does in order to make himself a pleasing house, and comfortable for God to dwell in […] He prepares for God a pleasing home within himself who resolutely and rightly loves god, and he truly loves Him who obeys His commands, and is continually diligent in meditation about how he may especially please God; and truly, in those who do so, God lives and abides. Malcolm Godden, ed., Ælfric’s Catholic Homilies: The Second Series, EETS, supplementary ser. 5 (Oxford, 1979), pp. 335–45 (lines 93–4, 130–1, 229). The same motif also appears elsewhere in Ælfric’s homilies, for instance, Christ is similarly described as the gastlican stan (‘holy stone’) that gave Moses water in the desert; see Ælfric’s homily for Dominica in Media Quadragesime, in Godden, Ælfric’s Catholic Homilies, pp. 110–26 (lines 215–20). Christ is again described as the grundweal of the Church in Ælfric’s Passio Petri et Pauli; see Peter Clemoes, ed., Ælfric’s Catholic Homilies: The First Series, EETS, supplementary ser. 17 (Oxford, 1997), pp. 388–99 (lines 64–71). 11 Patrick Wormald, ‘Archbishop Wulfstan: Eleventh-Century State Builder’, Wulfstan, Archbishop of York: The Proceedings of the Second Alcuin Conference, ed. Matthew Townend (Turnhout, 2004), pp. 9–27, at 13. 12 Dorothy Bethurum, ed., The Homilies of Wulfstan (Oxford, 1957), pp. 246–50 (lines 74–8, 86–90). 10

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There is an apparent tension, then, between the lines from Habakkuk 2 that begin this chapter (and resound throughout lawcodes and penitentials), and the representation of stone elsewhere in the Christian tradition. Here in Andreas, we have seen stone speak, and there was no woe unto him who commanded it. But he who commanded it was Christ, who in Luke 19:37–40 comments explicitly on verses a few lines earlier in Habakkuk 2, when the Pharisees implore him to reprimand his disciples as they celebrate the entry into Jerusalem. Luke says that Christ responds by saying: ‘I tell you […] if they keep quiet, the stones will cry out’ – no stone is then truly dumb if Christ commands it to speak.13 We have seen that Andrew is himself one of the building stones of the Church, and one of the most important ones – an apostolic pillar essential to its structure. However, at this point in the narrative Andrew does not yet seem to have realised the part he will play in the building of the Church. Like his father’s namesake, Jonah, or Augustine of Canterbury on his way to Britain, Andrew is initially reluctant to undertake God’s mission.14 Overcoming his fear both of the journey by sea and of eorlas elþeodige (‘foreign gentlemen’, line 199) is part of what makes his triumph all the greater when he succeeds. After the sea voyage in which he meets Christ and recounts the story of the walking and talking statue in the Temple of Jerusalem, Andrew is left slumbering on what seems to be the seashore, awakening there with the dawn to gaze upon Mermedonia.15 The symbolism of both his awakening and the dawning of a new day is multifaceted. The latter has generally been seen as the rising of a new and cleansing sun over the city, with significance similar to the loosening of frost-bonds by God that is described after the killing of Grendel’s mother

13 Habakkuk 2:9–11: Vae qui congregat avaritiam malam domui suae, ut sit in excelso nidus ejus, et liberari se putat de manu mali! Cogitasti confusionem domui tuae; concidisti populos multos, et peccavit anima tua (‘Woe to him who builds his house by unjust gain, setting his nest on high to escape the clutches of ruin! You have plotted the ruin of many peoples, shaming your own house and forfeiting your life. The stones of the wall will cry out, and the beams of the woodwork will echo it’). Luke 19:37–40: et cum appropinquaret jam ad descensum montis Oliveti, coeperunt omnes turbae discipulorum gaudentes laudare Deum voce magna super omnibus, quas viderant, virtutibus, dicentes: Benedictus, qui venit rex in nomine Domini: pax in caelo, et gloria in excelsis. Et quidam pharisaeorum de turbis dixerunt ad illum: Magister, increpa discipulos tuos. Quibus ipse ait: Dico vobis, quia si hi tacuerint, lapides clamabunt (‘And when he was now coming near the descent of mount Olivet, the whole multitude of his disciples began with joy to praise God with a loud voice, for all the mighty works they had seen, saying: Blessed be the king who comes in the name of the Lord, peace in heaven, and glory on high! And some of the Pharisees, from amongst the multitude, said to him: Master, rebuke your disciples. To whom he said: I say to you, that if these shall hold their peace, the stones will cry out’). 14 See Historia ecclesiastica i.23, in Bertram Colgrave and R. A. B. Mynors, eds., Bede the Venerable Saint, 674–735: Bede’s Ecclesiastical History of the English People (Oxford, 1969), pp. 68–71. 15 If Andrew’s awakening does take place on the beach, it would conform with the ‘hero on a beach’ type scene in D. K. Crowne, ‘The Hero on the Beach: An Example of Composition by Theme in Anglo-Saxon Poetry’, NM, 61 (1960), 362–72.

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in Beowulf.16 Just as important, perhaps, is the role it plays in Andrew’s own heroic development:17 Onwoc þa wiges heard,  wang sceawode fore burggeatum;  beorgas steape, hleoðu hlifodon,  ymbe harne stan tigelfagan trafu,  torras stodon, windige weallas.  Þa se wis oncneow þæt he Marmedonia  mægðe hæfde siðe gesohte,  swa him sylf bebead, þa he him fore gescraf,  fæder mancynnes.

(lines 839–46)

Awoke then the war-hard, saw the lie of the land before the town’s gates; steep mountains, cliffsides loomed, around the hoary rock stood shacks adorned with tiles, towers, windswept walls. Then the wise man knew that he had come on adventure to seek the tribe of Mermedonians, just as Mankind’s Father, appointing him the mission, Himself prescribed.

The emphasis on the stone construction of Mermedonia, from the rock it stands upon to the terracotta tiles on its rooftops (whose reuse in churches in early medieval England is well known), is not the most important thing to note here. Even more remarkable is the effect it has upon Andrew. Seeing Mermedonia for the first time is a confirmation of God’s plan for him, and he recognises this in such a way that the reader does too. The poet thus frames a direct confrontation between Andrew and Mermedonia. But what is the meaning of this? It is significant that this point of confrontation comes at the beginning of the eighth fitt, which positions it exactly halfway through Andreas, at the central point of the poem. It is a pivotal moment in Andrew’s development as miles Christi, and sees the saint, a foundation stone of the Church, confronting a place which is an inversion of both Christian virtues and cultural orthodoxies.18 In many ways, this therefore represents

Lines 1606–11; R. D. Fulk, Robert E. Bjork, and John D. Niles, eds., Klaeber’s Beowulf, 4th edn (Toronto, 2008). 17 On Andrew’s development and the course of human life as pilgrimage, see Lisa Kiser, ‘Andreas and the lifes weg: Convention and Innovation in Old English Metaphor’, NM, 85.1 (1984), 65–75; and Nathan Breen, ‘“What a long, strange trip it’s been”: Narration, Movement and Revelation in the Old English Andreas’, Essays in Medieval Studies, 25 (2008), 71–9. On parallels in the heroic development of Beowulf and Andrew, see David Hamilton, ‘Andreas and Beowulf: Placing the Hero’, Anglo-Saxon Poetry: Essays in Appreciation, for John C. McGalliard, ed. Lewis E. Nicholson and Dolores Warwick Frese (Notre Dame, IN, 1975), pp. 81–98. 18 We see this at the beginning of the poem, where the consumption of blood and flesh is both a blasphemous inversion of the Eucharist, and a perversion of feasting culture. 16

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a confrontation between the City of God and the earthly city (or city of man) described by Augustine in De Civitate Dei. Mermedonia before Andrew’s arrival broadly reflects the earthly city as a place of desperate impiety, in Satan’s thrall: Huic conditori sanctae civitatis cives terrenae civitatis deos suos praeferunt ignorantes eum esse Deum deorum, non deorum falsorum, hoc est impiorum et superborum, qui eius incommutabili omnibusque communi luce privati et ob hoc ad quandam egenam potestatem redacti suas quodam modo privatas potentias consectantur honoresque divinos a deceptis subditis quaerunt; sed deorum piorum atque sanctorum, qui potius se ipsos uni subdere quam multos sibi, potiusque Deum colere quam pro Deo coli delectantur. The citizens of the earthly city give preference to their own gods over the Founder of the holy city, because they do not know that he is the God of gods, and not of false gods who are impious and proud and who, being deprived of his unchangeable light in which all may share, are thereby reduced to a kind of poverty-stricken power. They strive after their own personal privileges, so to speak, and seek divine honours from their deluded subjects. He is, rather, the God of pious and holy gods whose delight it is to do homage to the one God rather than to receive homage from many others, and to worship God rather than to be worshipped in place of God.19

Like Cain, the founder of the first city, or Romulus, the founder of Rome, the Mermedonians are fratricides in so far as they murder visitors, and are prepared to eat their own children when pushed to the brink of starvation.20 However, within the earthly city, as Augustine explains, we also see the symbolic representation of the heavenly city; the citizens of the earthly city are born into it through Original Sin, but are also begotten – through grace – to the heavenly city.21 For Augustine the heavenly city, during its time of pilgrimage on earth, draws together multitudes, maintaining the diversities of their customs and practices, because its earthly peace is a model for that of the heavenly kingdom that will finally

See discussion in David Hamilton, ‘The Diet and Digestion of Allegory in Andreas’, ASE, 1 (1972), 147–58; Hugh Magennis, Anglo-Saxon Appetites: Food and Drink and their Consumption in Old English and Related Literature (Dublin, 1999), pp. 143–59; Shannon N. Godlove, ‘Bodies as Borders: Cannibalism and Conversion in the Old English Andreas’, Studies in Philology, 106.2 (2009), 136–60, at 142–3. 19 David S. Wiesen, ed. and trans., Augustine: City of God III: Books 8–11, Loeb Classical Library 413 (Cambridge, MA, 1968), xi.1 (pp. 426–7). 20 Philip Levine, ed. and trans., Augustine: City of God IV: Books 12–15, Loeb Classical Library 414 (Cambridge, MA, 1966), xv.5 (pp. 426–31). 21 Levine, Augustine: City of God IV, xv.2 (pp. 416–21).

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be realised.22 As Andrew confronts Mermedonia and what it represents, he begins the process of transforming this most earthly of cities into a figura for the City of God. Andrew continues to be educated by stone as the poem progresses. After freeing Matthew and the other captives, and giving himself up into the hands of the citizens, he faces various tortures, one of which is to be dragged through the city streets and around Mermedonia. The details of this scene are unclear, giving us a sense of both the confusion and the pain Andrew suffers (lines 1229–36). This violence leaves his body broken and wounded, and his blood and hair cover the earth (lines 1425–8). Once Andrew has voiced his sense of grievance, complaining that he has endured worse torture than Christ himself, God heals his wounds, and transforms blood and hair into blossoming trees as a sign of the redemption to come (lines 1448–9). During this torture it is made plain that Andrew’s speech is particularly threatening to the devil’s work. In response to an impassioned plea to God to protect him from Satan, a demon gives orders for Andrew to be struck in the mouth to silence him, saying: Sleað synnigne  ofer seolfes muð, folces gewinnan,  nu to feala reordaþ!

(lines 1300–1)

Hit him in the mouth now, the sinful enemy of the people, he talks too much!

Although the poet does not show the blow to the mouth, Andrew immediately falls silent. In doing this the Mermedonians enact the suppression of the apostles called for by the Pharisees in Luke 19, but as Jesus warns them, if the apostles do not proclaim his authority, the stones themselves will cry out, and woe will befall those who have built their houses with unjust gains. Having been returned to his jail cell for a final time, Andrew gazes upon the weathered marble pillars supporting the floor above, eald enta geworc (‘ancient works of giants’, line 1495), and appeals to stone as a material imbued with unique didactic properties: Hwæt, ðu golde eart, sincgife, sylla;  on ðe sylf cyning wrat, wuldres God,  wordum cyðde recene geryno,  ond ryhte æ getacnode  on tyn wordum, meotud mihtum swið.  Moyse sealde, swa hit soðfæste  syðþan heoldon, modige magoþegnas,  magas sine, godfyrhte guman,  Iosua ond Tobias. Nu ðu miht gecnawan  þæt þe cyning engla William Chase Greene, ed. and trans., Augustine: City of God IV: Book 18, Chapter 36– Book 20 (Cambridge, MA, 1969), xix.17 (pp. 192–9).

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gefrætwode  furður mycle giofum geardagum  þonne eall gimma cynn. þurh his halige hæs,  þu scealt hræðe cyðan gif ðu his ondgitan  ænige hæbbe.’

(lines 1508–21)

Hear me, you are better than gold or gifts of treasure! On you the King Himself, Glorious God, in His words revealed His mysteries in one instant and just laws In ten commandments did inscribe Measurer Wise in Might! To Moses He gave them, just as later, with truth unwavering, they were kept by brave young thanes, kinsmen of Moses, the God-fearing men Joshua and Tobias. Now that you can understand how Angels’ King adorned you in ancient days with gifts far beyond any He gave to any family of precious stones by His sacred order, you shall quickly show if you have any understanding of Him!’

Stone is special because it can record, and because it can endure – because it was endowed with the ability to preserve the Law. As Bailey writes, here it shows its understanding of God just as the apostles ongeton (‘understood’, line 534) him through the calming of the storm. Because Andrew has been silenced, the stone speaks for him, opening to release a flood that covers the landscape over which he has been dragged, forcing the panicking Mermedonians to seek an escape route. They find the way barred, however, by the walls of the city, which are surrounded by angelic fire like the gates of Eden. A number of the citizens are killed and the remainder, facing the prospect of imminent destruction, appeal to Andrew for clemency. The storm abates, and Andrew allows the waters to recede, with the earth becoming dry as it touches his feet. Aside from fourteen of the most evil Mermedonians, who are swallowed into a barrow, and into the infernal regions,23 the others who have been killed are resurrected in preparation for the building of a church. This reference to the Law during Andrew’s incarceration thus serves to connect the voice of Andrew with the ‘voice’ of the pillar expressed through baptismal water. After the exposition of the Law in Exodus (concluding at chapter 23), in chapter 24 Moses erects an altar at the foot of Mount Sinai, and sets up twelve stone pillars representing the twelve tribes of Israel, before making sacrifice and receiving instructions from God on how to prepare and furnish the tabernacle.24 It can be no accident that For discussion of similar motifs see Stirrup, below pp. 123–42. The tabernacle for Bede in De Tabernaculo precedes the founding of the Temple in De Templo, adding further layers of recursion to the already complex pattern. 23

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stone pillars appear in a scene in which the poet has Andrew invoke the properties of stone and the foundation of Mosaic Law, and the connection between the two may help to explain the transformation of what is a statue in the analogues into a pillar in Andreas. The twelve pillars set up before the altar of God at Mount Sinai explicitly represent the twelve tribes of Israel, and direct association between the twelve tribes and the twelve apostles is made in Revelation in the description of the New Jerusalem.25 In Andreas then, unlike the analogues, Andrew comes face to face with a pillar that reminds him of the twelve pillars set up around the altar, and of the fact that he is one of the twelve pillars that will serve as the foundations of the Church, the City of God, and the New Jerusalem. Andreas is a poem in which two columns are prominent. The first is the pillar beside which Andrew sits after releasing the captives, which is a copper pillar in the Praxeis and a marble column topped with a statue in the Casanatensis version. At the beginning of fitt 10, after freeing Matthew and the rest of the captives: Gewat him þa Andreas  inn on ceastre glædmod gangan,  to þæs ðe he gramra gemot, fara folcmægen,  gefrægen hæfde, oððæt he gemette  be mearcpaðe standan stræte neah  stapul ærenne. (lines 1058–62) Back then did Andrew walk into the city relieved in mind to where he had learned that the enemy militia would angrily be meeting, until he encountered, along a path between houses standing near the street a pillar of brass.

As I have argued elsewhere, this þingstede (‘meeting place’, line 1098) is sited on a boundary and marked by a pillar in such a way that it is likely to have been understood as a counterpart to meeting places in early medieval England that were established on boundaries and similarly marked, and where similar judicial practices took place.26 The reasons why the pillar is made of brass are more obscure, though they may be connected with Andrew’s triumph over the Mermedonians, and the melting down of the Revelation 21:12–14: Et habebat murum magnum, et altum, habentem portas duodecim: et in portis angelos duodecim, et nomina inscripta, quae sunt nomina duodecim tribuum filiorum Israel: ab oriente portae tres, et ab aquilone portae tres, et ab austro portae tres, et ab occasu portae tres. Et murus civitatis habens fundamenta duodecim, et in ipsis duodecim nomina duodecim apostolorum Agni (‘And it had a wall great and high, having twelve gates, and in the gates twelve angels, and names written upon them, which are the names of the twelve tribes of the children of Israel. On the east, three gates: and on the north, three gates: and on the south, three gates: and on the west, three gates. And the wall of the city had twelve foundations, and in them, the twelve names of the twelve apostles of the Lamb’). 26 North and Bintley, Andreas: An Edition, p. 83. 25

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weapons with which they intend to kill their elder’s son. The metalwork of the pillar could allude to the works of Tubalcain (Genesis 4:22), who is the father of metalworkers, and the son of Enoch, after whom the first city was named, built for him by his father, Cain. If so, this would further demonstrate Andrew’s overcoming of the earthly city. Equally, this pillar could connect Mermedonia with the figura of fallen Jerusalem in Jeremiah (52:17), when the brass pillars of the Temple are broken by the Chaldeans and carried back to Babylon, or indeed connect it with Babylon itself.27 The spoliation in which the Chaldeans engage here was of course equally prominent in the Christian world, as attested by the numerous churches constructed using spoliated Roman columns, not only on the Continent but also in Britain.28 These are included, for example, in the surviving remains of the Augustinian church of St Pancras in Canterbury.29 Amongst other things, spoliation serves as a demonstration of victory. With this in mind, we might also view the pillar in Andrew’s cell as a powerful symbol of his victory over Mermedonian evil; a church is built on top of this site following the flood’s subsidence, so the pillar certainly becomes part of its subterranean architecture. It would thus also be worth considering the pillar as evoking the sort of triumphal columns that were known in England from the Roman world, and which may have prompted the creation of the early ninth-century Dewsbury, Reculver, and Masham columns, Jane Hawkes having shown the ways in which these may have been ‘designed specifically to recall the monument form of the late antique monumental columns’, such as the columns of Trajan and Marcus Aurelius in Rome, or the column of Jupiter in Mainz.30 A notable deviation from the analogues in Andreas is the source of the baptismal flood that fills Mermedonia’s walls. In both the Praxeis and the Casanatensis version, the waters emerge from the mouth of a statue upon the pillar in Andrew’s cell – alabaster in the former, marble in the latter. In the Old English poem Andrew commands the water to emerge from the base of the column:

27 On the extent of the connections between Jerusalem and Mermedonia, particularly with respect to Mermedonian anthropophagy, see Michael D. J. Bintley, ‘The Self-Eating City in Andreas’ (forthcoming). 28 This idea is of particular interest in Andreas, as demonstrated in Denis Ferhatović, ‘Spolia-Inflected Poetics of the Old English Andreas’, Studies in Philology, 110.2 (2013), 199–219. 29 See discussion in Meg Boulton and Jane Hawkes, ‘The Anglo-Saxon Church in Kent’, Places of Worship in Britain and Ireland, 300–950, ed. Paul Barnwell (Donington, 2015), pp. 92–118, at 105–11. 30 Jane Hawkes, ‘The Church Triumphant: The Figural Columns of Early Ninth-Century Anglo-Saxon England’, Form and Order in the Anglo-Saxon World, AD 600–1100, ed. Sally Crawford, Helena Hamerow, and Leslie Webster, ASSAH 16 (Oxford, 2009), pp. 31–44, at 31–2, 38–41. Hawkes notes that Roman triumphal columns had also ‘been set up at centres such as Chichester and Cirencester in the south, and at Catterick and York in the north’ (p. 40).

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Læt nu of þinum staþole  streamas weallan, ea inflede,  nu ðe ælmihtig hateð, heofona cyning,  þæt ðu hrædlice on þis fræte folc  forð onsende wæter widrynig  to wera cwealme, geofon geotende […] Næs þa wordlatu  wihte þon mare, þæt se stan togan.  Stream ut aweoll, fleow ofer foldan;  famige walcan mid ærdæge  eorðan þehton, myclade mereflod.

(lines 1503–7)

(lines 1522–6)

Let now from your pedestal streams well up, a river in flood, now that the Almighty King of Heaven commands you to send promptly forth into this apostate people wide waters in spate to men’s destruction, an outpouring ocean […] Not a jot slower than his speech did the stone obey, but yawned wide. A stream welled out, flooded the landscape. Foamy breakers covered the earth in the early part of the day, a sea-flood swelled.

A number of previously unrecognised elements may be in play here. There may be a connection between the pillar and those of Roman manufacture that were reused as baptismal fonts in late Saxon and early Norman England.31 As I have argued elsewhere, if the message of the poem is ultimately that of the Holy Spirit, made manifest in the many appearances of holy water throughout, then the separation of the pillar at (or from) its pedestal might be seen as the separation of the quill inking the poem on the page.32 A parallel might also be drawn between the stone pillar and the numerous vine-scrolled stone crosses of early medieval England, with the latter, as Jane Hawkes has argued, having been planted in the country’s fertile soil in order that the Christian faith might spring forth and bear fruit.33 Carolyn Twomey, ‘Living Water, Living Stone: The History and Material Culture of Baptism in Early Medieval England, c. 600–c. 1200’ (unpublished doctoral thesis, Boston College, 2017). 32 Michael D. J. Bintley, ‘Aquas ab Aquis: Aqueous Creation in Andreas’, Water in Early Medieval England, ed. Carolyn Twomey and Daniel Anlezark (forthcoming, 2020). 33 Jane Hawkes, ‘Planting the Cross in Anglo-Saxon England’, Place and Space in the Medieval World, ed. Meg Boulton, Jane Hawkes, and Heidi Stoner (New York, NY, and Abingdon, 2018), pp. 47–62, see also Thomas, above, pp. 23–48. As I have argued in Trees in the Religions of Early Medieval England, pillars, trees, rods, and posts all played 31

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The pillar serves as the source of the baptismal flood, but Mermedonia, as a vessel, also has an important part to play. The poet tells us that the water wells up within the walls of the city, but that the stone walls prevent its passage beyond their limits: Ðær wæs yðfynde  innan burgum geomorgidd wrecen,  gehðo mænan forhtferð manig,  fusleoð galen. Egeslic æled  eagsyne wearð, heardlic hereteam,  hleoðor gryrelic; þurh lyftgelac  leges blæstas weallas ymbwurpon,  wæter mycladon.

(lines 1547–53)

Easy it was to find there inside the town the performance of a sorrowful song, bewailing their grief many fear-stricken men, eager litanies chanted. Terrifying fire became clear to the eye, cruel devastation, voices raised in horror. With airborne commotion did blasts of flame envelop the walls, the waters grew higher.

The poet draws attention to the walls here, leaving us with the clear impression that the flood takes place only within their confines, and that a wall of flame is provided by an angel to prevent escape. Terrified by the waters, and with some of their number lying dead, the Mermedonians resolve to pray to Andrew for assistance, whereupon he commands the waters to be still: Þa se æðeling het streamfare stillan,  stormas restan ymbe stanhleoðu.

(lines 1575–7)

Then the prince commanded the torrent to be still, storms to abate around stone walls.

The final word here, stanhleoðu, might be translated variously as stone walls, cliffs, or gates, though, given the previous reference to the weallas of Mermedonia, it is probably best translated as ‘stone walls’.34 Much has been written about the typological symbolism of the flood here, with Dan Anlezark having most fully demonstrated the extent to which it references an important symbolic role as prefigurations and echoes of the cross in early medieval England. 34 I have argued that this word is used elsewhere, in The Wanderer, to refer to the windblown walls and the wall wondrously high that comes under the assault of the elements. See Michael D. J. Bintley, Settlements and Strongholds: Texts and Landscapes in Early Medieval England (forthcoming).

‘The Stones of the Wall Will Cry Out’

both Noahic flood and Christian baptism.35 Until recently, however, little has been written about the material culture of Andreas from an informed perspective, and direct comparisons have not often been made between Mermedonia and the walled towns of Roman Britain in whose shadows the inhabitants of early medieval England dwelt, and which they made use of as foundations for their own fortified places (settled or otherwise) from the late ninth century onwards.36 A substantial number of these towns had wall circuits that were not rectilinear, like London or Winchester, but rather circular or at least rounded (examples include Canterbury, Chichester, Silchester, and Wroxeter). It is also entirely possible that the poet’s description of the city walls was intended to evoke the image of baptismal fonts and baptisteries.37 After the floodwaters have subsided, a church is built on the site of the prison in which St Matthew, St Andrew, and the other anonymous captives were held. An archbishop named Plato is ordained, and Mermedonia is transformed into a place of Christian community:38 Þa þær ofostlice  upp astodon manige on meðle,  mine gefrege, eaforan unweaxne;  ða wæs eall eador leoðolic ond gastlic,  þeah hie lungre ær þurh flodes fær  feorh aleton. Onfengon fulwihte  ond freoðuwære, wuldres wedde  witum aspedde, mundbyrd meotudes.  Þa se modiga het, cyninges cræftiga,  ciricean getimbran, gerwan Godes tempel,  þær sio geogoð aras þurh fæder fulwiht  ond se flod onsprang. Þa gesamnodon  secga þreate weras geond þa winburg  wide ond side, eorlas anmode,  ond hira idesa mid; The most recent and comprehensive study is Daniel Anlezark, Water and Fire: The Myth of the Flood in Anglo-Saxon England (Manchester, 2006); but see also Thomas D. Hill, ‘Figural Narrative in Andreas’, NM, 70.2 (1969), 261–73; Constance B. Hieatt, ‘The Harrowing of Mermedonia: Typological Patterns in the Old English Andreas’, NM, 77.1 (1976), 49–62; and Marie Michelle Walsh, ‘The Baptismal Flood in the Old English Andreas: Liturgical and Typological Depths’, Traditio, 33 (1977), 137–58. 36 See further discussion in Bintley, Settlements and Strongholds; North and Bintley, Andreas: An Edition; developing arguments advanced in Michael D. J. Bintley, ‘Demythologising Urban Landscapes in Andreas’, Leeds Studies in English, new ser. 40 (2009), 105–18. 37 Stone fonts are well attested in late-Saxon contexts. Although baptisteries are not well known from early medieval England, the crypt at Repton may have been a baptistery before it became a place of burial. See description of the church in H. M. Taylor and Joan Taylor, Anglo-Saxon Architecture, vol. 2 (Cambridge, 1965), pp. 510–16. See also Twomey, above, pp. 7–22. 38 Hugh Magennis, Images of Community in Old English Poetry (Cambridge, 1996), pp. 174–5; also Fabienne L. Michelet, Creation, Migration and Conquest: Imaginary Geography and Sense of Space in Old English Literature (Oxford, 2006), p. 175. 35

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cwædon holdlice  hyran woldon, onfon fromlice  fullwihtes bæð dryhtne to willan,  ond diofolgild, ealde ealhstedas,  anforlætan.

(lines 1625–42)

When without delay in that place stood up many in the assembly, from what I have heard, offspring ungrown, each was then all united in limb and spirit, though earlier entirely through flood’s attack they lost their lives. They received baptism and protective covenant, by their pledge of glory being sped from torment, the Measurer’s safe-keeping. Then the courageous craftsman of the King bid a church be timbered, God’s temple built where the youngsters arose by Father’s baptism and the flood sprang forth. Mustered then in a mass of people men throughout the wine-town far and wide, gents with one purpose and their ladies too, said that they loyally wanted to listen, piously receive the bath of baptism by the Lord’s will, and leave off idolatry, ancient sanctuary places, once and for all.

These lines are worth quoting in full because they bring together the various elements we have seen so far in the course of this argument: the covenant of baptism and the promise of resurrection revealed through the resurrection of the dead here confirms the fulfilment of Mosaic Law through Christ. This takes place on the site where se flod onsprang (‘the flood sprang forth’), where Andrew was held, and where the water was summoned from the pillar. Integral to Andrew’s spiritual journey over the course of the poem, as we have seen, is a process of lithic education, in which the materiality of stone plays an important part. This is first apparent in the sea voyage, where he recalls the lesson that Christ taught by animating the angelic sculpture in the Temple itself, demonstrating his divine potency, but also his ability to conjure voices of power from dumb stone. Reaching Mermedonia, Andrew confronts the earthly city as a representative of the heavenly city. In doing so, he also confronts the part that he has to play as a building stone in the construction of the Church and the City of God. He is tested by the stones of Mermedonia itself, whose ruins contribute directly to his passion. Realising this, Andrew addresses the stone in his cell, referring directly to the Law of Moses, whose covenant Christ fulfils, and through his actions to the power Christ demonstrated in the Temple. Here, for this reason, he explicitly describes the qualities of stone as a material greater than any gold or jewels. The floodwaters that then fill

‘The Stones of the Wall Will Cry Out’

Mermedonia are retained by its walls, evoking not only the symbolism of baptism, but also the materiality of the font and the baptistery. The church which is then constructed on the site, functioning as a figura of the Temple of Jerusalem and the holy mountain, with all their associated symbolism, draws Mermedonia out of darkness, and transforms the earthly city into the City of God, making its way, like the stone angel to Mamre, as a shining symbol of the Church Triumphant.39

I am deeply indebted to Jane Hawkes for the inspiration her seamless interdisciplinary readings of early medieval culture offer those, such as myself, who follow in her footsteps, and for the unstinting generosity and support she has shown me as a scholar, mentor, and friend.

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CONVERSION, RITUAL, AND LANDSCAPE: STREONESHALH (WHITBY), OSINGADUN, AND THE ANGLO-SAXON CEMETERY AT STREET HOUSE, NORTH YORKSHIRE TOM PICKLES 1

B

eginning with Bede and continuing in recent studies, there has been a tendency to depict the conversion of the Anglo-Saxons to Christianity as a political event: preachers persuaded kings to convert, resulting in the conversion of royal households as well as whole kingdoms.2 This may overestimate the authority and power of early Anglo-Saxon kings, and overlook the contingencies and negotiations at the heart of conversion; it may also obscure the agency and experiences of local communities and those beyond the royal household.3 It risks reinforcing the assumption that changes in belief preceded changes in practice, which in turn provide an index of belief.4 By way of contrast, John Blair and Marilyn Dunn have Helena Hamerow, Sarah Semple, and Steve Sherlock generously read a draft of this essay, and I am very grateful for their helpful comments. 2 Tom Pickles, ‘The Historiography of the Anglo-Saxon Conversion: The State of the Art’, The Introduction of Christianity into the Early Medieval Insular World, ed. Roy Flechner and Máire Ní Mhaonaigh, Converting the Isles 1 (Turnhout, 2016), pp. 61–91, at 71–3; see for instance the recent overview in Nicholas J. Higham and Martin J. Ryan, The Anglo-Saxon World (New Haven, CT, and London, 2013), pp. 126–65, at 149–63. 3 Pickles, ‘The Historiography of the Anglo-Saxon Conversion’, pp. 80–1. 4 John H. Arnold, Belief and Unbelief in Medieval Europe (London, 2005), pp. 1–20, for the problems in separating belief from action. 1

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presented conversion as a socio-cultural process: a nobility with relatively recent origins and uncertain status invested in an exotic external culture as a strategy to stabilise their status, and conversion was a dialogue which transformed their society and that religion.5 Building on their approaches, this essay is an interdisciplinary case study of conversion as a socio-cultural process, focusing on the seventh-century cemetery at Street House, North Yorkshire. It argues that the transformation of belief was a contingent and negotiated process within local communities and that it occurred partly through mortuary ritual.6 Religion may be considered a cultural system in which ‘sacred symbols function to synthesise a people’s ethos – the tone, character, and quality of their life, its moral and aesthetic style and mood – and their worldview – the picture they have of the way things in sheer actually are […]’.7 Religious conversion demands the reimagining of society. Rituals – repetitive performances concerned with cosmology – are crucial to such reimaginings.8 Socio-cultural norms are often generated through ritual performances involving physical and cultural liminality: taking the community physically outside of itself and performing a breakdown and rebuilding of structures of status, authority, and power.9 The force of such rituals is that, regardless of the varied intentions or perceptions of participants, they generate public moral commitments and memories about those commitments, with which individuals and groups can act in accordance, or which they can self-consciously contravene.10 Sociocultural change may be thought of as a dialectic between socio-cultural 5 John Blair, The Church in Anglo-Saxon Society (Oxford, 2005); Marilyn Dunn, The Christianization of the Anglo-Saxons, c. 597–c. 700: Discourses of Life, Death and Afterlife (London, 2009). 6 Without Jane Hawkes the arguments of this essay would not be possible, and it is offered as a tribute to her scholarship, inspiration, and support. Above all, Jane examined the doctoral thesis from which this analysis developed and has been exceptionally helpful ever since; see Tom Pickles, ‘The Church in Anglo-Saxon Yorkshire: “Minsters” in the Danelaw, c. 600–1200’ (unpublished doctoral thesis, University of Oxford, 2005). More generally, Jane has inspired us to take an interdisciplinary approach to conversion as a socio-cultural process in the landscape through her studies of the cultural significance of stone and sculpture, see for example Jane Hawkes, ‘Iuxta Morem Romanorum: Stone and Sculpture in Anglo-Saxon England’, Anglo-Saxon Styles, ed. Catherine E. Karkov and George Hardin Brown (Albany, NY, 2003), pp. 69–99. Jane’s study of sculptural production at Streoneshalh (Whitby), which observed a Streoneshalh house-style, is the foundation for the connection between Streoneshalh, Osingadun, and Street House on which this analysis depends; see Jane Hawkes, ‘Statements in Stone: Anglo-Saxon Sculpture, Whitby and the Christianization of the North’, The Archaeology of Anglo-Saxon England: Basic Readings, ed. Catherine E. Karkov (New York, NY, and London, 1999), pp. 403–21. 7 Clifford Geertz and Michael Banton, The Interpretation of Cultures: Selected Essays (New York, NY, 1973), p. 89. 8 Stanley J. Tambiah, ‘A Performative Approach to Ritual’, Proceedings of the British Academy, 65 (1979), 113–69 (repr. in his Culture, Thought and Social Action: An Anthropological Perspective (Cambridge, MA, 1985), pp. 123–66). 9 Victor Turner, The Ritual Process: Structure and Anti-Structure (Chicago, IL, 1969). 10 Roy A. Rappaport, Ritual and Religion in the Making of Humanity (Cambridge, 1999).

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norms and actions. Social institutions transmit socio-cultural norms to children and young people, forming a flexible habitus, which allows for social improvisation in the face of uncertainty or in confronting the inability of institutions to deliver on expectations.11 Conversion is not an event, but a socio-cultural process: an existing ethos and worldview are redefined through improvised ritual performances. This essay interprets the cemetery at Street House as evidence for that process in one local community. The people known as the Deirans were originally associated with eastern Yorkshire, but, by the seventh century, kings of the Deirans had extended their authority over most of the pre-1974 county of Yorkshire, including the northeastern coastal plain on which the Street House cemetery is located.12 King Oswiu of the Bernicians (r. 642–70) married Eanflæd, daughter of King Edwin of the Deirans (r. 616–33), and established the religious community at Streoneshalh (Whitby) in 657 to promote the unity of the Deiran and Bernician royal lines: King Edwin’s great-niece, Hild, was abbess; Oswiu’s wife Eanflæd and daughter Ælfflæd entered the community and succeeded Hild as co-abbesses; and the community nurtured the cults of King Edwin and Hild, and preserved the memory of Oswiu and his family.13 This royal religious community at Streoneshalh had at least two satellites: a nunnery at Hackness, founded in 680; and an estate (possessio) called Osingadun, probably focused on Easington, one mile from the Street House cemetery. Osingadun was considered a small religious community (monasterium) worked by lay brethren (fratres) including a shepherd, and had been acquired by the time St Cuthbert visited it to dedicate a church in 685–6.14 Additional evidence makes it likely that Streoneshalh had a third satellite as well, at Lythe. Each satellite was founded in an adjacent royal resource territory, and each originally comprised a focal royal vill, some inland worked directly for the king by an unfree labour force, and associated utland or warland of free peasant households owing dues and services (Pl. V).15 The site of Streoneshalh at Whitby has been subjected to repeated excavations, which have uncovered the largest corpus of seventh- to ninth-century sculpture from any Anglo-Saxon site.16 Stone of exceptional

Pierre Bourdieu, The Logic of Practice, trans. R. Nice (Cambridge, 1990), pp. 52–65. David Rollason, Northumbria, 500–1100: Creation and Destruction of a Kingdom (Cambridge, 2003), pp. 45–8, 81–9. 13 HE iii.24–5, iv.23 (21). 14 HE iv.23 (21) for Hackness; for Osingadun, see the Vita Cuthberti, in Bertram Colgrave, ed. and trans., Two Lives of Saint Cuthbert (Cambridge, 1940), iv.10 (pp. 126–9); and Bede, Vita Cuthberti prosa, in Colgrave, Two Lives of Saint Cuthbert, c.34 (pp. 260–5). 15 Tom Pickles, ‘Streanæshalch (Whitby), its Satellite Churches and Lands’, Making Christian Landscapes in Atlantic Europe: Conversion and Consolidation in the Early Middle Ages, ed. Tomás Ó Carragáin and Sam Turner (Cork, 2016), pp. 265–75, 500–4. 16 Tony Wilmott, ‘The Anglian Abbey of Streonæshalch – Whitby: New Perspectives on Topography and Layout’, Early Medieval Monasticism in the North Sea Zone, ed. Gabor 11

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quality from a quarry at Aislaby, near Whitby, was used for most of these monuments, and also for others at sites along the northeastern coastal plain, and yet others across the North York Moors in Ryedale.17 Jane Hawkes observed that the Streoneshalh sculpture seems to conform to a house style of plain monuments with single or multiple edge mouldings, including architectural fragments, name stones, and standing stone crosses.18 This house style can be found on fragments suggesting early Christian foci at Hackness, Lythe, and Easington.19 The place-name Osingadun – Osa-inga-dun – takes the same basic form as Easington – Esa-inga-tun – and denotes a hill of the type on which Easington stands: one twelfth-century record uses the name Ossington for Easington.20 The dun (‘hill’) of the sons/followers/people of Osa was probably the location of a tun (‘estate centre’) associated with them at Easington. Domesday Book reveals that Whitby, Hackness, Lythe, and Easington lay within four contiguous blocks of lands; three of them – Whitby, Hackness, and Easington – were apparently part of royal holdings on loan to earls, comprising demesne centres with outlying demesne (berewicks) and lands owing dues and services (sokelands).21 The churches at Whitby, Hackness, Lythe, and Easington were mother churches for parishes encompassing these contiguous blocks of lands, presumably because they were founded within early royal resource territories and became pastorally responsible for their inhabitants.22 Easington mother parish included the site of the Street House cemetery, just one mile to the north of Easington, adjacent to the suggestively named Upton.23 At Street House, a rectangular Iron Age settlement enclosure was used as the setting for a new seventh-century cemetery comprising 109 burials and including a furnished female bed burial, several further richly furnished burials, two timber structures, and pairs of burials laid out to form four sides of a rectangle (Fig. 5.1).24 Since there was little stratigraphy, and no skeletons survive, the dating of the site could proceed only from Thomas and Alexandra Knox, ASSAH 20 (Oxford, 2017), pp. 81–94; for Whitby see, James T. Lang, Northern Yorkshire, CASSS 6 (Oxford, 2001), pp. 1–55. 17 Lang, CASSS 6, p. 17. 18 Hawkes, ‘Statements in Stone’; Lang, CASSS 6, pp. 39–40. 19 James T. Lang, York and Eastern Yorkshire, CASSS 3 (Oxford, 1991), pp. 135–42, Hackness nos. 1–2 and no. 4; Lang, CASSS 6, p. 105, Easington no. 5; p. 167, Lythe nos. 36–7. 20 Albert H. Smith, Place-Names of the North Riding of Yorkshire (Cambridge, 1928), p. 140; W. Brown, ed., Cartularium Prioratus de Gyseburne, 2 vols (Durham, 1891), II, p. 354 n. 2. 21 M. L. Faull and M. Stinson, eds., Domesday Book: Yorkshire (Chichester, 1986): Whitby 4 N 1, CN1, SN L 1–5; Hackness, 13 N 13, SN D 8–9; Lythe and surrounding lands 5 N 1–8; Loftus and Easington 4 N 2, SN L 10–13 and 19–24. 22 Pickles, ‘Streanæshalch (Whitby), its Satellite Churches and Lands’, pp. 272–4 for detailed analysis. 23 Smith, Place-Names of the North Riding, p. 141. 24 Stephen J. Sherlock, A Royal Anglo-Saxon Cemetery at Street House, Loftus, North-East Yorkshire (Hartlepool, 2012).

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analysis of the surviving objects deposited with the burials, and there was no evidence for the sequence of development or the duration of use. The focal bed burial belongs to a corpus of richly furnished female burials beginning in the 630s and peaking in the 660s and 670s.25 Of the 109 graves, sixty-seven included objects, mostly a single artefact type, but twenty-eight had more than one artefact type, and ten of those had four or more. The objects are from Helen Geake’s ‘final phase’ assemblages: on the basis of the new Bayesian seriation for early Anglo-Saxon assemblages they belong to the seventh century, and the excavator noted that the datable objects might fit within a narrow timespan of AD 650–70, though the forty-two unfurnished burials and the ambiguities surrounding John Hines, with Alex Bayliss, Karen Høilund Nielsen, Gerry McCormac, and Chris Scull, Anglo-Saxon Graves and Grave Goods of the Sixth and Seventh Centuries AD: A Chronological Framework (London, 2013), pp. 460, 476–9, 520, 529–30.

25

FIG. 5.1 ​PLAN OF STREET HOUSE CEMETERY (NORTH YORKSHIRE).

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the precise end date for furnished burials preclude certainty about the duration of the cemetery’s use.26 Taken as a whole the objects suggest a mixed cemetery with males predominantly interred to the south and females to the north, though with some male-female pairs, and including people engaged in leather working and iron or wood working.27 A small number of individuals in the focal area seem to have been of higher status, indicated by the deposition of exceptional items, some making explicitly Christian statements. Grave 21 included a pendant with two Iron Age coins of the Corieltavi with crosses on their reverse.28 Grave 42 included a pendant with a scallop-shell motif elsewhere employed as a symbol of St James and which can be read as a reminder of the connections between purification, rebirth, and baptism.29 Grave 70 included a circular pendant with a cross pattern.30 Grave 81 included a knife and whetstone set laid out to form a cross.31 A strong comparative case has been made for connecting bed burial to Christian ideas of the afterlife, rest, and sleep.32 To date, this fascinating cemetery has received relatively little attention. In his astute analysis of the drift towards burial at religious communities John Blair noted the chronological link between the first generation of noble abbesses and the corpus of richly furnished female burials. He suggested that ‘just as the abbesses represented family solidarity as heads of dynastic [religious communities], these secular ladies may have done so in a more traditional way as transmitters of social rituals’.33 In his excellent excavation report Steve Sherlock made a general case that the Street House bed burial should be seen in the context of the conversion of the Deirans to Christianity and the foundation of religious communities at Hartlepool in 647 and Streoneshalh in 657, so that it should be associated with a newly converted member of the Deiran royal family.34 In her persuasive analysis of the whole corpus of seventh-century richly furnished female burials – including Street House – Helena Hamerow proposed that they are connected to a moment in the conversion process when high-status females with an ability to confer supernatural legitimacy were used to

Helen Geake, The Use of Grave-Goods in Conversion Period England, c. 650–c. 850 (Oxford, 1997); Sherlock, A Royal Anglo-Saxon Cemetery, pp. 44–88, 126–7; Hines et al., Anglo-Saxon Graves and Grave-Goods, pp. 460–1, 464–73, where the Bayesian analysis suggested the 660s or 670s as the most probable moment when furnished burial ended, but acknowledged uncertainties about off-sets for diet and collagen turnover in the body and an unresolved disparity between Bayesian and numismatic dates. 27 Sherlock, A Royal Anglo-Saxon Cemetery, pp. 44–88, 113–15. 28 Sherlock, A Royal Anglo-Saxon Cemetery, pp. 28, 50–1. 29 Sherlock, A Royal Anglo-Saxon Cemetery, pp. 31, 48–50. 30 Sherlock, A Royal Anglo-Saxon Cemetery, pp. 39–40, 46–8. 31 Sherlock, A Royal Anglo-Saxon Cemetery, p. 40. 32 Hines et al., Anglo-Saxon Graves and Grave-Goods, p. 552. 33 Blair, Church in Anglo-Saxon Society, pp. 230–2. 34 Sherlock, A Royal Anglo-Saxon Cemetery, pp. 121, 127–32. 26

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project dynastic rights to property.35 The evidence considered above presents a more specific context for Street House and the opportunity to explore these ideas in more depth. It seems plausible that Osingadun was an existing royal resource territory with a focus at Osingatun (Easington), some or all of which was transferred to the religious community at Streoneshalh between 657 and 685–6, thereafter becoming a small religious community with lands worked by lay brethren. This may have prompted members of its population to adapt an existing cemetery, or establish a new one, at Street House, perhaps short-lived on account of Cuthbert’s dedication of a church for the community (at Easington?) in 685–6. A small religious community with lands worked by lay brethren is entirely consistent with a cemetery of 109 burials representing a mixed population associated with some craft specialisation and a few individuals whose higher status was projected through exceptional items with Christian associations. A rough estimate of the burying population may be arrived at by assuming a crude mortality rate of 24.6 per 1,000 per year over a thirty-year period, which suggests the cemetery served a population of about 150 people. If Streoneshalh received only the Osingadun inland, this might be a population of unfree labourers: Bede claimed that when King Æthelwealh of the South Saxons granted eighty-seven hides of land to Wilfrid this included 250 male and female slaves (servos et ancillas) whom Wilfrid converted and emancipated.36 Yet if Streoneshalh received a grant of inland plus utland/warland owing dues and services from free peasant households, this might represent a population of slaves and around ten free peasant households of ten to twelve people. (From buildings and cemeteries early Anglo-Saxon households have been estimated to include about ten to twelve people.)37 King Oswiu was supposed to have given twelve grants of ten households (possessiones familiarum) to a religious community or religious communities in thanks for his victory against the pagan King Penda of the Mercians in 655, and Hild was granted ten households for the foundation of Streoneshalh in 657.38 To set this interpretation in context, it is worth considering some comparative historical and archaeological evidence. According to the foundation legend for Minster-in-Thanet (Kent) the founder’s sister, Eormengyth, chose her own place of burial a mile to the east of the community.39 Æthelthryth’s foundation of Ely (Cambridgeshire) in the 670s has been invoked as the context for a similar richly furnished female Helena Hamerow, ‘Furnished Female Burial in Seventh-Century England: Gender and Sacral Authority in the Conversion Period’, Early Medieval Europe, 24.4 (2016), 423–47. 36 HE iv.13. 37 Heinrich Härke, ‘Early Anglo-Saxon Social Structure’, The Anglo-Saxons from the Migration Period to the Eighth Century: An Ethnographic Perspective, ed. John Hines (Woodbridge, 1997), pp. 125–60, at 139. 38 HE iii.24. 39 Felix Liebermann, Die Heiligen Englands (Hannover, 1889), p. 5; Blair, Church in Anglo-Saxon Society, pp. 232–3, note 214 for discussion. 35

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Christian burial at Westfield Farm, just over a mile west-southwest of Ely.40 Moreover, there is clear evidence for the establishment of gender distinctions through mortuary rituals at early Anglo-Saxon religious communities. Bede tells us that for the elevation and translation of Æthelthryth at Ely the monks and nuns constructed a tent and disposed themselves separately around it before only the nuns entered to wash the remains.41 He relates that at Barking (Essex) the men and women not only had separate quarters, but also separate cemeteries.42 Excavations at Hartlepool and Whitby have suggested distinct male and female cemeteries for members of the religious community as well as separate lay cemeteries.43 Several features of the Street House cemetery suggest that its location, apparently one mile from the Osingadun focus at Easington, was a selfconscious choice. A pre-existing rectangular Iron Age settlement enclosure was selected for the cemetery.44 The enclosure may have been filled in by this time, but it was apparently recognisable, possibly retaining water and marked out by distinctive vegetation, because there was an observable relationship between several Iron Age and Anglo-Saxon features.45 The southern entrance to the Iron Age enclosure determined the position of a gap in the burial rows, forming an entrance to the cemetery.46 Roundhouse 1 was perhaps mistaken for, or used for its similarity to, the ditch surrounding burials on other early Anglo-Saxon cemeteries, because two groups of graves respected it – Graves 1–5 and 11 were inside, and Graves 8, 9, and 30 were outside.47 Two further Iron Age roundhouses seem to have influenced the alignment of Graves 16–22 on the west side of cemetery.48 Nevertheless, other features suggest that repeated ritual performances were crucial to the rewriting of an existing landscape. Those who founded and managed the cemetery established new foci within the enclosure, a new alignment, and new internal boundaries. Two focal monuments were constructed. A ring-ditch with probable mound (no. 430 in Fig. 5.1) was interpreted by excavators as a ‘cenotaph’.49 A bed-burial (41/42 in Fig. 5.1) was identified from surviving ironwork for the bed found in situ – 40 Sam Lucy et al., ‘The Burial of a Princess? The Late Seventh-Century Cemetery at Westfield Farm, Ely’, AntJ, 89 (2009), 81–141. 41 HE iv.19 (17). 42 HE iv.7. 43 Robin Daniels, Sue Anderson, and Christopher Loveluck, Anglo-Saxon Hartlepool and the Foundation of English Christianity: An Archaeology of the Anglo-Saxon Monastery (Hartlepool, 2007), pp. 74–96, 145, 169–75; Wilmott, ‘The Anglian Abbey of Streonæshalch’. 44 Sherlock, A Royal Anglo-Saxon Cemetery, p. 7. 45 Sherlock, A Royal Anglo-Saxon Cemetery, p. 13. 46 Sherlock, A Royal Anglo-Saxon Cemetery, pp. 13, 104. 47 Sherlock, A Royal Anglo-Saxon Cemetery, pp. 14, 104–5. 48 Sherlock, A Royal Anglo-Saxon Cemetery, p. 106. 49 Sherlock, A Royal Anglo-Saxon Cemetery, pp. 109–10.

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bifurcated cleats, an internal plate, headboard stays, decorated plates, nails, and staples – and staining from wooden lathes. Its shallow depth, which would have resulted in the bed’s headboard sitting at ground level, along with surrounding stakeholes, suggest it was encased in a chamber and then probably covered by a mound.50 Two focal buildings may be associated with mortuary rituals prior to burial and perhaps with commemoration at the cemetery: the small sunken-featured building (2.4 m × 1.5 m) containing only potsherds, interpreted as a mortuary house;51 and a larger posthole building (7.08 m × 2.9 m) with no finds, interpreted as a chapel.52 Together, the focal buildings, these monuments, the shallow ditch, and Graves 32–6, 41, and 43, were identified as a discrete area representing a ‘shrine’.53 Over time the remaining burials were laid out in paired rows running east–west along four sides of a rectangle more closely aligned to the four points of the compass. A second entrance was probably established, represented by a gap in the rows of burials at the northeastern corner, aligned with a second row of burials on the north side of the rectangle and a shallow ditch (434 in Fig. 5.1), and associated with an area of small compacted stones.54 The rectangular layout in paired rows with uniform distances between grave cuts, and the lack of intercutting, demonstrate deliberate and careful management of the mortuary process and require that the graves were visible, either as mounds or through the use of above-ground markers: five graves in the north double row had possible stone or wooden markers and two graves in the eastern row had possible stone markers.55 Any attempt to recapture the significance of these ritual performances at the Street House cemetery must begin with a clear analytical framework. A wider set of socio-cultural norms provided the context within which the mortuary rituals were meaningful. As Guy Halsall has argued, an analogy can be made between the analysis of texts and of furnished cemeteries: the whole corpus of contemporary furnished burials associated with the society under study may be used to establish a grammar of mortuary ritual, within which a particular mortuary community used variables to communicate with one another.56 Halsall has further suggested that furnished burial can be considered a symptom of societies in which local communities are the primary arbiters of social status and in which those communities, or groups within them, were experiencing threats to the reproduction of social status, requiring repeated one-off projections of

Sherlock, A Royal Anglo-Saxon Cemetery, pp. 89–100, 110–13. Sherlock, A Royal Anglo-Saxon Burial, pp. 13, 116–17. 52 Sherlock, A Royal Anglo-Saxon Burial, pp. 13, 117–18. 53 Sherlock, A Royal Anglo-Saxon Burial, pp. 13–14, 127–9. 54 Sherlock, A Royal Anglo-Saxon Burial, p. 127. 55 Sherlock, A Royal Anglo-Saxon Burial, pp. 13, 105–7. 56 Guy Halsall, Cemeteries and Society in Merovingian Gaul: Selected Studies in History and Archaeology, 1992–2009 (Leiden and Boston, 2010), pp. 203–14, at 205–9, and pp. 215–31, at 215–25. 50 51

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status to those participating in mortuary rituals.57 Within this framework, it is crucial to acknowledge Howard Williams’ observation that mortuary rituals relied on memories, and generated new memories, which depended on an embodied experience of the ritual, including aspects which may only be glimpsed through the material remains, and which explain some variations in mortuary rituals both within and between cemeteries over time.58 To establish the socio-cultural norms and grammar of mortuary ritual within which the Street House cemetery was meaningful necessitates some attention to the history and archaeology of the Deirans of eastern Yorkshire in the sixth and seventh centuries. By the seventh century the Deirans were a society of local communities composed of free peasant households in which social status and gender distinctions were rooted in a particular culture of landholding, lordship, and service. The primary social institution was the household, the land that supported it, and the obligations it owed to the king: probably using lost royal diplomas, Stephen of Ripon and Bede refer to royal grants based on households (mansiones, familiae, tributariores).59 Laws and diplomas from other early Anglo-Saxon peoples reveal that the Old English vernacular terms for the household were hid, hiwisc, and hiwscipe, referring to the nuclear family of a free peasant (ceorl).60 Free households included various categories of dependants: slaves, servants, foster children, youths, and visitors.61 Status distinctions between free households within local communities were rooted in landed wealth and service. The laws of Ine, king of the West Saxons, suggest that a freeman (ceorl) possessing one hide had a compensation value of 200 shillings, whilst a noble with five hides had one of 1,200 shillings; these distinctions are comparable with those in the later evidence for the Mercians and Northumbrians from Norðleoda Laga.62 Bede’s story of the seventh-century Northumbrian Imma assumes a context in which there were poor married peasants who delivered food to battles fought by noble warriors and royal servants, whose status could be discerned from their appearance, bearing, and speech.63 Biographies of seventh-century Deirans and Bernicians narrated in early eighth-century histories suggest a male life cycle that involved setting out to serve in Halsall, Cemeteries and Society, pp. 209–11. Howard Williams, Death and Memory in Early Medieval Britain (Cambridge, 2010). 59 Stephen of Ripon, Vita Wilfridi, in Bertram Colgrave, ed. and trans., The Life of Bishop Wilfrid by Eddius Stephanus (Cambridge, 1927), c. 8; HE iii.24–5, v.19; Richard Shaw, ‘Bede’s Sources for his References to “Hides” in the Ecclesiastical History and the History of the Abbots’, Historical Research, 89.245 (2016), 412–34. 60 Thomas M. Charles-Edwards, ‘Kinship, Status and the Origins of the Hide’, Past and Present, 56 (1972), 3–33. 61 Vita Wilfridi, c. 2. 62 Laws of Ine 24.2, 32, 70, F. Liebermann, ed., Die Gesetze der Angelsachsen, 4 vols (Halle, 1903–16), I, pp. 20–7, 89–123; translated in F. L. Attenborough, trans., The Laws of the Earliest English Kings (Cambridge, 1922), pp. 44–5, 46–7, 58–9; Norðleoda laga in Liebermann, Die Gesetze, I, pp. 458–60. 63 HE iv.22 (20). 57

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another lord’s household at fourteen years old, serving as a warrior from eighteen years old, and receiving a grant of property on which to settle and marry from twenty-five years old.64 Glimpses of royal marriages involving the kings of the Deirans and Bernicians suggest marriage was a protracted negotiation between kin groups connected with gifts and counter-gifts of property, and that kin groups retained an interest in the fate of female members and their offspring beyond the moment of marriage. This reflects the importance of females to the honour of the kin group, partly because of their role in extending and reproducing the kin group over time.65 Bede’s depiction of Anglo-Saxon kingship demonstrates that it was contingent upon free peasant households providing dues and services to royal vills from surrounding resource territories, supplying the army, and committing members of their kin group to service in the royal household in the hope of receiving a loan from a royal resource territory on which to settle and marry.66 These socio-cultural norms surrounding social status and gender were rooted in a cosmology and generated in part through sixth- and seventh-century mortuary rituals. The layout of the polyfocal furnished inhumation cemetery at West Heslerton seems to reflect the burials of the five to fifteen households identified in the associated settlement.67 Sam Lucy analysed the furnished inhumation cemeteries at Cheesecake Hill, around Garton, at Kelleythorpe Kirkburn, at Sewerby, at Uncleby, and at West Heslerton. The burials in these cemeteries revealed projections of male gender identity through weapons, and female gender identity through costume. They suggested age cycles with transition points at around twelve, nineteen, twenty-five, and thirty-five years old, consistent with the male age cycles revealed in eighth-century histories. The most dramatic mortuary statements were for males who were fully qualified warriors, and females of childbearing and marriageable age, presumably because their deaths posed the greatest threat to the reproduction of the kin group.68 Audrey Meaney’s study of amuletic objects from cemeteries – including examples from Driffield, Garton, Kingthorpe, Kirkburn, Londesborough, Saltburn, Sancton, Seamer, Staxton, and Uncleby in eastern Yorkshire – suggested that households used amulets to express gender and age distinctions in life and death: males had beads of amber Vita Wilfridi, c. 2; Anonymous, Vita Ceolfridi, in C. Grocock and I. N. Wood, eds. and trans., Abbots of Wearmouth and Jarrow: Bede’s Homily I. 13 on Benedict Biscop, Bede’s History of the Abbots of Wearmouth and Jarrow, the Anonymous Life of Ceolfrith, Bede’s Letter to Ecgbert, Bishop of York (Oxford, 2013), pp. 77–122 (c. 2); Bede, Historia abbatum, in Grocock and Wood, Abbots of Wearmouth and Jarrow, pp. 21–76 (c. 1). 65 HE ii.9, iv.19. 66 HE iii.14, iii.24, iv.22 (20). 67 Christine Haughton and Dominic Powlesland, West Heslerton: The Anglian Cemetery, 2 vols (Yedingham, 1999), I, pp. 78–80, 82–3, 93–6. 68 Sam Lucy, The Early Anglo-Saxon Cemeteries of East Yorkshire: An Analysis and Reinterpretation (Oxford, 1998), pp. 32–50. 64

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and glass, whetstones, and boar tusks, whereas females had bead necklaces of amber, glass, rock crystal, and amethyst.69 Those individuals socially sanctioned to perform religious rituals were probably treated distinctively in death. At Garton a female inhumation was furnished with an unusual collection of objects perhaps contained within a bag, including chipped glass, glass playing pieces, chalk and bone spindle whorls, a bronze ‘work box’, an iron hook, a bronze buckle, a flat bronze ring, an iron ‘spoon’, and a bone comb.70 Her burial is part of a wider corpus of female burials including ‘amulet kits’ and is interpreted with reference to episcopal handbooks, which associate women with performance of magical acts.71 Cemeteries and shrines were apparently two ends of a continuum. An Iron Age square barrow cemetery at Garton Station with at least six square and four round enclosures included a large square central enclosure with a causewayed entrance in its west side containing eleven early AngloSaxon burials, and seven more empty square enclosures with further early Anglo-Saxon burials on their periphery. In a comparative study John Blair suggested that this was a pre-Christian shrine.72 Social status and power had apparently been bound up with pre-Christian mythologies. Sixth-century gold bracteate pendants, including examples from the Bridlington area and Driffield, have been connected with the cult of Woden or shamanism, and shield bosses and mounts decorated with Salin’s Style I suggest high-status males carried apotropaic shields.73 Social status and power were generated through mortuary ritual. Comparative studies by Sam Lucy, Chris FentonThomas, and Sarah Semple, of sixth- and seventh-century burials around the Chalk Wolds, have observed a chronological and spatial pattern: the establishment of longer-term inhumation cemeteries focused on lowland barrows, then an increasing number of inhumations for fewer individuals at barrows higher on the Wolds, culminating in a scatter of community cemeteries and groups of inhumations at barrows and linear earthworks higher on the Wolds, including some unusually rich inhumations. This 69 Audrey Meaney, Anglo-Saxon Amulets and Curing Stones, BAR British Series 96 (Oxford, 1981). 70 Meaney, Anglo-Saxon Amulets, p. 227. 71 Audrey Meaney, ‘Women, Witchcraft and Magic in Anglo-Saxon England’, Superstition and Popular Medicine in Anglo-Saxon England, ed. Donald Scragg (Manchester, 1989), pp. 9–40; Tania M. Dickinson, ‘An Anglo-Saxon “Cunning Woman” from Bidford-uponAvon’, In Search of Cult: Archaeological investigations in Honour of Philip Rahtz, ed. Martin Carver (Woodbridge, 1993), pp. 43–54. 72 Ian M. Stead, Iron Age Cemeteries in East Yorkshire (London, 1991), pp. 17–24; John Blair, ‘Anglo-Saxon Pagan Shrines and their Prototypes’, ASSAH 8, ed. David Griffiths (Oxford, 1995), pp. 1–28, at 9–10. 73 Charlotte Behr, ‘New Bracteate Finds from Early Anglo-Saxon England’, MedArch, 54 (2010), 34–87; Aleks Pluskowski, ‘Animal Magic’, Signals of Belief in Early England: AngloSaxon Paganism Revisited, ed. Martin Carver, Alex Sanmark, and Sarah Semple (Oxford and Oakville, CT, 2010), pp. 103–27; Tania M. Dickinson, ‘Symbols of Protection: The Significance of Animal-Ornamented Shields in Early Anglo-Saxon England’, MedArch, 49 (2005), 109–63.

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seems to represent a transition from projecting social status within local communities through access to local resources, to projecting it beyond those communities through a common elite material culture, perhaps as a result of service to a Deiran ruler.74 The common elite material culture comprises Helen Geake’s ‘final phase’ culture of the seventh century, including items referencing Romano-British and contemporary Byzantine and Roman culture, some in gold and silver.75 Conversion to Christianity required a rethinking of these socio-cultural norms as well as an improvised adaptation of the mortuary rituals through which they were generated. Though Bede presents conversion as a rational decision taken in royal households or at royal assemblies, merely followed by others, close attention to the circumstances of the community at Osingadun suggests that the reality was more complex. It seems unlikely that kings, or their companions who were loaned royal resource territories, had the wealth, authority, or coercive power to impose conversion on the free households of those territories. Chris Wickham’s comparative analysis of post-Roman ‘states’ suggests that the dues and services early Anglo-Saxon kings claimed from peasant households were probably not burdensome; there may not have been great disparity between peasant, noble, and royal resources.76 Tom Lambert’s reading of the laws of Æthelberht, king of the Kentish people, suggests law and order were focused on regional assemblies of freemen and were the preserve of legal specialists in oral law: the king was simply a high-status freeman who extended his protection over other freemen as a result of collecting his dues and services, with a limited role in cases of theft as a secretive act against the community.77 Despite the best efforts of William Chaney to interpret royal genealogies, dismemberment of defeated kings, and ‘pagan’ objects as evidence for a ‘Germanic’ model of sacral kingship, in which the ruler stood between the people and the gods as a figure of divine descent sacrificing for victory or plenty, there is no unambiguous evidence that Anglo-Saxon kings had an exclusive sacral authority or power.78 Nicholas Brooks’s and Richard Lucy, The Early Anglo-Saxon Cemeteries, pp. 76–101; Chris Fenton-Thomas, Late Prehistoric and Early Historic Landscapes on the Yorkshire Chalk (Oxford, 2003), pp. 75–128; Sarah Semple, Perceptions of the Prehistoric in Anglo-Saxon England: Religion, Ritual, and Rulership in the Landscape (Oxford, 2013), pp. 26–38. 75 Geake, The Use of Grave Goods, pp. 157–9, 188–91: Acklam Wold, Deanery Gardens Ripon, Garton II Green Lane Crossing, Garton on the Wolds, Garton Station, Hambleton Moor, Hawnby, Kemp Howe, Kirkburn II (Eastburn), North Newbald, Painsthorpe Wold I Barrow 4, Seamer, Sewerby, and Uncleby. 76 Chris Wickham, Framing the Early Middle Ages (Oxford, 2005), pp. 314–26, 339–51. 77 Tom Lambert, Law and Order in Anglo-Saxon England (Oxford, 2017), pp. 27–62. 78 William A. Chaney, The Cult of Kingship in Anglo-Saxon England (Manchester, 1970). Royal genealogies: Barbara Yorke, ‘The Fate of Otherworldly Beings after the Conversion of the Anglo-Saxons’, Dying Gods: Religious Beliefs in Northern and Eastern Europe in the Time of Christianisation, ed. Christiane Ruhmann and Vera Brieske (Stuttgart, 2015), pp. 167–75. Dismemberment: John E. Damon, ‘Desecto capite perfido: Bodily Fragmentation and Reciprocal Violence in Anglo-Saxon England’, Exemplaria, 13 (2001), 399–432. ‘Pagan’ objects and divine role playing: Neil Price and Paul Mortimer, ‘An Eye 74

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Abels’s models of lordship and military obligations suggest kings relied on noble companions to whom royal resource territories were loaned in return for recruiting warriors and leading armies, often of limited scale.79 In light of this, it seems likely that the free peasant households of Osingadun played a significant role in the decision to become Christian, to divert land or surpluses to a small religious community, and to establish or adapt the cemetery at Street House. It remains to consider why that cemetery was established or adapted, and how its improvised aspects remade socio-cultural norms. Conversion involved a revelation that the Deirans, their local communities, and the landscapes within which they lived had always been part of God’s providential plan for the salvation of the elect. The best illustration of this is Bede’s account of the conversion of King Oswald, which suggested that it was providentially ordained that his decision to convert would take place at a location already known as Hefenfeld, ‘heaven-field’.80 Streoneshalh (Whitby) was located adjacent to a now lost Roman signal station on the headland to the north of the present Abbey, and the putative satellite at Lythe was a mile inland from another, along the coast at Goldsborough. Based on the reasonable assumption that the Roman signal stations were visible from one another, combined with a plausible estimate of their dimensions, Tyler Bell argued that a further signal station existed to the north of Street House on Boulby Cliffs, lost to early modern alum mining.81 The brethren from Streoneshalh presumably preserved and transmitted to Bede the story that a dream experienced by Hild’s mother Breguswith, concerning a lost necklace, revealed that it was providentially ordained for Hild to found a religious community adjacent to a Roman signal station – understood as a watchtower, perhaps symbolic of the watchtowers of Sion and the role of abbots, abbesses, and bishops – which would host the 664 council that adopted Roman Easter dates, and would become a powerhouse for the training of bishops.82 A for Odin? Divine Role Playing in the Age of Sutton Hoo’, European Journal of Archaeology, 17.3 (2014), 517–38. 79 Nicholas P. Brooks, ‘The Development of Military Obligations in Eighth- and NinthCentury England’, England before the Conquest: Studies in Primary Sources Presented to Dorothy Whitelock, ed. Peter Clemoes and Kathleen Hughes (Cambridge, 1971), pp. 69–84; repr. in his Communities and Warfare (London, 2000), pp. 32–47, esp. pp. 45–7; Richard P. Abels, Lordship and Military Obligation in Anglo-Saxon England (London, 1988), pp. 1–57, esp. pp. 22–36. 80 HE iii.2. 81 Tyler Bell, ‘A Roman Signal Station at Whitby’, Archaeological Journal, 155 (1998), 303–22. Steve Sherlock informs me that there may in fact be evidence for the signal station to the north-east of Easington, on the Staithes side of the hill and visible from the Goldsborough signal station. 82 HE iv.23 (21). Peter Hunter Blair, ‘Whitby as a Centre of Learning in the Seventh Century’, Learning and Literature in Anglo-Saxon England: Studies Presented to Peter Clemoes on the Occasion of his Sixty-Fifth Birthday, ed. Michael Lapidge and Helmut Gneuss (Cambridge, 1985), pp. 3–32, esp. pp. 10–11; Tom Pickles, ‘Anglo-Saxon Monasteries as Sacred Places: Topography, Exegesis and Vocation’, Sacred Text – Sacred

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similar idea might explain the decision to grant land to Streoneshalh at Osingadun and to establish or adapt a cemetery a mile to the north of Easington at Street House: repeated movement from the Osingadun focus at Easington to Street House could have been a continuing commitment to a providential origin myth. Yet conversion also required new ritual foci for commemorating and venerating indigenous Christians whose beliefs were a challenge to existing socio-cultural norms. The choice of location for the Street House cemetery may reflect an improvised response to this issue. The Street House cemetery seems to sit between three ritual developments. First, a royal martyr cult focused on King Oswald (r. 634–42), beginning through popular devotion at the cult sites of Hefenfeld and Maserfelth before being officially redirected during the reign of King Oswiu (r. 642–70).83 Second, the establishment of religious communities as the first royal monuments or mausolea by King Oswiu at Gilling near Richmond in 651 (commemorating King Oswine of the Deirans), by King Æthelwald at Lastingham in 653, and by King Oswiu at Streoneshalh (Whitby) in 657.84 Third, the formal elevation and translation of indigenous saints based on Frankish models – Cedd (d. 664) at Lastingham, and Cuthbert at Lindisfarne (Northumbria) in 698.85 Given the evidence for the physical and symbolic connection between Streoneshalh and a Roman signal station, it is striking that the burying population selected not the putative Roman signal station, but a rectangular Iron Age settlement enclosure. Here it may be the existing association of rectangular Iron Age earthworks with shrines, as at Garton Station, that prompted the decision: the Iron Age enclosure might have been an existing shrine, perhaps focused on the ring-ditch and the mound interpreted as a ‘cenotaph’. Alternatively, a familiar indigenous form may have been used in improvising a new kind of Christian shrine reflecting a new trend to venerate indigenous Christians, but rendered less relevant by Cuthbert’s dedication of a church in 685–6 and the introduction of formal rituals of translation and elevation. The particular challenges Christianity posed to existing socio-cultural norms and their associated cosmology may explain the improvised features of the mortuary rituals visible at Street House. By the seventh century

Space: Architectural, Spiritual and Literary Convergences in England and Wales, ed. Joseph Sterrett and Peter Thomas (Leiden and Boston, MA, 2011), pp. 35–55, esp. pp. 52–4. 83 HE iii.2, 9–12; Alan Thacker, ‘Membra Disjecta: The Division of the Body and the Diffusion of the Cult’, Oswald: Northumbrian King to European Saint, ed. Clare Stancliffe and Eric Cambridge (Stamford, 1995), pp. 97–127; Damon, ‘Desecto capite perfido’; Catherine Cubitt, ‘Universal and Local Saints in Anglo-Saxon England’, Local Saints and Local Churches in the Early Medieval West, ed. Alan Thacker and Richard Sharpe (Oxford, 2002), pp. 423–53, at 424–32. 84 HE iii.14, 23, 24. 85 HE iii.23 and iv.30–2 (27–30). Alan Thacker, ‘The Making of a Local Saint’, Local Saints and Local Churches in the Early Medieval West, ed. Alan Thacker and Richard Sharpe (Oxford, 2002), pp. 45–73.

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some Deiran kin groups were projecting social status through the burial of some individuals with a new suite of objects associated with the RomanoBritish past and Roman and Byzantine present, often including gold and silver items. Yet, as Bede emphasised through his story that King Oswine granted a stallion to Bishop Aidan, only for Aidan to give it to a pauper, good Christians were expected to despise worldly wealth and status for its own sake, only putting it to use for salvation.86 The richer Street House burials are interesting in this regard: they reproduce the grammar of Deiran furnished burial through the deposition of gold and garnet objects in burials within a pre-existing enclosure, covered with, or associated with, mounds, but those objects take a specifically Christian form and occupy positions on the body emphasising the head or heart.87 Without knowing what was said at the point of burial and during subsequent visits to the cemetery, it is not possible to demonstrate that this existing grammar was being adapted to emphasise a new Christian moral, but it seems likely. The Beowulf poet’s famous description of Beowulf ’s funeral demonstrates that at least one Christian presented a traditional mortuary ritual to teach a Christian moral lesson. Beowulf was placed on a pyre surrounded by helmets, shields, and armour, and cremated to the sound of lamentations, before a mound was constructed for the remains as well as further valuable moveable wealth, around which twelve warriors rode extolling his nature and exploits. Amidst all of this the Christian poet emphasised that ‘They let the ground keep that ancestral treasure / gold under gravel, gone to earth / as useless to men now as it ever was’.88 Moreover, as Bede was also at pains to explain, through the invented speeches attributed to King Edwin’s unnamed noble and chief priest Coifi, Christianity asked converts to accept that this life was to be lived in an exemplary manner, not for the rewards of the present, but for rewards in an afterlife, attendant on a promise of resurrection that was unproven.89 The Street House cemetery may be considered in conjunction with Peter Brown’s analysis of the social and psychological functions of saints’ shrines and pilgrimage as confrontations of this paradox. The layout of the cemetery reveals something of the experience of mourners or visitors. The southern entrance makes it likely that people approached from the direction of Easington to the south, so that, as they progressed up an incline to the site, the enclosure, the buildings, and the mounds gradually revealed themselves.90 The open area in the southwestern quarter is suitable for the assembly of a group of participants.91 For the initial bed burial, the individual may have been prepared and laid out in the sunken-featured 86 87 88 89 90 91

HE iii.14. Sherlock, A Royal Anglo-Saxon Cemetery, pp. 131–2. Seamus Heaney, Beowulf: A New Translation (London, 1999), pp. 98–9. HE ii.13. Sherlock, A Royal Anglo-Saxon Cemetery, pp. 104, 127–8. Sherlock, A Royal Anglo-Saxon Cemetery, pp. 128–9.

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building before presentation to onlookers and emplacement on the bed in the chamber.92 After the creation of the bed burial, the posthole building may have been a ‘chapel’ reserved for commemoration of the individual interred there.93 The laying out of the paired burials to leave a second narrower entrance in the northeast corner raises the possibility that participants in mortuary rituals and visitors assembled and then processed in smaller numbers beyond the bed-burial mound and out via that second entrance.94 Transporting a female body to the Street House enclosure and displaying it on a bed bears comparison with formal rituals of translation and elevation, which may be considered tools for confronting the relationship between mortality and resurrection through an enactment of the suppression of death and the abolition of time through the indeterminacy of space.95 Managing access to the bed burial through formal entrances and a posthole building finds a parallel in pilgrimage to saints’ shrines, which Brown identified as a performance of the unsatisfied yearnings at the heart of Christian life: the movement over distance to reach a destination where access to the exemplary individual is limited, the guided processions at the shrine as pilgrimage in microcosm, and the inverted magnitudes of the shrine playing out the delays of pilgrimage in miniature.96 For a kin group whose female relative was dedicated to God, and for other free households witnessing the precedent, this decision was a threat to socio-cultural norms surrounding status and gender: the extension and reproduction of the kin group through a female age cycle focused on marriage and motherhood, and the social sanction given to some exceptional women to perform magical acts. Indeed, the threat to social status and socio-cultural norms posed by the death of females of marriageable and childbearing age may explain why kin groups provided furnished burials for those individuals as ritual performances within local communities to project the continued status of the kin group and reassert socio-cultural norms about gender.97 When higher-status kin groups first began to dedicate some females to God in the 640s and 650s, this threat had to be addressed: the provision of richly furnished monumental burials, adapting an indigenous grammar of burial, but emphasising their status as Christian women, can be envisaged as a ritual response to this problem. At Street House the creation of a chamber with bed including a female body clothed in a costume with display jewellery adapted the grammar

Sherlock, A Royal Anglo-Saxon Cemetery, pp. 116–17. Sherlock, A Royal Anglo-Saxon Cemetery, pp. 117–18. 94 Sherlock, A Royal Anglo-Saxon Cemetery, pp. 128–9. 95 Peter Brown, The Cult of the Saints: Its Rise and Function in Latin Christianity (Chicago, IL, and London, 1981), pp. 69–80. 96 Brown, The Cult of the Saints, pp. 86–8. 97 Guy Halsall, ‘Female Status and Power in Early Merovingian Central Austrasia: The Burial Evidence’ (repr. in his Cemeteries and Society in Merovingian Gaul, pp. 289–314). 92 93

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of burial to reassert traditional roles for women associated with domestic life, the transmission of cultural identity through display jewellery, and the performance of ritual acts with cosmological significance, but within a Christian context. Around this focus, the repeated burial of pairs of individuals, largely without objects projecting social status, and in gendered zones, perhaps projected an associated Christian community of the dead in which traditional social institutions – the kin group, household, nuclear family, status group – were no longer visible. More significantly still, those repeated burials were deliberately disposed to delimit a rectangle defining that community. Other Deiran burials exist within reused or newly constructed square or rectangular enclosures, but at present this is the only one where burials within a rectangular enclosure were disposed to create another on a new orientation. From the 670s the religious community at Wearmouth (Du) was being constructed to a claustral layout within which the dead were apparently disposed according to their status as religious or lay brethren.98 For a smaller religious community at Street House, perhaps the idea of a communal cloister was being constructed through mortuary ritual. Whether the burials were slaves, emancipated slaves, or members of free households, it is likely that members of free households on the royal resource territory agreed to the direction of part of it – inland or utland/warland – to the provision of the religious community, making it probable that they were involved in these rites or as visitors to the ‘shrine’. The apparent one-mile journey from the Osingadun focus at Easington to Street House took this society outside of itself to reimagine socio-cultural norms: the validity of existing social institutions in life may have been reaffirmed through enacting their breakdown after death.99 Analytical uncertainty is a leitmotif of most early medieval interdisciplinary scholarship and the arguments set out here are unproven, but they are empirically grounded and plausible. Despite Bede’s emphasis on conversion as a political event, it is better envisaged as a negotiated social process. Belief is not prior to practice, but is constructed, reconstructed, and reaffirmed through ritual. Mortuary ritual is not a reflection of belief, but one of its engines. Conversion is therefore not a change in belief to be measured by resulting changes in mortuary ritual. Instead, mortuary ritual provides evidence for conversion as a ritual reimagining of society. This case study of the cemetery at Street House suggests that AngloSaxon conversion was a contingent and negotiated social process: those negotiations involved free households agreeing to the diversion of parts of royal resource territories to Christian religious communities and required a ritual reimagining of society through improvised mortuary rituals in the context of local landscapes. In doing so, it reinforces the suggestions that Rosemary J. Cramp, Wearmouth and Jarrow Monastic Sites, vol. 1 (Swindon, 2005). Compare Brown, The Cult of the Saints, pp. 42–8, for discussion of the social role of saints’ cults. 98

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seventh-century rich female burials were associated with conversion, the use of females with an ability to confer supernatural legitimacy to project dynastic rights to property, and the first generation of female abbesses. Yet it also makes them more particular and complicated. It suggests that rich female burials were local ritual improvisations to confront the threats Christianity posed to socio-cultural norms and the paradoxes Christian belief presented.

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OUTSIDE THE BOX: RELICS AND RELIQUARIES AT THE SHRINE OF ST CUTHBERT IN THE LATER MIDDLE AGES PHILIPPA TURNER 1

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he cathedral priory at Durham was the focal point of St Cuthbert’s cult throughout the late medieval period. Cuthbert’s body had resided at Durham from 995, and was translated to the new Anglo-Norman cathedral’s east end, to the area behind the high altar known as the feretory, in 1104.2 His coffin, in which he had been placed on Lindisfarne I am grateful to the editors of this volume for their kindness and understanding during the production of this chapter. I would also like to thank Kate Thomas for reading a draft and commenting on it; all remaining errors are, of course, my own. I would also like to take this opportunity to thank Jane Hawkes for her continued support of my research. 2 The literature on aspects of Cuthbert’s cult is vast. For the cult up to 1200, including the wanderings of the Lindisfarne community before settling at Durham, see the essays collected in Gerald Bonner, David Rollason, and Clare Stancliffe, eds., St Cuthbert, his Cult and Community to AD 1200 (Woodbridge, 1989); especially relevant in relation to Cuthbert at Durham are Alan J. Piper, ‘The First Generation of Durham Monks and the Cult of St Cuthbert’, pp. 437–46, and Victoria Tudor, ‘The Cult of St Cuthbert in the Twelfth Century: The Evidence of Reginald of Durham’, pp. 447–68. On the feretory, and Cuthbert’s pre-1104 resting places at Durham, see John Crook, ‘The Architectural Setting of St Cuthbert’s Cult in Durham Cathedral, 1093–1200’, Anglo-Norman Durham 1093–1193, ed. David Rollason, Margaret Harvey, and Michael Prestwich (Woodbridge, 1994), pp. 235–50; and David Hunt, ‘The Shrine of St Cuthbert’, Durham Cathedral: History, Fabric, Culture, ed. David Brown (London and New Haven, CT, 2014), pp. 302–9. For the latest theory regarding the body’s location within the Anglo-Saxon cathedral, which suggests it to be concomitant with the hybrid pier in the Anglo-Norman south transept, see Meredith Bacola, ‘The Hybrid Pier of Durham Cathedral: A Norman Monument to the Shrine of St Cuthbert?’, Gesta, 54.1 (2015), 27–36. On late medieval pilgrimage to Lindisfarne, see Emma J. Wells, ‘“… he went round the holy places praying and offering”: 1

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in 698, was encased within at least two outer containers by 1104, according to the anonymous early twelfth-century account of the translation, and Reginald of Durham’s account of the same event c. 1165 × 1172.3 The coffin (Pl. VI), an unparalleled Anglo-Saxon survival that was uncovered during Canon James Raine’s investigation of Cuthbert’s tomb in 1827,4 has been studied extensively in relation to aspects such as construction, style, and iconography.5 Most recently, Jane Hawkes has considered the relationship between the coffin’s iconography and the body of Cuthbert itself as it lay within.6 Here, I wish to explore the evidence for the relics of other saints that documentary sources state resided for some time within the coffin and with the saint, concentrating on those relics and reliquaries that are described as ‘heads’ (capita).7 As Cynthia Hahn has emphasised, we need to be cautious in proposing that reliquaries ‘explicitly reveal their contents’ Evidence for Cuthbertine Pilgrimage to Lindisfarne and Farne in the Late Medieval Period’, Newcastle and Northumberland: Roman and Medieval Architecture and Art, British Archaeological Association Conference Transactions 36, ed. Jeremy Ashbee and Julian Luxford (Leeds, 2013), pp. 214–31. 3 For the anonymous account’s description of these containers, see Thomas Arnold, ed., Capitula de Miraculis et Translationibus Sancti Cuthberti, in Symeonis Monachi Opera Omnia, Rolls Series 75, 2 vols (London, 1882–5, reprinted 1965), I, ch. VII, pp. 247–61, at 249. For a translation, see James Raine and R. A. B. Mynors, ‘The Anonymous Account of The Translation of St Cuthbert, 29th August 1104’, The Relics of St Cuthbert, ed. C. F. Battiscombe (Oxford, 1956), pp. 99–107, at 100. For Reginald of Durham’s description see James Raine, ed., Libellus de Admirandis Beati Cuthberti Virtutibus Quae Novellis Patratae Sunt Temporibus (London, 1835), ch. XLIV, pp. 90–1. For a translation, see E. G. Pace, ‘Reginald of Durham’s Account of the Translation of St Cuthbert, 29th August 1104’, Relics of St Cuthbert, ed. C. F. Battiscombe (Oxford, 1956), pp. 107–12, at 112. 4 For Raine’s account of his investigation, see James Raine, St Cuthbert: With an Account of the State in which his Remains were Found upon the Opening of his Tomb in Durham Cathedral, in the Year MDCCCXXVII (Durham and London, 1828). The tomb was also opened in 1899: see J. T. Fowler, ‘On an Examination of the Grave of St Cuthbert in Durham Cathedral Church’, Archaeologia, 57 (1900), 11–28. 5 Raine, St Cuthbert, pp. 189–92; Ernst Kitzinger, ‘The Coffin-Reliquary’, Relics of St Cuthbert, ed. C. F. Battiscombe (Oxford, 1956), pp. 202–304; Janet M. Cronyn and Charles V. Horie, St Cuthbert’s Coffin: The History, Technology and Conservation (Durham, 1985); and ‘The Anglo-Saxon Coffin: Further Investigation’, St Cuthbert, his Cult and Community to AD 1200, ed. Gerald Bonner, David Rollason, and Clare Stancliffe (Woodbridge, 1989), pp. 247–56; John Higgitt, ‘The Iconography of St Peter in Anglo-Saxon England, and St Cuthbert’s Coffin’, St Cuthbert, his Cult and Community to AD 1200, ed. Gerald Bonner, David Rollason, and Clare Stancliffe (Woodbridge, 1989), pp. 267–86; Jenifer Ní Ghrádaigh and Juliet Mullins, ‘Apostolically Inscribed: St Cuthbert’s Coffin as Sacred Vessel’, Newcastle and Northumberland: Roman and Medieval Architecture and Art, British Archaeological Association Conference Transactions 36, ed. Jeremy Ashbee and Julian Luxford (Leeds, 2013), pp. 73–89. 6 Jane Hawkes, ‘The Body in the Box: The Iconography of the Cuthbert Coffin’, Crossing Boundaries: Interdisciplinary Approaches to the Art, Material Culture, Language and Literature of the Early Medieval World, ed. Eric Cambridge and Jane Hawkes (Oxford, 2017), pp. 78–89. 7 This chapter is offered as a complement to Jane’s work on the coffin, and contains research undertaken and ideas formed in light of Jane’s generous discussions with me during my doctoral studies. Philippa Turner, ‘Image and Devotion in Durham Cathedral Priory and York Minster, c. 1300–c. 1540’ (unpublished doctoral thesis, University of York, 2014). I am also indebted, as ever, to my doctoral supervisor Prof. Tim Ayers.

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through their shape: in particular, her research has demonstrated that body-part reliquaries could contain relics very different from the body part their outward shape implied.8 This chapter therefore firstly traces the ‘heads’ at Durham (none of which are extant) through several inventories and accounts of the 1104 translation, and examines the ways in which the relics and reliquaries are described in order to ascertain exactly what they were. It then assesses why relics were removed from the coffin, before analysing the functions and meanings of their subsequent display within reliquary cupboards at the feretory. In doing so, this chapter aims to further our understanding of how the late medieval Benedictine community at Durham understood and presented their sacred patrimony, and draws attention to the importance of these objects as part of the feretory’s sacred topography. There are several reasons for focusing on heads and head reliquaries. Practically, the sheer number of relics listed in the inventories makes a full study unfeasible within the bounds of a single chapter.9 In addition, as the heads and head reliquaries at Durham were predominantly those of Anglo-Saxon saints, they form a discrete thematic group, and one especially fitting to consider in light of Jane’s research into the art and culture of Anglo-Saxon England. In particular, consideration of these heads is important in light of the presence of another head, namely that of St Oswald (d. 642), which lay within St Cuthbert’s coffin both before and after the 1104 translation.10 This was accepted and promoted by the Benedictine community throughout the late medieval period, and Oswald was regarded as the guardian of the institution: for example, Symeon of Durham’s Libellus, written 1107 × 1115, in relating the origins of the community, begins by emphasising this idea, and noting the location of Oswald’s head within Cuthbert’s shrine.11 Oswald’s head was identified during James Raine’s investigations into Cuthbert’s resting place in 1827.12 Raine’s controversial endeavour, along with the later investigation of 1899, and the competing claims of other institutions for possession of Oswald’s skull, either whole or in part (most notably the reliquary containing a skull at Hildesheim in Germany), have been the subject of investigation by Richard Bailey.13 In the course of

Cynthia Hahn, ‘The Voices of the Saints’, Gesta, 36.1 (1997), 20–31, at 20–2. For an overview of the scope and character of Durham’s relic-holdings in the context of those of other institutions in medieval England, see the invaluable work of Islewyn G. Thomas, ‘The Cult of Saints’ Relics in Medieval England’ (unpublished doctoral thesis, University of London, 1974), pp. 73–88. 10 De miraculis, pp. 252; 255; Reginald, Libellus, p. 89. 11 Symeon of Durham, Libellus de exordio atque procursu istius, hoc est Dunhelmensis Ecclesie; Tract on the Origins and Progress of this the Church at Durham, ed. and trans. David Rollason (Oxford, 2000), p. 16. 12 James Raine, St Cuthbert, p. 187. 13 Richard Bailey, ‘St Oswald’s Head’, Oswald: Northumbrian King to European Saint, ed. Clare Stancliffe and Eric Cambridge (Stamford, 1995), pp. 195–209. 8

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supporting the Durham claim, Bailey mentions the other head relics and reliquaries, but only in relation to the potential misidentification of one of them as that of Oswald.14 A central issue addressed in this chapter will therefore be the functions and meanings of the removal of some relics from the coffin, and the retention of Oswald’s head within it. More widely, in the context of high and late medieval relics and reliquaries, heads were considered the ‘pars pro toto par excellence’.15 There is now a growing body of scholarship considering the issues surrounding heads and head reliquaries within a larger discussion of body-part reliquaries: thus far, this has concentrated largely on objects in Continental institutions.16 The Durham evidence therefore also serves as a rich demonstration of the prominence and the importance that could be attached to the display of heads and head reliquaries within a late medieval English cathedral interior. It is first important to establish which head relics and head reliquaries are described as residing at the feretory in the late medieval period, and how are they described. The Liber de reliquiis, an inventory of relics and reliquaries kept at the feretory, was compiled by the feretrar Richard de Segbruck in 1383.17 The first three paragraphs of the Liber appear to Bailey, ‘St Oswald’s Head’, pp. 203–5. Catrien Santing and Barbara Baert, ‘Introduction’, Disembodied Heads in Medieval and Early Modern Culture, ed. Catrien Santing, Barbara Baert, and Anita Traninger (Leiden and Boston, 2013), pp. 1–13, at 2. 16 On heads and head reliquaries, see Barbara Drake Boehm, ‘Medieval Head Reliquaries of the Massif Central’, 2 vols (unpublished doctoral thesis, New York University, 1990); and ‘Reliquary Busts: A Certain Aristocratic Eminence’, Set in Stone: The Face in Medieval Sculpture, ed. Charles Little, exhibition catalogue (New York, NY, 2006), pp. 168–73; Birgitta Falk, ‘Zur Entstehung und Entwicklung der metallen Kopf-, Büsten-, und Halbfigurenreliquiare im Mittelalter’, Aachener Kunstblätter, 59 (1991–3), 99–238; Scott B. Montgomery, ‘The Use and Perception of Reliquary Busts in the Late Middle Ages’ (unpublished doctoral thesis, Rutgers University, 1996) and ‘“Mittite capud meum … ad matrem meam ut osculetur eum”: The Form and Meaning of the Reliquary Bust of Saint Just’, Gesta, 36.1 (1997), 48–64 (this forms part of a special issue of Gesta on body-part reliquaries; see also Hahn, ‘Voices’, and other articles listed below); the 2013 volume by Santing et al., Disembodied Heads, considers the idea of the disembodied head in relation to various media and contexts, but see especially Esther Cohen, ‘The Meaning of the Head in High Medieval Culture’, pp. 59–76. On body-part reliquaries (including head reliquaries), see Caroline Walker-Bynum and Paula Gerson, ‘Body-Part Reliquaries and Body Parts in the Middle Ages’, Gesta, 36.1 (1997), 3–7; Barbara Drake Bohem,‘Body Part Reliquaries: The State of Research’, Gesta, 36.1 (1997), 8–19; Ellen M. Shortell, ‘Dismembering Saint Quentin: Gothic Architecture and the Display of Relics’, Gesta, 36.1 (1997), 32–47; Hahn, ‘Voices’; Cynthia Hahn, ‘The Spectacle of the Charismatic Body: Patrons, Artists, and Body-Part Reliquaries’, Treasures of Heaven: Saints, Relics and Devotion in Medieval Europe, ed. Martina Bagnoli, Holger A. Klein, C. Griffith Mann, and James Robinson, exhibition catalogue (London, 2011), pp. 163–72; Cynthia Hahn, Strange Beauty: Issues in the Making and Meaning of Reliquaries, 400–circa 1204 (University Park, PA, 2012), pp. 117–34 (on heads) and pp. 135–44 (on other body parts). 17 Durham Cathedral Library (hereafter, DCL), MS B.II.35, fols. 192r–198v, with the reference to the ‘armarium’ at fol. 192r. A transcript of the Liber is provided in J. T. Fowler, ed., Extracts from the Account Rolls of the Abbey of Durham, from the Original Mss., vol. 2, Surtees Society 100 (Durham, London, and Edinburgh, 1900), pp. 425–40. 14 15

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arrange the listing in the order in which the relics and reliquaries were placed on particular shelves within a cupboard or cupboards, as in each case a shelf (gradus) is mentioned, the first of which is specifically gradu australi (‘on [or to] the south’).18 These may be shelves of the ‘almeryes of fine wenscote’ located ‘both of the north side and the south [of the feretory]’ noted in the section concerning the feretory in the late sixteenthcentury description of the pre-Dissolution interior of the cathedral priory, the Rites of Durham.19 John Crook has drawn attention to the ‘arc-shaped wear caused by a door visible at the south end of the [shrine] platform’, which he associates with one of these ‘almeryes’.20 The objects listed in the first paragraphs of the 1383 Liber include images of the Virgin, Cuthbert, and Oswald, as well as reliquary crosses and caskets; the image (ymago) of Oswald is described as enclosing a rib bone (costa) within its chest.21 After this, the list does not mention any other location until its fortieth paragraph; subsequent paragraphs do not offer any further locational detail. Frustratingly, this means that the heads and head reliquaries cannot be more specifically located by shelf, though it may be that each paragraph should be interpreted as relating to a separate shelf. The heads and head reliquaries are listed close together (in the forty-eighth and forty-ninth paragraphs), suggesting that they may have been in close physical proximity. Three of the saints are AngloSaxons associated with the monastery and/or bishopric of Lindisfarne. The caput (‘head’) of St Aidan (d. 651), the first bishop of Lindisfarne, is described in the forty-eighth paragraph as ornatum in cupro deaurato et lapidibus preciosis (‘decorated in gilded copper and precious stones’).22 The heads of St Ceolwulf (d. 765), the Northumbrian king who retired to live as a monk at Lindisfarne, and St Boisil (d. 661), prior of Melrose Abbey and St Cuthbert’s teacher, appear in the forty-ninth paragraph, and are described in terms suggesting their co-occupation in uno pheretro ornato cum argento et auro et […] ymaginibus (‘in a feretory decorated with gold and silver and […] images’), the description being incomplete due

For a recent consideration of relic lists, see Julian Luxford, ‘The Nature and Purpose of Medieval Relic Lists’, Saints and their Cults in the Middle Ages: Proceedings of the Harlaxton Symposium 2015, ed. Susan Powell, Harlaxton Medieval Studies 27 (Donington, 2017), pp. 58–79. 18 DCL, MS.B.II.35, fol. 192r; Fowler, Account Rolls, p. 426. 19 J. T. Fowler, ed., The Rites of Durham, being a Description or Brief Declaration of all the Ancient Monuments, Rites and Customs Belonging or Being within the Monastical Church of Durham before the Suppression, Surtees Society 107 (Durham, London, and Edinburgh, 1903), p. 5. 20 Crook also notes the ‘square sockets on the north and south ends of the platform, some with lead matrices still in position’, which he contends were supports for a metal grille, ‘perhaps part of an arrangement for displaying additional relics preceding that described in the Rites’, rather than fixings for the cupboards themselves. Crook, ‘Architectural Setting’, pp. 245–6. 21 DCL, MS B.II.35, fol. 192r; Fowler, Account Rolls, p. 426. 22 DCL, MS B.II.35, fol. 195v; Fowler, Account Rolls, p. 433.

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to damage to the manuscript.23 As well as these Anglo-Saxon saints, the caput and ossa (‘bones’) of one of the Eleven Thousand Virgins of Cologne (hereafter referred to in this chapter as St Ursula’s Companion),24 are also listed in the forty-ninth paragraph, before Ceolwulf and Boisil’s entry, but in this case with no details of the reliquary’s decoration.25 The saints also appear in the Liber’s index, which is arranged alphabetically, and cross-refers to each paragraph. There is no listing of the ossa of any of the saints under ‘O’.26 The capud of St Aidan is listed under ‘A’, and the capita of Ceolwulf and St Ursula’s Companion are listed under ‘C’, but under ‘C’ we also find the ossa of St Boisil, albeit without mention of a caput.27 However, Boisil’s capud is listed under ‘B’. This lexical difference could potentially indicate a different item, with the capud being a reliquary and the ossa (potentially undistinguishable bones) being the reliquary’s contents. However, St Ursula’s Companion appears individually under ‘V’, where it is only the capud that is listed, with no mention of the bones described along with the head in the forty-ninth paragraph.28 The index therefore appears to elide reliquary and relic in some instances, but not in others: this potentially suggests the complexity of the relationship between relic and reliquary both practically and theologically. On the other hand, it could also be the result of inconsistency on the part of Richard de Segbruck during the complicated task of compiling the inventory. Two earlier inventories offer further clues as to the nature of the bones listed in the Liber, and allow us to identify them as relics removed from the coffin of St Cuthbert. The earlier of these inventories appears in Cambridge, Trinity College MS O.3.55, which is from Durham and dates from the twelfth century (no later than c. 1153); the inventory also appears in two other later twelfth-century manuscripts.29 The earlier inventory is found at the beginning of a manuscript that includes material on the life 23 Item capud Sci. Ceowulphi regis et postea monachi, et caput Sci. Boysili .iiij. presbiteri in uno pheretro ornato cum argento et auro et […] ymaginibus. DCL, MS B.II.35, fol. 196r; Fowler, Account Rolls, p. 433. 24 The appellation ‘St Ursula’s Companion’ is somewhat anachronistic. As Montgomery has noted, it was only in the sixteenth century and later that the cult became widely known as that of ‘St Ursula and her Companions’, as opposed to the collective title of the ‘Eleven Thousand Virgins’, thus bringing a new emphasis upon the individual figure of St Ursula as the leader of the martyrs. It is used here, however, to ensure no confusion with the Virgin Mary during the discussion. Scott Montgomery, St Ursula and the Eleven Thousand Virgins of Cologne: Relics, Reliquaries, and the Visual Culture of Group Sanctity in Late Medieval Europe (Bern, 2010), pp. 165, 20–1. 25 DCL, MS B.II.35, fol. 196r; Fowler, Account Rolls, p. 433. 26 DCL, MS B.II.35, fol. 197v; Fowler, Account Rolls, p. 438. 27 DCL, MS B.II.35, fol. 197r; Fowler, Account Rolls, p. 436. 28 DCL, MS B.II.35, fol. 198r; Fowler, Account Rolls, p. 439. 29 Cambridge, Trinity College MS O.3.55, fol. 2r–v. The manuscript has been digitised and is available at [accessed 1 February 2018]. For a transcription, see Battiscombe, Relics, pp. 113–14; the other, later, copies appear in Oxford, Bodleian Library MS Digby 41, fol. 92v; and Dijon, Bibliothèque publique 657 (396), fol. 39r: on these, see Battiscombe, Relics, p. 113.

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and miracles of St Cuthbert, largely taken from Symeon of Durham, and the lives and miracles of St Oswald and St Aidan described by Bede. It lists the relics belonging to the cathedral priory, including those of St Cuthbert himself, whose body is described as retaining his flesh and bones, quasi adhuc esset vivus (‘as if alive’), and the skull of St Oswald, which is described as residing in the coffin with Cuthbert (quod locatum est in scrinio cum corpore sancti cuthberti).30 The ‘C’ of ‘Corpus sancti cuthberti’ is the only listing that begins with a capital letter, and the entries for Cuthbert, Oswald, and the first few of a large number of relics (also described as being found interred with Cuthbert) are underlined in the manuscript, possibly in a later hand, where marginal notation also appears (Fig. 6.1). The underlining suggests a particular interest in the entries, all of which pertain to figures related to Anglo-Saxon Northumbria, beginning with the ossa of St Aidan, and concluding with the body of Bede.31 Amongst the other relics found interred with Cuthbert’s body, we find relics of the other saints whose heads or head reliquaries are mentioned in the 1383 Liber: the body and vestments (Corp[us] & vestimenta) of St Boisil, who is described as the magister s[anct]i cuthberti (‘master of St Cuthbert’), the Caput Ceolwlfi, and ossa s[an]c[t]aru[m] v[ir]gin[i]u[m] xi miliu[m] colonie.32 The terminology used in this inventory therefore appears to support the theory that Boisil’s head, as listed in the 1383 inventory, was a reliquary containing bones of the saint. It also suggests that in the twelfth century, the bones that related specifically to one of St Ursula’s Companions in 1383 were understood earlier as belonging not just to one, but to several of St Ursula’s Companions, suggesting that the act of enclosing these bones within a single head reliquary gave them a singular identity. Moreover, the descriptions of the bones of St Ursula’s Companions and those of St Aidan cut through the confusion Bailey experienced in understanding how these heads relate to that of St Oswald. Bailey’s thinking was underpinned by his interpretation of the 1383 inventory’s capita of Aidan and St Ursula’s Companion as being actual head relics (skulls), yet the Trinity inventory suggests we should understand them as being head reliquaries that contained bones of any or all kinds from the body of each saint in question.33 The second inventory is in an early fourteenth-century bookhand, and incorporates the twelfth-century inventory, as well as additional material.34 It is found within a manuscript probably written at Durham, which comprises a compendium of material relating to Durham and St Cuthbert.35 The entries for St Cuthbert, St Oswald’s skull, and the other 30 31 32 33 34 35

Battiscombe, Relics, p. 113. Cambridge, Trinity College MS O.33.5, fol. 2r. Cambridge, Trinity College MS O.33.5, fols. 2r–v; Battiscombe, Relics, pp. 113–14. Bailey, ‘Oswald’, pp. 204–5. On the dating of this hand, see Battiscombe, Relics, p. 112. York Minster Library and Archives (YMLA), MS X.VI.I.12, fols. 13r–14v. A

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FIG. 6.1 ​INVENTORY OF RELICS AT DURHAM CATHEDRAL PRIORY, FROM CAMBRIDGE, TRINITY COLLEGE MS O.55, FOL. 2R, TWELFTH CENTURY.

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relics found within Cuthbert’s coffin describe them as being found specifically on the day of St Cuthbert’s translation, which is surely a reference to the events of 1104.36 The entries pertaining to Aidan, Boisil, Ceolwulf, and St Ursula’s Companions are exactly the same as those in the twelfth-century inventory.37 Following the list of relics found with St Cuthbert is a list of a large number of relics, described as being preserved in cistulis eburneis et fiolis cristalinis, & aliis locis diversis (‘in small ivory boxes and crystal phials, and in other places’), all in the custody of the feretrar, and conserved extra feretram (‘outside the feretory’), which could mean outside the shrine itself, but in this case is likely to refer to the whole feretory platform, considering the number and nature of the relics listed.38 Some were clearly very small fragments of bone or hair, whilst others were larger, such as the pars magna de monte Calvarie (‘large part of the mount of Calvary’).39 There are entries for relics which appear to be small fragments of heads in this section. Relics described as de capite St Stephen appear twice; a relic de capite St Leonard is also listed.40 That these should be interpreted only as small fragments is suggested by the fact that the latter is likely to be that subsequently described in the 1383 inventory as residing within a black pyx also carrying the saint’s tooth and some of his bones.41 The presence of the fragment of St Leonard’s head at the shrine (but not enclosed in a head reliquary by 1383) is important, as it suggests that the community deliberately chose which saints’ relics were enclosed in head reliquaries, as in the case of Aidan and St Ursula’s Companion, or a prominent reliquary of another kind, as in the case of Boisil and Ceolwulf. In the case of three out of four of these saints, the community concentrated on figures of importance to their sacred patrimony, associated with the see of Lindisfarne and/or St Cuthbert. St Ursula’s Companion is potentially a less obvious choice. However, her status as a holy virgin and a pilgrim, as well as the Europe-wide popularity of the cult, may have made her particularly appealing for display at a shrine within a monastic institution, a point to which we shall return below. Entries in the twelfth-century and early fourteenth-century inventories can therefore be identified as the heads and/or the contents of the head reliquaries of Aidan, Ceolwulf, Boisil, and St Ursula’s Companion, which are described in the 1383 Liber. Before examining the chronology of transcription of the inventory appears in James Raine, ed., Historiae Dunelmensis scriptores tres, Gaufridus de Coldingham, Robertus Graystanes, et Willielmus de Chambre, Surtees Society 9 (Durham, 1839), pp. ccccxxvi–vii. On the manuscript, see Battiscombe, Relics, pp. 112–13, and Neil R. Ker and Alan J. Piper, ed., Medieval Manuscripts in British Libraries, vol. 4: Paisley–York (Oxford, 1989), pp. 720–2. 36 YMLA, MS X.VI.I.12, fol. 13r; Scriptores tres, p. ccccxxvi. 37 YMLA, MS X.VI.I.12, fols. 13r–v; Scriptores tres, pp. ccccxxvi–ccccxxvii. 38 YMLA, MS X.VI.I.12, fol. 13v; Scriptores tres, p. ccccxxvii. 39 YMLA, MS X.VI.I.12, fol. 13v; Scriptores tres, p. ccccxxviii. 40 YMLA, MS X.VI.I.12, fol. 13v; 14r; Scriptores tres, p. ccccxxviii. 41 DCL, MS B.II.35, fol. 2r; Fowler, Account Rolls, p. 428.

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the enclosure of the relics in their reliquaries, and the reasons for their removal from Cuthbert’s coffin for this purpose, it is important to examine when the relics were first interred in the coffin. In doing so we encounter evidence challenging the inventory’s assertion that St Boisil’s bones were among those included, which perhaps refines our understanding of the status of these saints in relation to St Cuthbert. Symeon of Durham’s Libellus reveals that the head of Ceolwulf was moved to Durham long after his death,42 and Bailey has posited that it was an acquisition of the Durham sacrist Alfred of Westou (fl. 1025–60).43 Westou’s activities in the course of collecting relics were prolific, and, as I. G. Thomas has noted, were characterised by an emphasis on gathering relics related to the patrimony of St Cuthbert, which included the removal of the bones of the Venerable Bede from Jarrow.44 His affection for Cuthbert included tending to the incorrupt saint’s continually growing hair and nails, a point that also emphasises the fact that the coffin was regularly opened and closed in the eleventh century.45 The identification of bones belonging to some of the Eleven Thousand Virgins in the twelfth-century inventory requires clarification in light of the chronology of the cult of relics attached to the legend. Cuthbert’s translation was in 1104, and the excavations north of Cologne revealing thousands of graves of Roman origin, which were immediately identified as the graves of the Eleven Thousand Virgins, began only in 1106.46 As Scott Montgomery has noted, dissemination of the relics began almost immediately and continued until a papal bull was issued in 1393 forbidding their further exportation.47 However, relics of the Eleven Thousand Virgins were in circulation on the Continent as early as the tenth and eleventh centuries, partly through their use as gifts between monastic institutions, and were to be found at another Benedictine institution in England, Glastonbury, before 1171.48 The Durham ossa, therefore, may have been acquired by Alfred of Westou during his travels, or presented as a gift from another institution. St Boisil’s relics are described by Symeon as being translated by Alfred from Melrose to Durham, and Symeon states that they were installed in altero scrinio (‘in another box’ or ‘shrine’), iuxta (‘next to’, or ‘near to’) Cuthbert’s body sicut hactenus habentur condidit (‘just as they are preserved to this day’).49 This suggests that a separate shrine was present at the feretory, and continued to be so after the 1104 translation, contradicting Symeon, Libellus, ii.1, p. 78. Bailey, ‘Oswald’, p. 204. 44 Reginald, Libellus, ch. 26, p. 57; Thomas, Cult of Saints’ Relics, p. 78. 45 Thomas, Cult of Saints’ Relics, p. 78. For an overview of Alfred’s activities, see John Crook, English Medieval Shrines (Woodbridge, 2011), pp. 98–103. 46 Montgomery, Cult, p. 20. 47 Montgomery, Cult, pp. 27–8. 48 Guy de Tervarent, Le Légende de Saint Ursule dans la literature et l’art du Moyen Age, 2 vols (Paris, 1931), I, pp. 39–43 and 44. 49 English translation by Rollason. Symeon, Libellus, iii.7; pp. 163, 164. 42 43

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the twelfth-century inventory, which may have been compiled nearly fifty years after Symeon was writing.50 The anonymous twelfth-century account of the translation also mentions that Bede and Boisil’s bones were brought to Durham by the same person, who then placed them in different parts of the church.51 It is possible that Boisil’s shrine was dismantled sometime between the composition of the two sources, after which his relics joined those removed from the coffin. Symeon’s statement certainly suggests a difference in status between the relics of Boisil and the other saints placed within the coffin, which would not be unexpected considering Boisil’s role as Cuthbert’s magister. However, it is important to note that this distinguished status appears to have disappeared by 1383, the relics by then residing with the others at the feretory and therefore most likely within the cupboards mentioned in the Rites. A key question here is why the relics found in Cuthbert’s coffin were removed and subsequently displayed separately at the shrine, considering the effort and care with which they had likely been collected and placed within the sacred locus of the coffin to begin with, or, as Symeon states in Boisil’s case, in a prominent position next to Cuthbert. The anonymous account of the translation of Cuthbert sheds some light on this. As well as noting Oswald’s head inside the coffin, and the bones of Aidan (again, ossa rather than specifically his head), it states that the bones of several successors of Cuthbert, as well as those of Bede, were all contained in a ‘small linen bag’.52 In relation to this point, Symeon again gives us a slightly different reading: in his description of Alfred of Westou’s work, he states that Bede’s relics had been kept separate from the all the other relics in the coffin by being placed in a linen bag.53 This separation, like that of Boisil’s relics, may be highlighted by Symeon to emphasise Bede’s special relationship to Cuthbert, as his biographer. However, unlike Boisil, Bede’s singularity was emphasised through his relics within the cathedral priory in the later twelfth century and beyond: according to the Rites, Hugh le Puiset (bishop of Durham 1153–95) enshrined Bede’s relics in a separate shrine beside Cuthbert’s, and in 1370 Bede’s relics were translated to the Galilee Chapel, where they became a focus of considerable veneration until the Dissolution.54 The anonymous account describes the coffin as containing the bones of aliorum quoque sanctorum plurime ibidem reliquiae sunt repertae (‘very many relics of other saints’) – so many that it was difficult to move Though potentially fewer. De miraculis, p. 253; Raine and Mynors, ‘Anonymous Translation’, p. 102. 52 […] que partiter continebat sacculus de lino: De miraculis, p. 252; Raine and Mynors, ‘Anonymous Translation’, p. 102. 53 Cuius nimirum ea ossa fuisse noscuntur, que multis post annis cum incorrupto patris Cuthberti corpore a ceteris reliquiis segregata in lineo saccello inueniebantur locata: Symeon, Libellus, p. 166. 54 Fowler, Rites of Durham, p. 45; see also notes on pp. 234–5. See also Crook, Shrines, p. 154. 50 51

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Cuthbert’s body within the coffin: the body was therefore removed while the relics were collected.55 Only Oswald’s head was replaced in its position juxta caput gloriosi pontificis (‘by the head of the glorious bishop’), with the rest being placed into caskets that were carried in procession behind Cuthbert’s body during the translation ceremony.56 The translation of the relics from the coffin in 1104 therefore functioned to expand the institution’s number of accessible relics, and their eventual enclosure within reliquaries individualised them, in the kind of action Cynthia Hahn has characterised as giving relics their ‘proper identification and a cultural matrix’.57 However, the details of the translation, and those of the processional gesture afterwards, as well as the relics’ subsequent display at the shrine, also suggest the community’s understanding of the relics’ status as relative to those of Cuthbert, and the desire to emphasise this visually at the shrine. The deliberate replacement of Oswald’s head in the coffin, rather than its removal and any subsequent translation and enclosure in a head reliquary, implies the two saints’ close affinity in the eyes of the Durham community as co-patrons of the institution, a point also emphasised visually throughout the late medieval cathedral in its stained glass, replete with images of St Cuthbert holding St Oswald’s head.58 Yet it also indicates the sanctity of Oswald’s head relative to the other saints’ relics. Indeed, it was perhaps precisely through the absence of a head reliquary that the presence of Oswald’s skull within the coffin could be emphasised at the shrine. Here it is also important to remember that the image of St Oswald described as being within the reliquary cupboard in the 1383 Liber displayed a rib-bone relic, thereby visually emphasising that it did not contain his skull.59 Reginald of Durham’s later account of the same events makes clear the sanctity of the other relics in relation to St Cuthbert, as objects that served to enhance Cuthbert’s holiness. Chapter XL of his Libellus is summarised in its heading as demonstrating (in part) ‘how the precious relics deposited beside him [Cuthbert] gave proof of the signs of great holiness still abiding in St Cuthbert’.60 This ‘enhancing’ function is characterised by Reginald by contrast: the relics were in a putrefied state, resulting in dampness within the coffin, unlike St Cuthbert’s body, which was incorrupt and sweet-smelling.61 Indeed, the relics are described as damaging Cuthbert’s resting place: ‘that part of the tomb where some portion of the relics of the De miraculis, p. 253; Raine and Mynors, ‘Anonymous Translation’, p. 102. De miraculis, pp. 255; 260; Raine and Mynors, ‘Anonymous Translation’, pp. 103, 106. 57 Hahn, ‘Voices’, p. 28. 58 David Rollason, ‘St Oswald in Post-Conquest England’, Oswald: Northumbrian King to European Saint, ed. Clare Stancliffe and Eric Cambridge (Stamford, 1995), pp. 164–77, at 177. 59 DCL, MS B.II.35, fol. 192r; Fowler, Account Rolls, p. 426. 60 […] quantae sanctitatis vestigata in Sancto Cuthberto fore, pignera secus illum reposita contestata sint: Reginald, Libellus, ch. XL, p. 84; Pace, ‘Reginald’, p. 107. 61 Reginald, Libellus, ch. XL, p. 85; Pace, ‘Reginald’, p. 108. 55

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saints had rested was seen to be foul and dirty and somewhat damp […] they cleansed the coffin from this hurtful defilement’, placing the relics ‘separately elsewhere’.62 Although we do not know which bones caused the defilement, the enclosure of the relics within the head reliquaries listed in the 1383 Liber may, in light of Reginald’s comments, be seen as an especially restorative act, considering that body-part reliquaries deny the process of putrefaction by ‘reconstructing the saint in a non-decomposed state’.63 In this context, the reliquaries’ placement in cupboards at the shrine may also be interpreted as restoring the relics’ status in relation to St Cuthbert’s body – as related to it, and physically gathered around it, yet safely separate from it. The question remains as to when the relics were put into their reliquaries as recorded in 1383. As noted above, the twelfth-century and the early fourteenth-century inventories do not mention any reliquaries in connection with the relics said to have been found in Cuthbert’s coffin. Whilst the latter inventory reads partly as a copy of the former, and therefore cannot necessarily be relied upon in dating any change, as noted above, it does include a large number of other relics described as being kept in ivory caskets, crystal phials, and other places. This suggests that if the relics from the coffin were enclosed in individual reliquaries by the time this inventory was compiled, they are likely to have been described thus. A loose terminus post quem of the mid-twelfth century can therefore be proposed, but a date as late as the early-to-mid-fourteenth century is certainly possible. Although not unusual in the twelfth century, body-part reliquaries became particularly popular in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries.64 The earliest documented head reliquary on the Continent, of St Maurice, no longer extant, dated from the late ninth century.65 The head of St Justus is recorded in the Annales monasterii de Wintonia as a gift from King Æthelstan in 924, though no decoration of it is described, and it may or may not have been a reliquary.66 A head reliquary of St Justus of Beauvais is, however, noted specifically in an English Benedictine context in the twelfth century, when it was gifted by Bishop Henry of Blois (d. 1171), abbot of Glastonbury, to Winchester Cathedral. Described as bene ornatum Unde pars illa sepulcri ubi portio aliqua Sanctorum pignerum requieverat, coenosa, lutulenta ac aliquantulum humecta parebat […] ab his laesionibus emundarunt; et omnis collecta Reliquiarum separatim alibi locata est: Reginald, Libellus, ch. XL, pp. 85–6; Pace, ‘Reginald’, pp. 108–9. 63 Montgomery, Use and Perception, p. 260; see also Caroline Walker-Bynum, The Resurrection of the Body in Western Christianity, 200–1336 (New York, NY, 1995), p. 209; and Christian Materiality: An Essay on Religion in Late Medieval Europe (Cambridge, MA, and London, 2011), pp. 185–6. 64 Bohem and Bynum, ‘Body-Part Reliquaries’, p. 4. 65 Bohem, Medieval Head Reliquaries, pp. 47–8. 66 H. R. Luard, Annales Monastici, Rolls Series 36, 5 vols (London, 1864–9), 1865: II, 10; Falk, Zur Entstehung und Entwicklung der metallen Kopf-, Büsten-, und Halbfigurenreliquiare, cat. no. 22. 62

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in auro et lapidibus pretiosis (‘beautifully adorned in gold and precious stones’),67 it possessed the kind of inexact similitude between reliquary and relic Cynthia Hahn has shown was common: the relics within were not those of St Justus, but of one of the Holy Innocents.68 The literatures associated with the cults of St Edmund of Bury and St Etheldreda of Ely – two of the most popular saints’ cults of the late eleventh and most of the twelfth centuries in England, which have been described as the main ‘rivals’ to Cuthbert’s cult69 – emphasise intactness of head and body. The head of St Edmund was miraculously reattached after his beheading, and St Etheldreda was found to have been posthumously healed of the neck tumour from which she died.70 However, the mode of the death of St Thomas Becket in 1170 can be seen as the point where renewed attention and, more importantly, sacred prestige took root in relation to the idea of the severed head.71 The subsequent separate enclosure of his head relics can also be suggested as potentially providing an imaginative context for the enclosure of the capita at Durham.72 However, consideration of changes to Durham’s interior also presents a later, and a smaller, chronological window for the enclosure of the relics. The making of the reliquaries may have been prompted by the significant architectural change at and around the shrine in the late fourteenth century. This took the form of a new shrine base for St Cuthbert and the

67 Capud s. Iusti martyris […] et in eodem sunt reliqui unius Innocentis. Otto LehmannBrockhaus, Lateinische Schriftquellen zur Kunst in England, Wales und Scotland vom Jahre 901 bis zum Jahre 1307, 5 vols (Munich, 1955–60), II, p. 669 (no. 4765). 68 Hahn, ‘Voices’, p. 20. 69 St Edmund’s popularity is particularly suggested by Reginald of Durham, recounting miracles from 1083 and 1172, in which two pilgrims respectively drew lots between saints Cuthbert, Edmund, and Etheldreda, and Cuthbert, Edmund, and Thomas Becket. For the miracles, see Reginald, Libellus, ch. XIX, pp. 37–41 and ch. CV, pp. 260–1. On the relationship between these cults, and particularly the latter miracle as evidence of the ascendency of St Thomas’ cult, see also Benedicta Ward, Miracles and the Medieval Mind: Theory, Record and Event, 1000–1215 (London, 1982), pp. 105–6, and more extensively Tudor, ‘Reginald’, pp. 450–1. 70 Susan J. Ridyard, The Royal Saints of Anglo-Saxon England: A Study of West Saxon and East Anglian Cults (Cambridge, 1988), pp. 176–210 (on the cult of St Etheldreda and her relatives) and pp. 211–33 (on the cult of St Edmund). See also Virginia Blanton, Signs of Devotion: The Cult of St Æthelthryth in Medieval England, 695–1615 (University Park, PA, 2007), pp. 31–56 (on St Etheldreda); Antonia Gransden, ‘Abbo of Fleury’s Passio Sancti Eadmundi’, Revue Bénédictine, 105.1–2 (1995), 20–78; St Edmund, King and Martyr: Changing Images of a Medieval Saint, ed. Anthony Bale (York, 2009); and Diana Greenway and Jane Sayers, eds. and trans., Jocelin of Brakelond: Chronicle of the Abbey of Bury St Edmunds (Oxford and New York, NY, 1989), pp. 100–1 for Jocelin of Brakelond’s description of the opening of Edmund’s shrine in 1198 and his comments about the head’s intactness. 71 See Cohen, ‘Meaning of the Head’, on this in relation to wider currents of thought about the head at this time. 72 The earliest evidence for the St Thomas head reliquary dates to 1314. See A. P. Stanley, Historical Memorials of Canterbury: The Landing of St Augustine, the Murder of Becket, Edward the Black Prince, Becket’s Shrine, 10th edn (London, 1904), pp. 206–7; and Ben Nilson, Cathedral Shrines of Medieval England (Woodbridge, 1998), p. 54.

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erection of the Neville Screen between the high altar and the feretory.73 This work would have necessitated considerable disruption to the high altar and feretory area, and potentially the removal of relics displayed there, providing an opportunity for new reliquaries to be made, or newly acquired reliquaries to be put to use. Evidence from other cathedrals suggests the opportunity afforded by such changes. As I have argued elsewhere, architectural change at and around the high altar at York Minster was likely to have prompted the making and display of a head reliquary of the Anglo-Saxon abbess-saint Everilda in the early fifteenth century.74 This activity at York may conceivably have been a response to the new display at Durham. It is notable that neither the heads, nor any of the other relics in the cupboards, are described individually in the Rites. This is in contrast to the Rites’ delight in describing objects made from precious materials and/ or with intricate designs, such as the shrine cover.75 Rather, the contents of the cupboards are collectively described in the Rites as ‘all the holy reliques […] that was [sic] ofered [sic] to that holy man St Cuthbert’.76 This suggests that despite the relics’ physical separation from Cuthbert’s coffin and their enclosure in separate reliquaries, their location meant that they were still understood to be intrinsically linked with, and relative to, St Cuthbert. The link between the capita, the other relics in the cupboards, and St Cuthbert would be further emphasised by the opening of the ‘almeryes’ at the same time as the shrine cover was drawn up, creating a grand gesture of ostentatio on feast days.77 This ostentatio invites us to consider the material and symbolic relationship between the heads and head reliquaries, and how they might relate to the other objects in the cupboards as well as to their potential audiences. In contrast to the gilded copper and precious stones of the head reliquary of St Aidan, the only other head-shaped reliquary at the shrine, as we have established, was that of St Ursula’s Companion, which is not described in any detail. This leaves open the questions of whether they shared a provenance, and whether they shared similarities in materiality and/or style. The Continental context allows us to make some suggestions regarding these points. Though a more local provenance should not be entirely discounted, the head reliquary of St Ursula’s Companion may have On the new shrine base, see Nicola Coldstream, ‘English Decorated Shrine Bases’, Journal of the British Archaeological Association, 39 (1976), 15–34, at 26–7. On the Neville Screen, see Christopher Wilson, ‘The Neville Screen’, Medieval Art and Architecture at Durham Cathedral: BAA Conference Transactions 3 for the Year 1977, ed. N. Coldstream and P. Draper (Leeds, 1980), pp. 90–104. 74 Philippa Turner, ‘Everilda: Evidence for a Saint’s Cult in Transition’, The Art, Literature, and Material Culture of the Medieval World, ed. Meg Boulton and Jane Hawkes with Melissa Herman (Dublin, 2015), pp. 97–110, at 106. 75 Fowler, Rites of Durham, pp. 4–5. 76 Fowler, Rites of Durham, p. 5. 77 Fowler, Rites of Durham, p. 5. 73

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FIG. 6.2 ​HEAD RELIQUARY OF ST URSULA, C. 1300–C. 1320 (BUST), C. 1325–50 (COLLAR), UPPER RHINELAND, POSSIBLY BASEL, HISTORICHES MUSEUM BASEL (INV. NO. 1955.207).

been imported from Cologne, where most of those of the Eleven Thousand Virgins were produced; the c. 1300–1320 head reliquary of St Ursula at Basel, for example, may have been made there (Fig. 6.2).78 Montgomery has highlighted the iconographic coherence in surviving reliquary busts of the Eleven Thousand Virgins, which were often displayed together, and the way in which this fed into the cult’s ‘emphasis on corporeal and corporate unity’.79 This, he has emphasised, can be seen even where a small number of head reliquaries have been produced on a local level, such as the four extant thirteenth-century examples from the Limousin.80 At Durham, therefore, the head reliquary of St Ursula’s Companion Montgomery, Cult, p. 62. Montgomery, Cult, pp. 68–71. 80 Montgomery, Cult, pp. 68–71; J. P. O’Neill, ed., Enamels of Limoges, exhibition catalogue (New York, NY, 1995), cat. nos. 153 (a and b), 154, 157. 78

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may have been stylistically as well as iconographically distinct, giving it a strong individual identity in relation to that of St Aidan within the wider reliquary collection. The reliquary of St Ursula’s Companion would potentially have had particular resonance for pilgrims visiting the feretory, considering that the Eleven Thousand Virgins were thought to have been martyred on their return from pilgrimage to Rome, and it would likely have been easily identified in light of other reliquaries and representations of St Ursula’s Companions elsewhere.81 Yet, as Montgomery has suggested, the cult’s ‘collective unity’ and ‘subsuming of individual identity’ could also speak to a monastic audience, meaning the head reliquary would potentially have had wide appeal at Durham.82 More specifically, it would have provided a female exemplum of holy virginity for Durham’s monastic community.83 Indeed, it is perhaps the holy virginity of St Ursula’s Companion, complementary to that of St Cuthbert, which was a factor in the depositing of the relics in St Cuthbert’s coffin. This, and the subsequent presence of the head reliquary at the feretory, adds further nuance to St Cuthbert’s alleged misogyny, an idea cultivated by the monks of Durham to discredit their secular predecessors.84 Clearly, there could be exceptions to the rule, holy virginity potentially being a defining criterion. While the thread of holy virginity may have invited associations between the distinct head reliquaries of St Ursula’s Companion and St Aidan, the possibility of stylistic and/or material similarities between the two head reliquaries should also not be discounted. This can be substantiated by examination of other reliquaries and reliquary displays which emphasise complementarity. The head reliquaries of saints Furseus (d. 650), Austroberta (d. 704), and Blaise (d. 316) are described in the 1315 inventory from Christ Church, Canterbury, as being made in silver and gilded (argento et deaurato). However, those of both Furseus and Austroberta were also enamelled (amaliato), giving them stylistic and material similitude, at the same time as distinction from that of Blaise.85 Whilst we do not know the arrangement of the head reliquaries and other reliquaries displayed at Durham, symmetry appears to have been desirable elsewhere. The display of reliquaries, books, crosses, and angels in Thomas of Elmham’s drawing of the high altar at St Augustine’s, Canterbury, is particularly notable for its symmetry (c. 1410; Pl. VII). The display of relics depicted in the Litlington Missal initial for the Feast of the Relics at Westminster Abbey86 shows the arm reliquaries (probably of F. S. Ellis, ed., The Golden Legend, or Lives of the Saints. As Englished by William Caxton, 7 vols (London, 1900), VI, pp. 62–8; Montgomery, Cult, pp. 16–17. 82 Montgomery, Cult, p. 29. 83 Montgomery, Cult, pp. 93–4. 84 For an overview of the alleged misogyny, see Piper, ‘First Generation’, pp. 456–7. 85 J. W. Legg and W. H. St John Hope, eds., Inventories of Christchurch Canterbury: With Historical and Topographical Introductions and Illustrative Documents (Westminster, 1902), p. 80. 86 Pamela Tudor-Craig, ‘The “Large Letters” of the Litlington Missal and Westminster 81

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saints Bartholomew and Thomas the Apostle) which flank the ‘lantern’ (probably holding a relic of vestments of St Peter), and a head reliquary (probably of Edward the Confessor), while the ‘cup’ relic of the Holy Blood, donated by Henry III, lies in the centre.87 However, Continental evidence provides a more intricate example, and one that is particularly relevant in light of Durham’s possession and display of the reliquary of St Ursula’s Companion. Instructions dating from c. 1500 for the display of reliquaries on the high altar at Basel cathedral on seven high feast days88 show that the head reliquaries of saints Eustache and Pantalus (Fig. 6.3) and saints Thecla and Ursula (Fig. 6.2) were placed on opposite sides of the Golden Frontal, the centrepiece of the display, so that saints Ursula and Pantalus were to the north and Eustache and Thecla to the south.89 The relics were displayed minus the centrepiece of the Golden Frontal on other days.90 As well as acting as ‘pendants’ to one another, the desire to create symmetry appears to have governed the arrangement, and indeed the commissioning of the reliquaries themselves, as Julian Chapuis has noted: the head reliquaries were also joined by symmetrical arrangements of the reliquary statuettes of St John the Baptist and St Christopher, and the arm reliquaries of saints Valentine and Walpert.91 More specifically, we can suggest that the head reliquaries created two groups of martyrs to the north and south of the altar, and arranged together Ursula and Pantalus, two saints with a narrative link: Pantalus was bishop of Basel and leader of Ursula and the other virgins’ pilgrimage to Rome. Further consideration of the display of Pantalus at Basel and others elsewhere allows us to make more suggestions regarding the display at Durham, particularly that of St Aidan’s head. Montgomery has characterised the display of Pantalus’s head reliquary at Basel as lending the episcopal office there both legitimacy and a saintly ‘heir’.92 This enhanced the status Abbey in 1383–84’, Illuminating the Book: Makers and Interpreters; Essays in Honour of Janet Backhouse, ed. Michelle P. Brown and Scot McKendrick (London and Toronto, 1998), pp. 102–20, fig. 70. 87 Tudor-Craig, ‘Litlington’, pp. 108–9. The ‘lantern’ and ‘cup’ are so described in the 1520 inventory of the relics. As Tudor-Craig notes, there are no head relics of sainted kings listed, leading her to suggest that this head came from one of the gilt effigies around the shrine, or from an effigy under the canopy of the shrine (p. 109). For the inventory, see H. F. Westlake, Westminster Abbey: The Church, Convent, Cathedral and College of St Peter, Westminster, 2 vols (London, 1923), II, 499–501 (Appendix 4). 88 These feasts were Christmas, Easter Sunday, Pentecost, Corpus Christi, St Henrich’s Day, the Ascension, and All Saints’. See J. Chapuis, ‘A Treasury in Basel’, The Treasury of Basel Cathedral, ed. T. Husband, exhibition catalogue (New York, NY, 2001), pp. 11–24, at 20. See also Rudolf F. Burckhardt, Die Kunstdenkmäler des Kantons Basel-Stadt 2, Der Basler Münsterschatz (Basel, 1933), pp. 15–16 and 353–8, including the schematic lists on 355 and 356, the latter for high feast days. 89 Chapuis, ‘A Treasury’, p. 20. 90 Chapuis, ‘A Treasury’, p. 20, and Burckhardt, Der Basler Münsterschatz, p. 356. 91 Chapuis, ‘A Treasury’, p. 20, and Burckhardt, Der Basler Münsterschatz, pp. 15–16 and 353–4. 92 Montgomery, Cult, pp. 143–9.

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FIG. 6.3 ​HEAD RELIQUARY OF ST PANTALUS, C. 1270, UPPER RHINELAND, POSSIBLY BASEL. HISTORICHES MUSEUM BASEL (INV. NO. 1882.87).

of the institution and suggested that its corporate identity was intrinsically linked with the company of the Eleven Thousand Virgins, under the protection of Ursula and Pantalus.93 A similar use of the display of head reliquaries as tools to help define corporate identity has been suggested by Ellen Shortell in relation to those at St Quentin, Picardy. These were first displayed on altars in the nave in 1228, and moved to behind the high altar by 1257 after the translation of the saints’ bodies due to the building of the new choir, a sequence which bolsters the argument for a link between 93

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architectural change and the making of the reliquaries at Durham.94 In this light, the making and display of the head reliquary of Aidan at Durham can be suggested as functioning with other images in the reliquary cupboards to form part of an image complex including the images of Cuthbert and Oswald which served to highlight further the community’s genealogy, its origins at Lindisfarne, and recall the nexus of relationships between the figures. Alan Piper has noted that the beginning of Symeon of Durham’s Libellus presents these three saints as a ‘triptych’, and several fourteenthcentury manuscripts from the cathedral priory contain both Bede’s prose Life of St Cuthbert and passages from the Ecclesiastical History related to Oswald and Aidan.95 Cuthbertine links, both lay and monastic, and the genealogy of the Benedictine order, were larger concerns for the community at Durham in the later Middle Ages, and it is in this wider context that we should place the making and display of the relics and reliquaries at the shrine. Evidence from two more documentary sources demonstrates how these concerns manifested themselves visually within the cathedral priory. A mid-seventeenth-century manuscript of the Rites includes a description of statues of bishops and kings on the choir screen, the latter being specifically described in relation to their Cuthbertine links. As Fowler speculates in his notes to his edition of the Rites, these may have been replaced by the early fifteenth century by an arrangement of kings and queens which is listed in other surviving manuscripts: in the king and bishop arrangement, the last king mentioned is Henry I (d. 1135) and the latest bishop of Durham is Hugh le Puiset (d. 1195).96 A treatise by Prior John Wessington (d. 1451), De origine monachatus cum aliis de statu monachali, gives a list of the monks pictured at the altar of saints Benedict and Jerome in the north transept, and the inscriptions underneath them.97 The list numbers 148 figures in total, from popes and kings, all of whom were members of the Benedictine order, to figures central to the community’s sacred patrimony, including Cuthbert, Bede, Aidan, Boisil, and Eata. A description of the stained glass c. 1603 suggests that the images survived into the seventeenth century. It describes ‘ye oder of St Bennett sett forth in there pictures in wainscott, with a partition, the priors within & ye monkes with out’.98 Fowler, who posited that these were probably the same figures as those described by Wessington, suggested that the figures were therefore ‘upon the screen work’ of the altar, though their configuration is not clear from the wording.99

Shortell, ‘St Quentin’, p. 43. Piper, ‘First Generation’, p. 443. 96 Durham University Library MS Cosin B.II.2, pp. 15–25, transcribed as an appendix in Fowler, Rites of Durham, pp. 137–44; for Fowler’s note, see Rites of Durham, p. 212. 97 Durham University Library MS Cosin B.III.30, fols. 1–25v. The list of names is published with part of the preamble of the treatise in Fowler, Rites of Durham, pp. 124–36. 98 Fowler, Rites of Durham, p. 113. 99 Fowler, Rites of Durham, p. 292. 94 95

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CONCLUSION The head relics and reliquaries at St Cuthbert’s shrine can, in the context of the visual representation of the Benedictine order at Durham, be understood as prominent and precious manifestations of the cathedral priory’s sacred patrimony as the community wished to present it in the late medieval period. This display suggests the community’s continued concern to promote its history and prestige within the wider arena of ecclesiastical and devotional institutions and saints’ cults in late medieval England. At the same time, the sources describing these objects demonstrate how the prestige of one saint in relation to another shifted over time at Durham. One potential avenue for further research would be the more detailed investigation of such shifts in relation to the community’s manuscript culture, in terms of both production and collection. This relative prestige revealed by the sources at Durham may also be compared to patterns found in other contexts, both cathedral and parish. This would enable us to delineate further how saints’ cults waxed and waned in relation to one another, and has the potential to reveal more detailed patterns and idiosyncrasies across and between institutions.100 The preceding discussion also draws attention to the dynamism of the visual and sacred topographies of the late medieval interior of Durham cathedral priory. This should be understood as happening over a longue durée: we observe the change in the location and mode of display of Cuthbert’s coffin and the relics it once contained, their presence in the feretory over a period of centuries, and their eventual destruction at the Dissolution. Yet in other respects this variation occurred at a much faster pace, and could be observed by the individual once or, in the case of the monastic community, many times, as the visibility or invisibility of these relics and reliquaries shifted every time the relic cupboards were opened and closed according to the days of the liturgical year. Even when locked away, the presence of these relics and reliquaries would have been known to the community and to visitors: the 1383 Liber is potent evidence for one of the ways in which they could be recalled, explained, and evidenced. The now-lost relics and reliquaries found in sources such as the Liber can, by being studied in detail and considered within their wider contexts, therefore offer us a greater understanding of the ways in which audiences would have experienced a great church in England in the late medieval period, as a building in which members of the holy company of heaven were made present for the faithful in rich, complex, and spectacular ways.

For example, my PhD thesis comparatively examines the patterns and idiosyncrasies relating to the images of the Virgin Mary at Durham, and the patronal saints at Durham discussed here, with those found at York Minster, and analyses the characters of the cults of these saints at both institutions. See Turner, ‘Image and Devotion’, pp. 177–255.

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AN UNUSUAL HELL MOUTH IN AN OLD TESTAMENT ILLUSTRATION: UNDERSTANDING THE NUMBERS INITIAL IN THE TWELFTHCENTURY LAUD BIBLE HARRY STIRRUP 1

THE INITIAL

T

he Laud Bible, a giant single-volume codex now held in the Bodleian Library at Oxford,2 was probably designed and written in France during the middle years of the twelfth century, and bound in a French scriptorium around 1200.3 At the beginning of each Old Testament book is a large historiated initial containing an illustration based on some part of the accompanying text. The only exception is the very short book of

I first met Jane Hawkes in 2004 when applying for a place on the MA course at the University of York. Later I attended her module Scrolls and Serpents, discovering the colours, patterns, and craftsmanship visible in the mysterious and precious Anglo-Saxon objects we discussed. Several years later Jane supervised me through the final stage of my PhD in twelfth-century manuscript illumination, inspiring me with her scholarly expertise, planning abilities, and faith that I could complete the task. Working with Jane was never dull, and often fun. I remain very grateful for her efforts. 2 Oxford, Bodleian Library MS Laud Misc. 752. 3 Jennifer M. Sheppard, ‘Notes on the Origin and Provenance of a French Romanesque Bible in the Bodleian’, The Bodleian Library Record, 11.5 (1984), 284–99, at 285–6. 1

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Ruth, which has an ornamental initial formed from a grotesque creature. Some of the subjects illustrated in the Bible are very rare, including that in the initial to the book of Numbers,4 which is the subject of this essay (Pl. VIII). It illustrates an episode from the revolt of the priest Korah, and the destruction of his followers Dathan and Abiron by Moses. Even more unusually, it depicts a hell mouth devouring the two troublesome men while they are still alive. The initial is formed by the capital ‘L’ of Locutusque est Dominus ad Mosen (‘and the Lord spoke to Moses’), the first words of the book, but the subject of the illustration is derived from the text of chapter 16, deep within the book, which describes how Korah, a rich and influential Levite relative of Moses and Aaron, accused Moses of favouritism in the selection of the high priests of the tabernacle. Moses declared that it was God who selected Aaron and his sons, and suggested that Korah accept the decision. Dathan and Abiron were not of the priestly Levite clan, but were ambitious in their support of Korah, and became involved in the revolt against Moses and Aaron. They refused to attend a meeting with Moses, who, after consultation with God, destroyed the two men and their followers in a very dramatic way, as shown in the illustration. In the initial Moses stands to the left and gestures while speaking to the people, and holds a scroll inscribed by the master scribe recedite a tabernaculis impiorum (‘stand back from the tabernacles of the impious’), warning them to move away to avoid being destroyed. Meanwhile, Dathan and Abiron, their names written large and clear by a different hand, presumably to make their identity unambiguous, are shown twice: first, half-buried in the open pit and still arguing with Moses, then again, identified clearly (and without the need for captions) by their facial features and garments in the lower bar of the initial, dragged down by ropes while still alive into the hell mouth, already surrounded by the flickering flames of hell itself. Numbers 16:30–4 describes these events as follows: sin autem novam rem fecerit Dominus ut aperiens terra os suum degluttiat eos et omnia quae ad illos pertinent descenderintque viventes in infernum scietis quod blasphemaverint Dominum confestim igitur ut cessavit loqui disrupta est terra sub pedibus eorum et aperiens os suum devoravit illos cum tabernaculis suis et universa substantia descenderuntque vivi in infernum operti humo et perierunt de medio multitudinis. But if the Lord do a new thing, and the earth opening her mouth swallow them down, and all things that belong to them, and they go down alive into hell, you shall know that they have blasphemed the Lord. And immediately as he had made an end of speaking, the earth broke asunder under their feet: 4 Jennifer M. Sheppard, The Giffard Bible: Bodleian Library MS Laud Misc. 752 (New York, NY and London, 1986), p. 111.

An Unusual Hell Mouth in an Old Testament Illustration

And opening her mouth, devoured them with their tents and all their substance. And they went down alive into hell, the ground closing upon them, and they perished from among the people.5

This is the earliest reference to the mouth of hell in the Vulgate; it uses the words os and infernum for ‘mouth’ and ‘hell’, and clearly refers to the earth opening her mouth, as illustrated in the initial, and where the two men are half-buried in a soft, mouth-like opening in the earth. The Laud Bible hell mouth was therefore not required by any literal illustration of the scriptural text. Nevertheless, the twelfth-century artist took the opportunity to hammer home his message with a second opening in the earth in the form of a hell mouth devouring the two men, complete with flames and ropes. Such an image, generally unknown in Old Testament illustration, raises some issues which this essay attempts to address. Some scholars have suggested that the unusual subject matter and iconography used in several of the initials in the Laud Bible are more typical of French or Continental practice than English.6 Indeed, a Continental precedent for illustrating the revolt of Korah can be seen in the Bible of San Paolo,7 made in about 875 at Reims, where on folio 30v the artists devoted a full-page miniature to the tabernacle and the punishment of Korah, Dathan, Abiron, and their followers. However, most of the initials in the Laud Bible, including that for Numbers, were painted and gilded by an artist who may have been English, but who apparently worked in collaboration with the main French scribe between about 1165 and 1175.8 His illuminations are generally typical of the late Romanesque type, with bright solid colour, including some transitional colours like a clear opaque grey and terracotta pink, and gold-leaf backgrounds, conforming to the so-called Channel Style prevalent in the second half of the twelfth century.9 It is almost certain that this artist worked in England.10 He painted some initials in a book made for Buildwas Abbey in Shropshire,11 and his work has stylistic links to manuscripts produced in the Gloucester area,12 including the lavishly illustrated Munich Psalter made in Oxford towards the end of the century.13 Like the Laud Bible, this psalter has a rare illustration of Korah’s Numbers 16:30–4. Translations from Holy Bible: Douay-Rheims Version, with Challoner Revisions, 1749–52 (Baltimore, MD, 1899). 6 Claus M. Kauffmann, Romanesque Manuscripts, 1066–1190: A Survey of Manuscripts in the British Isles (London, 1975), p. 124; Walter Cahn, Romanesque Bible Illumination (Ithaca, NY, 1982), p. 262; Sheppard, ‘Origin and Provenance’, p. 287. 7 Rome, San Paolo Fouri le Mura MS f. 12. M. 337. 8 Sheppard, The Giffard Bible, p. 27. 9 Sheppard, ‘Origin and Provenance’, p. 284. 10 Sheppard, ‘Origin and Provenance’, p. 284; and Sheppard, The Giffard Bible, p. 66. 11 Cambridge, Trinity College MS B.4.3. See Sheppard, ‘Origin and Provenance’, p. 287. 12 Cahn, Romanesque Bible, p. 262; Sheppard, ‘Origin and Provenance’, p. 285. 13 Munich, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, Clm. 835. 5

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revolt (fol. 19v), although in this case it depicts God’s destruction of Korah and his 249 censer-carrying followers,14 rather than Dathan and Abiron. Like other twelfth-century English psalters, the Munich Psalter contains fearsome depictions of a hell mouth in its New Testament miniatures of the Last Judgement and the Harrowing of Hell, numbering six in all. Similar images can be found in the prefatory miniature cycles of earlier English psalters such as the St Albans and Winchester Psalters,15 also in a New Testament context. The Laud Bible artist’s interest in both the fate of Dathan and Abiron and in the hell mouth could be said, therefore, to reflect his knowledge of both Continental and English illumination of the period. Books such as the Laud Bible reflected the ambitions and status of the monastic communities which made them, a feature most evident in their illumination. Books became larger and more splendid in association with the boom in church building and decoration. Many were clearly very costly in their use of precious materials, and were illuminated in lavish colour and gold on an increasingly grand scale, often driven by the ownership of the relics of local saints and their shrines erected within the churches, and frequently paid for by donations of land or money from benefactors and pilgrims.16 This was especially true of the giant Romanesque bibles of the twelfth century. Differences in iconography evident in these bibles were developed through the study of scriptural texts and the diverse interpretations derived from them. Monastic scholars knew that both Jerome and Augustine had stressed the importance of non-literal interpretation of scripture in order to find the true meanings hidden in the text. Indeed, Augustine clearly endorsed personal interpretation in his Confessions: Provided, therefore, that each of us tries as best he can to understand in the Holy Scriptures what the writer meant by them, what harm is there if a reader believes what you, the Light of all truthful minds, show him to be the true meaning? It may not even be the meaning which the writer had in mind, and yet he too saw in them a true meaning, different though it may have been from this.17

Jerome gave as an example the hidden meaning of the third and fourth books of Kings, which he interpreted as a parallel to the history of the early Christian Church. He wrote: 14 Numbers 16:35: ‘and a fire coming out from the Lord destroyed the two hundred and fifty men that offered the incense’. 15 Hildesheim, St Godehard’s Church MS 1; and London, British Library Cotton MS Nero C. IV. 16 Barbara Abou-El-Haj, The Medieval Cult of Saints: Formations and Transformations (Cambridge, 1994), pp. 13–19. 17 L. Verheijen, ed., Augustinus: Confessionum libri XIII, CCSL 27 (Turnhout, 1981), pp. 229–30; Richard S. Pine-Coffin, trans., Saint Augustine: Confessions (Harmondsworth, 1961), p. 296.

An Unusual Hell Mouth in an Old Testament Illustration

If you merely regard the narrative, the words are simple enough but if you look beneath the surface at the hidden meaning of it, you find a description of the small numbers of the church and of the wars which the heretics wage against it.18

Jerome’s ideas and methods were highly regarded during the twelfth century.19 This was reflected in the avid collection of his writings, and by their inclusion as introductory texts in the Vulgate. Many scholars were able to interpret scripture using Jerome’s biblical prologues and letters, and with the work of other commentators, especially the Gospels and the Epistles of Peter and Paul. By so doing, an allegorical or moral significance could be extracted from events and episodes found in both the Old and New Testaments.20 This search for sophisticated alternative readings of scripture sometimes resulted in unusual Old Testament imagery, which often clarified or enhanced the text in novel ways.21 It was, therefore, quite normal for artists and scholars to explore a whole range of subjects in the Old Testament which might be suitable for illustration, though the standard ones often dominated. A variety of texts, therefore, might have provided sources of suitable imagery. For example, the ropes of the Laud Bible hell mouth were probably derived ultimately from Peter’s second Epistle in the New Testament: si enim Deus angelis peccantibus non pepercit sed rudentibus inferni detractos in tartarum tradidit in iudicium cruciatos reservari. For if God spared not the angels that sinned, but delivered them, drawn down by infernal ropes to the lower hell, unto torments, to be reserved unto judgment. (II Peter 2:4)

Similar images were conjured up regularly during the weekly round of Psalm singing during the monastic office: in Psalm 105 there is a direct reference to the fate of Dathan and Abiron and the flames of hell: et zelati sunt Mosen in castris Aaron sanctum Domini aperta est terra et devoravit Dathan et operuit synagogam Abiram et succensus est ignis in synagoga eorum flamma exusit impios.

Jerome, Letter 53, Frater Ambrosius. Translation W. H. Fremantle, G. Lewis and W. G. Martley, rev. Kevin Knight, at [accessed 1 February 2018], from Philip Schaff and Henry Wace, Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, ser. 2, 6 (repr. Peabody, MA, 1999). 19 Betty Radice, The Letters of Abelard and Heloise (London, 1974), p. 264. 20 Clifford H. Lawrence, Medieval Monasticism: Forms of Religious Life in Western Europe in the Middle Ages, rev. 3rd edn (Harlow, 2001), p. 140. 21 Herbert L. Kessler, ‘Gregory the Great and Image Theory in Northern Europe during the Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries’, A Companion to Medieval Art, ed. C. Rudolph (Oxford, 2006), pp. 151–71, at 163. See also Elizabeth Alexander elsewhere in this volume, pp. 49–60. 18

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And they provoked Moses in the camp, Aaron the holy one of the Lord. The earth opened and swallowed up Dathan: and covered the congregation of Abiron. And a fire was kindled in their congregation: the flame burned the wicked. (Psalm 105:16–18)

The use of a New Testament hell mouth in an Old Testament illustration for the book of Numbers is evidence that novel imagery was in demand by designers and scholars eager to avoid, where possible, repetition of wellused images. There are many examples in the extant giant bibles; indeed several other illustrations in the Laud Bible, in addition to the Numbers initial, provide evidence of this search for new scriptural meaning through visual interpretation.22 Other twelfth-century manuscripts illustrated the Dathan and Abiron story, but it remained quite rare. In the large initial ‘L’ to Numbers on fol. 81r of the Capucins Bible,23 dated to about 1170–80 and probably from the Troyes/Champagne area, Dathan and Abiron are shown in a roundel being consumed head first into a brown and hummocky earth while being licked by flames, but there is no hell mouth. Another initial in a Josephus, made in the Mosan region in about 1160, has Dathan and Abiron again disappearing head first down into a roundel, but with no hell mouth.24 These examples in effect constituted an upsurge in the illustration of the Korah revolt. However, while it was becoming normal for artists and scholars to delve deep into the books of the Old Testament to find new and dramatic illustrative opportunities, the Numbers initials of the Capucins and Laud bibles were, I believe, more than reflections of the personal choices of the artists and designers, and had more than just novelty value. They were almost certainly a reflection of actual events in the real world, and revealed an important contemporary concern of the late twelfth-century Church.

HERESY Jerome’s interpretation of the third and fourth books of Kings as a description of the early Church’s wars against heresy, cited above, foreshadows the initial to the book of Numbers in the Laud Bible. The initial is the only one in the bible with a scroll inscribed by the master scribe, suggesting that it may have had special significance to the designer

22 It is noteworthy that Sheppard has concluded that the artist was not capable himself of seeking out such iconographic sources and that a scholarly churchman lay behind many of the innovative designs: Sheppard, The Giffard Bible, p. 183. 23 Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France MS lat. 16743. 24 Oxford, Merton College MS 317; Walter Cahn, ‘An Illustrated Josephus from the Meuse Region in Merton College, Oxford’, Zeitschrift für Kunstgeschichte, 29. Bd., H. 4 (1966), 295–310, at 295, 300.

An Unusual Hell Mouth in an Old Testament Illustration

and his monastic community.25 Sheppard has suggested, without making too great a point of it, that the illustrator was interested in a general theme of priests, preachers, and the priesthood. Following analysis of the subjects depicted in the initials she noted that there was: a tendency to emphasize aspects of the development of the institution of the Church, from its earliest prefigurement in the tent of the tabernacle under the Old Covenant, to the spread of the Christian Church under the New. Priests and preachers in particular are of recurring interest to the illustrator.26

The designer of the initials probably intended to emphasise the importance of the Church and its priests, and about seventeen major initials deal in some way with the theme of priesthood.27 Fourteen of these emphasise the positive role of priests in the development of the Church, and are very unusual either because of their presence in a bible, or for the originality of their subject matter.28 This focus on priests probably reflects the pride and prestige of the community for which the bible was made.29 If the designers belonged to a community of priests they may have wished to highlight their own status. However, it is probable that of far greater significance for the Numbers initial was the Europe-wide struggle against heresy; the Church needed to respond strongly to movements such as the Cathars and the Waldensians in southern France and northern Italy, especially by targeting and punishing heretical priests. The fight against heresy gained momentum in the second half of the twelfth century when a Church council was convened at Tours in 1163 under the leadership of Pope Alexander III, and supported by the king of England, Henry II (who was also ruler of Normandy, Anjou, and Aquitaine), to counter the serious effects of heresy and the damage it was doing to the Church itself. Canon 4 of the Council of Tours states: Condemnation of the heretical sects spreading over regions in southern France: no one should grant refuge in his territory or offer assistance to members of these groups, nor should anyone have commercial dealing with them. If these heretics, who ought to be sought out, are seized, they should be kept in custody by catholic princes, and their goods ought to be confiscated.30

This decree against heresy was a landmark, the first of several papal statements against the Cathars which established the basic principles that Sheppard, The Giffard Bible, p. 111. Sheppard, The Giffard Bible, p. 179. 27 Sheppard, The Giffard Bible, p. 180. 28 Sheppard, The Giffard Bible, p. 181. 29 Sheppard, The Giffard Bible, p. 181. 30 Robert Somerville, Pope Alexander III and the Council of Tours 1163 (Berkeley, CA, 1977), p. 50. 25

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allowed the Inquisition to flourish,31 including the Episcopal Inquisition of 1184–1230s and later the Papal Inquisition of the 1230s. Pope Innocent III continued the struggle against heresy at the Fourth Lateran Council in 1213.32 In his opening sermon at the Council he spoke strongly against corruption in the Church, comparing it to the corruption of the people of Israel, which was denounced by Hosea (4:1–11). He declared that the corruption began, in the main, with the clergy, blaming unworthy priests for all the evils prevalent amongst Christians,33 and gave his personal backing to the Dominican order’s leadership of the antiheretical campaign.34 In Canon 3, Excommunicamus, some procedures and penalties against heretics and their protectors were established: there was drawn up a compendium of anti-heretical measures covering episcopal obligations in supervising dioceses, Church– state co-operation and a penal code for those found guilty of heresy, favouring heretics or for being negligent in pursuit of heretics.35

These concerns were reflected in the Glossa ordinaria, where Dathan and Abiron are mentioned several times. The Glossa was a compilation of various types of commentary and other explanatory writings derived from patristic sources. It had been accumulating in medieval bibles since the Carolingian period, and became the standard commentary on the Vulgate in Western Europe, influential from about the first quarter of the twelfth century.36 It was particularly so during the later twelfth century, at the same time as the artist of the Laud Bible was finding significance in the story of Dathan and Abiron for his Numbers initial. It is reasonable to suppose that the late twelfth-century interest in Dathan and Abiron is linked to papal attempts to reform the Church and stamp out heresy once and for all. The two men, although not priests themselves, typified heretics who undermined the work of honest priests;37 their punishment, and that of the priest Korah, demonstrated the wrath of God against any who challenge the Church’s authority. As Cahn writes, ‘the incident was one of the favourite exempla cited against heretics, schismatics or by pamphleteers on both sides during the conflict between the Empire and the papacy.’38 The Old Testament dispute between legitimate priests and the group of dissatisfied heretics, in the form of Somerville, Pope Alexander III, p. 53. John A. Watt, ‘The Papacy’, The New Cambridge Medieval History, vol. 5: c. 1198–c. 1300, ed. David Abulafia (Cambridge University Press, 1999), pp. 105–63, at 121. 33 Watt, ‘The Papacy’, pp. 121–2. 34 Watt, ‘The Papacy’, p. 121. 35 Watt, ‘The Papacy’, p. 121. 36 Beryl Smalley, The Study of the Bible in the Middle Ages, 3rd edn (Notre Dame, IN, 1964), p. 63; Dorothy M. Shepard, Introducing the Lambeth Bible: A Study of Texts and Imagery (Turnhout, 2007), p. 105. 37 Sheppard, The Giffard Bible, pp. 111–12. 38 Cahn, ‘An Illustrated Josephus’, p. 302. 31

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An Unusual Hell Mouth in an Old Testament Illustration

Korah and his followers, was a direct biblical parallel to the rise of heretical priests in the twelfth century. The previously little-used episode was now seen as a prefiguration of the struggles of the new Church and developed some contemporary significance. As we have seen, it was illustrated in several late twelfth-century manuscripts, including the English-made Munich Psalter, and the Laud Bible. If indeed the Laud Bible was made for a community of priests, they may have felt that illustrating the terrible punishment of Dathan and Abiron and their followers would highlight and validate their own orthodoxy in the face of the ongoing war on heresy.

THE HELL MOUTH Before the Norman Conquest the hell mouth was used almost exclusively in illustrations of the Fall of the Rebel Angels, the Harrowing of Hell, and the Last Judgement. Examples can be seen in the Tiberius Psalter,39 the New Minster Liber Vitae (Fig. 7.1),40 and the Junius 11 manuscript,41 all made by the third quarter of the eleventh century. From the twelfth century onwards the hell mouth became very common in manuscripts and wall paintings (and to some extent in stained glass) throughout Europe until the late Middle Ages, but it was not normally used in Old Testament illustrations, and none exist in English or French manuscripts as far as I am aware, apart from the one in the Laud Bible. Cahn makes no mention of the hell mouth in the index of iconography in his 1996 survey of twelfth-century French manuscripts.42 There is no direct scriptural basis for such an image as we understand it, but several biblical references to hell provided powerful stimuli, with origins not only in Numbers 16:30–5, but also in Isaiah 5: propterea dilatavit infernus animam suam et aperuit os suum absque ullo termino et descendent fortes eius et populus eius et sublimes gloriosique eius ad eum. Therefore hath hell enlarged her soul, and opened her mouth without any bounds, and their strong ones, and their people, and their high and glorious ones shall go down into it. (Isaiah 5:14)

And Proverbs 1:12: degluttiamus eum sicut infernus viventem et integrum quasi descendentem in lacum (‘let us swallow him up alive like hell, and whole as one that goeth down into the pit’). Other scriptural sources could be found in the Psalms, as we have seen, London, British Library Cotton MS Tiberius C.VI. London, British Library MS Stowe 944. 41 Oxford, Bodleian Library MS Junius 11. 42 Walter Cahn, A Survey of Manuscripts Illuminated in France: Romanesque Manuscripts; The Twelfth Century (London, 1996). 39

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FIG. 7.1 ​THE LAST JUDGEMENT, DETAIL OF THE NEW MINSTER LIBER VITAE (LONDON, BRITISH LIBRARY STOWE MS 994), FOL. 7R, C. 1030.

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and in the New Testament, such as chapters 20 and 21 of the book of Revelation, parts of which describe fire and brimstone and the captive Satan: Et vidi angelum descendentem de cælo, habentem clavem abyssi, et catenam magnam in manu sua. Et apprehendit draconem, serpentem antiquum, qui est diabolus, et Satanas, et ligavit eum per annos mille: et misit eum in abyssum, et clausit, et signavit super illum ut non seducat amplius gentes, donec consummentur mille anni. And I saw an angel coming down from heaven, having the key of the bottomless pit and a great chain in his hand. And he laid hold on the dragon, the old serpent, which is the devil and Satan, and bound him for a thousand years. And he cast him into the bottomless pit and shut him up and set a seal upon him. (Revelation 20:1–3)

An Unusual Hell Mouth in an Old Testament Illustration

Junius 11 describes both the Fall of the Rebel Angels and the Harrowing of Hell. It was probably copied down and extensively illustrated between 960 and 990,43 perhaps at Winchester or Canterbury, though its provenance is not entirely certain. The poems contain blood-curdling descriptions of rebel angels and Satan burning in hell, as well as an account of Christ’s saving of souls at the Harrowing of Hell. Later concepts of hell probably derive in particular from descriptions in the Lament for the Fallen Angels, as here for example: […] þis is ðeostræ ham,  ðearle gebunden fæstum fyrclommum;  flor is on welme attre onæled.  Nis nu ende feor þæt we sceolun ætsomne  susel þrowian, wean and wergu,  nalles wuldres blæd habban in heofnum,  hehselda wyn.44 […] this is a home of darkness, severely bound with firm fire-bonds; the floor is boiling and aflame with poison. The end is now not far when we must together endure torment, pain and woe, not at all enjoy bliss in the heavens, joy in high halls.

Furthermore, pagan concepts of the underworld from Classical mythology (and potentially Norse mythology) were also well known to monastic scholars through the survival of Classical and Anglo-Saxon texts in monastic libraries.45 These provided potent imagery which seems to have blended with biblical sources during the eleventh century in England, although how the hell mouth may have evolved from such origins is not entirely clear, despite exposition by several scholars.46 In Classical mythology all humans were destined to enter the underworld after their death and burial. It was the realm of the god Hades, the brother of Zeus and Poseidon,47 and lay somewhere underground in the depths of the earth. On entering the underworld, the dead crossed one of three or Leslie Lockett, ‘An Integrated Re-examination of the Dating of Oxford, Bodleian Library, Junius II’, ASE, 31 (2002), 141–73, at 153. 44 OE text of Christ and Satan from George P. Krapp, ed., The Junius Manuscript, AngloSaxon Poetic Records 1 (New York, NY, 1931). 45 Richard Gameson, The Manuscripts of Early Norman England (c. 1066–1130) (Oxford, 1999), pp. 159–68, records multiple existing copies of Classical authors including Pliny the Elder and Aesop; Rodney M. Thomson, ‘The Library of Bury St Edmunds Abbey in the Eleventh and Twelfth Centuries’, Speculum, 47.4 (1972), 617–45, at 633, describes the abbey of Bury St Edmunds as ‘exceptionally rich’ in Classical texts by 1150. 46 Pamela Sheingorn, ‘“Who Can Open the Doors of his Face?” The Iconography of Hell Mouth’, The Iconography of Hell, ed. Clifford Davidson and Thomas H. Seiler (Kalamazoo, MI, 1992), pp. 1–19; Gary D. Schmidt, The Iconography of the Mouth of Hell: EighthCentury Britain to the Fifteenth Century (London, 1995); Robyn Rossmeisl, ‘Encountering the Embodied Mouth of Hell: The Play of Oppositions in Religious Vernacular Theatre’ (unpublished doctoral thesis, University of British Columbia, 2012). 47 Michael Stapleton, A Dictionary of Greek and Roman Mythology (London, 1978), p. 87. 43

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four rivers, and were allotted to different regions, depending on how badly they had offended the gods. Those who had offended most were sent for punishment to Tartarus. But Hades was certainly not a devil-like figure,48 or a monstrous head with gaping jaws. Nor was he a guardian at the entrance to the underworld, and the dead and dying did not pass through his open jaws, as though entering a portal. However, a fearsome dog, Cerberus the hound of Hades, guarded the entrance to the underworld and was usually described and depicted with three heads, but sometimes more.49 Hades became significant to Christians when the Hebrew Bible was translated into Greek, and the word hades was substituted for the Hebrew sheol, which was also generally understood to be a dark place of the dead. In Norse mythology the god Loki had several children including the huge wolf-monster Fenrir, who killed and devoured Odin. Odin’s son Vidar later defeated Fenrir by breaking its enormous jaws. Fenrir’s battle with Odin and subsequent destruction by Vidar may have been of some importance in the development of the hell mouth.50 An image on the Gosforth Cross, made c. 900 in Cumbria, may illustrate Vidar and the huge open jaws.51 Loki’s other children were a huge sea serpent called Jörmungandr, and a daughter called Hel, who reigned over a cold, dark underworld occupied by the dead. A dragon and snake-like creatures, or perhaps a huge dog, guarded the entrance to her realm,52 where ‘monsters consumed men and corpses’.53 The earliest extant visual counterparts to these ideas are to be found in the Utrecht Psalter,54 which was made in Reims c. 815–835, and was at Canterbury in England from about 1000 until 1200.55 It is generally considered to be one of the main sources of visual motifs and iconography for Anglo-Saxon artists of the tenth and eleventh centuries,56 and one that the two artists of Junius 11 used.57 The illustration to Psalm 102 (Fig. 7.2), on page 125, depicts a fiery pit filled with the damned and attended by demons. It contains a large grotesque head and at least one curled and writhing snake, both devouring their victims. The non-Christian nature

Stapleton, Dictionary of Greek and Roman Mythology, p. 87. Stapleton, Dictionary of Greek and Roman Mythology, p. 53. 50 Meyer Schapiro, ‘Cain’s Jaw Bone that Did the First Murder’, The Art Bulletin, 24.3 (1942), 205–12, at 211 n. 66. 51 Schmidt, Iconography of the Mouth of Hell, p. 28. 52 Andy Orchard, Cassel Dictionary of Norse Myth and Legend (London, 1997), p. 79. 53 Rossmeisl, ‘Embodied Mouth of Hell’, p. 11. 54 Utrecht, Universiteitsbibliotheek, MS 32. 55 Dimitri Tselos, ‘English Manuscript Illustration and the Utrecht Psalter’, The Art Bulletin, 41.2 (1959), 137–49, at 138. 56 Francis Wormald, English Drawings of the Tenth and Eleventh Centuries (London, 1952), p. 21; Thomas A. Heslop, ‘The Implication of the Utrecht Psalter in English Romanesque Art’, Romanesque: Art and Thought in the Twelfth Century, ed. Colum Hourihane (Princeton, NJ, 2008), p. 267. 57 Catherine E. Karkov, Text and Picture in Anglo-Saxon England: Narrative Strategies in the Junius 11 Manuscript (Cambridge, 2001), p. 5. 48 49

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FIG. 7.2 ​ ILLUSTRATION TO PSALM 102, DETAIL OF THE UTRECHT PSALTER (UTRECHT UNIVERSITY LIBRARY MS 32), FOL. 59R, C. 800.

of the snake and the grotesque heads call to mind the myth of Loki’s daughter Hel, but here used in the Christian context of salvation from the enemy through prayer. The illustrations in the Utrecht Psalter were probably based on late Roman models from the fifth century, as indicated by the illusionistic landscapes with, as pointed out by Pächt, ‘many classicizing personifications of natural elements, such as Terra, River-Gods, the Heavenly Bodies, Hades and other classical motifs’.58 There are at least thirty-seven pits of hell depicted among its numerous illustrations, often with demons wielding hooks and forks to capture the damned, or push them down into the pits. Some of the pits have flame-like fringes. There are no hell mouths, but eleven of the pits contain large heads, sometimes with torsos, arms and hands, devouring the condemned. According to Tselos, these figures may represent Hades: ‘In the Utrecht Psalter, as might be expected from its 58

Otto Pächt, Book Illumination in the Middle Ages (London, 1986), p. 170.

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Classical legacy, Hades, who occupies a pit of Hell, is always represented as a giant cannibalistic bust or head.’59 Robert Calkins has stated that: the Utrecht Psalter had a lasting influence. Similar episodic groups of figures appear in metalwork, crystal engraving, and ivory carving of the late Carolingian period. Some ivories, in fact, contain direct repetitions of compositions found in the Utrecht Psalter.60

The earliest known use of what could be considered a hell mouth is indeed on an ivory carving, a Last Judgement now in the Victoria & Albert Museum (inv. no. 253–1867; Pl. IX). It has been argued that it is of AngloSaxon manufacture c. 800, and possibly made in England,61 though origin in Reims or Germany cannot be ruled out. In the lower right corner a large head seems to be devouring the naked human beings herded towards it. Beckwith gives a date of the late eighth or early ninth century, and calls it ‘the first representation of Hades swallowing the damned’.62 The head appears to be more human than beast, but is monstrous because of its huge scale. However, as has been pointed out, in his original guise as a Greek god Hades did not devour the souls entering his realm, as this creature clearly does. The illustrations of the Utrecht Psalter are roughly contemporary with the ivory Last Judgement, and the head in the ivory panel is very like those in the illustrations to Psalms 138 and 140 in the Psalter (Fig. 7.3), close enough to suggest some relationship, even if only dependent on the same cultural impulse – the heads are in profile with open mouths and are humanoid rather than animalistic. In three of the illustrations – those for Psalms 90 (page 114), 114 (page 141), and 138 (page 163) – the upper half of the giant Hades, if that is what we must call him, is depicted with huge arms and hands, with his legs presumably hidden below in the pit, as he devours souls. Gary Schmidt, although he does not mention Hades anywhere in his book on the hell mouth, nevertheless accurately describes how, in the Utrecht Psalter, a hole in the ground begins to be transformed into the mouth of a beast: With it came a visual emphasis on hell, particularly the personification of hell. Although the artist of that psalter frequently pictured hell as a swirling pit, he also drew it as an anthropomorphic figure that swallowed the souls that fell into it. For the Anglo-Saxon imagination this image was critical in two ways. First, it transformed the generalized image Tselos, ‘English Manuscript Illustration’, p. 140. Robert G. Calkins, Illuminated Books of the Middle Ages (Ithaca, NY, 1983), p. 211. 61 Schmidt, The Iconography of the Mouth of Hell, p. 64; Kauffmann, Romanesque Manuscripts, p. 52. 62 John Beckwith, Ivory Carvings in Early Medieval England, 700–1200 (London, 1974), p. 23. 59

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FIG. 7.3 ​ ILLUSTRATION TO PSALM 140, DETAILS OF THE UTRECHT PSALTER (UTRECHT UNIVERSITY LIBRARY MS 32), FOL. 79R, C. 800.

of a landscape swallowing up the rebellious soul. Second, it provided the beginning point for a movement to a zoomorphic representation of hell, as Anglo-Saxon artists changed the human-like figure to correspond more to the notion of a beast.63

Schmidt has also suggested that the ivory Last Judgement may have been made at Canterbury in the tenth century,64 and that it provided a stimulus for artists working there: The dramatic quality of the hell mouth would be exploited by the scribes at Canterbury and Winchester. These scribes would take an image that is a diminutive detail in this ivory and transform it into the central feature of miniatures depicting hell.65

This, then, could be the moment that marked the advent of the nightmarish beast in Christian iconography. The terrifying hell mouth, in the form of a monstrous head belonging to a snake, humanoid, dragon, dog, or other 63 64 65

Schmidt, The Iconography of the Mouth of Hell, p. 65. Schmidt, The Iconography of the Mouth of Hell, p. 64. Schmidt, The Iconography of the Mouth of Hell, p. 64.

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creature, devouring souls at the entrance to a dark nether world, is, I would suggest, a conflation of the various sources described above. There is, however, another important visual ingredient apparent in the Laud Bible hell mouth which is not explained by the above sources, but which was rather an added characteristic evident after the monastic revival of the eleventh century, when the most common way of representing the mouth of hell became an open-jawed lion’s head.66 What had been a fearsome pagan beast was transformed into the head of a lion whose deep Christian meaning had origins in the biblical stories of David and Daniel. It had become quite normal from the tenth century for large illuminated initial letters to contain clasps or brackets in the form of lion masks, often as a central boss, or as a finial or terminal at the top or end of the letterform. This may have originated in initials to books which contained leonine imagery, such as Samuel and Daniel, or in the Beatus initials at the beginning of the Psalms, reflecting David’s fight with the lion. One such is the Beatus initial in the Harley Psalter,67 probably made at Winchester c. 950; another is the initial ‘A’ at the start of the book of Daniel in the twelfth-century Lambeth Bible. In the Laud Bible initial its function as a terminal betrays the hell mouth’s similar origin as a mask, and its frontal visage confirms this. In the New Testament two references in particular link the lion with the hell mouth. Paul writes in his second epistle to Timothy: Dominus autem mihi adstitit et confortavit me ut per me praedicatio impleatur et audiant omnes gentes et liberatus sum de ore leonis. But the Lord stood by me and strengthened me, that by me the preaching may be accomplished and that all the Gentiles may hear. And I was delivered out of the mouth of the lion. (II Timothy 4:17)

And in his first Epistle Peter writes: Sobrii estote vigilate quia adversarius vester diabolus tamquam leo rugiens circuit quaerens quem devoret. Be sober and watch: because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, goeth about seeking whom he may devour. (I Peter 5:8)

In Junius 11 a leonine hell mouth appears twice, on pages 3 and 16. As Schmidt notes, ‘The foreshortened snout, ears, and even manes of the images suggest a strong connection with the image of a lion swallowing its prey – here, its rightful prey.’68 66 67 68

Schmidt, The Iconography of the Mouth of Hell, p. 38. London, British Library Harley MS 603. Schmidt, The Iconography of the Mouth of Hell, p. 38.

An Unusual Hell Mouth in an Old Testament Illustration

Folio 7r of the New Minster Liber Vitae depicts a Last Judgement where the hell mouth is very like those in Junius 11. Schmidt observes that: Only twenty years separates the two images, and though the sense of dramatic action is greater in the Liber Vitae – here the damned souls are muscled into hell by a wildman-like demon – the opened mouth has not changed in the least.69

This depiction in the Liber Vitae of a giant figure is reminiscent of the figures of Hades in some of the Utrecht Psalter illustrations. Although Schmidt described it as ‘a wildman-like demon’,70 it ought to be considered a descendent of the figures in Utrecht. If this is so, then the artist thought of the Hades figure as separate from the hell mouth itself, and not one and the same. The leonine hell mouth for a time gave the grotesque Hades figure a new lease of separate life. A leonine quality is also apparent in the Tiberius Psalter of the late eleventh century, where, as Kathleen Openshaw also pointed out, the head was drawn in three-quarter profile. Its pronounced leonine characteristics were designed to give visual emphasis to the typological connections between Christ’s rescue of Adam and Eve, and David’s earlier rescue of the lamb from the lion’s mouth.71 There is one copiously illustrated Anglo-Saxon manuscript which seems to be untouched by these influences, Ælfric’s Hexateuch,72 the most famous Old Testament text in Old English, and unusual because it is the only one illustrated. Made at St Augustine’s in Canterbury in about 1025, it contains almost 400 illustrations, including twelve full-page miniatures. On folios 1 and 2 there are two prologues: one is a preface written by Ælfric, on both sides of folio 1, in praise of interpretation, and contains warnings about translation from Latin into English; the second is a fullpage illustration in colour, depicting God dividing the light from the dark. In the lower register of this image is a hellish scarlet beast, a dragon or leviathan, with jaws wide open, about to devour the falling angels, and with its teeth clamped onto Satan’s mandorla. Modern scholarship has emphasised that Ælfric’s textual prologue provides an introduction to how Christian interpretation applies to the translated Old Testament. The reader must go beyond the ‘naked narrative’ of a text, Ælfric writes, to its ‘spiritual meaning’,73 following the longestablished advice of both St Jerome and St Augustine. Such a searching, interpretive approach provides a basis for including the fall of Satan and the monstrous creature with gaping jaws in the scene of the Creation, despite neither of them being mentioned in Genesis, though something Schmidt, The Iconography of the Mouth of Hell, p. 39. Schmidt, The Iconography of the Mouth of Hell, p. 39. 71 Kathleen M. Openshaw, ‘The Battle between Christ and Satan in the Tiberius Psalter’, Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes, 52 (1989), 14–33, at 22. 72 London, British Library Cotton MS Claudius B. IV. 73 Benjamin C. Withers, ‘A “Secret and Feverish Genesis”: The Prefaces of the Old English Hexateuch’, The Art Bulletin, 81 (1999), 53–71, at 56. 69 70

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similar is described in Revelation. Ælfric’s visual preface to the Hexateuch is a prime example of such interpretation. It follows immediately after his textual preface on folio 1, where he wrote: We secgað eac foran to þæt seo boc is swiðe deop gastlice to understandenne, and we ne writað na mare buton þa nacedan gerecednisse. Þonne þincð þam ungelæredum þæt eall þæt andgit beo belocen on þære anfealdan gerecednisse; ac hit ys swiðe feor þam. Seo boc ys gehaten Genesis, þæt ys ‘gecyndboc’, for þam þe heo ys firmest boca and spricð be ælcum gecinde: ac heo ne spricð na be þæra engla gesceapenisse.74 We said also before that the book is very deep in spiritual understanding, and we will not write more than the bare narrative. Then the unlearned think that all the meaning is locked up in that straightforward narrative; but it is very far from that. The book is called Genesis, that is ‘the book of generation’, because it is the first book and speaks about every species: but it does not speak about the creation of the angels.

The illustration of the Fall of the Rebel Angels was based not only on an interpretation of the book of Genesis written by Jerome, but also on Ælfric’s own written preface to Genesis, encouraging the artist in some speculative interpretation about when the angels were created by God. Ælfric’s Old English text of Numbers uses the word helle, but when describing the Dathan episode the text does not mention a mouth: Then, behold, suddenly the earth opened and swallowed the men with women and children, Dathan and Abiron, with their tents and all possessions, so that they departed alive into hell overwhelmed with the sand.75

The unfinished adjacent illustration, on folio 120r, appears to be a fairly simple and straightforward version of the text (Pl. X). The opening in the earth is grave-like, a square-cut ditch containing the figures, but with no sign of a hell mouth, and no sense of horror, apart from the gesturing. It has been suggested by Withers that ‘the Anglo-Saxon artist created the illustrations under direct inspiration of the text, which served as a program or guide for the illustrations’.76 And, in this case, it might be added, without any desire to interpret the image further with the addition of a beast with open jaws, as he had done in his visual prologue on folio 2. Evidence for the artist’s intention in this and many other illustrations in the Hexateuch is clear from the careful technique he used. He first Jonathan Wilcox, ed., Aelfric’s Prefaces, Durham Medieval Texts 9 (Durham, 1994). Ælfric’s Hexateuch, Numbers 16:31–3. Thanks to Jane Hawkes for this translation. 76 Benjamin C. Withers, The Illustrated Old English Hexateuch, Cotton Claudius B. iv: The Frontiers of Seeing and Reading in Anglo-Saxon England (London and Toronto, 2007), p. 27. 74 75

An Unusual Hell Mouth in an Old Testament Illustration

sketched the designs for his compositions with a drypoint, then washed in the broad areas of colour in the draperies, frames, animals, and architecture, although not all of the designs were developed in this way. These under-drawings were then overdrawn with a fine red outline to establish the final design.77 In the illustration of the destruction of Dathan and Abiron, the artist drew four tents with ridgepoles, each containing up to five rudimentary figures – men and women, but with no facial features – in his customary red ink outline, though he ran out of room for the fourth tent on the right, and less than half of it is visible in the trench. Within each tent the occupants look up towards Moses, some gesturing towards him. The tents are clearly of the same type seen elsewhere in the Hexateuch, although uncoloured. There is no evidence of a hell mouth in this original design. Schmidt, however, has seen a hell mouth in this image,78 describing it thus: The mouth, barely discernible through fading, is placed in the far right corner, its rather bulbous snout opened. The rest of the hell scene is filled with tormented souls; Moses looks on from above, his hands opened in prayer of thanksgiving, while others scurry away from the dreadful pit, though their hands are turned back to the awful scene beneath them.79

In defence of this argument it should be noted that someone, perhaps the original draughtsman or one of his assistants, outlined a few brown shapes at the extreme right of the ditch, within the area of the fourth tent, with the same colour he was using for the grey/brown earth. This may have been deliberate, but any intention behind these marks is difficult to discern. Although I have tried several times to make something of this part of the image, the marks are very vague, even in the excellent digital images provided by Withers. What Schmidt saw as a ‘bulbous snout’ appears to be a misreading of how these brown marks combine with the red outlines depicting the condemned people and their tent. There is therefore no evidence of a tradition for the use of the hell mouth in an Old Testament illustration, either in Anglo-Saxon art or later.

CONCLUSION The Numbers initial in the Laud Bible is a complex amalgam of sources and themes. It is interesting to note that twelfth-century designers of the Laud Bible and their eleventh-century counterparts in the Hexateuch, Junius 11, and the Liber Vitae were driven by a similar impulse to interpret

Withers, Old English Hexateuch, p. 26. Schmidt, The Iconography of the Mouth of Hell, p. 58: ‘Indeed this Anglo-Saxon manuscript itself contains a hell mouth at folio 120r’. 79 Schmidt, The Iconography of the Mouth of Hell, p. 71. 77 78

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their texts and illustrate them with images that reflected the concerns and attitudes of their own time. The story of Korah’s revolt and the punishment of Dathan and Abiron was a very relevant subject in late twelfth-century Europe as a warning against the dangers of heresy. Although it provided artists with interesting and topical subject matter it nevertheless remained a rare subject for illustration. The Laud Bible hell mouth, by now a firebreathing lion, is, I believe, a conflation of Christian and non-Christian themes, as the motif was throughout its gradual development from humanoid monster in the Utrecht Psalter to the Davidic lion of the twelfth century. If the artist worked in England, as evidence suggests, he would have been aware of the many depictions of the hell mouth, even if personally unaware of its non-Christian origins. He knew, however, the Christian meanings of the Davidic lion-headed hell mouth and was able to reimagine it in his illustration depicting Dathan and Abiron. He or the designer understood its contemporary relevance and used it as an analogy for the punishment of heretics and their descent into hell.

I ​T WO BIRDS FLANKING THE TREE OF LIFE ON THE WILNE BAPTISMAL FONT, SANDSTONE, LATE EIGHTH OR NINTH CENTURY, ST CHAD’S CHURCH, WILNE (DERBYSHIRE).

III ​THE ARREST OF CHRIST, BOOK OF KELLS (TRINITY COLLEGE DUBLIN MS 58), FOL. 114R, C. 800.

II ​RELIQUARY CROSS, WALRUS IVORY WITH SILVER FITTINGS, C. 1050, VICTORIA & ALBERT MUSEUM (INV. A.6–1966).

IV ​ABRAHAM AND ISAAC PANEL ON THE NEWENT CROSS, NINTH CENTURY, ST MARY’S CHURCH, NEWENT (GLOUCESTERSHIRE).

V ​STREONESHALH (WHITBY) AND ITS SATELLITES.

VI ​COFFIN OF ST CUTHBERT, C. 698, DURHAM CATHEDRAL.

VII ​THOMAS OF ELMHAM, PLAN OF THE EAST END OF THE ABBEY OF ST AUGUSTINE, CANTERBURY, IN HIS HISTORIAE ABBATIAE S. AUGUSTINI (TRINITY HALL, CAMBRIDGE MS 1), FOL. 77R, C. 1410.

VIII ​THE NUMBERS INITIAL, DETAIL OF THE LAUD BIBLE (OXFORD, BODLEIAN LIBRARY MS LAUD MISC. 752), FOL. 49V, C. 1165–75.

IX ​LAST JUDGEMENT, IVORY CARVING, C. 800, VICTORIA & ALBERT MUSEUM (INV. 253–1867), DETAIL.

X ​THE DESTRUCTION OF DATHAN AND ABIRON, DETAIL OF ÆLFRIC’S HEXATEUCH (LONDON, BRITISH LIBRARY COTTON MS CLAUDIUS B. IV), FOL. 120R, C. 1025.

XI ​MELON BEAD.

XII ​SPIRAL MOTIF BEAD.

XIII ​FOIL FRAGMENT, SILVER, SEVENTH CENTURY, HAMMERWICH (STAFFORDSHIRE).

XIV ​HORNED HELMET MOUNT, MERCURY-GILDED COPPER ALLOY, EARLY SEVENTH CENTURY, STAMFORD BRIDGE (YORKSHIRE).

THE PROBLEM OF MAN: CARVED FROM THE SAME STONE HEIDI STONER

I

n art-historical discourse the carved stone monuments of the early medieval Insular world are often defined by their particular historical contexts, rigidly applied to monuments that cannot be dated precisely.1 Monuments are divided into chronological and geographical corpora using periodisation and perceived political and ethnic boundaries to categorise, taxonomise, and contextualise them into regional ‘groups’ and collections. These artificial ‘groups’ and taxonomies are often seen as rigid rather than constructed.2 While this categorisation can be a useful means of understanding and interpreting these monuments, it can also deny the shared materiality and visuality of early medieval stone sculpture, neglecting the common cultural understanding of sculpted stone monuments as symbols of religion, power, and perhaps even identity. This discussion will address the manner in which stone sculpture on the Isle of Man problematises the scholarship that surrounds it, particularly that scholarship’s antiquarian interests and origins, alongside similar regional ‘groups’ of carved stone monuments. Interest in the history of the Isle of Man has historically been

I would like to thank the many scholars and professionals who have generously contributed their thoughts and time to my developing research. First amongst these must be Jane Hawkes, who has encouraged my development far beyond my doctoral supervision. Thanks must also go to David M. Wilson, Eva Wilson, Andrew Johnson (Manx National Heritage), Elizabeth Alexander, Aideen Ireland, Wendy Thirkettle, Katherine Forsyth, and Helen Foxhall Forbes for their discussion and encouragement of my work. 2 See Meg Boulton, Melissa Herman, and Jane Hawkes, ‘Interrogating the Bastard Children of Change: An Introduction to the Critical Terminology of Transition, Transformation and Taxonomy’, The Art, Literature and Material Culture of the Middle Ages: Transition, Transformation and Taxonomy, ed. Meg Boulton and Jane Hawkes with Melissa Herman (Dublin, 2015), pp. 1–13. 1

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problematic. The Isle of Man was central to the Insular world, particularly during the period commonly referred to as the ‘Viking Age’,3 being located on several maritime routes and occupying a strategic position between the Viking kingdoms of York and Dublin. Administratively, it was associated from time to time with the Kings of Orkney, and by 1099, Magnus III of Norway was also King of Mann.4 However, when it comes to the study of the Isle of Man, in particular its sculpture, Man is often seen as peripheral – an issue which this essay and my current research seek to reassess. It is necessary to examine the historiography of the Manx crosses in order to fully and critically appraise current scholarship. Richard Bailey’s Viking Age Sculpture in Northern England (1980), the title of which suggests that it might examine sculpture with Scandinavian influence in broader terms, discusses Man only in comparison to sculpture found in England, supposing that the so-called English ‘Danelaw’ has precedence.5 Similarly, the Corpus of Anglo-Saxon Stone Sculpture, with its focus on the modern geographic regions defined by English county boundaries, necessarily also uses Manx material only as comparanda, as does the Royal Commission on the Ancient and Historical Monuments of Scotland. Studies that focus on the Isle of Man, such as David Wilson’s The Viking Age in the Isle of Man, consider the sculpture exclusively as evidence for the Viking Age, rather than examining the sculpture itself.6 More recently, Wilson has published a Handbook of Stone Sculpture explicitly intended for a general readership. In its preface he states: The stone sculptures of the first five centuries of Christianity in the Isle of Man have not been discussed as a whole since the publication of P. M. C. Kermode’s magnificent catalogue and discussion of the subject in 1907. I cannot emulate him, nor will I attempt to. I can, however, comment on the sculptures in some depth since the pre-Scandinavian-influenced crosses received little published attention during the last century, while the crosses of the Scandinavian settlers of the island have suffered from a massive amount of comment, but little synthesis.7

Judith Jesch, The Viking Diaspora (New York, NY, 2015). Alex Woolf, ‘The Age of Sea-Kings: 900–1300’, The Argyll Book, ed. D. Omand (Edinburgh, 2004), pp. 94–109. 5 Richard N. Bailey, Viking Age Sculpture in Northern England (New York, NY, 1980). 6 David M. Wilson, The Vikings in the Isle of Man (Aarhus, 2008). 7 David M. Wilson, Manx Crosses: A Handbook of Stone Sculpture 500–1040 in the Isle of Man (Oxford, 2018) p. vii. This handbook, which Wilson states is ‘for the general, but enquiring, reader’, is a considerable contribution to the study of sculpture (such as the inclusion of numerous incised crosses – for example Maughold 39 (20) – which have no satisfactory dating), and is clearly the product of years of study and interest. However, this volume, while bringing the number of crosses found up to date, and providing a hand-list that untangles the various numbering systems, does not move beyond its main purpose as a hand-list. Several of the stones have received new proposed dates, interpretation has seen fresh discussion, and alternative readings have been suggested in a few cases. This

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The Problem of Man

Ross Trench-Jellico focused on Manx sculpture in his unpublished PhD thesis, though he exclusively examined the crosses of the pre-Viking age, seeing them as belonging to a distinct category.8 Both Trench-Jellico and Wilson primarily follow from P. M. C. Kermode’s dating of the Manx crosses into pre-Viking and Viking works, in his 1907 publication Manx Crosses.9 One of the issues presented by the historiography of Man is common to other regions of the early medieval world, namely a lack of written evidence. This peri-historical period often relies on narratives preserved in other parts of the Insular world as a means to interpret and make sense of the material record when local and/or specific textual evidence is absent. This is necessarily done through an examination of the archaeological record and through art-historical interpretations of the monumental crosses. However, there has been no systematic study of the corpus of Manx crosses in either the archaeological or art-historical fields in the past century; our understanding of them is deeply rooted in the interpretation of the local Antiquarian Society. A fixation upon dating these crosses and assigning their place in the region’s wider pre-Viking and Viking historical narratives is far from a specifically Manx issue; in wider study of the scholarship of early medieval sculpture there is constant wrestling with seemingly unending controversies around dating. While Manx material is consistently divided between Viking and pre-Viking works, there has been little consideration in such studies of how these styles relate to one another, how they may have co-existed, and what makes a sculpture ‘Viking’. Wilson, unsurprisingly, selects the ‘most Viking’ sculptures in his discussion The Vikings in the Isle of Man, nearly all of which have heroic scenes or runic inscriptions in Old Norse.10 While this is understandable, as the aim of his study is not to problematise the medium of sculpture itself but rather to examine the Vikings in Man, in considering the sculptural tradition in the region as a whole it is important to recognise there are many sculptures that do not obviously fit into these categories.11 While the division of the crosses into pre-Scandinavian and Scandinavian on the Isle of Man has not been fully investigated to date (including temporal and ethnic associations), it is perhaps advisable to consider how Scandinavian styles are integrated in other regions where volume does much to bring Kermode’s corpus into the arena of modern scholarship, while not providing a detailed study of the crosses. 8 Ross Trench-Jellico, ‘A Re-Definition and Stylistic Analysis of P. M. C. Kermode’s Pre-Scandinavian Series of Manx Sculpted Monuments’, 4 vols (unpublished doctoral thesis, University of Lancaster, 1985). 9 P. M. C. Kermode, Manx Crosses, or the Inscribed and Sculptured Monuments of the Isle of Man from About the End of the Fifth to the Beginning of the Thirteenth Century (London and Derby, 1907). 10 Wilson, The Vikings, pp. 57–86. 11 Wilson, Manx Crosses, p. vii.

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Viking settlement is well known and well studied. In areas of settlement in England, for example, the ‘Anglian’ style did not simply die out, nor was it replaced with the introduction of the ‘Scandinavian’ styles. Bailey stated that there was a ‘remarkable persistence of an Anglian tradition’,12 later noting that this sculpture may well be ‘“Viking-age”, but when it contains such a vigorous English element it cannot reasonably be described as “Viking”’.13 While intended as comments on the issue of dating sculpture, these two statements also highlight issues of style, and can equally be applied to other schools of Viking-Age carving, such as the Manx sculpture. The tradition of monumental carved stone crosses and cross slabs is a distinctly Insular practice, and broad stylistic and period-based identifications often negate both their immediate shared contexts, and the way in which they may have been integrated into their sculpted landscape. Many of these issues stem from the sources used within the scholarship and the selective nature of any data set when looking at the early medieval world. The Corpus of Anglo-Saxon Stone Sculpture is invaluable as a source yet, as often noted, it is not without its problems.14 One of these problems has been acknowledged from its very genesis, namely the aforementioned approach to geographical boundaries that serves as its organising principle. First, it is defined by modern national distinctions, having secured funding for only the English counties. This excludes Scotland, the Isle of Man, and Wales, to name but a few.15 This county-by-county limitation has long been recognised. In a 1993 review of the second and third volumes of the CASSS, Douglas MacLean noted the irony that Cramp’s discussion of the Bewcastle Cross in the second volume was prevented from engaging directly with the Ruthwell Cross, despite the two being natural bedfellows in nearly every other scholarly discussion.16 While this idiosyncrasy has been overcome in the case of Ruthwell and Bewcastle, it has not necessarily been overcome in all instances when considering the Insular world in broader terms. Fred Orton likewise published a critical commentary highlighting his frustration with the methodologies adopted by contemporary scholarship

12 Richard N. Bailey, ‘The Chronology of Viking-Age Sculpture in Northumbria’, AngloSaxon and Viking Age Sculpture and its Context, ed. James Lang, BAR British Series 49 (Oxford, 1978), pp. 173–203, at 175. 13 Richard N. Bailey, ‘Aspects of Viking Age Sculpture in Cumbria’, The Scandinavians in Cumbria, ed. James R. Baldwin and Ian D. Whyte (Edinburgh, 1985), pp. 53–64, at 55. 14 Corpus of Anglo Saxon Stone Sculpture, 12 vols (to date), Rosemary Cramp (senior editor) and Derek Craig (series editor) (Oxford). 15 The Corpus of Anglo Saxon Stone Sculpture has been funded by the Headley Trust, part of the Sainsbury Family Charitable Trusts, and by the British Academy, with additional funding from the Pilgrim Trust, the Arts and Humanities Research Council, and Durham University. 16 See the ‘General Introduction’ in Richard N. Bailey and Rosemary Cramp, Cumberland, Westmorland and Lancashire North-of-the-Sands, CASSS 2 (Oxford, 1988); Raymond I. Page and David L. Schofield in James Lang, York and Eastern Yorkshire, CASSS 3 (Oxford, 1991); see also John Higgitt in the same volume; and John R. Senior’s review, Speculum, 68.2 (1993), 473–6.

The Problem of Man

of early medieval sculpture, arguing that the study of individual monuments is severely compromised by the desire to catalogue and taxonomise.17 He suggested that: theoretically and methodologically [… the CASSS] is committed to seeing and describing similarities of form (monument type), decorative elements or ornamentation (motifs, patterns), techniques of carving (modelled, humped, grooved, incised) and with tabulating those similarities according to an obvious and universal mode.18

He argued that this tabulation and classification belonged to a classical or antiquarian age, and prevented the study of the individual monuments as discrete, unique, and ‘intentional’ pieces. While his argument highlights the potential for methodological pitfalls through the practice of cataloguing, I would argue that these do not justify its abandonment or warrant such robust denouncement. Further, it should be noted that these challenges are matched by equivalent difficulties in geographic regions that lack a thorough catalogue. This viewpoint is nothing more than an echo and an affirmation of Richard Bailey’s response to Orton, in which he stated ‘I would not think it unreasonable to claim that the study of one monument might be enhanced by awareness of others [… the CASSS’] main purpose is […] making the material available to other scholars who can then exploit it for their various purposes’.19 I would like to suggest that while these challenges are presented by the Corpus of Anglo Saxon Stone Sculpture and other like corpora, they are just as much a result of our shortcomings as scholars for not actively addressing them consistently and persistently in work on early medieval sculpture, particularly the arbitrary geographic divisions created by this format. As works such as A Corpus of Early Medieval Inscribed Stones and Stone Sculpture in Wales20 have come to completion for other regions, there now exist varying catalogues, handlists of inscriptions, and inventories that are available to scholars to begin more exhaustive comparative studies.21 As such, we would be remiss if we did not actively seek to redress the Fred Orton, ‘Northumbrian Sculpture (the Ruthwell and Bewcastle Monuments): Questions of Difference’, Northumbria’s Golden Age, ed. Jane Hawkes and Susan Mills (Stroud, 1999), pp. 216–26; Fred Orton, ‘Rethinking the Ruthwell and Bewcastle Monuments: Some Strictures on Similarity; Some Questions of History’, Theorizing AngloSaxon Stone Sculpture, ed. Catherine Karkov and Fred Orton (Morgantown, WV, 2003), pp. 65–92. 18 Fred Orton, ‘Rethinking the Ruthwell and Bewcastle Monuments’, pp. 66. 19 Richard N. Bailey, ‘“Innocent from the Great Offence”’, Theorizing Anglo-Saxon Stone Sculpture, ed. Catherine Karkov and Fred Orton (Morgantown, WV, 2003), pp. 93–103. 20 Mark Redknap, John M. Lewis, and Nancy Edwards, A Corpus of Early Medieval Inscribed Stones and Stone Sculpture in Wales, 3 vols (Bangor, 2007–13). 21 E.g. J. Romilly Allen and Joseph Anderson, Early Christian Monuments of Scotland (Edinburgh, 1903); Peter Harbison, The High Crosses of Ireland: An Iconographical and Photographic Survey (Berlin, 1992); Elisabeth Okasha, Hand-List of Anglo-Saxon Non-Runic Inscriptions (Cambridge, 1971). 17

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limitations of these individual corpora and engage with works across geographic and scholarly boundaries, in order to fully address the wider early medieval corpus of stone sculpture. Sculpture is continually divided, albeit sometimes usefully. James Lang, for example, suggested in his Jarrow lecture that the differing sculptures of Yorkshire and the Northern-most counties reflected a divide of stylistic distinction, reflecting the boundaries of the Deiran and Bernician kingdoms.22 Though there have been other studies such as Lang’s that go beyond the bounds of the CASSS, this needs to be taken still further. Insular monumental sculpture may be more profitably addressed as a complete corpus: the practice of looking beyond regional idiosyncrasies, and beyond the effects of one sculpture on another, in order to consider the manner in which sculpture developed as a distinct artistic discipline, needs to become a mainstay of scholarly engagement with these works. One could, for example, imagine a type of scholarship that looks not just at England, or Ireland, or Scotland, or Wales, and a scholarship that is concerned neither with who influenced whom, nor with the comparative sophistication of artistic traditions. If such a scholarship is imagined, then the whole corpus may be considered not as a collection of individual objects, but as a complex artistic body in its own right. However, in order to do this, we must also challenge the notion that making a distinction between Saxon, Welsh, Anglian, Pictish, Viking, AngloScandinavian, Manx, Irish, and Hiberno-Norse (among others) is necessarily detrimental to the manner in which we examine early medieval sculpture.23 Various influences on certain crosses have long been recognised. For example, it was first noted by the antiquarian scholar W. G. Collingwood that the Leeds Cross shows a mixture of influences, a conclusion later supported by James Lang’s statement that ‘[the Leeds Cross] drew upon a mixture of stylistic traditions; importing Irish manuscript traditions for the saints, Anglian vine scrolls, and even Scandinavian heroic epics for its lowest panels’.24 This awareness of a multiplicity of influences on a single cross is maintained in contemporary scholarship, as recognised by the work of Lila Kópar and Robert Halstead.25 However, what is not always noted is how sites that display these multiple styles presented this material, a lacuna emphasised by the diversity of Insular stone sculpture.

22 James Lang, The Anglian Sculpture of Deira: The Classical Tradition, Jarrow Lecture 1990 (Jarrow, 1990). 23 I am not arguing that there are no defining features of regional styles, or that there is no reason to seek these distinctions, but I do wish to suggest that in certain instances they may not ultimately help us to understand sculpture. 24 James Lang, ‘Continuity and Innovation in Anglo-Scandinavian Sculpture’, AngloSaxon and Viking Age Sculpture and its Context, ed. James Lang, BAR British Series 49 (1978), 145–72, at 146. 25 Lilla Kópar, Gods and Settlers: The Iconography of Norse Mythology in AngloScandinavian Sculpture (Turnhout, 2013); Robert Halstead, ‘The Stone Sculpture of AngloScandinavian Yorkshire in its Landscape Context’ (unpublished doctoral thesis, University of Leeds, 2016).

The Problem of Man

Having said this, it is important to note that this is not how the Manx crosses have been treated. The sculpture on Man is an extremely rich source for understanding the cultural significance of early medieval stone sculptures produced in the Irish Sea regions of Britain and Ireland in the ninth and tenth centuries. Furthermore, its scholarship provides insight into the historiographic problems that plague the study of the Insular early Middle Ages. These monuments have the potential to challenge prevalent assumptions about state formation and national and ethnic exceptionalism as they have developed in Britain and Ireland, instead encouraging investigation of the monuments’ function as symbols of secular, religious, and economic power within a culturally connected area.26 This allows for a nuanced narrative of cultural contact between the areas of ancient and modern northern Britain, Ireland, and the Isle of Man, which could promote greater understanding of shared materiality in this region. As noted, the sculpture on the Isle of Man, despite being culturally relevant to England, Ireland, and the wider Insular world, is often treated by scholars as an oddity or an exception. Individual pieces may be called upon to illustrate similarity, but the corpus is never treated in relation to the more heavily researched bodies of sculpture in Scotland, Ireland, or England. Man’s position outside any national narrative effectively makes it a no-man’s land. With the exception of Bailey, as discussed above, very few have paid attention to the sculpture on Man in relation to traditions elsewhere.27 The discipline in which Man features most prominently is that of Viking Studies, in which analysis of the runes and the Norse frequently characterises discussion of the sculpture, almost to the wilful exclusion of the monuments’ Christian nature. This is a widespread problem in Viking Studies, entrenched far more widely than in Manx scholarship alone. The earliest ecclesiastical foundations on Man are considered Irish, but unlike other satellite houses of the Irish Church, the foundations on Man are very rarely considered in the discussion of Christianity in the sixth to ninth centuries.28 While it might be argued that this is due to a lack of texts, as Man is mentioned only briefly in Irish and even more briefly in English texts before the first Manx text, the Chronicles of Man,29 this is not an entirely sufficient explanation.

This is the primary focus of my own postdoctoral research project, Sculpture in the Early Medieval Irish Sea c. 800–c. 1000: Interlacing Traditions, funded by the Leverhulme Trust 2018–21, hosted at Durham University. 27 Bailey, Viking Age Sculpture. 28 B. R. S. Megaw, ‘The Monastery of St Maughold’, Proceedings of the Isle of Man Natural History and Antiquarian Society, 5 (1950), 169–80. See also records for various Keeill sites in Proceedings of the Isle of Man Natural History and Antiquarian Society and its earlier imprint Yn Lioar Manninagh, e.g. P. M. C. Kermode, ‘Cronk Keeillane, in the Parish of German’, Proceedings of the Isle of Man Natural History and Antiquarian Society, 2 (1925), 467. 29 See Bede, Historia Ecclesiastica II.5; see also David Rollason, Northumbria, 500–1100: Creation and Destruction of a Kingdom (Cambridge, 2003), pp. 42–3. 26

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For the purposes of this discussion the Manx Chronicles are entirely unhelpful, as the first entry is for the year 1091, and they make no attempt to detail any local history.30 In addition to the fact that early Manx history is neither well documented nor much studied, the reasons why Man is seen as tangential or secondary in scholarship are complex. In terms of the archaeological study of the early Church, the only complete archaeological survey of the keeill (early chapel or church) sites was undertaken for five of the six sheadings (Man’s regional divisions) between 1908 and 1918, with the final sheading completed in 1968 (issued with a reprint of the original five surveys).31 This survey was undertaken by amateur archaeologists, and lacked full excavations at many of the sites. As such, it offers an under-informed understanding of the keeills as the find site for much of the sculptural material, its functions, and its dates. The lack of modern scholarship on the region and its sculpture arguably has more to do with recent history. Seeing this material as a regional and perhaps fringe ‘group’ has served to divorce its potential significance from that of the wider Insular world.32 Scholarship on Man begins (and in some ways ends) with P. M. C. Kermode, although an earlier foray into the study of the crosses and their runic inscriptions was made by J. G. Cumming in 1857.33 Kermode not only undertook the recording of the crosses in his book Manx Crosses, but was also responsible for the creation of the Archaeological Survey of the keeills, and the reports on the first five sheadings. Understanding Kermode’s passions, relationships, and circumstances is crucial to understanding his work and the resulting historiography of Manx crosses. Philip Moore Callow Kermode was born on the 21 March 1855, the son of Rev. William Kermode (1815–90) and his second wife, Jane, née Bishop (1818–58). Rev. Kermode had fourteen children from three wives and was twice widowed. Kermode himself never married. His closest sibling, Josephine Kermode, a Manx poet who wrote under the nom de plume ‘Cushag’, also remained unmarried, and ran his household. Unlike his brothers, who studied at Cambridge University, Kermode attended King William’s College in Castletown for some years before he was admitted to the Manx Bar in 1878 (aged twenty-three). He was Clerk to the Justices at Ramsey, until 30 The Chronicles of Man, digitised by the Manx Society: [accessed 1 February 2018]. 31 The Manx Archaeological Survey, A Re-issue of the First Five Reports (1909–1918): Keeills and Burial Grounds in the Sheadings of Glenfaba, Michael, Ayre, Garff and Middle Drawn up by P. M. C. Kermode (Glasgow, 1968); J. R. Bruce, The Manx Archaeological Survey, Sixth Report 1966: Keeills and Burial Grounds in the Sheading of Rushen (Glasgow, 1968). 32 Such assigned geographic taxonomy can be for reasons of funding, as in the case of the Corpus of Anglo-Saxon Stone Sculpture, or for more political reasons (such as the processes of heritage management in the varying regions of the modern Insular world), or as a consequence of national identities and the perceived origins of state formation. 33 Joseph George Cumming, The Runic and Other Monumental Remains of the Isle of Man (London, 1857).

The Problem of Man

becoming curator of the Manx Museum, which he founded in 1922. He was also the founder of the Isle of Man Natural History and Antiquarian Society in 1879, and a member of the Ancient Monuments Trust for the island. He was elected fellow of the Society of Antiquaries in Scotland in 1889, and became a foreign member of the Norwegian Academy of Sciences, though he never became a Fellow of the Society of Antiquaries in London, despite being the local secretary to the Society for Man. He was awarded an honorary MA from the University of Liverpool in 1929 and was an honorary corresponding member of the Viking Society for Northern Research.34 Kermode pursued his interests as an amateur archaeologist and historian whilst working full-time as Clerk to the Justices at Ramsey. When Kermode’s father died in 1890, Kermode, who was then thirty-five, designed a monument based one of the Manx crosses to be carved by Mr T. H. Royston for a memorial at Kirk Maughold. It was still unfinished when war broke out in 1914, during which Man became an instrumental naval base and, unlike Ireland, was fully committed to the British Army. When the people of Ramsey decided to erect a war memorial in 1919, an arrangement was made to take over the Kermode memorial for that purpose. Kermode also designed a national war memorial for Man, which was then erected at Tynwald, the ancient parliamentary site. These two memorials are good representations of how early medieval sculptures formed the basis of an upsurge in cultural patriotism on Man, and demonstrate how the form of these monuments and the study of their earlier counterparts became part of the national patriotic identity of the Isle of Man, through Kermode’s agency.35 Kermode’s interest in the history of Man and the early medieval crosses was a lifelong fixation, and a marked part of his identity as a Manxman. Kermode was explicit about his desire for a Manx corpus. In his own words, in a letter that began a public spat with a distinguished Icelandic scholar, Kermode writes: Permit me, as a Manxman and a student of our many interesting antiquities, to express the thanks of myself and fellowcountrymen, which will be shared I feel sure by all antiquaries and scholars, for Dr. Vigfusson’s valuable contribution on the subject of our inscriptions which appeared in The Manx Note Book, No. 9, January, 1887. Though I could not presume to set my opinion against that of so well-known a runic scholar in a question of the grammar or translation, I may fairly claim to David Wilson, ‘Philip Kermode and Manx Crosses: Ninety Years On’, in the reprinted edition of Kermode, Manx Crosses (Balgavies, Angus, 1994); see also [accessed 1 February 2018]. 35 Martin Faragher, ‘Cultural History: Architecture, Sculpture and Photography’, A New History of the Isle of Man: The Modern Period, 1830–1999, ed. John Belchman (Liverpool, 2000), pp. 364–75, at 370. 34

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do so in the reading of the runic characters of our inscriptions. I have lately devoted considerable time and attention to the subject, and, being a resident in the Island, I have many opportunities of examining the stones themselves. […] I am sorry to have had to differ from Dr. Vigfusson in many particulars, and cheerfully acknowledge our great indebtedness to him for much that is valuable in his interesting article. The fact of such an expert having fallen into error only shows how difficult our inscriptions are to decipher.36

Here Kermode clearly feels that his position as a Manxman and his personal experience of the stones are not only pertinent, but grant him greater authority than the detailed study of other scholars. Further, he refers to ‘our inscriptions’ as a distinct category, indicating ownership of the inscriptions by himself and his ‘fellow-countrymen’ in terms that reflect patriotic or nationalistic attitudes towards the medieval past. He continues, resolute in his opinion that illustration of the crosses is necessary in order for their significance to be understood outside the Isle of Man: It confirms me also in the opinion that antiquaries and scholars, who may be unfortunately unable to see the actual crosses for themselves, will only be satisfied of the correctness of the readings when they see them reproduced without the possibility of error. This I am in hopes of being able before very long to do in a work illustrated by one of the new photographic processes, and having a separate large-sized plate for each face and inscription of every cross. The possibility of mistaken readings, or even of artist’s or engraver’s errors, will be thus avoided.37

Guðbrandur Vigfússon returned to the island some years later and met with Kermode, when they apparently resolved their differences. This letter appeared thirty years before Kermode published The Manx Crosses in 1907, a volume that was fully in keeping with the efforts of his contemporaries, yet also in many ways pioneering. He was in regular correspondence with a number of well-known scholars who influenced his work, including W. G. Collingwood, who published a work on the Northumbrian Crosses of the Pre-Norman Age in 1927. The Manx and Cumberland and Westmorland Societies, of which Collingwood was a member, had cordial relations and arranged excursions together in both

Manx Notebook, 3 (1887), 82–4, published digitally by the Manx Society: [accessed 1 February 2018]. 37 Manx Notebook, 3 (1887), 82–4; this is quoted in part by David Wilson, ‘Philip Kermode’, p. xiv. Wilson consolidated much of this bibliographic information, which is rehearsed here in order to argue further intent in the wider practice of taxonomising sculpture. 36

The Problem of Man

regions.38 In Collingwood’s final letters to Kermode he thanked him for arranging a trip (that he was unable to attend due to his poor health), and suggested that he might visit the following year. Sadly, this was not to happen; both men died within the space of a month in 1932.39 Kermode was also in contact with J. Romilly Allen, who together with Joseph Anderson published Early Christian Monuments of Scotland in 1903, and who championed Kermode within the Society of Antiquaries in Scotland.40 He also collaborated with A. G. Langdon, who published Old Cornish Crosses in 1896.41 Another notable scholar of the period with whom Kermode was in contact was George Forest Brown, who had visited the Isle of Man in 1890 to study the crosses.42 Kermode would later provide him with drawings that were used as basic illustrations for his Cambridge Lectures.43 Brown and Allen’s interpretations of the supposed Sigurðr Fáfnisbani scene on Andreas 95 encouraged Kermode to pursue an iconographical interpretation of the Manx crosses in the preface to his Manx Crosses.44 The book was privately published by Bemrose, steered by the collegial advice of Allen, who made several suggestions concerning the publication.45 Bemrose quoted £291.10 for 400 copies, and the book appeared the following year after several discussions with the publisher.46 The collected correspondence about the book and its publication hints at the significant financial undertaking it entailed, and the seemingly well-known financial stress that weighed upon Kermode. This lack of funds is also echoed more widely in the Isle of Man Natural History and Antiquarian Society proceedings, in relation both to the book, and to the subsequent archeological work undertaken by Kermode and others. While Kermode was unable to realise his original intention of photographic reproduction of all the sculpture on Man, his book is unique in that each stone is illustrated. The title page of the book states that it is: Fully illustrated from drawings of the Crosses specially prepared by the Author founded upon rubbings, and carefully compared Wilson, ‘Philip Kermode’, p. xv. See also the record of excursions in, for example, Proceedings of the Natural History and Antiquarian Society, 2 (1906–15), 88–97. 39 The final correspondence preserved in the Manx National Archives between the two men discusses a proposed future trip of the Westmorland Society. 40 All of Kermode’s existing correspondence is held in the Manx National Archives in the uncatalogued Kermode Collection. I would like to thank Wendy Thirkettle for her generosity and time in allowing me access to this material, and for her assistance in navigating it. 41 Wilson, ‘Philip Kermode’, p. xv. 42 I am grateful to Jane Hawkes for discussing her forthcoming research into George Forrest Brown, W. G. Collingwood, and other early scholars of early medieval sculpture with me; this has provided helpful insights for my own work on Manx sculpture. 43 Correspondence, dated 3 October 1887, preserved in the Manx National Archives. 44 Kermode, Manx Crosses, vii. 45 Including how to secure subscribers before publication, and where to publish articles in order to generate interest, among other things. Uncatalogued correspondence dated 1901, Manx National Archives. 46 Uncatalogued invoice and correspondence, Manx National Archives. 38

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with photographs and with the stones themselves; beside numerous figures in outline and a map showing distribution of the monuments.47

Kermode states in his preface that: For illustrations I had intended to rely on photographs, which in the case of small and well-preserved pieces would have been satisfactory enough, but in a far greater number of cases no single photograph could show the details of involved patterns with clearness and precision, nor would they enable the ordinary reader to recognize the designs greatly weathered or worn. The stones being warped, and their surfaces roughened and cracked by the weather, the focus and the light required to bring out one portion with clearness would not exhibit other details of equal importance, and I found that nothing could be better for this purpose than careful drawings.48

Kermode’s collected materials and correspondence reveal that he worked with rubbings, casts, drawings, and photographs, in addition to which he borrowed woodcut blocks from Collingwood’s Crosses of Carlisle for comparative material, as well as illustrative blocks from the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland.49 Kermode’s predominant interest in the sculpture was their inscriptions, though due to his lack of expertise with Scandinavian languages these initial forays have since been overtaken by the work of modern specialists, such as Ray Page.50 However, his interpretation of the iconography of the sculptures, as encouraged by Brown and Allen, has so far been the most in-depth art-historical study of the crosses. While this is his greatest legacy by far, Kermode did not consider it his strength, and he was seemingly unaware of contemporary works on Scandinavian art styles, never referring to metalwork styles or exploring how these styles arrived in the Isle of Man, as others such as Bailey or James GrahamCampbell have done in more recent scholarship.51 Despite the importance of his work, his system of cataloguing leaves something to be desired, not least because he chose to arrange the monuments chronologically in pre-Scandinavian and Scandinavian categories, starting with works he thought to be earliest and continuing onwards (although curiously never assigning dates to any of the stones), which has caused obvious problems when any additional material is found. The major issue remains that, after

Kermode, Manx Crosses, title page. Kermode, Manx Crosses, p. viii. 49 Wilson, ‘Philip Kermode’; see also his uncatalogued correspondence, Manx National Archives. 50 R. I. Page, ‘The Manx Rune-Stones’, Runes and Runic Inscriptions, ed. David Parsons (Woodbridge, 1995). 51 Bailey, Viking Age Sculpture; James Graham-Campbell, Viking Art (London, 2013). 47

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the publication of the book, he renumbered the entire corpus during his time as the first curator of the Manx Museum. This renumbering was not fully published until David Wilson’s recent handlist, and Kermode himself never explained the new rationale.52 When more material was found on Man, Kermode published these additions in articles or notices with the Viking Society for Northern Research or the Proceedings of the Natural History and Antiquarian Society of the Isle of Man, sometimes using the new numbering system of the Manx Museum, but sometimes without any numbers assigned at all. This raises questions about the manner in which Kermode thought the book was to be used, and how he conceived of its relationship with the work of his contemporaries. Some answers may be found in its dedication: to the Manx People this account of a class of monuments in which the isle of Man is peculiarly rich – many of them our only contemporary records of the early Christian period, many of great artistic merit, and all the handiwork of our own Celtic and Scandinavian forefathers – is respectfully dedicated by the author.53

Kermode was passionate about the preservation of this material, not simply in the form of his book; he also desired the heritage of Man to be afforded the status of a national collection. In the year his book went to press he went to Tynwald to encourage the preservation of the monuments, a fact he includes in its preface. In that year the Tynwald Court gave the sum of £250 of revenue, which enabled the Manx Museum (which had not yet opened, and would not do so until 1922) and Ancient Monuments trustees to have the crosses collected in their respective parishes and placed under cover so that they could be readily accessible.54 Kermode continued his work with this material, designing several cross shelters, only one of

This is substantiated by the fact that when the museum opened many of the crosses had new numbers, which are the numbers that were later affixed to the crosses in bronze disks. The renumbering is already evident in Kermode’s article ‘Cross-Slabs Recently Found in the Isle of Man’, Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland, 46 (1911), 53–76, in which he numbered the new finds 1–6, with mentions of ‘MM’ numbers. These refer to the Manx Museum numbers even though this article is dated eleven years before the official opening of the museum, which was delayed by the First World War. Further, some of the pages of Kermode’s own copy of Manx Crosses have new numbers written in pencil in the author’s hand in the margins. It is unclear whether he intended to publish a second edition using these notes, or if they were made for his own benefit during his time as head curator at the museum. Ross Trench-Jellico notes that the official Manx Museum numbers were not introduced until 1928, when compiling a concordance in Appendix H of Manx Crosses 1994, p. 41. However, as noted, the MM numbers were demonstrably being used in some form in 1911. My thanks again to Wendy Thirkettle for her knowledge of the Kermode archives, and for pointing me in the direction of this research. 53 Kermode, Manx Crosses, dedication. 54 Kermode, Manx Crosses, p. x; see further, Ann Harrison, ‘Associational Culture’, A New History of the Isle of Man: The Modern Period, 1830–1999, ed. John Belchman (Liverpool, 2000), pp. 393–405, at 400. 52

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which is realised – in Maughold, his own parish, where he is buried.55 For Kermode, the catalogue of Manx crosses was inextricably connected with the idea of a national museum and the identity of the Manxmen. This regional distinction arguably created an exaggerated assertion of difference – one which has had lasting ramifications for the study of this sculpture in its wider Insular contexts. It is in this detail that one can see Kermode’s desire to equate his home and its antiquities with the comparable sculpture around the Insular world, and for it to be it celebrated as central to the study of the early medieval period. The investment of Collingwood, Allen, and many others, alongside Kermode’s scholarship, validated its importance and relevance to the narrative of the early medieval Insular world. Yet despite this early scholarship and interest, the study of the Manx crosses has not remained within the central discourse of Early Medieval sculpture. This might be attributed to various factors, including the lack of a university on Man to promote investment in local scholarship (although the University of Liverpool has had a longstanding relationship with the Isle of Man), and indeed the rarity of Kermode’s book, which was made more accessible only by its reprint in 1997 with an introduction by David Wilson.56 Despite the plausibility of these factors, I would like to suggest that the lack of focus on Manx sculpture may have more to do with identity. Kermode is, as he says, a Manxman. Like Collingwood, he celebrates regionalism in his treatment of the monuments, and his personal association provides the impetus for his investigation. It may be for this reason that when a non-native person studied this material it was regarded as the exception; Allen, who was not Scottish, is thus called Sassenach (seemingly affectionately) in historiographical accounts of Scottish material from the period.57 These nationalistic forms of study might originate in laudable patriotic beginnings, but necessarily result in dividing the region along modern or received boundaries. In his dedication Kermode states that the Manx forefathers were Celtic or Scandinavian, but certainly not English or Scottish, although many of his comparative examples come from England and Scotland, and for much of Man’s history this has been the established relationship. This, I would suggest, has more to do with later histories than anything inherent to the Early Medieval ages. As scholars have long acknowledged, the larger study of this early period is coloured by the political overtones of empire and independence. This is exemplified by arguments surrounding the 55 Drawings for several possible churchyard shelters can be found in the Kermode Archives, including detailed plans for Kirk Andreas that were never realised (7 April 2017). 56 Wilson, ‘Philip Kermode and Manx Crosses’, pp. xii–xx. 57 Isobel Henderson, ‘Introduction’ in the reprinted edition of J. Romilly Allen and Joseph Anderson, Early Christian Monuments of Scotland (Edinburgh, 1903; reprint, Balgavies, Angus, 1993), p. ii.

The Problem of Man

origins of the so-called ‘Celtic’ manuscripts, or the foundation of Scottish identity in association with the Picts providing an identity independent of England.58 Despite associating the ‘Irish Church’ with sites like Maughold, Kermode does not emphasise the relationship between Irish and Manx crosses, and does not extend discussion of the sculpture as deriving from a tradition outside the Isle of Man. For example, he seems not to have had any correspondence with scholars working on Irish sculptural material, despite acknowledging the close history of these stones, and he certainly appears unaware of the pioneering work of Margaret Stokes, who published The High Crosses of Castledermot and Durrow in 1898 with the Royal Irish Academy and was working (at the time of her death) on a book on The High Crosses of Ireland.59 Kermode describes an inherent ‘Celtic’ aspect to Manx sculpture, but due to his lack of familiarity with or lack of interest in the relationships between Man and Ireland, there is very little attempt at comparative research between the two regions. However, with Irish independence looming, this might be attributed to the emergence of scholarship arguing for difference between the sculptural traditions of Ireland and England (and to a lesser extent Scotland), and the increasingly nationalistic treatment of ‘Celtic’ art.60 The story of Man does not readily fit these narratives and, in hindsight, seems ignored in scholarship largely shaped by these nationalistic debates. The island loses its significance as a central place within the Irish Sea region, and thus its shared iconographies, multilingualism, and the several ecclesiastic foundations to its name are overlooked. Due to their lack of later medieval prominence, early texts and centres were lost as the importance of the Irish Sea diminished. While Kermode utilised the trend in nationalistic research to bring prominence to Man, he did so in order to equate the materials with, and seek their recognition as a part of, the traditions that surrounded him. It was only through the violence of the First World War and the partition of the island of Ireland that this tradition was taken up and used to divide two nations. As a result, Man lost any potential significance as an intermediary. The narrative that Manx sculpture provides was not See Maggie M. Williams, Icons of Irishness from the Middle Ages to the Modern World (Basingstoke, 2012) p. 12; Bernard Wailes and Amy L. Zoll, ‘Civilisation, Barbarism and Nationalism in European Archeology’, Nationalism, Politics and the Practice of Archaeology, ed. Philip Kohl (Cambridge, 1995), pp. 21–38, at 31–4. 59 Kermode does have some Irish correspondence preserved in the Manx Archives, particularly with the National Museum of Ireland. Indeed, after the publication of Manx Crosses, he hosted a delegation of the Royal Society of Antiquaries of Ireland on a visit to the Isle of Man on the 4 July 1910, and then participated in a reciprocal visit 7–11 August 1911. At this time he saw Downpatrick and Armagh among other sites, but none of his later work highlights these experiences. See further, Proceedings and Transactions of the Isle of Man Natural History and Antiquarian Society, new ser. 1–9 (published May 1915), p. 307; ‘Proceedings’, Journal for the Royal Society of Antiquaries of Ireland, 6th ser. 1.3 (1911), 284–300, at 286. 60 See Julia Farley and Martin Fraser, Celts: Art and Identity (London and Edinburgh, 2015). 58

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convenient to narratives of independence or superiority, and was thus ignored, whether intentionally or not. The early tendencies to celebrate nationality, together with Kermode’s desire to equate the local materiality with that of other regions, and the work of colleagues he so admired, had the unforeseeable consequence of isolating these areas of research during periods of conflict and desired independence. Kermode succeeded in creating a national museum and a national corpus for what is, in a sense, a nation-less place. Returning to the monuments themselves, the sculpture on Man is distinctive in many ways, though strong influences have been attributed to Scandinavia, Ireland, and Cumbria. Geologically speaking, most of the sculpture is carved in slate, which is not common anywhere else in the region, or in shale, which can be found both on Man and in Western Scotland and the Hebridean islands. Man is very fortunate to have numerous inscriptions in Runic, Ogham, and Latin scripts. In most cases the sculpture has little or no context, having been found either at parish churches, in keeill sites, or in drystone walls around the island. Historically, when a sculpture was found within a parish boundary, it was taken to the parish church, so a current church collection does not necessarily designate a group or relationship. The sculpture is extremely worn and fragmentary, and thus the Manx corpus exemplifies many of the issues of sculptural studies in this period. The dating, following Kermode’s first numbering system, is founded on general stylistic and influential features that have been fitted into a broad historical narrative, itself pieced together from textual sources that are geographically unrelated, and sometimes temporally problematic.61 Crosses that are deemed to have Scandinavian or Viking influence are all too often pushed and prodded by scholars to provide a Scandinavian reading. Some lend themselves easily to such a reading; the Andreas stone (Fig. 8.1), for example, shows a figure with a raven being swallowed by a wolf and finds an easy identification with Odin being swallowed by the wolf Fenrir, though this is not universally accepted.62 However, whilst it is frequently argued that the stone often called Thor’s Cross (Fig. 8.2) depicts Thor, this identification is problematic.63 It relies on identifying an object

61 For the purposes of this article, I will be numbering the Manx crosses according to the precedent set by Wilson, The Vikings in the Isle of Man, which uses the Manx Museum number or (MM number), but for clarity puts the number from Kermode, Manx Crosses, in brackets following where applicable. A full concordance of the numbering systems can be found for those sculptures included in the 1907 edition, compiled by Ross Trench-Jellico in Appendix H of the reprint of Kermode, Manx Crosses. 62 Kirk Andreas 128 (102). Alternative readings of this monument have been proposed and discussed in workshops associated with the AHRC-funded Language Myths and Finds project and the Runes, Monuments and Memorial Carving Network which, while unpublished, require recognition here, particularly to acknowledge the many discussions I have had with Victoria Thompson on this topic. 63 Bride 124 (97); see Kermode, Manx Crosses, pp. 180–5.

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FIG. 8.1 ​IOM ANDREAS 128 (102), NINTH TO ELEVENTH CENTURY.

in his hand as a bull’s head (in accordance with a much later text) and on comparison with a much clearer stone from Gosforth (which depicts a different aspect of this narrative). This logic is circular; the figure is identified not by what is seen on the stone but by what might be logically associated with the figure, if identified with an object that in itself is not identifiable. Many of the identifications follow Kermode’s initial foray into the study of iconography. He produced a series of rubbings from which he made drawings, though due to the deterioration of the sculptures in the intervening years, it is difficult to determine the extent to which his drawings were embellished to include details from known narratives that

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FIG. 8.2 ​IOM BRIDE 124 (97), NINTH TO ELEVENTH CENTURY.

would confirm his iconographic identifications.64 One example of this is the so-called figure of Heimdallr on Jurby 127 (99) (Fig. 8.3), for which Kermode’s drawing includes a bird. There is no bird to be found on the stone as it exists in Jurby parish church today, almost certainly due to the fact that an iron bracket has been added. The slate, due to its natural foliation, is prone to shearing. Historic photographs indicate that when Kermode was studying the piece the bracket was absent; his rubbings show a raised feature, though not necessarily a bird. However, a rubbing of a cast produced by Cummings, held at the time in the collection of 64

See also discussion by Boulton elsewhere in this volume, pp. 217–34.

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FIG. 8.3 ​IOM JURBY 127 (99), NINTH TO ELEVENTH CENTURY.

Manx antiquities temporarily housed in Castle Rushen (which eventually became the collection of the national museum), does preserve the bird and hat of the figure (Fig. 8.4).65 For Kermode, the narrative pull of Norse mythology allowed him to make an identification without hesitation. The figure of Heimdallr is not associated with a bird, but for Kermode the bird (or raven, as Kermode supposes) indicated that the scene was Scandinavian. He suggested that Both photographs and Kermode’s rubbings and drawings can be found in the Manx Archives; it is unclear if the cast itself survives, as it is not on current display, but research into these casts and their current whereabouts is being undertaken by Sally Foster.

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FIG. 8.4 ​IOM JURBY 127 (99), NINTH TO ELEVENTH CENTURY, RUBBING FROM THE MANX MUSEUM.

‘the raven flies before him carrying the tidings of Odin’, and that the figure must thus be Heimdallr because of the banner or horn protruding from the mouth.66 However, this identification is not clear, and there are many alternative Christian parallels, such as figures of the Evangelists or scrolls of text in the Lindisfarne Gospels. This could also explain the bird. Wilson has suggested that this figure could also be read as the archangel Michael, referencing I Corinthians 52. Although Kermode does not record any find spot for this slab, the associations with Michael could be further substantiated by the many presumed early dedications to Michael on the Isle of Man. Further to this, the parish of Jurby resides in the sheading of Michael, though the dating of this association is very unclear. Without further examination of the context of the stone, and an in-depth study of the iconography, either identification is merely a suggestion. There is, 66

Kermode, Manx Crosses, p. 188.

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however, arguably a stronger case for Christian iconography. The stone is a cross with a Christian context, and there is an Insular tradition of depicting Evangelists in this manner. The presence of angels above the cross arm is also found on the Crucifixion scene at Michael 129 (101), as well as in many Scottish examples.67 By contrast, the text of the Poetic Edda used to identify the figure as Heimdallr is geographically and temporally distant from the genesis of this sculpture. The identification is primarily sought to give a ‘pagan’ reading to this sculpted piece, which can be stylistically associated with a phase of Scandinavian influence. Thomas DuBois summarised the similarly problematic viewing of later saga materials by scholars, noting that: ‘the Christian agendas and aesthetics of the saga writers themselves often came to be seen as a problem: a “layer” or “colouring” that had to be removed in the pursuit of the true essence of paganism’.68 This attitude is often applied to the sculpture of the Isle of Man. Rather than seeing these objects within their Insular or even regional context, they are first and foremost considered ‘other’. This presents problems of the sort considered by Sue Margeson in relation to Sigurd imagery found on sculptures on the Isle of Man and elsewhere.69 Similarly problematic is the often uni-directional approach that scholars take to comparing Manx sculpture with that of its neighbouring regions, looking outwards from Iona as a source of influence, rather than considering the two in a more cohesive manner. The connections between these carved stones may indicate a more complex relationship than has so far been recognised by scholars, and the potential relationship between the Isle of Man and Iona offers a good example. The relics of St Columba were removed from Iona in 849, leading to a gap in the historical record that has required much historical knowledge to be gleaned from sources such as Orkneyinga saga,70 which suggests a potential relationship between Iona and Man through a loosely defined kingdom. It must be stated that the earlier foundations, such as those at Maughold, are dated to the seventh century and are noted to be Irish in their characteristics, but given the ahistorical nature of the early record of Man, and the inconclusive nature of the archaeological survey, there is no clear relationship between the two.71 Whilst the importance and proximity of Iona in the seventh century (and throughout the early medieval period) offer the potential for a relationship at any point, the later sculptural evidence between the two islands presents more questions than answers.

Cf. Glamis 1 and Benvie. See Romilly Allen and Anderson, Early Christian Monuments of Scotland, p. 221 and p. 247, respectively. 68 Thomas A. DuBois, Nordic Religions in the Viking Age (Philadelphia, PA, 1999), p. 174. 69 Sue Margeson, ‘On the Iconography of the Manx Crosses’, The Viking Age in the Isle of Man, Selection of Papers from the Ninth Viking Congress, Isle of Man, 4–14 July 1981, ed. Christine Fell et al. (London, 1982), pp. 95–106. 70 Woolf, ‘The Age of Sea-Kings’. 71 Megaw, ‘The Monastery of St Maughold’. 67

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FIG. 8.5 ​IONA, NO. 94, NINTH TO ELEVENTH CENTURY.

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The Royal Commission on the Ancient and Historical Monuments of Scotland’s inventory for Iona, while brief in its descriptions, identifies a handful of potential connections to Manx sculpture.72 No. 94 (Fig. 8.5) is of a shaley sandstone that geologically can be matched to the Isle of Man.73 This stone is not only geologically from Man but also can be linked stylistically to Man. The fragmented cross head is entirely non-figural. On one face it has straight fretwork, while the other side bears interlaced knotwork. The ring head, only visible in part on side b, presents geometric patterning, which the inventory identifies as being similar to Maughold 97 (66) and Maughold 114 (91). No. 95 (Fig 8.6) has also been suggested to have Manx connections, but it is unclear whether this is due to the relationship with other ‘Scandinavian’ stones, or because its iconography includes a carved ship. It is not of the same Manx geological material, but rather black shale, which can be sourced either from Man or more locally. This stone has been argued to have stylistic parallels to the Isle of Man, which the RCAHMS inventory described as being “Manx in feeling”, and comparable to Kirk Michael 117 (89).74 Equally, there are many aspects that have led to parallels being drawn with the Cumbrian and Yorkshire schools of Viking Age carving, in particular examples such as the Halton Cross or the Leeds Cross, due to the shared presence of smith’s tools and the association with the Weyland scenes on all these

Argyll: An Inventory of the Monuments, vol. 4: Iona, Royal Commission on the Ancient and Historical Monuments of Scotland (Edinburgh, 1982). Note that the numbers in the RCAHMS inventory are not the same as the numbers used by the Abbey Museum; for the purposes of this discussion I have used the RCAHMS numbers to correspond with the descriptions discussed here. 73 Iona, RCAHMS, p. 212. 74 Iona, RCAHMS, p. 213. 72

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FIG. 8.6 ​IONA, NO. 95, NINTH TO ELEVENTH CENTURY.

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stones.75 The inventory identifies similarity with the Ryedale area, without naming any particular crosses, but one might assume that it is referring to Nunburnholme or Middleton, given their associations with Halton and Leeds, as well as the likeness of the depiction of weapons at Middleton to the depiction of tools.76 Due to the presence of the ship, which has no direct Insular parallel, associations have also been made further afield to the Gotlandic picture stones.77 While all of this is ripe for study in itself, its relevance to this discussion is the fact that the study of these stones has often been limited to comparisons within the RCAHMS volumes. Conversely, these issues are not mentioned in the CASSS volumes, and none of these stones are mentioned when studying the sculpture of the Isle of Man. This problem has much to do with how we conceptualise the boundaries of the early medieval period, and the way in which these examples are taken out of their early medieval context and placed within geographically limited studies. In its form, the Manx sculpture is very traditional: all form slab crosses, and many bear traditional and formulaic inscriptions. Why is it that these sculptures are not placed within a tradition of sculpting that is native to Man? Perhaps in comparing the earlier Irish or Celtic crosses to the development of the inscribed crosses that are associated with the ‘Viking Age’ we can see that, while different in style, they have much in common. Stylistic influences potentially shared between Cumbria and the Isle of Man are often noted – particularly in the case of the so-called Borre Ring Chain motif, although this is thought to have originated independently in the two regions, as its application to stone differs significantly.78 However, the influence of the earliest sculpted stones of Man is often ignored. The antiquarian scholarship to which Kermode dedicated his life is plagued by accusations of amateurism and common perceptions of local history, while arguments surrounding regionality confirm and reaffirm received nationalist narratives. Perhaps in addressing these multiple influences these sculptures will find their rightful place in a wider Insular context, connected by the early Church and their shared materiality, and, in turn, the Insular world can be examined as a connected region.

75 See ‘Halton St Wilfrid 1’, in Richard N. Bailey, Cheshire and Lancashire, CASSS 9 (Oxford, 2010), pp. 177–83; Elizabeth Coatsworth, ‘Leeds 1’, Western Yorkshire, CASSS 8 (Oxford, 1991), p. 201. 76 See ‘Nunburnholme 1’ in Lang, CASSS 3, pp. 192–3; and ‘Middleton 1’ in Lang, CASSS 3, p. 184. 77 Iona, RCAHMS, 213; see note 92, p 278. 78 See Coatsworth, CASSS 8, p. 108; Bailey, Viking Age Sculpture, p. 130.

GLASS BEADS: PRODUCTION AND DECORATIVE MOTIFS MAGS MANNION 1

G

lass beads are undoubtedly some of the most colourful and visually stunning archaeological objects surviving from the past. However, they are much more than just objects of display, and their enduring appeal is as much a reflection of their symbolic qualities as it is of their aesthetic charms. Glass is produced from quite ordinary ingredients (sand, lime, and soda), yet once combined and heated the mix transforms into a malleable substance which, when reheated, alters from a solid to a fluid state allowing it to be manipulated and worked into different shapes. By adding specific chemicals, the glass can be rendered translucent, opaque, or transparent, and produced in a range of colours. The inherent workability of glass permits a level of creativity that it would seem is checked only by the skill and imagination of the artisan. The result is a multitude of unique objects of exotic and ethereal colours combining decorative motifs of cables, trails, waves, dots, and ‘eyes’ interwoven into distinctive patterns and shapes. Furthermore, specific motifs unite to bring a dimension to beads far beyond their aesthetic appeal, and help underpin the widespread perception of specific bead types as talismans or amulets to ward off danger and offer protection. As beads are highly visible and strikingly attractive, it is unsurprising Jane Hawkes has made an impressive contribution to the scholarship of Anglo-Saxon England through her research and impressive publication record, though that is not the only measure of her impact in the academic sphere. I first met Jane in 2011, when I gave a paper at the 6th Insular Art Conference held in York, hosted that year by Jane with the help of some of her students. The enthusiasm Jane showed for the papers presented not just by established authors but also emerging scholars who, like myself, were presenting their research for the first time, highlights the importance she places on encouraging, promoting, and stimulating new research and learning. This chapter is presented in appreciation and recognition of her influence in encouraging new scholarship.

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that they were much prized as objects of adornment, and are included among the assemblages from a number of high-status settlements, such as the royal site of Lagore, Co. Meath. As part of funerary costumes they are found in burials of kings and nobles, as evidenced by the beaded collar found in the tomb of Tutankhamun.2 Items of personal attire can and do play an important part in the portrayal of individual identity, and can be a key factor in conveying the status, culture, and authority of the wearer. As portable objects, glass beads travel well. The evidence of imported glass beads in assemblages from broadly contemporary Irish sites suggests there was a positive appreciation of Anglo-Saxon and Continental beads among Ireland’s native population.3 Over time, exposure to international beads influenced the types of beads worn in early medieval Ireland, as shown by the number and variety of imported beads that have been discovered, and beads fashionable in the neighbouring Anglo-Saxon world and on the Continent were incorporated into styles popular in Ireland at that time.4 Moreover, their international origin may have imparted a certain status to imported beads. The beads chosen to be worn therefore not only point to the interaction of societies; they also echo the prestige of the wearer as a person powerful and wealthy enough to possess such luxury items, and also one knowledgeable of overseas fashions and international styles of dress.5 As local artisans (like all artistic workers) are by nature creative individuals, they may also have consciously or unconsciously adopted and incorporated decorative motifs on imported beads into their own creations. In some instances, they may even have replicated a particular bead type in its entirety, producing insular versions of a popular international type. 2 Hugh Hencken, Liam Price, and Laura E. Start, ‘Lagore Crannog: An Irish Royal Residence of the 7th to 10th Centuries AD’, Proceedings of the Royal Irish Academy. Section C: Archaeology, Celtic Studies, History, Literature, 53 (1950), 1–247, at 132–45; Jolanda E. M. F. Bos, ‘The Tutankhamun Beadwork: An Introduction to Archaeological Beadwork Analysis’, Not Just for Show: The Archaeology of Beads, Beadwork and Personal Ornaments, ed. Daniella Bar-Yosef Mayer, Clive Bonsall, and Alice M. Choyke (Oxford, 2017), pp. 115–26. 3 Mags Mannion, Glass Beads from Early Medieval Ireland: Classification, Dating, Social Performance (Oxford, 2015), pp. 29–34; Hencken, Price, and Start, ‘Lagore Crannog’, pp. 132–45; Michael J. O’Kelly and A. W. Stelfox, ‘Two Ring-Forts at Garryduff, Co. Cork’, Proceedings of the Royal Irish Academy. Section C: Archaeology, Celtic Studies, History, Literature, 63 (1963), 17–125, at 69–77; Seán P. Ó Ríordáin and J. Ryan, ‘The Excavation of a Large Earthen Ringfort at Garranes, Co. Cork’, Proceedings of the Royal Irish Academy. Section C: Archaeology, Celtic Studies, History, Literature, 47 (1942), 77–150, at 116–21; Hugh Hencken and A. W. Stelfox, ‘Ballinderry 2 Crannog no. 2’, Proceedings of the Royal Irish Academy. Section C: Archaeology, Celtic Studies, History, Literature, 47 (1942), 1–76, at 51, figs. 21, 12, among other sites and among unprovenanced beads at the National Museum of Ireland. 4 Mannion, Glass Beads, pp. 29–34; Hencken, Price, and Start, ‘Lagore Crannog’, pp. 132–45; O’Kelly and Stelfox, ‘Two Ring-Forts at Garryduff ’, pp. 69–77; Ó Ríordáin and Ryan, ‘Excavation of a Large Earthen Ringfort’, pp. 116–21; Hencken and Stelfox, ‘Ballinderry 2 Crannog no. 2’, p. 51, figs. 21, 12, among other sites and among unprovenanced beads at the National Museum of Ireland. 5 Mannion, Glass Beads, p. 96.

Glass Beads

The large number of Guido’s Schedule 2xi, 6xi, and 8xi beads found in Ireland,6 for instance, have led excavators to consider that some of the many specimens discovered may in fact have been manufactured following the initial importation and use of the type by the local population.7

GLASS WORKING AND BEAD PRODUCTION The production of glass beads involves many stages, from the procurement of the raw materials through to the final production stage. Not all of the stages need to occur at the same workshop or even at the same site. For instance, the glass itself may be imported or produced in a separate workshop.8 Analyses of the ingredients used in glass production have recognised changes in the raw material used in glass making around the beginning of the seventh century, when the composition of glass deviates from alkalis based on material most likely from the Wadi Natrum in Egypt (known as natron glass), to one based on ash from halophytic plants, called soda ash or plant ash glass.9 The change likely resulted from political events in Egypt and the turmoil of the Christian–Muslim conflict of the seventh and eighth centuries, which caused disruption to the normal supply of materials.10 The transition from natron glass to halophytic or plant ash glass was a gradual process, with natron glass continuing to circulate for some time as recycled glass, either re-melted and used alone, or as a component of a contemporary glass mix used to make objects such as beads.11 Glass working and bead making were skilled crafts which likely required a considerable learning period to attain the necessary technical expertise. The skills needed to produce the beads and other glass objects likely passed on from master to apprentice through instruction and practice. Knowledge of pyrotechnics would have been necessary to the glass bead maker, a knowledge shared with other artisans such as metal workers.12 Margaret Guido and Martin G. Welch, The Glass Beads of Anglo-Saxon England, c. AD 400–700: A Preliminary Visual Classification of the More Definitive and Diagnostic Types (Woodbridge, 1999), pp. 27, 53, 63. 7 Hencken, Price, and Start, ‘Lagore Crannog’, p. 145. 8 Agneta Lundström, Bead Making in Scandinavia in the Early Middle Ages (Stockholm, 1976), p. 8. 9 Ian C. Freestone, Michael J. Hughes, and Colleen P. Stapleton, ‘The Composition and Production of Anglo-Saxon Glass’, Catalogue of Anglo-Saxon Glass in the British Museum, ed. Vera I. Evison and Sonja Marzinzik (Oxford, 2008), pp. 29–44, at 29; Žiga Šmit et al., ‘Analysis of Early Medieval Glass Beads – Glass in the Transition Period’, Nuclear Instruments and Methods in Physics Research Section B: Beam Interactions with Materials and Atoms, 278 (2012), 8–14, at 8. 10 Šmit et al., ‘Analysis of Early Medieval Glass’, p. 8. 11 Šmit et al., ‘Analysis of Early Medieval Glass’, p. 8. 12 Julian Henderson and Richard Ivens, ‘Dunmisk and Glass-Making in Early Christian Ireland’, Antiquity, 66 (1992), 52–64, at 61; Johan Callmer, ‘Wayland: An Essay on Craft Production in the Early and High Middle Ages in Scandinavia’, Centrality–Regionality: 6

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Moreover, it is likely that the two crafts were connected from their very earliest development.13 Recent research has confirmed the close links between the crafts through the use of metallurgical by-products in the production and colouring of glass beads, which has permitted a greater understanding of not only the processes, but also the colours that were achievable (and thus available) to artisans during this period.14 Similarities in equipment such as crucibles and hearths also suggest the possibility that both crafts were worked by the same groups of people.15 The early medieval site of Movilla Abbey in Co. Down, for instance, produced evidence for both glass and metal working. Here, an iron pin with a head of yellow, green, and colourless glass indicates that both of these highly specialised skills were practised at the same site.16 There is evidence that ferrous and non-ferrous metal working and possible glass working were also taking place at the early medieval enclosure at Roestown, Co. Meath,17 as the site produced a small but rich assemblage of glass beads.18 It has been argued that evidence for both glass and fine metal working are often found in the same location, at a distance from the domestic structures of the site and in discrete areas which could be considered industrial zones.19 The skills shared by the glass bead maker and the metalworker, and the use of glass for decorative features on both secular and ecclesiastical metal objects – such as brooches, pins, shrines, and chalices – of the Early Medieval period are evidence of an interesting marriage of these two highly skilled pyrotechnical arts.20 These pieces also offer insight into the value and significance of the glassworker in the production of high-status body The Social Structure of Southern Sweden during the Iron Age, ed. Lars Larson and Birgitta Hårdh (Stockholm, 2003), pp. 337–61, at 349. 13 Leo Biek and Justine Bayley, ‘Glass and other Vitreous Materials’, World Archaeology, 11.1 (1979), 1–25, at 3. 14 James Peake and Ian Freestone, ‘Cross-Craft Interactions between Metal and Glass Working: Slag Additions to Early Anglo-Saxon Red Glass’, Integrated Approaches to the Study of Historical Glass: IAS12, ed. Wendy Meulebroeck et al., Proceedings of SPIE 8422 (Bellingham, 2012), pp. 1–12, at 1. 15 Nancy Edwards, The Archaeology of Early Medieval Ireland (London, 1999), p. 287. 16 Richard Ivens et al., ‘Movilla Abbey, Newtownards, Co. Down: Excavations’, Ulster Journal of Archaeology, 47 (1984), 71–108, at 106. 17 Jonathan Kinsella, ‘Non-Circular Enclosed Settlement – Fact or Fiction: A New Irish Early Medieval Site Type?’, ACS Unpublished Report (2007), 15. 18 R. O’Hara, ‘Early Medieval Settlement at Roestown 2’, Places along the Way: First Findings on the M3, ed. Mary B. Deevy and Donald Murphy, NRA Monographs 5 (Bray, 2009), pp. 57–82, at 68. 19 Michelle Comber, The Economy of the Ringfort and Contemporary Settlement in Early Medieval Ireland, BAR International Series 1773 (Oxford, 2008), p. 131. 20 Niamh Whitfield, ‘“More like the work of fairies than of human beings”’: The Filigree on the ‘Tara’ Brooch, a Masterpiece of Late Celtic Metalwork’, ArcheoSciences, 33 (2009), 235–41, at 235; Raghnall Ó Floinn, ‘A Fragmentary House-Shaped Shrine from Clonard, Co. Meath’, Journal of Irish Archaeology, 5 (1989/90), 45–55, at 52; Cormac Bourke, ‘Further Notes on the Clonmore Shrine’, Seanchas Ardmhacha: Journal of the Armagh Diocesan Historical Society, 16.2 (1995), 27–32, at 27; Maria Filomena Guerra, Thomas Calligaro, and Alicia Perea, ‘The Treasure of Guarrazar: Tracing the Gold Supplies in the Visigothic Iberian Peninsula’, Archaeometry, 49 (2007), 53–74, at 53.

Glass Beads

ornament and religious objects. Indeed, as Julian Henderson has argued, in the production of religious objects composed of metal and glass we see clear evidence of ‘technological specialisation’.21 The collaboration of glass and metal is also seen on earlier objects, such as the Bouray Figurine housed in the Museum of Saint-Germain-en-Laye, France, which has eyes inset with blue and white glass, of which only one survives.22 The use of glass to depict eyes is also found on artefacts such as the ivory head from San Vincenzo al Volturno in Italy,23 and also possibly on stone sculptures such as the Lichfield Angel, amongst others.24 The evidence available on furnaces from Ribe, where at least six hearths associated with debris from bead production were uncovered, has been used in a number of experiments to determine how a bead furnace may have functioned.25 Experiments on furnaces recorded a temperature difference of 200°C between the oven area of the furnace and the chimney.26 This could have offered the artisan an inner oven area where large lumps of glass could be melted, while the lower temperatures in the chimney area would allow manipulation of thinner rods of glass that could be used for fine work.27 Also necessary would be areas further away from the heat where annealing (the process of allowing the glass at the core and the surface of the bead to cool slowly and evenly) could take place. If not annealed correctly the resultant bead is weaker and more susceptible to breaking, either initially or at a later stage. Inadequate annealing may explain why so many of the beads in some assemblages are fragmented. Evidence of glass-working activity from Ireland includes a range of artefacts such as crucibles, glass rods, failed beads (wasters), studs, and glass debris.28 Finds of failed beads, rods, and a stud (amongst others) from Dunmisk, Co. Tyrone, an ecclesiastical site dating from the late Julian Henderson, The Science and Archaeology of Materials: An Investigation of Inorganic Materials (London, 2000), p. 143. 22 Miranda Aldhouse Green, An Archaeology of Images: Iconology and Cosmology in Iron Age and Roman Europe (London, 2004), p. 193: Denis W. Harding, The Archaeology of Celtic Art (Oxford, 2007), p. 222. 23 John Mitchell, ‘A Carved Ivory Head from San Vincenzo al Volturno’, Journal of British Archaeological Association, 145.1 (1992), 66–76, at 68–70. 24 Jane Hawkes, ‘The Transformative Nature of Stone: Early Medieval Sculpture of the Insular World and the “Graven Image”’, Islands in a Global Context: Proceedings of the Seventh International Conference on Insular Art held at the National University of Ireland, Galway, 16–20 July 2014, ed. Conor Newman, Mags Mannion, and Fiona Gavin (Dublin, 2017), pp. 104–10, at 104–5. 25 Neil Peterson et al., ‘Glass on Fire: Temperatures in Reconstructed Viking Era Bead Furnaces’, If These Bones Could Talk, vol. 2, ed. Michael A. Cramer (Wheaton, IL, 2014), pp. 27–44, at 20. 26 Peterson et al., ‘Glass on Fire’, p. 20. 27 Peterson et al., ‘Glass on Fire’, p. 20. 28 Julian Henderson, ‘The Production Technology of Irish Early Christian Glass with Specific Reference to Beads and Enamels’, Glass in Britain and Ireland, 350–1100, ed. Jennifer Price (London, 2000), pp. 143–60, at 144–7; Aidan O’Sullivan et al., Early Medieval Dwellings and Settlements in Ireland, AD 400–1100, BAR International Series 2604 (Oxford, 2014), pp. 112–13. 21

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sixth to late ninth centuries, have been identified as indicative of glass working and possibly as evidence for glass manufacturing.29 Glass working is also evidenced at Cathedral Hill, Co. Armagh,30 and Scotch Street, also in Co. Armagh.31 Evidence of glass working found at Lagore, Co. Meath, includes a stud mould containing blue glass, rods, and debris,32 and glass-working evidence was found just inside the southern quadrant of Garranes.33 Moynagh Lough, Co. Meath, and Garryduff 1, Co. Cork, have also produced evidence of glass working.34 Evidence of glass working in England includes crucibles with glass residues, glass cullet, glass debris, and failed beads, which have been recognised at places like Buckden in Cambridgeshire, Glastonbury Abbey in Somerset, Barking in Essex, and the Coppergate site in York.35 Extensive evidence from Glastonbury Abbey of crucibles, glass lumps, rods, and sherds, as well as furnaces, suggests there were possibly three distinct glassworking areas that are likely to have operated in the seventh or eighth centuries.36 Similar Scottish sites have also produced evidence of glass working. The monastic site founded in the sixth century at Portmahomack, Tarbat Ness, produced evidence of workshops where artisans engaged in a range of crafts including gold working, enamelling and glass working.37 Among the artefacts indicating glass working are glass lumps, droplets, and moulds, as well as a glass stud inlaid with enamel and wire comparable to the studs on the Derrynaflan paten.38 During excavations on the island of Iona evidence of glass working – in this instance a glass rod and a bead – was found in pit 156, a seventh-century context associated with the Columban-period activities on the island.39 Glass is, of course, an easily recycled material, and beads and other broken or damaged glass objects could be (and were) reused in the production of new objects. Collectively known as cullet, broken objects 29 Julian Henderson, ‘The Nature of the Early Christian Glass Industry in Ireland: Some Evidence from Dunmisk Fort, Co. Tyrone’, Ulster Journal of Archaeology, 51 (1988), 115–26, at 115; Henderson and Ivens, ‘Dunmisk and Glass-Making’, p. 56. 30 Cynthia Gaskell-Brown et al., ‘Excavations on Cathedral Hill, Armagh 1968’, Ulster Journal of Archaeology, 47 (1984), 109–61. 31 Chris J. Lynn, ‘Excavations at 46–48 Scotch Street, Armagh, 1979–80’, Ulster Journal of Archaeology, 3rd ser. 51 (1988), 69–85, at 60–1. 32 Hencken, Price, and Start, ‘Lagore Crannog’, pp. 132, 234. 33 Ó Ríordáin and Ryan, ‘Excavation of a Large Earthen Ringfort’, p. 86. 34 John Bradley, ‘Excavations at Moynagh Lough, County Meath’, The Journal of the Royal Society of Antiquaries of Ireland, 121 (1991), 5–26, at 24; O’Kelly and Stelfox, ‘Two RingForts at Garryduff, Co. Cork’, pp. 95–103. 35 Justine Bayley, ‘Glass-Working in Early Medieval England’, Glass in Britain and Ireland, 350–1100, ed. Jennifer Price (London, 2000), pp. 137–42, at 137–41, 138–9. 36 Justine Bayley, ‘Saxon Glass-Working at Glastonbury Abbey’, Glass in Britain and Ireland, 350–1100, ed. Jennifer Price (London, 2000), pp. 161–88. 37 Martin O. H. Carver, ‘An Iona of the East: The Early Medieval Monastery at Portmahomack, Tarbat Ness’, Medieval Archaeology, 48.1 (2004), 1–30, at 16. 38 Carver, ‘An Iona of the East’, pp. 16–18. 39 John W. Barber, ‘Excavations on Iona 1979’, Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland, 111 (1981), 282–380, at 303, 358, and pl. 24.

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could be traded or stored by families/communities for reuse in the future. An instance of this practice was found during excavation of the castle of Butrint in Albania by Richard Hodges and his team, who uncovered a collection of glass cullet in a corner of the lower floor of a tower of the castle, the tower having been provisionally dated to the eighth or ninth century. It is believed that this area probably served as a storeroom where the glass cullet was collected and stored before being used in fashioning new objects.40 While some settlements may have had permanent artisans, the collection and storage of broken glass objects at Butrint may indicate that in some situations peripatetic glass artisans visited sites at intervals and used the glass which had been collected and stored to make new objects for the household.41 The notion of a class of peripatetic artisans with their own materials travelling from site to site has also been posited in regard to some early medieval sites in Ireland.42 When it comes to the process of production used to make beads, winding is considered the most popular technique, most likely because it is a quick method in which the bead is created in a single process. In this method the rod (or mandrill, as they are called today) is coated in a clay substance called a former, which prevents the glass sticking, and thereby allows the finished bead to be removed from the rod with ease. In order to allow manipulation, glass must be heated to between 750 and 1,200 degrees Fahrenheit. While the rods used in modern bead making are made of a material which does not conduct heat along their length, and so protects the hands of artisan from getting burnt, this would not have been the case in the past. The evidence we have suggests the artisans overcame this problem by attaching a wooden handle to the rod. Once the glass has been worked, and the bead perforated for stringing, it is an object produced for its aesthetic and semiotic rather than utilitarian appeal, and as such can be classified as a complete and finished glass bead. However, some beads are further embellished with a variety of decorative features or techniques. In preparation for making and decorating the beads the artisan could, by combining different colours of glass, produce what are called stringers, which in turn could be used to create different motifs and patterns on the beads and in some instances used to make the bead itself. The beads could also be made from lumps of glass or monochrome rods. Stringers, rods, and lumps of glass have been found among the beadmaking debitage recovered from many excavations. Millefiori rods have been found at Garranes, Co. Cork, Lagore, Co. Meath, and Scotch Street, Co. Armagh.43 A millefiori rod with a blue and white chequer pattern Richard Hodges et al., ‘The Sack of Butrint AD 800’, Antiquity, 83.320 (2009) [accessed 1 February 2018]. 41 Hodges et al., ‘The Sack of Butrint’. 42 Lynn and McDowell, Deer Park Farms: The Excavation of a Raised Rath in the Glenarm Valley, Co. Antrim (Norwich and Belfast, 2011), p. 335. 43 P. T. Craddock, ‘Metal-Working Techniques’, The Work of Angels: Masterpieces of Celtic 40

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was also found at Lagore, suggesting that millefiori was being used in the decoration of metalwork.44 A millefiori rod from Garranes was found inside a copper-alloy tube which was used to hold the glass rod while slices were cut from it.45 A number of visually striking and aesthetically appealing stringers were recovered from Ballydoo, an early medieval ecclesiastical centre located in Co. Armagh. The stringers are very well made, and were found together with debitage and other excavated finds including glass beads, lignite bracelets, and crucibles. One, still containing a blue glass residue, could indicate that Ballydoo was an industrial centre, which the excavator Malachy Conway thought may have specialised in ‘the production of glass beads and rods’.46 Interestingly, the matrix of colours of one of the glass stringers from Ballydoo (C204) is very similar to that seen on a bead from the early medieval ringfort of Deer Park Farms, which is located nearby. The bead from Deer Park Farms was found in a horizon dated from the seventh to late ninth centuries.47

DECORATIVE MOTIFS Decorative motifs on glass beads can take the form of spirals, waves, trails, dots, and eyes applied in a variety of colours. The ornamentation can either be marvered, which effectively renders the decoration smooth with the bead surface, or unmarvered, in which case the decoration is left proud or raised slightly above the surface of the bead, thereby adding a tactile dimension. It is in the interweaving of a variety of different individual motif combinations that the skill of the artisan is truly visible, combining colour and decoration to produce exquisite objects. The aesthetic pleasure of wearing and possessing such beautiful body ornament must surely have encouraged and rewarded such superior and exquisite craftsmanship. Dress accessories, including beads, are considered intrinsically connected to the wearer because in most instances the item was created with the purpose of being worn on the body.48 As Alexandra Knox notes, ‘dress accessories are the active result of a cultural identity or a belief system’,49 and Alice Choyke and Daniella Bar-Yosef Mayer similarly suggest that the wearing of specific body ornaments including beads may indicate Metalwork, Sixth to Ninth Centuries AD, ed. Susan Youngs (Austin, TX, 1990), pp. 170–213, at 202–3. 44 Nancy Edwards, Archaeology of Early Medieval Ireland (London, 1999), p. 93. 45 Ó Ríordáin and Ryan, ‘Excavation of a Large Earthen Ringfort’, p. 120. 46 Malachy Conway, ‘Survey and Excavation in the Navan Environs with “Time Team”: Creeveroe, Haughey’s Fort and Ballydoo’, Emania, 20 (2006), 29–52, at 50. 47 Lynn and McDowell, Deer Park Farms, pp. 166–71. 48 Alexandra Knox, ‘Middle Anglo-Saxon Dress Accessories in Life and Death: Expressions of a Worldview’, Dress and Society: Contributions from Archaeology, ed. Toby F. Martin and R. Weetch (Oxford, 2017), pp. 114–29, at 115. 49 Knox, ‘Middle Anglo-Saxon Dress Accessories’, p. 115.

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personal preferences, or be used to improve one’s appearance and portray ‘different kinds of social identity’.50 In this sense they played a fundamental part in the visual expression of personal and social identity in people’s everyday lives. While specific bead types can be recognised over a broad geographical area, the interpretation, value, and use of beads can vary locally, with different symbolic associations acknowledged by individuals and groups.51 As mentioned previously, some motifs could be considered more charged with symbolic meaning than others, and it is likely that many factors contributed to the perception of specific bead types as amulets and talismans. This awareness could be manifested in either the shape or form of a bead, or in the applied motifs. Howard Williams has suggested that the perceived antiquity of objects played an important role in how the objects were conceptualised,52 and that the value of objects from the past or heirlooms may have lain in the actions traditionally associated with them, actions ‘whose significance has been, as it were, absorbed into the object’s current identity’.53 Sonia Puttock has also suggested that there may have been associations between specific bead types and cults, or cultic sites, which may have contributed to the wearing of lotus/melon beads54 by Roman soldiers in Britain.55 However, Penelope Allison has argued that though Melon beads were recovered from military sites, they were more likely associated with non-combatants than horses or soldiers.56

LOTUS/MELON BEADS Lotus/Melon beads composed of both faience and glass have a very broad geographical distribution and chronological range (Pl. XI). While they are most commonly blue or green-blue, there are also examples in translucent yellow. They were popular in Ireland, with examples from Daniella Bar-Yosef Mayer and Alice M. Choyke, ‘Introduction: The Archaeology of Beads, Beadwork and Personal Ornaments’, Not Just for Show: The Archaeology of Beads, Beadwork and Personal Ornaments, ed. Daniella E. Bar-Yosef Mayer, Clive Bonsall, and Alice M. Choyke (Oxford, 2017), pp. 1–3, at 2. 51 Bar-Yosef Mayer and Choyke, ‘Introduction’, p. 203. 52 Howard Williams, Death and Memory in Early Medieval Britain (Cambridge, 2006), pp. 77–8. 53 David Graeber, ‘Beads and Money: Notes; Towards a Theory of Wealth and Power’, American Ethnologist, 23.1 (1996), 4–24, at 12. 54 For further discussion of the lotus/melon beads see Gustavus Eisen, ‘Lotus- and Melon-Beads’, American Journal of Archaeology, 34.1 (1930), 20–43, at 20; Mags Mannion, ‘A Paler Shade of Blue: The Symbology of Glass Beads in Early Medieval Ireland’, Islands in a Global Context: Proceedings of the Seventh International Conference on Insular Art Held at the National University of Ireland, Galway, 16–20 July 2014, ed. Conor Newman, Mags Mannion, and Fiona Gavin (Dublin, 2017), pp. 149–58, at 153. 55 Sonia L. Puttock, Ritual Significance of Personal Ornament in Roman Britain (Oxford, 2002), p. 95. 56 Penelope M. Allison, People and Spaces in Roman Military Bases (Cambridge, 2013), pp. 84–5. 50

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Ballinderry 2 Crannóg No. 2,57 Lagore,58 and Garranes, among other sites.59 There are also a large number of the type in a variety of colours amongst the unprovenanced beads in the National Museum of Ireland, Dublin. Examples are known in Britain from the early Roman period up to the Anglo-Saxon period, and are subdivided by colour in Guido and Welch’s classification of beads from early medieval England: Schedule 6viii beads have a blue body, and Schedule 5v beads a green one.60 Melon beads are known from the Anglo-Saxon cemeteries of Apple Down, West Sussex (grave 38), and Morning Thorpe, Norfolk (grave 309).61 Continental examples are found in contexts from pre-Roman times to the Viking period, and were popular with the Germanic world in the sixth century.62 Eisen thought that beads of this type may have been perceived as amulets or talismans with an apotropaic function – a concept that may have its origins in Egyptian mythology.63 One incidence of this bead type’s use in a funerary ritual is at KrefeldGellep at Asciburgium, where a number of melon beads of faience and glass were found attached to a bronze chain around the neck of a skeleton of a horse.64 Six melon beads were found in a bag in a burial in Pompeii. The bag, which was held in the hand of a juvenile skeleton, may have been part of a bracelet.65 There are instances of bag collections recorded in Anglo-Saxon graves,66 a ‘bag’ or ‘purse’ collection being the term generally used to describe a small collection of objets trouvés found in burials, some of which may include broken or fragmented pieces of glass.67 The contents of these bags or purses usually include something that was already old at the time it was included in the burial. An example found in Grave 86 at the Mill Hill cemetery near Deal, Kent, contained a broken glass bead, a fossil, a piece of broken Roman window glass, and a copper-alloy pin.68 The older items in bag collections may potentially have been heirlooms,69 though Hencken and Stelfox, ‘Ballinderry 2 Crannog no. 2’, p. 51, figs. 21, 12. Hencken, Price, and Start, ‘Lagore Crannog’, p. 136, figs. D and E. 59 Ó Ríordáin and Ryan, ‘Excavation of a Large Earthen Ringfort’, p. 116, figs. 1476 and 311e. 60 Guido and Welch, The Glass Beads of Anglo-Saxon England, pp. 44, 52. 61 Birte Brugmann, Glass Beads from Early Anglo-Saxon Graves: A Study of the Provenance and Chronology of Glass Beads from Early Anglo-Saxon Graves, Based on Visual Examination (Oxford, 2004), figs. 105, 158. 62 Hencken, Price, and Start, ‘Lagore Crannog’, p. 136. 63 Eisen, ‘Lotus- and Melon-Beads’, p. 20. 64 Sophia M. E. van Lith, Glass aus Asciburgium, Funde aus Asciburgium 10 (Duisburg, 1987), p. 90. 65 Penelope M. Allison, The Insular of the Meander in Pompeii, vol. 3: The Finds: A Contextual Study (Oxford, 2006), cat. no. 343. 66 Audrey L. Meaney, Anglo-Saxon Amulets and Curing Stones (Oxford, 1981), pp. 222–8, 262. See also Thomas Pickles in this volume, pp. 81–100. 67 Meaney, Anglo-Saxon Amulets, pp. 227–8, 262. 68 Keith Parfitt and Birte Brugmann, The Anglo-Saxon Cemetery on Mill Hill, Deal, Kent, Society for Medieval Archaeology Monograph Series 14 (London, 1997), pp. 78, 182, fig. 71. 69 Roberta Gilchrist, Medieval Life: Archaeology and the Life Course (Woodbridge, 2012), pp. 237–8. 57

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it has been suggested they could also represent amulets or talismans.70 Similarly, an Anglo-Saxon female found during excavations at the Minerva Business Park at Peterborough had been buried wearing an old repaired Roman melon bead on a string.71 That the type remains popular in faience form into later periods may add validity to the perception of these beads as amulets. Interestingly, while necklaces composed of both monochrome and polychrome beads are common throughout Early Medieval England, polychrome beads rather than monochrome beads are more favoured in bag or purse collections.72 Hella Eckardt and Howard Williams suggest that such older Roman and prehistoric objects, through their use in dress and burials, may have ‘contributed to the way early Anglo-Saxon people viewed their past’,73 and Knox has argued that some of the beads which end up in bag or purse collections or even burials may be ‘found’ beads – objects that were discovered in a settlement and reused by the inhabitants.74 Sometimes these beads may be older than the contemporary settlement, thus creating a link between the individual, the settlement, and its previous inhabitants.75 It has been argued that such tangible objects, by serving to recall or evoke previous events, can provide a way for communities to re-experience the past, and that ‘through this the world of the past, the other, is brought into contact with the present’.76 Along these lines, glass beads have been used practically as mnemonic devices in oral storytelling, serving as tangible visual reminders of the past for listeners, and as aidesmémoire for storytellers.77 Igor Kopytoff argues that objects are ‘culturally constructed entities, endowed with culturally specific meanings, and classified and reclassified into culturally constituted categories’.78 The perceived meaning of an object is created and recreated throughout the lifecycle of that object and is a process involving communication between many people. Beads found on settlements, like all artefacts, have their own biographies, and are connected in some instances both to the biography of the wearer and to the past inhabitants of certain sites. Chris Caple argues that a distinction Meaney, Anglo-Saxon Amulets, pp. 249–55. Gale Owen-Crocker, Dress in Anglo-Saxon England (Woodbridge, 2010), p. 70. 72 Knox, ‘Middle Anglo-Saxon Dress Accessories’, p. 120. 73 Hella Eckardt and Howard Williams, ‘Objects Without a Past? The Use of Roman Objects in Early Anglo-Saxon Graves’, Archaeologies of Remembrance: Death and Memory in Past Societies, ed. Howard Williams (New York, NY, 2003), pp. 141–70, at 165. 74 Knox, ‘Middle Anglo-Saxon Dress Accessories’, p. 122. 75 Knox, ‘Middle Anglo-Saxon Dress Accessories’, p. 122. 76 Andrew Jones, Memory and Material Culture (Cambridge, 2007), p. 3. 77 Lotta Fernstål, ‘Spoken Words: Equality and Dynamics within a Group of Women Skalds in the Third Century AD Skovgårde, Denmark’, World Archaeology, 39 (2007), 263–80, at 263–4. 78 Igor Kopytoff, ‘The Cultural Biography of Things: Commoditization as Process’, The Social Life of Things: Commodities in Cultural Perspective, ed. Arjun Appadurai (Cambridge, 1986), pp. 64–91, at 68. 70 71

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can be made between certain kinds of older objects: on the one hand those that are from the recent past, potentially with known personal or family connections; and on the other objects from a more distant past which are ‘treated with reverence and respect, though they appear to have no direct connection to their present owners’.79 Knox notes that beads from settlement sites are usually single finds, and as such, lack a direct or obvious link to show how they were used in life, whereas beads recovered from burials are usually strung and worn on the body, indicating their use and connection to the individual more clearly.80 However, Knox argues that it is precisely because beads are found in burials and bag collections that single finds from settlements should be seen as more than simply decorative items.81 She argues that the meaning and worth of these objects in the sphere of the living may underpin their presence in ‘the sphere of the dead’.82 Corroborating this point are two beads of different dates: a polychrome example from the fifth or sixth century, and a monochrome bead from the seventh or eighth, which were found together in a sunkenfeatured building at Bloodmoor Hill settlement site (structure 33).83 It is likely that people in the past, while building structures or farming, occasionally found objects that belonged to earlier inhabitants, just as sometimes happens today. That these objects were curated and sometimes reworked is evidenced by a seventh-century Anglo-Saxon burial (grave 43) from Street House, Loftus, North Yorkshire, dating from the third quarter of the seventh century, in which the woman wore a necklace that contained eight beads: two of glass, two of gold, and four of silver, together with an Iron Age Colchester Type 6b bead which had been set into a gold triangular pendant.84 The pendant formed the centrepiece of the necklace, with four beads placed either side of it in a repeated pattern.85 This particular bead, made during the Iron Age, was thus already ancient when it was reworked by an Anglo-Saxon artisan. It may have been found and curated for some time, possibly as a treasured heirloom, before being reused as body ornament on the neck of a deceased Anglo-Saxon woman. It serves as reminder that beads have their own biographies, and that each bead may connect and interact with many humans throughout the course of its life. In this sense the biography of a bead, such as that from Grave 43, may reveal human engagements and use over a considerable period.

79 Chris Caple, ‘Ancestor Artefacts – Ancestor Materials’, Oxford Journal of Archaeology, 29.3 (2010), 305–18, at 307. 80 Knox, ‘Middle Anglo-Saxon Dress Accessories’, p. 122. 81 Knox, ‘Middle Anglo-Saxon Dress Accessories’, p. 122. 82 Knox, ‘Middle Anglo-Saxon Dress Accessories’, p. 126. 83 Knox, ‘Middle Anglo-Saxon Dress Accessories’, p. 122. 84 Stephen J. Sherlock, ‘Grave 21 – Gold Coins’ (2012) at [accessed 1 February 2018]. 85 Sherlock .

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THE SPIRAL MOTIF The Colchester Type 6b bead mentioned above is a variant of the Oldbury Type 6 beads.86 Like Oldbury Type 6 beads, they are composed of a dark blue ground colour with a decorative motif comprised of spirals, with some marvered and others set on protruding knobs or bosses. However, in the case of the Colchester beads there are also double swags or bands in opaque yellow glass running between the spirals.87 The spiral is one of the most common geometric motifs throughout the world, and both its painted and carved forms were among the repertoire of designs utilised by the earliest artisans, amongst the earliest representations being the spiral motifs from late Neolithic Maltese temple reliefs.88 Reuben Grima has argued that the spiral motifs found in Malta are symbolically representative of water and the sea, and that early Bronze Age Cycladic ‘frying pans’ from the prehistoric Aegean (which date to a similar period as the Tarxien reliefs in Malta) contain ‘depictions of fish and boats surrounded by a sea of spirals’.89 Grima argues that the association of the spiral motif with maritime motifs clearly demonstrates that in these contexts spirals can be interpreted as representations of the sea.90 The spiral is also one of the main decorative motifs found on weapons and jewellery of the early Bronze Age in Scandinavia.91 The spiral motif permeates Irish art and is a central feature of the decoration found at Brú na Bóinne.92 The ceremonial macehead from Knowth is decorated with a spiral motif,93 as is the Garboldisham macehead, recovered from a tributary of the Little Ouse river in Norfolk.94 Spiral motifs are also found in passage tombs in Wales and on rock outcrops such as Morwick in Northumberland and Achnabreck in Argyll,95 and the motif also occurs on a stone in the cairn

Margaret Guido, The Glass Beads of the Prehistoric and Roman Periods in Britain and Ireland (London, 1978), pp. 53–7, fig. 13(a) and pl. I, 6a. Guido and Welch, The Glass Beads of Anglo-Saxon England, pp. 53–7, pl. 1, 6b. 87 Guido, The Glass Beads of the Prehistoric and Roman Periods, pp. 53–7, fig. 13(b) and pl. I, 6b. 88 Reuben Grima, ‘An Iconography of Insularity: A Cosmological Interpretation of some Images and Spaces in the Late Neolithic Temples of Malta’, Papers from the Institute of Archaeology, 12 (2001), 48–65, at 57. 89 Grima, ‘An Iconography of Insularity’, p. 57. 90 Grima, ‘An Iconography of Insularity’, p. 57. 91 Preben Rønne, ‘Early Bronze Age Spiral Ornament: The Technical Background’, Journal of Danish Archaeology, 8.1 (1989), 126–43, at 126. 92 Hilary Richardson, ‘Visual Arts and Society’, New History of Ireland, vol. 1: Prehistoric and Early Ireland, ed. Dáibhí Ó Cróinín (Oxford, 2005), pp. 680–713, at 683. 93 Richardson, ‘Visual Arts and Society’, fig. 32 and pl. 67b. 94 Andrew Jones et al., ‘The Garboldisham Macehead: Its Manufacture, Date, Archaeological Context and Significance’, Proceedings of the Prehistoric Society, 83 (2017), 383–94, at 383. 95 Margarita Díaz-Andreu et al., ‘The Spiral that Vanished: The Application of Non-Contact Recording Techniques to an Elusive Rock Art Motif at Castlerigg Stone Circle in Cumbria’, Journal of Archaeological Science, 33 (2006), 1580–7, at 1582–3. 86

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circle at Little Meg in Cumbria.96 Engraved spiral motifs decorate the stones at Gavrinis near Carnac in France,97 and are also found in both the Minoan and Mycenaean worlds.98 Among the more enigmatic spiral-decorated objects are stone balls, the majority of which have been found in Scotland.99 Further afield, the motif is also found on pottery vessels and goddess figurines of the Marajoara people who inhabited the island of Marajó at the mouth of the Amazon river from around 400 BC to AD 1300.100 One of the more documented spirals in North America is that of the Sun Dagger petroglyph at Fajita Butte at Chaco Canyon, where the positioning of three upright stones direct sunlight onto a spiral petroglyph marking the summer and winter solstices and the equinoxes. The lunar standstill cycle is also recorded by a shadow cast by the rising moon onto the spiral at the northern major and minor standstills.101 Among personal ornaments the spiral motif is found on a variety of different fibula types,102 and is seen on Irish metalwork such as the Scabbard from Lisnacrogher, Co. Antrim, the strainer from Moylarg Crannóg, Co. Antrim, and the Moylough belt shrine.103 It also features in the repertoire of Christian art and is used in decorating fol. 3v from the seventh-century Book of Durrow,104 whilst a series of interlinking spirals are used in the decoration of the eighth-century Derrynaflan Paten found in Co. Tipperary.105 Spiral decoration is also found on some high crosses.106 The spiral motif is not confined to a specific time, geographical location, or monument type, but instead seems to have been used and appreciated throughout history. For the Maori the spiral represents life, death, and rebirth and the double spiral the unfolding of the cosmos.107 We also find spiral designs in the natural world, for instance in the shell of the nautilus, the common garden snail, and in the form of coiled snakes. In Welsh folklore, a traditional cure for goitre involved wearing what Díaz-Andreu et al., ‘The Spiral that Vanished’, pp. 1582–3. Paul Bahn, Exploring the Ancient World (Hampshire, 2008), pp. 52–3. 98 Kristian Kristiansen and Thomas B. Larsson, eds., The Rise of Bronze Age Society: Travels, Transmissions and Transformations (Cambridge, 2005), pp. 159–61. 99 Dorothy N. Marshall, ‘Carved Stone Balls’, Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries Scotland, 108 (1976–7), 40–72, at 43–4. 100 Lucy Penna, ‘An Archetypal Symbol of Water in the Amazon’, Psychological Perspectives, 51.2 (2008), 250–65, at 250, 252. 101 Anna Sofaer, Robert Weiner, and William Stone, ‘Inter-Site Alignments of Prehistoric Shrines in Chaco Canyon to the Major Lunar Standstill’, The Science of Time 2016: Time in Astronomy & Society, Past, Present and Future, ed. Elisa Felicitas Arias et al. (Cham, Switzerland, 2017), pp. 79–101, at 84. 102 Marija Gimbutas, Bronze Age Cultures in Central and Eastern Europe (The Hague, 1965), pp. 123–5 and figs. 85 and 86. 103 Richardson, ‘Visual Arts and Society’, p. 683 and fig. 33. 104 Richardson, ‘Visual Arts and Society’, p. 683 and plate 76. 105 Patrick F. Wallace and Raghnall Ó Floinn, eds., Treasures of the National Museum of Ireland: Irish Antiquities (Dublin, 2002), pl. 5:30. 106 Richardson, ‘Visual Arts and Society’, pp. 708–9. 107 Les R. Tumoana Williams and Manuka Henare, ‘The Double Spiral and Ways of Knowing’, MAI Review, 3 (2009), 1–9, at 2. 96 97

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were known as serpents’ eggs (glain y nadir) on a string around the neck; the traditional belief was that the serpent’s egg had been formed by the saliva of a congress of snakes.108 Interestingly, upon examination, many of the serpents’ eggs turned out to be Iron Age glass beads.109 The practice, recorded by Pliny, was suggested to relate to the ancient significance of the snake as a symbol of rebirth, healing, and protection.110 The snake is also associated with the goddess Isis, and a find from Moorgate Street in London, of a bone pin in the shape of an arm holding a bust of Isis encircled by a bracelet with a snake’s head, indicates an awareness of this association in Britain.111 The unknown or mystical origins of the objects together with their mythological association may have led to the beads being perceived as amulets. It is unsurprising that this motif, universally appreciated and of such ancient pedigree, should also be found on beads, objects which can be so symbolically charged and are so ubiquitous (Pl. XII). Guido includes three classes of beads with a spiral motif among her classification of prehistoric and Roman beads from Britain and Ireland, including the Colchester Type bead mentioned above.112 A number of spiral-decorated beads are also known from Ireland: eight among the bead assemblage from the Iron Age site of Loughey, Co. Down, and two from Grannagh in Co. Galway.113 The Loughey beads are considered to have close associations with Meare spiral beads, although there are differences in the application of the motifs.114 Chemical analysis has confirmed that the beads are not similar to those from Meare, and are most likely to have been produced in Ireland during the late first century BC and possibly the early first century AD, using glass sourced in continental Europe.115 Beads decorated with a spiral motif continued to be popular in Ireland during the early medieval period. Three beads with spiral motifs were found at Lagore, Co. Meath: one with a blue ground colour and a spiral in opaque white glass (Mannion Class 8) from the seventh-century horizon, and another two composed of translucent glass with a spiral in opaque yellow (Mannion Class 7).116 Two spiral-decorated beads were recovered from the Period 11 horizon at Garryduff 1, Co. Cork: one with a blue ground colour and a spiral in opaque white glass (Mannion Class 8), and

Puttock, Ritual Significance of Personal Ornament, p. 94. Puttock, Ritual Significance of Personal Ornament, p. 94. 110 Puttock, Ritual Significance of Personal Ornament, pp. 92–3. 111 Puttock, Ritual Significance of Personal Ornament, p. 93. 112 Guido, The Glass Beads of the Prehistoric and Roman Periods, pp. 53–7, figs. 13(a) and (b) and pl. I, 6a and 6b (Class 6 beads); pp. 79–81, fig. 28, pl. II, 15 (Class 10 beads); pp. 85–7, fig. 33, pl. III, c (Class 13 beads). 113 Julian Henderson, ‘The Iron Age of “Loughey” and Meare: Some Inferences from Glass Analysis’, AntJ, 67.1 (1987), 29–42, at 31. 114 Henderson, ‘The Iron Age of “Loughey” and Meare’, p. 38. 115 Henderson, ‘The Iron Age of “Loughey” and Meare’, p. 38. 116 Hencken, Price, and Start, ‘Lagore Crannog’, p. 140. 108

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another composed of translucent glass with a spiral in opaque yellow (Mannion Class 7). The Period 11 horizon is artefactually dated to the late sixth to early eighth centuries.117 A further spiral decorated bead of translucent glass with yellow decoration (Mannion Class 7) was recovered from the early medieval site of Newtownbalregan.118

THE ‘EYE’ MOTIF As with lotus/melon beads and the spiral decorated beads, the use of ‘eye’ beads as amulets and talismans is a phenomenon of long duration that reaches across cultural divides. The traditional belief is that wearing beads decorated with an ‘eye’ motif could provide protection against evil or bad luck. The ‘eye’ bead was considered to deflect or neutralise the first and most powerful glance of the ‘evil-eye’. The belief in the phenomenon of the ‘evil-eye’ is known from prehistoric times.119 In Egypt it is encapsulated in the Eye of Horus, and many depictions of this symbol are composed of glass, such as the gold and glass pectoral amulet from the tomb of Tutankhamun. The concept is also considered part of classical beliefs, embodied in the Medusa legend,120 whilst in ancient Ireland it was associated with Balor, the one-eyed king of the Fomorians.121 The concept of the ‘evil eye’ is also recorded in both ancient Greek and Christian literature.122 Belief in the protective power of ‘eye’ beads underpins the almost universal proliferation of this type of bead from ancient times, with Guido suggesting that the production of ‘eye’ beads may have originated for this specific purpose.123 In modern-day Turkey, ‘eye’ beads and bead making continue to be closely associated with Turkish culture and customs and still retain a ‘talismanic significance’. This ritual or symbolic ideology associated with ‘eye’ beads has been credited with the survival of the ancient craft of glass bead making in Turkey.124 Guido lists beads with ‘eye’ motifs among her Group 3 beads and Group 4 Garrow Type O’Kelly and Stelfox, ‘Two Ring-Forts at Garryduff, Co. Cork’, p. 117. Niall Roycroft, ‘A “Meare” Bauble’, Seanda, 5 (2010), 22. 119 Gustavus Eisen, ‘The Characteristics of Eye Beads from the Earliest Times to the Present’, American Journal of Archaeology, 20 (1916), 1–27; Loise S. Dubin, The History of Beads, from 30,000 BC to the Present (London, 2006), pp. 307–14. 120 Puttock, Ritual Significance of Personal Ornament, p. 95. 121 Jacqueline Borsje and Fergus Kelly, ‘“The Evil Eye” in Early Irish Literature and Law’, Celtica, 24 (2003), 1–39, at 5. 122 Matthew W. Dickie, ‘The Fathers of the Church and the Evil Eye’, Byzantine Magic, ed. Henry Maguire (Washington, DC, 1995), pp. 9–33. 123 Puttock, Ritual Significance of Personal Ornament, p. 95; Margaret Guido, ‘The Glass Beads’ and ‘Catalogue’, Pre-Roman and Roman Winchester Part II: The Roman Cemetery at Lankhills, ed. Giles Clarke, Winchester Studies 3 (Oxford, 1979), pp. 292–4 and 297–300, at 293. 124 Önder Küçükerman, Glass Beads: Anatolian Glass Bead Making, the Final Traces of Three Millennia of Glass Making in the Mediterranean Region, trans. Maggie Quigley (Istanbul, 1988), pp. 97, 99. 117

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beads.125 Beads similar to Guido’s Group 4 beads are included in the 1908 Knowles Collection housed at the National Museum of Ireland,126 and an example with three equally spaced panels each containing nine ‘eyes’ was found at Grannagh, Co. Galway, a site which, as mentioned above, also produced a number of spiral-decorated beads.127 An example similar to the Oldbury Type was recovered from a cremation burial at Kiltierney, Co. Fermanagh.128 A fragment of the type is ascribed to the Period II horizon at Lagore.129 The bead is composed of a dark blue glass with a collar of twisted glass and two complex protruding ‘eye’ motifs composed of white, red, and yellow opaque glass.130 The bead, while showing some similarity to British and Continental examples (in so far as its decoration features ‘eyes’) demonstrates Insular traits in colour and form, being composed of semi-translucent blue glass with the addition of collars of twisted glass encircling both perforation openings.

CONTACT AND EXCHANGE The evidence for communication and contact between the Irish and their Anglo-Saxon and European contemporaries is evident in many areas, and interaction and communication between monastic communities in these regions (and further afield) is widely documented.131 During the seventh century travel between monastic houses in England and southern Ireland was brisk and busy, with some Anglo-Saxon clerics studying at centres in Ireland like Rath Melsigi, in the south of the country.132 Niamh Whitfield suggests that during the sixth and seventh centuries AD, the movements and activities of Irish clerics led to the forging of contacts with the elites of the Anglo-Saxon, Frankish, and Lombardic worlds.133 Among the consequences of this contact was the influence of Germanic and AngloSaxon traditions on Irish artisans, whose work reveals an absorption of external inspiration among the unique native innovations. Irish goldsmiths, for instance, developed their work in this way ‘to an exceptionally high Guido, The Glass Beads of the Prehistoric and Roman Periods, pp. 60–2, figs. 19 and 20, pl. I, 9. 126 Mannion, Glass Beads from Early Medieval Ireland, pp. 87–9. 127 Barry Raferty, ‘Iron Age Burials in Ireland’, Irish Antiquity: Essays and Studies Presented to Professor M. J. O’Kelly, ed. Donnchadh Ó Corraín (Dublin, 1994), pp. 173–204, at 177. 128 Raferty, ‘Iron Age Burials in Ireland’, p. 177. 129 Hencken, Price, and Start, ‘Lagore Crannog’, p. 139. 130 Mannion, Glass Beads from Early Medieval Ireland, p. 58. 131 Dáibhí Ó Cróinín, ‘Rath Melsigi, Willibrord, and the Earliest Echternach Manuscripts’, Peritia, 3 (1984), 17–49, at 30–2; Dáibhí Ó Cróinín, ‘Merovingian Politics and Insular Calligraphy: The Historical Background to the Book of Durrow and Related Manuscripts’, Ireland and Insular Art, AD 500–1200, ed. Michael Ryan (Dublin, 1987), pp. 40–3, at 41. 132 Dáibhí Ó Cróinín, ‘The Irish Provenance of Bede’s Computus’, Peritia, 2 (1983), 229–47, at 245–7. 133 Niamh Whitfield, ‘“More like the work of fairies”’, p. 235. 125

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degree of sophistication and virtuosity’.134 The connections were not just of a monastic nature, however, and traders and artisans also frequently travelled between Ireland, England, and the Continent. Imported goods such as pottery and glass vessels testify to established and long-ranging trade networks between Ireland and the outside world throughout this period.135 Pottery sherds of both B Ware and E Ware have been recovered from Garranes, and E Ware has been recovered from Lagore, Garryduff 1, Ballinderry 2, Caherlehillian, and Clonmacnoise.136 Vessel glass of Frankish origin has also been recovered from Garranes, Garryduff 1, and Lagore, and a palm cup similar to vessels from seventh-century Vendel graves has been identified among the finds from the Period 1b horizon at Lagore.137 These objects demonstrate an appreciation of (and an appetite for) the items travellers encountered while abroad. To this list we can add a variety of imported glass beads both from continental Europe and Anglo-Saxon England. Among the beads from Lagore, for instance, we find examples of Brugmann’s Constricted Segmented beads.138 Melon beads139 are among the glass bead assemblages from a number of sites including Ballinderry 1, Co. Offaly,140 and Lagore Crannóg, Co. Meath.141 Another two examples of the type were recovered from Garranes ringfort in County Cork.142 Mottled beads143 are found at Ballinderry Crannóg No. 2,144 Lagore Crannóg,145 and Garranes ringfort.146 As pieced and strung objects, beads are among the oldest forms of body ornament; finds from Üçağızlı Cave in Turkey suggest that the practice Whitfield, ‘“More like the work of fairies”’, p. 235. Edwards, Archaeology of Early Medieval Ireland, p. 142; Fiona Edmonds, ‘The Practicalities of Communication between Northumbrian and Irish Churches, c. 635–735’, Anglo-Saxon/Irish Relations before the Vikings, ed. James Graham-Campbell and Michael Ryan, Proceedings of the British Academy 157 (Oxford, 2009), pp. 129–50, at 135, 147. 136 Ewan Campbell, Continental and Mediterranean Imports to Atlantic Britain and Ireland, AD 400–800 (York, 2007); Ian W. Doyle, ‘Mediterranean and Frankish Pottery Imports in Early Medieval Ireland’, The Journal of Irish Archaeology, 18 (2009), 17–62; Amanda Kelly, ‘The Discovery of Phocaean Red Slip Ware (PRSW) Form 3 and Bii Ware (LR1 amphorae) on Sites in Ireland: An Analysis within a Broader Framework’, Proceedings of the Royal Irish Academy. Section C: Archaeology, Celtic Studies, History, Literature, 110 (2010), 35–88. 137 Edward Bourke, ‘Glass Vessels of the First Nine Centuries AD in Ireland’, The Journal of the Royal Society of Antiquaries of Ireland, 124 (1994), 163–209, at 171–3. 138 Brugmann, Glass Beads, fig. 84, 1; Hencken, Price, and Start, ‘Lagore Crannog’, pp. 141–2, figs. 67, 752. 139 Guido and Welch, The Glass Beads of Anglo-Saxon England, pp. 44–5. 140 Hencken and Stelfox, ‘Ballinderry 2 Crannog no. 2’, p. 51, figs. 21, 12. 141 Hencken, Price, and Start, ‘Lagore Crannog’, p. 136, fig. 65, 909 fig. 65 D and E. 142 Ó Ríordáin and Ryan, ‘Excavation of a Large Earthen Ringfort’, p. 116, figs. 14, 76, and 311e. 143 Guido and Welch, The Glass Beads of Anglo-Saxon England, pp. 27, 53, 63; Brugmann, Glass Beads, fig. 149. 144 Hencken and Stelfox, ‘Ballinderry 2 Crannog no. 2’, figs. 21, 440, and 12. 145 Hencken, Price, and Start, ‘Lagore Crannog’, p. 145, fig. 68 D. 146 Ó Ríordáin and Ryan, ‘Excavation of a Large Earthen Ringfort’, p. 16, fig. 14, 321, and fig. 16, 337a. 134 135

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dates at least as far back as the Upper Palaeolithic.147 Decorative motifs can be charged with meaning and various kinds of objects are known to have had symbolic value. Objects with associations to ancestors or the more distant past can evoke powerful and emotional memories, both personal and shared, and are thus an important part of culture. Beads, as socially signified objects, and as repositories of transferable encoded messages, can be passed from one person to another through social exchanges across geographical areas and through time from one generation to the next.148 Decorated objects as tangible items are often used in rituals and ceremonies marking transitions in life paths and as such reflect and transmit a culture’s norms.149 From its invention, glass has been a highly prized material.150 Glass beads were among luxury items traded over vast areas, and beads from Danish burials indicate both contact and trade during the fourteenth and twelfth centuries BC between Denmark, Egypt, and Mesopotamia.151 As suggested by Aubrey Burl, the seas dividing Ireland and Britain played a significant part in the movement of not only objects but also ideas and art styles.152 Dating and iconographic similarities between the macehead from Knowth, the spiral decoration from Newgrange, and the Garboldisham macehead indicate not only interaction but also an appreciation and use of similar motif styles between Ireland and Britain during the early stage of the Middle Neolithic.153 As noted, among glass beads we also find a shared appreciation for certain forms and motifs – such as spirals, crossing waves, dots, and ‘eyes’ – which are combined and applied in Ireland with a uniquely Irish twist. Also noticeable in the bead assemblages are the use and manipulation of older bead styles in new and novel ways, and the continuing popularity of the spiral and ‘eye’ motifs and lotus/melon beads, which, while demonstrating form and style unique to the early medieval period, echo beads worn by past generations. As objects utilised in the visual expression of personal and cultural identity, glass beads can be pregnant with meaning and charged with emotion, arousing strong affinities with past inhabitants of

Stevan L. Kuhn et al., ‘Ornaments of the Earliest Upper Palaeolithic: New Insights from the Levant’, Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, 98 (2001), 7641–6, at 7644–5. 148 Stevan L. Kuhn and Mary C. Stiner, ‘Body Ornamentation as Information Technology: Towards an Understanding of the Significance of Early Beads’, Rethinking the Human Revolution, ed. Paul Mellars et al. (Oxford, 2007), pp. 45–54, at 50. 149 Linda D. Sciama and Joanne B. Eicher, eds., Beads and Bead Makers: Gender, Material Culture, and Meaning (Oxford, 2001), p. 17. 150 A. Leo Oppenheim and Robert H. Brill, eds., Glass and Glassmaking in Ancient Mesopotamia: An Edition of the Cuneiform Texts which Contain Instructions for Glassmakers, with a Catalogue of Surviving Objects (New York, NY, 1970), p. 101. 151 Jeanette Varber, Bernard Gratuze, and Flemming Kaul, ‘Between Egypt, Mesopotamia and Scandinavia: Late Bronze Age Glass Beads Found in Denmark’, Journal of Archaeological Science, 54 (2015), 168–81, at 168. 152 Aubrey Burl, The Stone Circles of the British Isles (London, 1973), p. 273. 153 Jones et al., ‘The Garboldisham Macehead’, p. 392. 147

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a community or culture, and forging kinship bonds among the present residents. Motifs as well as objects were part of an exchange network of ideas, and even if understood differently by different peoples they retained value and were in many instances incorporated into local belief systems, with some motifs resonating meaning for a considerable period over a broad geographical area.

UNMASKING MEANING: FACES HIDDEN AND REVEALED IN EARLY ANGLO-SAXON ENGLAND MELISSA HERMAN 1

L

ooking at a face is a complex experience that offers a viewer insight into emotions, reactions, and perhaps even behavioural intentions through means of the information transfer embedded in facial expressions.2 It is often said that the eyes are the windows of the soul,3 but it is the face, with its innumerable quirks, muscle twitches, and movements, which provides an unspoken glimpse into the inner space of the person behind it.4 Before turning to examine the static faces and mask-like forms captured By the time I met Jane Hawkes, she had already heavily influenced the first term of my Master’s degree, despite being on research leave and out of the country at the time! Her written work was scattered throughout the syllabus of my first course in AngloSaxon art and formed the bedrock of my first Master’s-level paper at York, in which I examined the iconography of the Crundale buckle, a seventh-century gold buckle bearing a prominent three-dimensional fish. Jane introduced me to a way of looking at AngloSaxon art that has proven foundational to my own work, providing the lens through which I could view the art of this period, and revel in its exuberant ambiguity. 2 Ross W. Buck et al., ‘Communication of Affect through Facial Expressions in Humans’, Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 23.3 (1972), 365–70; Rachael E. Jack and Philippe G. Schyns, ‘The Human Face as a Dynamic Tool for Social Communication’, Current Biology, 25.14 (2015), R621–R634 (R622–R623). 3 Variations of this phrase appear in works as oft-quoted as the Bible (Matthew 6:22–3) and Shakespeare (Richard III, act V, scene 3, line 117), but its origin is thought to be in Cicero’s words nam ut imago est animi voltus sic indices oculi (‘for as the face is the image of the soul, so are the eyes its interpreters’). See G. L. Hendrickson and H. M. Hubbell, eds. and trans., Cicero: Brutus, Orator, Loeb Classical Library 342 (Cambridge, MA, 1939), pp. 350–1. 4 Nico H. Frijda and Batja Mesquita, ‘The Social Roles and Functions of Emotions’, Emotion and Culture: Empirical Studies of Mutual Influence, ed. S. Kitayama and H. Markus (Washington, DC, 1994), pp. 51–87; R. Thomas Boone and Ross W. Buck, ‘Emotional Expressivity and Trustworthiness: The Role of Nonverbal Behavior in the 1

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in Anglo-Saxon metalwork it is useful to consider the possible faces and facial expressions that inform and underpin these decorative motifs. Facial expressions are produced by the movements of muscles, voluntary or involuntary, under the skin, which act as a form of non-verbal communication and may, in turn, convey the emotional state of an individual to observers.5 These silent communications can confirm or contradict a verbal utterance – or even ‘speak’ in the absence of any such utterance. Some facial expressions (and their attendant meanings) are socially and culturally conditioned, as evidenced by the disconnect in the interpretation of a smile between eastern and western cultures,6 but it has been argued, primarily in psychological discourse, that a number of these visual cues, such as fear,7 are universal,8 thus providing a means by which a form of non-verbal communication might bypass linguistic limitations. If facial expressions provide a means of communicating emotions and intentions, albeit modified by social and cultural conditioning, then it is possible that historical faces can convey similar non-verbal cues despite their temporal distance from their viewer. Contemporary studies making a case for the universality of facial expression as an index of emotion often draw on images of faces from the past, and use these captured images to support the idea that muscular movements forming facial expressions are inherent to humans, and therefore universal.9 A modern viewer can readily find historical faces – in old movies, antique photographs, or in artistic representations – which can have varying degrees of veracity, ranging from the life-cast techniques used to create Roman or Etruscan death masks,10 to the controversial and often disorienting portraits of Evolution of Cooperation’, Journal of Nonverbal Behavior, 27 (2003), 163–82; Jack and Schyns, ‘The Human Face’, R623–R624. 5 Alan J. Fridlund, Human Facial Expression (San Diego, CA, 1994). 6 Toshiki Shioiri et al., ‘Cultural Difference in Recognition of Facial Emotional Expression: Contrast between Japanese and American Raters’, Psychiatry and Clinical Neurosciences, 53 (1999), 629–33; Rachael E. Jack et al., ‘Facial Expressions of Emotion are Not Culturally Universal’, Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, 109.19 (2012), 7241–4. 7 Joshua M. Susskind et al., ‘Expressing Fear Enhances Sensory Acquisition’, Nature Neuroscience, 11.7 (2008), 843–50. 8 The universality of facial expressions is a longstanding and much debated idea in the study of human communication. For further reading of the debate on both sides see: Robert S. Woodworth and Harold Schlosberg, Experimental Psychology (New York, NY, 1954); Carroll Izard, The Face of Emotion (New York, NY, 1971); Paul Ekman and Wallace V. Friesen, Emotion in the Human Face: Guidelines for Research and a Review of Findings (New York, NY, 1972); James A. Russell, ‘Is There Universal Recognition of Emotion From Facial Expression? A Review of the Cross-Cultural Studies’, Psychological Bulletin, 115.1 (1994), 102–41. 9 Stephanie Downes and Stephanie Trigg, ‘Facing Up to the History of Emotions’, Postmedieval: A Journal of Medieval Cultural Studies, 8 (2017), 3–11. 10 H. W. Janson with Dora Jane Janson, History of Art: A Survey of the Major Visual Arts from the Dawn of History to the Present Day (New York, NY, 1962), p. 141; Niels Steensma, ‘Some Considerations on the Function and Meaning of the Etruscan Bronze “Masks”

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the twentieth-century artist Lucien Freud.11 The human figure, and more specifically the face, has appeared in artistic representation from its earliest days, and remains effective because of its visible humanity. Humans, as sociable creatures, are drawn to looking at other humans and are neurologically equipped to process and interpret the numerous unspoken bodily and facial cues of another human.12 Much of what can be read on another’s face is tempered by cultural situation, social conditioning, and other sources of information which contextualise facial expressions.13 The same kind of response imbues the viewing of humans represented in art, causing a sympathetic engagement with the depicted face and an effort to read and interpret the same cues available in an encounter with a living face.14 Thus in regarding a represented face, even one from the distant historical past, a viewer inevitably looks for facial expressions in order to understand (or assume understanding) about the emotions, thoughts, or intentions behind the visage captured in the representation. The Mona Lisa famously graces the viewer with an enigmatic smile that hints at the sitter’s mixed emotions and complex thoughts.15 While the Mona Lisa’s mysterious painted smile may tantalise with its ambiguity, the portrait nevertheless shows a face upon which emotions can be read; significantly, the human face becomes illegible with the introduction of a mask. Masks are designed to cover the face, providing disguise or distraction from the expressiveness they camouflage. A mask can obfuscate identity by covering an individual’s features, or summon another or ‘other’ identities for the wearer.16 Masks can also offer the opportunity to amplify, exaggerating specific characteristics and expressions in order to convey a particular meaning or emotion. They can thus dictate the way their bearer is perceived, controlling and solidifying the emotion conveyed through their static expression, influencing the viewer’s experience of the

from Chiusi (Seventh Century BC)’, Proceedings of the 11th annual Symposium Onderzoek Jonge Archeologen. Groningen: Stichting Onderzoek Jonge Archeologen, ed. H. Duinker, E. Hopman, and J. Steding (Groningen, 2014), pp. 65–74. 11 Lucian Freud et al., Lucian Freud: Painting People (London, 2012). 12 Fridlund, Human Facial Expression; Martin Kemp and Marina Wallace, Spectacular Bodies: The Art and Science of the Human Body from Leonardo to Now (London, 2000), p. 15. 13 Ursula Hess, ‘The Communication of Emotion’, Emotions, Qualia, and Consciousness, ed. A. Kazniak (Singapore, 2001), pp. 398–400. 14 Philip S. Rawson, Art and Time (Vancouver, 2005), p. 93. 15 Ernst H. Gombrich, The Story of Art (London, 1989), pp 302–3; Emanuela Liaci et al., ‘Mona Lisa is Always Happy – and Only Sometimes Sad’, Scientific Reports, 7.43511 (2017) [accessed 24 January 2019]. 16 Freud has long been known to grapple with the idea of ‘what is familiar and agreeable’ and ‘what is concealed and kept out of sight’ in his analysis of the uncanny. It seems that such discussion is inescapable in examining the disorientation inherent in engaging with a masked face. Sigmund Freud, The Complete Psychoanalytical Works XVII (London, 1955), pp. 220, 224–5; see also: Meg Twycross and Sarah Carpenter, Masks and Masking in Medieval and Early Tudor England (New York, NY, 2002), pp. 2–3, 11.

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identity and persona of the wearer, and creating in the viewer a sense of disassociation and ambiguity.17 Masks and masking activities appear in numerous societies, both contemporary and historical, and the practice of deliberately covering the face remains remarkably compelling both individually and culturally.18 A mask often effaces identity, and thereby releases a masked individual from normal, societal consequences, disrupting the order of a societal structure, and offering an opportunity for confusion, chaos, and even violence.19 Experienced in the form of a mask, the human face cannot convey mobile or reactive facial expressions; it cannot change, regardless of what the mask-wearer may be feeling, and so the impassivity of the mask can be exploited.20 The effect on the wearer of the mask can be equally compelling. Concealed, or transformed, s/he can feel more protected and less exposed, be it in battle, where a mask can legitimately prevent physical damage, or in performative practice, where the person of the bearer/wearer can be effaced in favour of the persona represented by the mask.21 Masking has a long history in both classical antiquity and medieval Europe, serving pleasurable, ritualistic, and martial purposes.22 Universally, the wearing of a mask is intimately tied to ideas of transformation, marked by a disengagement from the ordinary, implying access to practices beyond the human realm, connecting to the spiritual and the supernatural, creating a public persona, and facilitating ritual.23 While cultural practices differed across classical and early medieval societies, the rise of the Roman Empire imposed a degree of cultural imperialism on territories it controlled.24 This acculturation was not limited to the expanding borders of the Empire but extended into the so-called barbarian territories beyond those borders, which the Empire encountered through military engagement, trade and

Twycross and Carpenter, Masks and Masking, pp. 7–8. Twycross and Carpenter, Masks and Masking, p. 3. See also, Claude Lévi-Strauss, The Way of the Masks, trans. Sylvia Modelski (Seattle, WA, 1988). 19 Sarah P. Sutherland, Masques in Jacobean Tragedy (New York, NY, 1983), pp. 6–7, 112–16; Inga-Stina Ewbank ‘“These Pretty Devices”: A Study of Masques in Plays’, A Book of Masques in Honour of Allardyce Nicoll, ed. T. J. Spencer (Cambridge, 1980), pp. 405–48, at 437–47. 20 Twycross and Carpenter, Masks and Masking, p. 8. 21 Twycross and Carpenter, Masks and Masking, pp. 9–10. 22 Twycross and Carpenter, Masks and Masking, pp. 14–15; see also: Henry Pernet, Ritual Masks: Deceptions and Revelations (Columbia, SC, 1992); William Healey Dall, ‘On Masks, Labrets, and Certain Aboriginal Customs, with an Inquiry into the Bearing of their Geographical Distribution’, Bureau of American Ethnology: Annual Report, 3 (1884), 73–151. 23 Victor Turner, The Ritual Process: Structure and Anti-Structure (New York, NY, 1969), pp. 172–85; Process, Performance, and Pilgrimage: A Study in Comparative Symbology (New Delhi, 1979), pp. 35–40, 63–4; Subhash Kak, ‘Ritual, Masks, and Sacrifice’, Studies in Humanities and Social Sciences, 11 (2004), 29–44, at 29–30. 24 James William Ermatinger, The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire (Westport, CT, 2004), pp. 1–2. 17

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economic exchange, and cultural contact.25 Part of the Romanisation of Europe included exposure to, and often the adoption of, Roman dress and ornamentation, representation, and armament. Among these were an assortment of helmets with face masks attached.26 Found throughout the Roman Empire, particularly in areas associated with the Roman cavalry, these decorated helmets with masks have been dated from the first century through the fourth century. They are formed of a bell and an anthropomorphic metal facial protector joined with a hinge or hook.27 Many of these helmets bore extremely detailed faces, often depicting youths or even women with elaborate hairstyles thought to personify a patron deity, such as Mars or the youthful Apollo, while the bell of the helmet was ornamented with relief decoration ranging from flora or figures to military sigils,28 such as the griffin surmounting the helm of the Crosby Garret helmet,29 or the frieze of busts found of the browband of a silvered face mask from Nijmegen displayed in the Provincial Museum, Kam.30 There is much debate about the functional role of these masks: whether they might have been worn in battle or served a more ceremonial and propagandistic role, being worn only on parade or in tournaments, for ritualistic purposes, or to demonstrate the glory of Rome.31 However, the discovery of such helmets amongst the archaeological detritus of battle, such as weapon and armour fragments, suggests that these masks

See, for example, discussion in Guy Halsall, Barbarian Migrations and the Roman West, 376–568 (Cambridge, 2007). 26 M. C. Bishop and J. C. Coulston, Roman Military Equipment from the Punic Wars to the Fall of Rome (Oxford, 2006), pp. 104–5. 27 Krzysztof Narloch, ‘The Cold Face of Battle – Some Remarks on the Function of Roman Helmets with Face Masks’, Archäologisches Korrespondenzblatt, 42 (2012), 377–85, at 377. 28 Narloch, ‘The Cold Face of Battle’, p. 377. See also: M. Kohlert, ‘Typologie und Chronologie der Gesichtsmasken’, Römische Paraderüstungen: Münchner Beiträge zur Vor- und Frühgeschichte 30, ed. J. Garbsch (Munich, 1978), pp. 19–28; E. Künzl, ‘Sol, Lupa, Zwillingsgottheiten und Hercules: Neue Funde und Bemerkungen zur Ikonographie römischer Paradewaffen’, Archäologisches Korrespondenzblatt, 34 (2004), 389–406. 29 M. C. Bishop, ‘Description’, The Crosby Garrett Helmet, ed. D. J. Breeze and M. C. Bishop (Pewsey, 2013), pp. 7–16, at 7. 30 W. J. H. Willems, ‘Roman Face Masks from the Kops Plateau, Nijmegen, The Netherlands’, Journal of Roman Military Equipment Studies, 3 (1992), 57–66, at 58–9. 31 For discussions on both sides of this debate see: H. Klumbach, Römische Helme aus Niedergermanien (Cologne, 1974), p. 14; H. R. Robinson, The Armour of Imperial Rome (London, 1975), p. 107; H.-J. Kellner, Der römische Verwahrfund von Eining (Munich, 1978), pp. 2–4; M. Junkelmann, Reiter wie Statuen aus Erz (Mainz, 1996), p. 52; E. Bartman, ‘The Mock Face of Battle’, Journal of Roman Archaeology, 18 (2005), 99–119, at 101–3, 117–19; M. C. Bishop and J. C. N. Coulston, Roman Military Equipment: From the Punic Wars to the Fall of Rome (Oxford, 2006), pp. 142, 175. See also Heidi Stoner, ‘Signifying Kingship in Anglo-Saxon England: The Visual Languages of Power and Authority c. 500–1000 CE’ (unpublished doctoral thesis, University of York, 2017); ‘Kings without Faces: An Examination of the Visual Evidence for Kingship in the Seventh Century’, The Long Seventh Century: Continuity and Discontinuity in an Age of Transition ed. T. MacMaster, A. Gnasso, and B. Morris (Oxford, 2015), pp. 19–37; and Alex Woolf, ‘Sutton Hoo and Sweden Revisited’, The Long Seventh Century, pp. 1–18. 25

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were sometimes worn to (if not actually in) battle, perhaps as a means of intimidating enemy soldiers before the fight began.32 While the faces on Roman helmet masks seem to be stylised as the ‘ideal’ blank-faced youth, a different approach was utilised in the AngloSaxon world. The appearance of the human face in early Anglo-Saxon decorative ornament is relatively rare when compared to zoomorphic motifs or geometric patterns, although by no means as rare as full human figures. That being said, there is a consistency to the face’s depiction that renders its form immediately recognisable and related to other contemporary depictions. A lyre-shaped brow and nose arrangement and oval eyes always dominate the Anglo-Saxon depiction of a face, even if liberties are taken with the abstraction of the rest of the features. A moustache of some type is usually portrayed, often with some detail to accentuate it, be it in the height of the repoussé or with a textural element, sometimes paired with a beard, emphasising a masculine characteristic and rendering the face unmistakably male. The schematic, repetitive, and abstracted nature of these faces results in a completely flat affect, impassive and immobile, static amongst a decorative ground that can be imbued with a great deal of energy and movement in the layers of pattern and interlace. It might therefore be argued that the representation of an isolated human face in early Anglo-Saxon art, with its consistent stylised conventions, was more akin to a mask than a naturalistically rendered human; indeed, such a representation is commonly called a face-mask or humanoid mask by scholars.33 The association of these disembodied faces with masks is rendered more compelling by the use of such a face on an actual mask – part of the defensive structure of the Sutton Hoo helmet. The region which became Anglo-Saxon England had previously been controlled by the Roman Empire as the province of Britannia, where it had a significant cultural and military presence.34 As evidence of acculturation, it has long been recognised that Roman dress and armament served as exemplars for similar items of early Anglo-Saxon manufacture, particularly parade armour,35 which may have had a more ornate or ceremonial look as it was intended to be part of a public spectacle or show of force. It follows, Narloch, ‘The Cold Face of Battle’, pp. 378–81. Tania M. Dickinson, ‘Translating Animal Art: Salin’s Style I and Anglo-Saxon Cast Saucer Brooches’, Hikuin 29 (2002), 163–86, at 165. 34 For further reading on the history and influence of Roman Britain see the following: Simon Esmonde-Cleary, The Ending of Roman Britain (London, 1989); Martin Millet, The Romanization of Britain: An Essay in Archaeological Interpretation (Cambridge, 1990); Peter Salway, A History of Roman Britain (Oxford, 1993); Michael Jones, The End of Roman Britain (Ithaca, NY, 1996); Joan P. Alcock, A Brief History of Roman Britain (London, 2011); David Shotter, Roman Britain (London, 2012). 35 Michael Hunter, ‘Germanic and Roman Antiquity and the Sense of the Past in AngloSaxon England’, ASE, 3 (1974), 29–50; Rupert Bruce-Mitford, The Sutton Hoo Ship-Burial, vol. 2: Arms, Armour and Regalia (London, 1978), pp. 532–4; William Filmer-Sankey, ‘The “Roman Emperor” in the Sutton Hoo Ship Burial’, Journal of the British Archaeological Association, 149.1 (1996), 4–5. 32 33

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FIG. 10.1 ​REPLICA OF THE SUTTON HOO HELMET (ORIGINAL, SEVENTH CENTURY).

therefore, that if other aspects of Roman armament were integrated into Anglo-Saxon battle gear, the masked helmet also exerted its influence.36 This is perhaps best demonstrated by the ornate masked helmet found in the seventh-century ship burial in Mound 1 at Sutton Hoo in Suffolk (Fig. 10.1). The helmet has a rigid metal plate riveted to the cap, which would have fitted over the face of the wearer,37 obscuring the features of the face Several examples of Roman cavalry helmets with masks have been found in and around the Roman territory of Britainnia. See Bruce-Mitford, Sutton Hoo, pp. 220–4 and fig. 169, which shows two surviving Roman cavalry helmets with face masks. 37 Angela C. Evans, The Sutton Hoo Ship Burial (London, 1986), pp. 46–9; C. J. Arnold, An Archaeology of the Early Anglo-Saxon Kingdoms (London, 1988), pp. 75–6; Sonja Marzinzik, The Sutton Hoo Helmet (London, 2007). 36

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without completely covering it, while preserving eyeholes and nose holes.38 Helmets are a rare find in the archaeological record of early medieval England, and only six survive, mostly in a damaged or fragmentary state. The late seventh-century Pioneer helmet and the eighth-century Coppergate helmet are of similar construction and survive in reasonable condition. Both are considered examples of the crested helmets common in northern Europe from the sixth to eleventh centuries, with a rounded skull cap, large protective nasal piece, and hinged cheek pieces along the sides.39 The Benty Grange helmet, dated to the mid-seventh century, is also a crested helmet, though in much poorer condition than the Pioneer or Coppergate helmets. Its crown originally held plates of horn and a small protective nasal guard, but it is unclear whether it had attached cheek plates.40 The early-to-mid-sixth-century Shorwell helmet seems to take a different exemplar, deriving instead from the contemporary Frankish style of armament.41 The final helmet, dated to the seventh century, was found as part of the Staffordshire hoard, surviving only as a pair of small but ornately decorated cheek guards, and little can be extrapolated from them about the rest of the helmet’s form.42 All the surviving Anglian helmets have some form of facial protection, usually in the form of a nasal guard and cheek guards, which would have obscured some of their wearers’ expression; only the Sutton Hoo helmet forms a mask that effectively effaces its wearer.43 38 Arnold, An Archaeology of the Early Anglo-Saxon Kingdoms, pp. 75–6; Marzinzik, Sutton Hoo Helmet. 39 Leslie Webster and Janet Backhouse, eds., The Making of England (London, 1991), pp. 59–60; Dominic Tweddle, The Anglian Helmet from Coppergate (York, 1992); Ian Meadows, ‘An Anglian Warrior Burial from Wollaston, Northamptonshire’, Northamptonshire Archaeology Reports, 10.110 (2010, digital edn). 40 Thomas Bateman, Ten Years’ Digging in Celtic and Saxon Grave Hills, in the Counties of Derby, Stafford, and York, from 1848 to 1858; with Notices of some Former Discoveries, Hitherto Unpublished, and Remarks on the Crania and Pottery from the Mounds (London, 1861), pp. 28–33; Rupert L. S. Bruce-Mitford and M. R. Luscombe, ‘The Benty Grange Helmet’, Aspects of Anglo-Saxon Archaeology: Sutton Hoo and other Discoveries (London, 1974), pp. 223–52. 41 Jamie Hood Barry Ager et al., ‘Investigating and Interpreting an Early-to-Mid SixthCentury Frankish Style Helmet’, The British Museum Technical Research Bulletin, 6 (2012), 83–95, at 92. 42 Deborah L. Magnoler, ‘K453 and the “Cheek Piece” Group’, Staffordshire Hoard (3 November 2011) . 43 Similar face guards survive on seventh-century helmets from Vendal and Valsgärde, Sweden, and though they are smaller and less ornate than the Sutton Hoo mask, they offer greater concealment than the other English helms. For further discussion see K. Stjerna, ‘Helmets and Swords in Beowulf ’, Essays on Questions Connected with the Old English Poem of Beowulf, ed. and trans. J. R. Clark Hall (London, 1912), pp. 1–32, at 9–11; Sonia Chadwick Hawkes, Hilda R. E. Davidson, and Christopher Hawkes, ‘The Finglesham Man’, Antiquity, 53 (1965), 17–32, at 19–21; Margaret A. Arent, ‘The Heroic Pattern: Old Germanic Helmets, Beowulf and Grettis Saga’, Old Norse Literature and Mythology: A Symposium, ed. E. C. Polome (Austin, TX, 1969), pp. 138–41; Michael Speidel, Ancient Germanic Warriors: Warrior Styles from Trajan’s Column to Icelandic Sagas (London and New York, NY, 2002), pp. 107–8.

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Like the Roman cavalry helmets thought to be its model, the Sutton Hoo helmet is ornately decorated, with a human face ornamenting the mask. The detailed replica of a face is, however, somewhat abstracted, forming a human mask complete with heavy brows over the eyes, a prominent nose, and moustache over the metal lips, with these ‘features’ created via a three-dimensional bird ornament. The bird appliqué is affixed to a roughly face-shaped, flat ground decorated with pressbleche foils ornamented with strips of interlace to an intricate ground. The interlace of the foils is zoomorphic, formed by tiny anonymous beasts entangled together in a complex but regular pattern, and separated from the next strip by a thick border of double beading, creating a contrast between the exuberant implied movement of the interlace and the regularity of the geometric border. The facial features are schematic and non-naturalistic, but clearly recognisable as both human and male. The oval eyeholes are framed by a heavy, lyre-shaped brow and protruding nose, which are formed by the bird’s body and outstretched wings respectively. The bird’s wide, fanned tail becomes a drooping moustache curving downward, covering the upper lip of the moulded metal mouth. The tail/moustache is textured with vertical, linear patterning to indicate hair or feathers (depending on whether the viewer is seeing the bird or the face), or a shifting form of both. The mask’s chin tapers to a rounded point which might indicate a beard: a possibility enhanced by the slightly angled vertical pattern of the strips of interlace, separated from the more regular decorative scheme of the rest of the plate by two horizontal interlace strips set approximately even with the bottom of the nose. Facial protection in the heat of battle was undoubtedly of practical use to the wearer of such a helmet, however this creation of a mask-like face composed of both human and animal elements designed to be placed over a real, human face seemingly held deeper significance too. The mask of the Sutton Hoo helmet must be seen as the result of deliberate effort and symbolic choice to efface the wearer’s identity and supplant it with whatever identity/ies were embodied by the mask. The Sutton Hoo mask is impassive save the eyes, which would be visible through the eyeholes at close range, arguably creating a disconcerting juxtaposition between impassive metal and vivacious human eyes.44 The ‘anonymisation’ of the wearer arguably renders him both less and more than human. The blankness and flat aspect of a mask remove the humanity and personality of the wearer and might serve to intimidate an enemy in battle (although the Sutton Hoo helmet may never have been worn in combat),45 or indeed unsettle anyone faced with its unchanging visage at a civic or ceremonial encounter. This effect would likely have been enhanced by the brightness Twycross and Carpenter, Masks and Masking, pp. 17–18. Mark Harrison, Anglo-Saxon Thegn, AD 449–1066 (Oxford, 1993), p. 14; Marzinzik, Sutton Hoo Helmet, pp. 45–55.

44 45

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and shine of the helmet and other highly decorated pieces of armament, and multiplied by the presence of other similarly garbed warriors, making the wearer a fearsome and intimidating sight.46 The mask also serves to hide any expressions which might reveal its wearer’s thoughts or reactions, physically shielding the face and blocking the non-verbal cues usually communicated by it.47 The screening of human facial features can have an extremely unsettling effect upon a viewer, even when the mask utilised also has human features.48 The mask’s features are also deliberately focused on masculine attributes: the heavy brow and facial hair.49 This particular effacement might have been intended to distance the wearer from their own humanity, their weaknesses and fears, and so embody the ideal of a virile, masculine warrior. There is a deliberate multivalency embedded in the inherent duality of masks, the expressive and transformative nature of these mask-like faces. In placing the mask over human features, the wearer could become both less than an individual man, anonymous and unemotional, and yet more than ‘man’ – superhuman, discarding humanity to become a ‘universal’ male warrior, embodying the idealised traits of masculinity as emblazoned on the mask.50 Faces, or face masks, form a small but significant part of the iconography of early Anglo-Saxon metalwork, appearing both as singular isolated forms and worked into larger more complex patterns. The static, schematic form of representation for depicting human features remains remarkably consistent throughout the period and across mediums, suggesting a significance and potency embedded in the motif. As with most of the zoomorphs depicted in early Anglo-Saxon art, the human head, or, perhaps more accurately, the face, can be represented as disembodied – a motif independent of the full human body, and noticeably more common as a decorative element both in isolation and as part of larger and more varied ornamental schemes.51 Anglo-Saxon customs for representing human faces carry some degree of abstraction, taken to a lesser or greater degree depending on the decorative scheme in which they appear. The place of the human face in Anglo-Saxon art, in terms of both its role in wider stylistic developments and its symbolic purpose, remains an ongoing

Halsall, Warfare and Society, pp. 175–6. Paul Ekman, ‘Facial Expression’, Nonverbal Behavior and Communication, ed. A. Siegman and S. Feldstein (Hillsdale, NJ, 1977), pp. 97–116, at 97–8. 48 Halsall, Warfare and Society, p. 176. 49 Melissa Herman, ‘Something More than “Man”: Re-examining the Human Figure in Early Anglo-Saxon Art’, The Art, Literature and Material Culture of the Medieval World, ed. Meg Boulton and Jane Hawkes with Melissa Herman (Dublin, 2015), pp. 278–94, at 288, 292. 50 Herman, ‘Something More than “Man”’, p. 288. 51 David Leigh, ‘Ambiguity in Anglo-Saxon Style I Art’, AntJ, 64.1 (1984), 34–42; Seiichi Suzuki, The Quoit Brooch Style and Anglo-Saxon Settlement: A Casting and Recasting of Cultural Identity Symbols (Woodbridge, 2000), pp. 56–78. 46 47

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focus of discussion.52 Nevertheless, connections have been made between the use of the motif in England with the North Sea littoral of Scandinavia and continental Europe and the emergence of social classifications and perceptions.53 Like most of the zoomorphs found in the metalwork of the period, the mode of representing the human face in early Anglo-Saxon art tends to be heavily stylised and schematic. Little attention is paid to overall proportion, but the head is usually oval and has large almond-shaped eyes. The face is mask-like – an appearance emphasised not only by the oversized eyes, but also by the often-stylised representation of the eyebrows and nose, which forms a ‘lyre-shape’. This is formed by a single depicted gesture, curving over one eye then moving down to form the bridge of the nose, widening slightly to indicate the nostrils and tip, before curving back up to create the other side of the nose and brow. This aesthetic convention could be and often was abstracted to varying degrees depending on the available space and decorative choices, but the basic ‘lyre-shape’ remains recognizable regardless of whether it is creating a face on a full-size helmet or a miniscule flourish on a brooch. The depictions almost always display facial hair in the form of a beard, either full-grown or nascent stubble, and/or a luxuriant moustache that covers the upper lip and often droops down the sides of the mouth.54 The detail and specificity of the facial hair found in these early representations of Anglo-Saxon faces must be telling. As Paul Edward Dutton wrote in discussing Charlemagne’s detailed facial hair, ever-present in his various representations, ‘hair is a signature of history’ because it can be manipulated to suit fashion and in doing so becomes firmly fixed in a specific time and place.55 Hair has been a means of identifying and categorising peoples throughout history, distinguishing Karen Høilund Nielsen, ‘Style II and the Anglo-Saxon Elite’, The Making of Kingdoms, ed. Tania Dickinson and David Griffiths, ASSAH 10 (Oxford, 1999), pp. 185–202; Tania M. Dickinson, ‘Medium and Message in Early Anglo-Saxon Animal Art: Some Observations on the Contexts of Salin’s Style I in England’, Form and Order in the AngloSaxon World, AD 600–1100, ed. Sally Crawford, Helena Hamerow, and Leslie Webster (Oxford, 2009), pp. 1–12, at 2; Seiichi Suzuki, Anglo-Saxon Button Brooches: Typology, Genealogy, Chronology (Woodbridge, 2008), p. 338; Lisa Brundle, ‘The Body on Display: Exploring the Role and Use of Figurines in Early Anglo-Saxon England’, Journal of Social Archaeology, 13.2 (2013), 197–219, at 198–200. 53 Douglass W. Bailey, ‘The Interpretation of Figurines: The Emergence of Illusion and New Ways of Seeing’, Cambridge Archaeological Journal, 6.2 (1996), 291–5, at 293; Høilund Nielsen, ‘Style II’; Chris Scarre, ‘Monuments and Miniatures: Representing Humans in Neolithic Europe, 5000–2000 BC’, Material Beginnings: A Global Prehistory of Figurative Representation, ed. Colin Renfrew and Iain Morley (Cambridge, 2007), pp. 17–30, at 18; Brundle, ‘Body on Display’, p. 200. 54 For examples of the hirsute appearance of the face see the buckle from Åker (M. Magnusson and W. Forman, Viking: Hammer of the North (London, 1976), p. 17); the square-headed brooches from Chessel Down (Hines, New Corpus, pp. 42–8, fig. 20b); and Barrington A (Hines, New Corpus, p. 178); or both the repoussé panels and the face-mask of the Sutton Hoo helmet (Marzinzik, Sutton Hoo Helmet, pp. 20, 30–6). 55 Paul Edward Dutton, Charlemagne’s Mustache: And other Cultural Clusters of a Dark Age (New York, NY, 2004), pp. 3–4. 52

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civilised person from barbarian, warrior from untried youth, or free man from slave, as Tacitus demonstrates in his descriptions of the different hairstyles and grooming practices of specific tribes in Germania.56 It seems that the Anglo-Saxons paid a great deal of attention to facial hair.57 It is no doubt significant that the full and drooping moustache is consistent in images from across this period, whether paired with stubble, a full beard, or a smooth chin. A frieze of typical moustachioed faces can be seen on the gilt copper-alloy rim of a drinking cup found in the late sixth- or early seventh-century burial at Taplow, Buckinghamshire. The repoussé masks all bear the key features of facial depiction with highlighted masculine attributes: almond-shaped eyes, lyre-shaped brow, drooping moustache, and beards. The facial hair, for all its schematic appearance, bears the most naturalistic detail, with a series of vertical lines giving the moustaches a textured, hairy appearance. Furthermore, the moustaches seem to project outwards into the foreground of the image and link together to form an undulating line that connects all the faces of the frieze, further drawing visual attention to the masculine signifier. Similar faces are found on a partial foil from the Staffordshire Hoard (Pl. XIII), which shows two faces linked by conjoined moustaches, and was, in all likelihood, a decorative frieze like that on the Taplow drinking vessel. In addition to the large, drooping moustaches, the Staffordshire Hoard faces also display the lyre-shaped brow over almond-shaped eyes set with beads of metal. Unlike the Taplow frieze, these faces do not touch each other except at the moustache, which forms an unbroken, curving line across the frieze, thus emphasising its importance as a key construct of masculine visual identity. The inclusion of a small bead of gold in the background formed by the inward curve of the jawlines and the downward point of the conjoined moustaches suggests that there was some attempt to create several layers of pattern within the tiny decorative field, superimposing a geometric linear ornament on the frieze of faces. Familiar faces decorate the pointed vandykes from the Taplow drinking vessel,58 and the moustache, again textured to give the impression of hairiness and to distinguish it from the rest of the face, remains prominent in the image. More simplified and schematic faces can also be seen at the lower register of each of the vandykes on the seventh-century Maplewood

Dutton, Charlemagne’s Mustache, pp. 6–11. Roberta Frank, ‘Did Anglo-Saxon Audiences Have a Skaldic Tooth?’, Scandinavian Studies, 59.3 (1987), 338–55, at 338; Gale Owen-Crocker, Dress in Anglo-Saxon England (Woodbridge, 2004), pp. 124–5; Steven Ashby, ‘Grooming the Face in the Early Middle Ages’, Internet Archaeology, 42 (2016) [accessed 1 February 2018]. 58 British Museum, 1883, 1214.41. Vandykes are the often triangular, decorative flourishes attached to and ornamenting the metal collar of early medieval drinking vessels and horns. 56 57

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bottles found in Mound 1 at Sutton Hoo,59 beneath a pair of confronting, ribbon-like zoomorphs.60 The face is very small – a narrow oval reduced to its key signifiers: the almond eyes set with round beads, the lyre-shaped brow, and a mouth surmounted by a heavy, drooping moustache, which again stands out despite the simplicity and scale of the design. A slight protuberance of repoussé below the mouth may be an indicator of the figure’s beard, but this is not entirely clear. A common variation of the human face motif in seventh-century AngloSaxon art was a man wearing a horned helmet. A well-worn seventhcentury copper-alloy mount (Fig. 10.2), with traces of gilding, displays a simple version of this iconographic type. The mount is flat, with the traditional lyre shape formed by the raised nose and oval eye depressions, set with round beads of metal. The head supports a helmet with large, birdheaded horns, but this is not clearly differentiated from the rest of the face, which tapers to a point at the chin that might be a triangular beard below the mouth and large drooping moustache. A more naturalistic version of the motif can be seen in a gilded copper-alloy mount from the first half of the seventh century found near Stamford Bridge in Yorkshire (Pl. XIV). Although minimally abstracted and exaggerated, this depiction of the face follows the traditional scheme of representation. The oval-shaped head sports a proportional and detailed helmet with bird-headed horns. The lyre-shaped brows stand out in relief below the helmet’s brim, above the oval-shaped eyes set with round beads of black glass. A heavy, drooping 59 60

British Museum, 1939, 1010.122–127. Evans, Sutton Hoo Ship Burial, p. 66, fig. 51.

FIG. 10.2 ​HORNED HELMET MOUNT, GILT-COPPER ALLOY, SEVENTH CENTURY, MELTON (LEICESTERSHIRE).

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FIG. 10.3A ​MOUNT, GILDED SILVER, SEVENTH CENTURY, THETFORD (SUFFOLK).

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moustache, and a long full beard, textured with grooves to indicate hair, encircle a visible lower lip. These faces, topped by bird-headed, horned helmets provide a link between the disembodied faces and the more rare full-body representations of human figures in early Anglo-Saxon art.61 Despite a significant variation – the inclusion of the horned helmet – the face (or rather mask) remains consistent and recognisable, maintaining the key features, masculine identifiers, and flat expressionless affect. Such clarity of form within a decorative motif, despite abstraction and variation, suggests that the representations would have been immediately identifiable and familiar to a contemporary viewer. This immediacy made it possible to find decorative variations which could be interpreted as shorthand for the more common, complex, decorative design. A human face between two predatory bird heads is a common motif in both continental Germanic and Anglo-Saxon art throughout the early medieval period, found on multiple types of jewellery.62 The image could be used as a central focus, as in a gilt-silver mount dating to the sixth or seventh century (Fig. 10.3a) The oval face bears all the key Anglo-Saxon conventions: a heavy lyre-shaped brow with deep-set oval eyes and small metal pupils, a curved, protruding moustache, the suggestion of a full beard, and – unusually – a protruding tongue. Flanking the face are two bird heads with curved, pointed beaks facing outward. The motif is also used as part of a larger pattern, often as flourishes on florid cruciform brooches and square-headed brooches, like a knob from a sixth-century, square-headed brooch found in Lincolnshire (Fig. 10.3b). The face has the typical lyre shape, though it seems to have become somewhat abstracted and melded with the shape under the eyes. The oval eyes again have metal pellets to indicate pupils. The moustache is a prominent feature although Melissa Herman, ‘Something More than “Man”’. John Hines, Clasps Hektespenner Agraffen: Anglo-Scandinavian Clasps of Classes A–C of the 3rd to 6th Centuries AD: Typology, Diffusion and Function (Stockholm, 1993); Hines, New Corpus; Toby Martin, The Cruciform Brooch and Anglo-Saxon England (Woodbridge, 2015). 61

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FIG. 10.3B ​MARINA ELWES, DRAWING OF THE KNOB OF A SQUAREHEADED BROOCH, COPPER ALLOY, SIXTH CENTURY, SOUTH KESTEVEN (LINCOLNSHIRE).

it has been simplified to a straight line across the lower portion of the face. The chin tapers to a point which suggests the presence of a beard. The forms of the face are more gestural than in other incarnations, but the mask is still readily recognisable as an Anglo-Saxon face. The twin bird heads spring from the top of the head and curve down and inward. Both of these examples place the face between two bird heads and suggest the traditional aesthetic of the horned helmet surmounted by predatory bird heads. In essence, these forms could be interpreted as masks upon which the persona of the horned-helmet warrior can be read.63 Returning from the minute to the more life-sized, a similar abbreviation of form can be read in the eighth-century Coppergate helmet. The basic shape of the helmet is very similar to the earlier and far more ornately decorated Sutton Hoo helmet, but lacks a face mask. Despite this visual distinction, there are formal components that evoke aspects of the AngloSaxon face on the helmet found at Coppergate. The most consistent convention in the depiction of facial features is the lyre-shaped brow and nose. The helmet has an exaggerated lyre-shaped form created by the nose guard and the decorative arches over the eye openings. This shape is further emphasised by the zoomorphic ornamentation accenting the nose guard and brow arches, as well as the bright gilding of the decorative elements. Although the helmet does not mask the wearer’s face, the decorative brow evokes the form of the face-mask to anyone familiar with the formal conventions of the Anglo-Saxon aesthetic. For more in-depth discussion of the horned helmet warrior see Herman, ‘Something More than “Man”’, pp. 83–4, 89–90.

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Whether life-sized or minute, detailed or abbreviated, clearly depicted or highly abstracted, the human face in early Anglo-Saxon art, despite its relative infrequency, offers a consistency that makes it immediately recognisable, together with an ambiguity that allows for multivalent meanings and symbolic potency. Given the simplified, symbolic nature of early Anglo-Saxon ornamentation, the zoomorphic motifs, including humans, can be seen as abbreviated signifiers, either for their natural counterparts, for supernatural figures, or perhaps for heroic ideals. The human faces incorporated into the ornamentation can therefore be read not just as symbolising man, but as a mask upon which a wearer or a viewer could (and likely would) project an ideal. The stability of the form of the Anglo-Saxon face, regardless of its place within a decorative scheme, the medium of its construction, or its naturalistic or schematic portrayal, indicates that the representational tradition was strongly ingrained in AngloSaxon culture. The motif remained recognisable, despite any abstraction, due to the repeated conventions employed to indicate the key features of the face. The extreme stylisation of the form, the schematic conventions of depiction, and the lack of expression render the face a mask. From the Style I face-masks found on brooches in the fifth and sixth centuries,64 to a number of coins bearing analogous Anglo-Saxon stylised faces dating into the eighth century,65 the continued use of the motif itself and the key signifiers of its form suggest that such representations remained potent and significant throughout the period. Given this, the way the ‘face’ is depicted in the art of early Anglo-Saxon England may offer some clues about its purpose and significance. A result of the extreme stylisation is the presentation of a figure more akin to pattern than natural representation; in effect there is a distance and disassociation from humanity in the shielding of the face with a mask (or, arguably, turning it into a mask). This allows for its academic recognition as ‘human’ but introduces a sense of disconcerting unfamiliarity in relation to the nature of the man in the context of the viewer’s social world. The man, the human, slips into the background, behind the patterns formed around and even protruding from the motif (as the frieze of moustaches illustrates), and leaves the face open to new interpretations of meaning and significance, transforming it from the familiar into the ambiguous.

64 Richard Avent and Vera I. Evison, ‘Anglo-Saxon Button Brooches’, Archaeologia, 107 (1982), 78–91; Martin G. Welch, ‘Reflections on the Archaeological Connections between Scandinavia and Eastern England in the Migration Period’, Studien zur Sachsenforschung, 6 (1987), 251–9; Hines, New Corpus, p. 1; Dickinson, ‘Translating Animal Art’, pp. 164–6, 172–3, 178–81; Owen-Crocker, Dress, pp. 124–5; Suzuki, Anglo-Saxon Button Brooches, pp. 245–55. 65 Anna Gannon, The Iconography of Early Anglo-Saxon Coinage: Sixth to Eighth Centuries (Oxford, 2003), pp. 28–30. The use of human busts on coins is a practice that pre-dates Roman coinage, although it is through Roman use that this type of image rose to prominence and circulated widely; the use of the stylised Anglo-Saxon face should therefore be seen as part of this wider tradition, but one that borrowed a native iconography (Gannon, Iconography, pp. 23–30).

ALCUIN, MATHEMATICS AND THE RATIONAL MIND MICHAEL N. BRENNAN 1

A MEDIEVAL MATHEMATICAL MANUSCRIPT

T

he medieval cleric Alcuin (AD 735–804) is credited in surviving manuscripts with being the originator of a collection of fifty-three mathematical and logical puzzles, the Propositiones ad acuendos iuvenes (‘Problems for Sharpening the Young’).2 There is no direct evidence to connect the collection with Alcuin either as compiler or creator, but even modern commentators continue to associate his name with the puzzles.3 There are at least fourteen extant or partial copies of the Propositiones, which date from the ninth to the fifteenth century, suggesting that the collection was in popular use at least from the time of Alcuin onwards. Michael Gorman confidently listed the Propositiones among ninety spurious prose works of Alcuin for two reasons: firstly, because Alcuin always attached a dedicatory letter to his works, and there is none here, I can think of no better way to celebrate the remarkable vocation of Jane Hawkes than to look upon her as heir and benefactor in the noble tradition of scholarship from the city of York. Out of that tradition I have selected Alcuin for a brief rumination. Jane’s scholarship was well and truly inspiring even before I first had a conversation with her – on the day that she walked in as the external examiner for my doctoral thesis. We quickly got down to the nitty-gritty of something hiding in the margins, and I came away with a thesis larger than the one I arrived with! 2 For a helpful English translation of the puzzles and discussion of their solutions, see John Hadley and David Singmaster, ‘Problems to Sharpen the Young’, The Mathematical Gazette, 76.475 (1992), 102–26. 3 Hadley and Singmaster concede that Alcuin may not have been the author but go on to discuss the solutions as if they were the work of someone named ‘Alcuin’. A much-used mathematics history website maintained by St Andrews University, Scotland, takes the view that Alcuin possibly collected the older puzzles in the Propositiones and composed the newer ones. See [accessed 1 February 2018]. 1

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and secondly, because the work falls, Gorman thinks, among those documents which Alcuin would have had neither the time nor the energy to write in the period AD 782–800.4 Alcuin himself admitted to having only ‘stolen hours’ at night in which to write a life of Willibrord.5 Despite Gorman’s view that the work is pseudo-Alcuin, it is reasonable to ask if there is internal evidence in the puzzles which would support or oppose the assigning of the collection to Alcuin himself, committed as he was to the promotion of educational subjects, including mathematics, in the course of the Carolingian ‘renaissance’. The majority of the problem types in the Propositiones are known from earlier Chinese, Indian, Egyptian, Byzantine, Greek, and Roman sources,6 whilst others appear in works by Boethius, Metrodorus, and Isidore of Seville.7 Among the puzzles, however, there are a small number of important types that are not as yet known from earlier sources. These include the so-called ‘river-crossing problems’, ‘strange family problems’, a transportation (or ‘desert-crossing’) problem, and a problem that relies on the summation of an arithmetical series.8 The case for the mathematical creativity of the author, if there was only one author, rests on these. One puzzle has outstripped all the others in having popular appeal down to the present day.9 This puzzle, passing presumably from later medieval reproductions of the Propositiones into oral tradition, concerns a farmer who needs to ferry three items across a river in a boat. The boat can only take the farmer and one other item. The items are: a bag of oats, a goat that would eat the oats if left alone with them, and a wolf which would eat the goat if left alone with it. The composition of this puzzle, and equally its solution, involve a subtlety that is not typical of many of the problems in the Propositiones. Its excellence lies in the simplicity of the setting and in the twist required for its resolution. It also involves repeated risk to the farmer in ferrying the wrong cargo, a feature that usually requires the solver to learn by mistakes – a valuable educational experience in itself. Michael Gorman, ‘Alcuin before Migne’, Revue Bénédictine, 112 (2002), 101–30. Stephen Allott, Alcuin of York (York, 1987), p. 154, referencing Ernst Dümmler, ed., Monumenta Germaniae Historica, Epistolae Karolini aevi, vol. 4 (Berlin, 1895, repr. Munich, 1995), epistola 120. 6 Hadley and Singmaster give pre-Alcuin regional or national sources for the problems in the collection, or for related problems, citing particularly problems no. 2 (Hadley and Singmaster, ‘Problems to Sharpen the Young’, p. 105 – ‘Greece’), 5 (p. 106 – Egypt, China), 26 (p. 115 – China, India, ‘Arabic world’), 35 (p. 119 – Rome), 39 (p. 120 – ‘Arabic world’, Europe), 42 (p. 121 – Babylonia, Egypt, Greece), and 46 (pp. 122–3 – Greece). Paul L. Butzer, ‘Mathematics and Astronomy at the Court School of Charlemagne’, Cahiers de Recherches Médiévales et Humanistes, 5 (1998), 203–44, at 210–12, ascribes more of the problems to earlier sources. 7 Menso Folkerts, ‘The Propositiones ad acuendos iuvenes Ascribed to Alcuin’, Essays on Early Medieval Mathematics: The Latin Tradition (Aldershot, 2003), IV, p. 12. 8 Butzer, ‘Mathematics’, pp. 209–10, lists ‘the apple-seller’s problem’, ‘the barrel-sharing problem’, and ‘Three odds make an even’. 9 Donald Bullough, The Age of Charlemagne (New York, NY, 1966), referred to variants of Propositiones puzzles in mid-twentieth-century children’s literature. 4 5

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The importance of learning through experience is even more prominent in a second river-crossing puzzle, one that involves three men and three women, the problem lying in the fact that no man (in the medieval world) would allow his wife to be in the company of other men on a river-bank unless he were present. There are six entities of two types (male a, b, c and female A, B, C, say) in this puzzle and it would challenge the listener, certainly more so than the farmer puzzle would have done, to solve it without the use of some form of slate or other writing medium. The difficulty with solving it in one’s head may account for the fact that it has not survived in popular tradition, and although Eleanor Duckett remarked when discussing the Propositiones, that a modern psychology test would probably allow only a minute for solving it, her estimate seems over-optimistic.10 The solution to the farmer river-crossing puzzle is important enough to be fully recounted here. The farmer must firstly transport the goat across the river, and on returning, collect either of the other two items and transport it across the river, but bring back the goat. The farmer can then take the third item across and return once more for the goat. The strategy of choosing the middle object, the goat, so as to create a vacuum between the wolf and the oats, is the first ‘sharpness’ in the solution. But bringing the goat back is even more subtle, since it requires that we think in the opposite direction to that in which the narrative leads: one of the objects which should be moving forward across the river must be moved backwards across it. Lateral thinking like this is the polar opposite to thinking in a serial, predictable way and is the very stuff that enables mathematical discovery and creativity to progress. A good measure of the merit of a logic puzzle is whether, when presented with it a second time, the solution is easy to recall. In the case of the farmer river-crossing dilemma it is not, and so the puzzle can circulate, like a used coin, around and around in the community in which it originates, and even further afield. This is what has ensured its longevity.

DID ALCUIN COMPOSE THE PROPOSITIONES? In a letter to Charlemagne in AD 799, three years after Alcuin had moved from the Palace School to an abbacy at Tours, Alcuin wrote that he was sending, along with some examples of grammar and correct expression, quidquid figuras arithmeticas laetitiae causa (‘certain arithmetical curiosities for [your] pleasure’).11 He added that he would write these on an empty sheet that Charlemagne sent to him and suggested that ‘our friend and helper Beselel will […] be able to look up the problems in

10 11

Eleanor S. Duckett, Alcuin, Friend of Charlemagne (New York, NY, 1951), p. 117. Allott, Alcuin of York, p. 92, referencing Dümmler, MGH, epistola 172.

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an arithmetic book’.12 Beselel was Alcuin’s nickname for the technically skilled Einhard, later Charlemagne’s biographer. It would be convenient if the reference in Alcuin’s letter were to the Propositiones, but for many reasons it is almost certainly not.13 For one thing, fifty-three propositions and their solutions would not fit on the blank side of a folio, given that they occupy ten folio sides in most of the manuscripts in which they are currently found. Secondly, since Alcuin’s letter to Charlemagne dealt primarily with the importance of exactness of language, a grammarian and self-conscious Latinist like Alcuin would not describe the Propositiones as figurae arithmeticae, or refer to an ‘arithmetic’ book in a case where the solutions required both geometry and logic methods. Thirdly, the idea of Einhard looking up the problems in an arithmetic book is an odd one, given that the Propositiones is usually found with answers, even if in most cases it does not show how these answers were arrived at. Apart from the reasons given by Gorman for Alcuin not having been the author of the Propositiones – the effort and time involved and the absence of a dedication – there are deeper, internal reasons for concluding that Alcuin was not the author. The river-crossing puzzles, along with the ‘transportation problem’, and a puzzle about the number of birds on a 100-step ladder took a considerable amount of time and mathematical sophistication to compose. Accompanying them are two types of puzzles that appear repeatedly in the collection and that demand far less sophistication: area problems, often fanciful (such as problem 29: ‘how many rectangular houses will fit into a town which has a circular wall?’); and division problems where a ‘lord of the manor’ wishes to divide grain among his household (problems 32–5, and others). Repetition of problems suggests that the Propositiones was intended for use as a practice book, but this supposed pedagogical purpose stumbles (even if it does not fall) on two counts. Firstly, the solutions to most of the mensuration problems, like the one involving a circular town, rely on late Roman methods for approximating the areas of common figures (circles, triangles, etc.) and these methods can be quite wrong. Secondly, the lack of worked solutions in the Propositiones deprived the student of the opportunity to learn the method required to solve another question of the same type. Solutionmethods might have been lost in transcription, but their almost total absence makes this unlikely. Mathematical methods (algebra in particular) that post-dated the Carolingian era would have been necessary to provide elegant and instructive solutions to many of the problems, and one cannot escape the suspicion that trial-and-error was the method used by whoever supplied answers (without worked solutions) to the Propositiones: a guess was made, refined, and then a new guess made. Such an approach is difficult to systemise, and even more difficult to describe in writing for the 12 13

Allott, Alcuin of York, p. 92. Folkerts considers it a possibility, ‘The Propositiones’, p. 4.

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benefit of students. We are left with a mixture of ‘complex’ mathematical problems, such as those cited earlier, and simpler questions whose answers are mostly not justified. This lack of uniformity suggests that it was a compiler rather than a composer who produced the first edition of the Propositiones. If Alcuin was involved, he was no more than a medium through which the fifty-three puzzles were assembled. No one person was the author of the Propositiones problems, because no mathematically sophisticated person would have authored the weaker ones, and nobody who was not mathematically sophisticated could have authored the others.14 Furthermore, with the more sophisticated problems, there is a noticeable absence of the kind of refinement and repetition that is common in modern textbooks. In the farmer river-crossing puzzle, for example, the number of objects under the farmer’s care, and the number of objects that the boat could carry, could have been modified.15 Similarly, problem 42 states: ‘a staircase has 100 steps. On the first step stands a pigeon; on the second two; on the third three; on the fourth 4; on the fifth 5. And so on, on every step to the hundredth’, and asks ‘How many pigeons are there altogether’? Variants of this puzzle are possible. The number of birds on each step could have been altered: doubling the number would have doubled the answer, or from the fifty-first step onwards the number of birds could have been decreased by one at each step. In cases where there are close variants of problems (nos. 33 and 33a for example) Hadley and Singmaster commented unfavourably on the lack of association between the solutions since this militated against learning by analogy.16 In a more considered work the student would be led from the solution of one question to the solution of a related one.

ALCUIN AND MATHEMATICS While Alcuin may not have composed mathematical tracts in his time at the Carolingian court there is evidence that he had not just an interest in, but also a capability with, quantitative methods. His computistical work in his early years in York and later at Charlemagne’s palace is documented, as is his participation in correcting the calendar in the closing years of

Examples of simple, even trivial, problems are: no. 10: ‘I have a piece of linen, 60 cubits long and 40 wide. I want to cut it into portions, each of which will be 6 cubits long and 4 wide. How many portions can be made from it?’; no. 49: ‘Seven carpenters made seven wheels each. How many carts were fitted?’. 15 A boat that could carry three instead of two could cope with the farmer having four objects, the three biggest of which each threatened the one ‘below it’. 16 Hadley and Singmaster, ‘Problems to Sharpen the Young’, p. 118. The conditions of problem 33a are three times those of problem 33. A mathematics teacher would point out that the solution of no. 33a would therefore be three times that of no. 33. Similarly, the conditions of no. 33 are one-and-half times those of no. 32, therefore the solution to no. 33 can be quickly found by getting one-and-a-half times the answer to no. 32. 14

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his life.17 There is also evidence that he and Charlemagne exchanged information on the movement of the planets and stars, and on the zodiac, displaying, though to what extent is not clear, a facility in pseudo-scientific reasoning.18 Arithmetic and Geometry were two of the four subjects in the so-called ‘quadrivium’ promoted by Alcuin in monastic schools as part of the seven ‘liberal arts’.19 But the artes liberales were, in Alcuin’s educational strategy, not ends in themselves but paths to a greater understanding of scripture, and a vehicle for advancing the Church’s mission. As Leopold Wallach says in discussing Alcuin’s ghost-writing of Charlemagne’s capitulary Ad litteris colendis: Charlemagne’s call to attain the highest degree of wisdom by the study of the Sacred Scriptures, is again and again reiterated by Alcuin. The doctrine that ‘in the sacred pages are found embedded phrases, figures, tropes, and other like forms of speech,’ puts the epistle in the well-known tradition of the artes liberales so important for the study of the Bible, propagated by Augustine, Cassiodorus, and Bede […].20

By a providential coincidence, or perhaps by careful curriculumengineering, the seven-fold structure of the artes liberales derived a mystical significance from the seven-fold construction by Wisdom in Proverbs 6:1–2 onwards: ‘Wisdom has built her house, she has hewn out its seven pillars’.21 The elevation of the number seven is deftly fragmented by Alcuin into III and IIII: ‘If you divide 7 into 3 and 4, [then] 3 means faith in the Trinity by which all nations are to be saved that are scattered through the 4 corners of the world’.22 This emerges at the end of Alcuin’s deconstruction of the number 153, the number of fish caught by Simon (John 21:11). Alcuin is able to find significance in this unexpected accounting by John, as follows: If you would know who are meant by these fish they are those chosen for the eternal feast […] by the grace of the Ten Commandments and the seven-fold Holy Spirit […] If you add each number from 1 to 17,23 the total is 153; if you divide 17 into 10 and 7, 10 stands for the commandments and 7 for the gifts of the [Holy] Spirit.24 Allott, Alcuin of York, p. 94 n. 2. Allott, Alcuin of York, pp. 92–3, referencing Dümmler, MGH, epistola 155. 19 The seven liberal arts consisted of a ‘trivium’ (grammar, logic, and rhetoric), and a ‘quadrivium’ (geometry, arithmetic, music, and astronomy). 20 Luitpold Wallach, ‘Charlemagne’s De litteris colendis and Alcuin: A DiplomaticHistorical Study’, Speculum, 26.2 (1951), 288–305, at 294. 21 The personification of Wisdom in the Old Testament, and its seven-fold propping-up of its own house, have obvious implications for the status of the seven liberal arts, and is a favourite trope in Alcuin’s letters. See Dümmler, MGH, epistolae 34, 81, 113, 243. 22 Allott, Alcuin of York, pp. 142–3, Dümmler, MGH, epistola 113. 23 The 17 follows from the 10 and 7. 24 Allott, Alcuin of York, pp. 142–3, Dümmler, MGH, epistola 113. 17

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There is no originality here, the mathematical deconstruction having been done already by Augustine.25 Alcuin’s purpose is indoctrination. He could have given another interpretation, also the work of Augustine: three times the Pentecostal number 50,26 plus the Trinity symbol 3 makes 153.27 But having two independent explanations weakens both, and Alcuin needed only one. Crucially for the present discussion, he expresses no interest in the fact that John’s passage refers to more than 153 fishes being on the shore that morning, since there were already some fish on the fire. These were joined by some of the 153, so there was nothing morally unpalatable about the fish that were already there. Augustine did not include the fish cooking in his computation, either, and Alcuin was not going to stick his neck out by doing so. It would, however, have been interesting to read how of his own accord, Alcuin could have postulated a total of 154, 155, 156 or more fish on the shore, and then deconstructed each of these from a biblical standpoint. A compulsive mathematical mind could not have resisted the temptation to do so. If 17 had not been a factor of 153 (a fact not mentioned by Alcuin but a consequence of the sum of numbers adding up to 153), this would have posed no doctrinal problem, because Alcuin had a ready-made way of deconstructing any whole number into biblical insignia. This is clear from a letter that he wrote to Galliculus sometime between 793 and 796, on the significance of numbers.28 In it he sets out all possible exegetical uses of the numbers 10 down to 1 and finds a total of thirty-eight possible interpretations. When a numerologist such as Augustine or Alcuin has an exegetical interpretation for a continuous run of numbers (not necessarily from 1 to 10 – any continuous set from 1 upwards will do), it becomes possible to interpret any whole number exegetically.29 The mystique behind this scheme, and the interpretative power that it gave to doctrinal teachers, inevitably did a disservice to the concept of number as an abstract study, and thus a disservice to the natural sharpness of young minds. It did not occur to Alcuin (or Augustine) that the numbers 7 and 17, so critical to the exegesis of John 21.11, are of special interest in their own right to mathematicians because each is a ‘prime’ number, that is, a number which Tractate 122 (John 20:30–21:11), section 8. Available at [accessed 1 February 2018]. 26 The Greek pentekostos translates as ‘fiftieth’. 27 Roger P. H. Green, ed. and trans., Augustine: De Doctrina Christiana (Oxford, 1995), II.xvi.25. 28 Dümmler, MGH, epistola 81. 29 For example, if Alcuin had only interpretations for the numbers 1 to 8, say, then he would take any given number, divide it by 8, and get an answer, and a remainder less than 8. Each of these, answer and remainder, could then be interpreted. If, for example, the number 153 were divided by 8 it would give 19 with remainder 1. Now 19 is 8 + 8 + 3. According to Alcuin (Dümmler, MGH, epistola 81), the number 8 symbolises the eight people who entered Noah’s Ark, as well as the tradition of circumcising male boys (including Jesus) on the eighth day. He has four interpretations for the number 3, and four more for the remainder 1. 25

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has no multiplicative factors other than itself and 1. Furthermore, 17 is also the seventh whole number (starting from 2) to have the ‘prime’ property, a double connection between the two numbers that would have interested the numerologists. Exegesis stopped short of considering the presence or absence of multiplicative factors – additive factors (7 = 4+3) served the numerological purpose better – and the extensive Greek knowledge of such concepts as prime numbers lay either undiscovered, unthought of, or untried until the later Middle Ages. If multiplication had been important to religious commentators then 6 would have been seen as the ‘perfect number’ not only because it is the sum of its factors – 1, 2 and 3 – but because it is the product of those factors also. While the Propositiones ad acuendos iuvenes collection is the only major evidence of how mathematics was supposed to be learned at the time of the Carolingian monastic school project, it seems to lie outside the numerological tradition. Not only is its subject matter entirely secular, there is also no allusion to the biblical significance of any of the numbers used in the questions or answers. This makes it still less probable that a dedicated exegete like Alcuin could have composed the problems or edited them with any intensity. It should be said that the trial-and-error method associated with the solutions does have potential for investigating the theory of numbers, but such investigation would thrive only when accompanied by a downplaying of patristic admonitions about the dangers or irrelevance of scientific exploration.30 Augustine in particular argued that ‘it might also be possible to put together an explanatory account of numbers, confined to numbers mentioned in the divine scripture’.31 Despite his interest in figurae mathematicae Alcuin was probably hampered from developing mathematics, as distinct from promoting mathematical education, within a monastic environment. Time and royal and religious commitments were against him, and the received ecclesiastical disapproval of scientific enquiry was enough to confine his personal mathematical instincts to the practice of acrostics and conundrums. His acumen in these is to be seen in his heading to a letter to his friend Adalhard at Corbie: prima littera primae, et quinta decima sextae, sacratus in gradibus numerus perfector in operibus salutem the first letter to the first, and the fifteenth to the sixth, the number consecrated by the graduals to that [number] perfect in [God’s] works, my greeting.32 30 Augustine disapproved, for example, of spending time on a general study of the moon and stars, since ‘in itself, this knowledge, although not implicating one in superstition, does not give much help in interpreting the divine scripture – almost none, in fact – and is really more of a hindrance, since it demands the fruitless expenditure of effort’ [italics added]. Translation from Green, Augustine: De Doctrina Christiana, II.xxix.46. 31 Green, Augustine: De Doctrina Christiana, II.xxxix.59. 32 Dümmler, MGH, epistola 81.

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This is interpreted as: A (the first letter) to A, i.e. Alcuin to Adalhard; P(ater) (15th letter) to F(ilio) (the 6th), i.e. Alcuin addresses Adalhard as his son; and 15 and 6 are again encrypted by referencing the fifteen so-called gradual psalms, and the ‘perfection’ of the number 6.33 Alcuin also had a predilection for apportioning nicknames or ‘by-names’ to his friends and colleagues – even openly and flatteringly to the king – creating circles of people with nick-names drawn from historical, biblical, and literary associations and contexts.34 Nick-naming can be viewed as being symptomatic of living in an allegorical, even abstract world, though at its worst it can be seen as an exercise of control over friends and those of lower rank. According to Garrison, Alcuin’s use of by-names typified ‘his enchantment of the world: articulating and elaborating structures of meaning to persuade or exert influence’.35 But nick-naming, acrostics, and allegory, though indicative of the ability to abstract – a prerequisite to doing mathematics – do not translate into mathematical interest, or mathematical aptitude or mathematical thinking beyond an elementary level.

CAROLINGIAN MATHEMATICS In a comprehensive treatment of the achievements and state of mathematics by the late eighth century, Butzer argues that even Euclid’s geometry, in part at least, was revived in the pseudo-Boethian Geometria I, a text for use in the quadrivium probably assembled at Corbie under Adalhard c. 780–810.36 As Adalhard was a friend and colleague of Alcuin, we can hypothesise that Alcuin’s mathematics programme at Aachen contained some geometry with a respectable pedigree.37 After Alcuin’s death, the quality of ninthcentury mathematical education would improve: some of the material in the Propositiones, for example, would be enhanced in the Geometria incerti auctoris, a text originating, perhaps at Aachen, before AD 840.38 Whatever the uncertainties of geometry texts, the sciences of computistics and astronomy were well-developed areas of applied mathematics by the time Translation after Allott, Alcuin of York, p. 151. For a more convoluted example see Mary Garrison, ‘The Social World of Alcuin: Nicknames at York and at the Carolingian Court’, Alcuin of York: Scholar at the Carolingian Court, ed. L. A. J. R. Houwen and Alasdair A. MacDonald, Proceedings of the Third Germania Latina Conference (Groningen, 1998), pp. 59–80 n. 54. 34 Garrison, ‘The Social World of Alcuin’. 35 Garrison, ‘The Social World of Alcuin’, p. 79. 36 Butzer, ‘Mathematics’, pp. 208–9. 37 However Folkerts considers Geometria I a ‘bungling piece of work’ on the grounds that ‘the compiler did not understand much of what he was excerpting, and parts of the text are hopelessly corrupt’. He goes on to express amazement that Geometria I became so famous. Menso Folkerts, ‘The Importance of the Pseudo-Boethian Geometria during the Middle Ages’, Essays on Early Medieval Mathematics: The Latin Tradition (Aldershot, 2003), VII, p. 190. 38 Butzer, ‘Mathematics’, pp. 213–14; Folkerts, ‘The Propositiones’, p. 7. 33

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of Alcuin’s appearance at Charlemagne’s court in 782.39 Alcuin himself is credited with as many as four significant texts dealing with the calendar. From York in 776 came Calculatio Albini magistri; from Aachen during 782–96 came Ratio de luna, De saltu lunae, and Libellus annalis.40 Of the Aachen texts, Gorman regards the first two attributions as spurious41 and the third as doubtful,42 but the evidence of Alcuin’s correspondence with Charlemagne confirms his facility with some of the arithmetical/ calendrical issues involved.43 Although applied mathematics is different from the ‘pure’ mathematics of some of the logic-based problems in the Propositiones, it would be unwise to look upon the one as being of a higher status than the other. Butzer describes the computation of the date of Easter and its prediction into the future as requiring ‘a very intense and competent use of arithmetic and astronomy […] a challenge for computists, chronologists, astronomers and calendarists’.44 If Alcuin was equal to this challenge he was in very good mathematical company.

ALCUIN AND THE RATIONAL MIND Rational thinking is a fundamental modus operandi of the mathematical mind, and a mathematically minded person might be expected to display his or her rational powers in several spheres of life. In his engagement with the theological and philosophical interpretation of events that arose from his role as a religious man, and in his involvement with the tumultuous world of Carolingian and Church politics, Alcuin had at times to confront questions that called for rational analysis, creative solutions, and intellectual integrity. But religious faith does not fall under the heading of ‘rational thinking’, and the corner-stone of Alcuin’s expansive role in the political and religious world of Christian conversion was not his reason, but his faith in the New Testament narrative of Christ’s sacrifice and our redemption through his death. Seen from that perspective, a biblical conundrum posed by a soldier to Charlemagne and passed on by him to Alcuin45 had to be approached by the latter in a faith-based way. In Luke’s Gospel Jesus tells the apostles to purchase swords to defend him on the night before his Passion, but in Matthew’s Gospel, as soon as Peter cuts off

39 For an overview of computistical arithmetic and astronomical mathematics from the time of Plato, see Butzer, ‘Mathematics’, pp. 214–25. For the computus see Alden A. Mosshammer, The Easter Computus and the Origins of the Christian Era (Oxford, 2008); Roger T. Beckwith, Calendar and Chronology, Jewish and Christian: Biblical, Intertestamental and Patristic Studies (Leiden, 2001). 40 Butzer, ‘Mathematics’, p. 207. 41 Gorman, ‘Alcuin before Migne’, p. 127. 42 Gorman, ‘Alcuin before Migne’, p. 128. 43 C.f. n. 21. 44 Butzer, ‘Mathematics’, p. 207. 45 Allott, Alcuin of York, p. 80; Dümmler, MGH, epistola 136.

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the ear of the servant of the high priest, Jesus tells his supporters to put away their swords because, he said, those who lived by the sword would perish by it (Matthew 26:52). Alcuin reconciled the apparent contradiction here by partly relying on theological reasoning by Ambrose and Augustine: in Matthew’s Gospel the sword is a symbol for revenge, the human practice of taking vengeance for injuries done, and this sword must be put away and replaced by forgiveness.46 In Luke’s Gospel the sword is the Word of God, and the cutting off of the ear is the rejection of the ear of infidelity that must be renewed by the grace of God.47 In allegorical exegesis like this, humanistic reasoning has little room to play. To a rationalist it would seem that in the Garden of Gethsemane Jesus oscillated between fear on the one hand, even so far as to perspire in blood,48 and submitting to his fate on the other, in order to fulfil his and his Father’s purpose.49 In my understanding of this, fear drove Jesus to briefly entertain the idea of getting the men around him to make a stand, but when the fighting broke out he relented and submitted to being arrested. In fear or in anger he could be impulsive – as in his attack on the Temple traders suggests.50 In such moments, Jesus’s humanity endears itself to ordinary human nature. However, Christian apologists like Alcuin were never going to extrapolate from Christ’s outbursts to a rational interpretation of the sword, when they could find in allegory a doctrinal explanation for divine paradoxes. Besides, in an atmosphere, both religious and political, where radical theology could be labelled ‘heresy’, with dire consequences for the heretics, it would be safer to find oneself with a mystical and preferably patristic interpretation. Alcuin’s intellectual life relied heavily on the coherence of Christian doctrine, a framework within which he could safely seek out logical, and sometimes clever, modes of argument and resolution. He had a large store of patristic teaching on which to draw, whose existence obviated the necessity for significant lateral analysis of his own. He had come to have an innate distrust of rationalism as a tool for contemplating the mysteries of religion or as a correct form of attack on a theological enemy like Adoptionism, as is clear from his repeated cautioning against reliance on ratione humana.51

Mary Alberi, ‘“The sword which you hold in your hand”: Alcuin’s Exegesis of the Two Swords and the Lay Miles Christi’, The Study of the Bible in the Carolingian Era, ed. Celia Chazelle and Burton Van Name Edwards (Turnhout, 2003), pp. 117–31, at 126–7; Allott, Alcuin of York, p. 81; Dümmler, MGH, epistola 136. 47 Alberi, ‘“The sword which you hold”’, p. 126. 48 ‘And his sweat became as drops of blood, trickling down upon the ground’ (Luke 22:44). 49 Jesus said to Peter, ‘Put your sword back in its scabbard; am I not to drink the cup that the Father has given me?’ (John 18:11). 50 Matthew 21:12–17, Mark 11:15–19, Luke 19:45–8, John 2:13–16. 51 Luitpold Wallach, ‘Charlemagne and Alcuin: Diplomatic Studies in Carolingian Epistolography’, Traditio, 9 (1953), 127–54, at 131–2. 46

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But in the concrete circumstances of his own life Alcuin might be expected to display some degree of rationality and integrity. When he was abbot at Tours (after 797) an anonymous cleric was convicted of a serious crime, and after trial by both a secular and ecclesiastical court he was imprisoned by the presiding authority, Theodulf, bishop of Orléans.52 Escaping from custody, the cleric fled to Tours, where he sought the ancient privilege of sanctuary in the Basilica of St Martin. When a force of men sent by Theodulf sought to capture him and implement the law of the kingdom, in this case Charlemagne’s law, a crowd of local people attacked them and they had to be rescued by the fratres in the monastery. Alcuin was subsequently accused of instigating the riot that led to the attack. While he managed to clear himself of the charges, the surviving documentation, apart from a letter from him in his own defence, implies that he had more responsibility than he was willing to admit.53 Alcuin was disingenuous, too, in trying to shift blame away from his own actions to those of Bishop Theodulf of Orléans. In a textbook example of false justification Alcuin maintained that by allowing the fugitive to escape in the first place Theodulf was responsible for all the evil.54 Furthermore, Alcuin’s argument that men acting for the bishops of Tours and Orléans instigated a riot seems to run contrary to the extant evidence.55 The episode reflects poorly on Alcuin’s integrity and respect for the law of the land, a law that under Charlemagne extended into the ecclesiastical as well as the secular realm. But should anyone, mathematically minded or otherwise, always be expected to argue rationally, to stand by jurisprudence, and to pursue to the ultimate the truth of a case even when it involved themselves? Yes, is the answer, but no is the reality. Even a rationally minded Alcuin, if such he was, when faced with the reality that his physical welfare (if he were imprisoned) and reputation were at stake, would have been no more immune to irrational self-justification than the rest of humankind – including mathematicians.

CREDITING ALCUIN Repeated expressions of disappointment with Alcuin’s lack of radicalism and originality in his pronouncements run the risk of reductionism. When religious vocation came his way, Alcuin embarked on a lifetime 52 For an account of the incident and its consequences see Wallach, Alcuin and Charlemagne: Studies in Carolingian History and Literature (Ithaca, NY, 1959), pp. 103–26; Dales, Alcuin: His Life and Legacy (Cambridge, 2012), pp. 133–7. 53 Wallach, ‘Charlemagne and Alcuin’, p. 123: ‘The fact remains that Alcuin was indeed guilty (in his Epistle 249) of concealing his part in the outbreak of the riots at Tours […] he emphatically denies all knowledge of, and participation in, the riots but the extant documents […] contradict his allegations’. 54 Wallach, Alcuin and Charlemagne, p. 124; Dales, Alcuin, p. 136. 55 Wallach, Alcuin and Charlemagne, p. 123.

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of expounding Christian doctrine, fostering the Christian cause through the skills of rhetoric, dialectic, prosody, and grammar, developing secular and religious education in schools within his orbit, admonishing and advising prelates and princes, reforming monastic life within his sphere of influence, founding and repairing monasteries,56 and encouraging and spiritually enlightening his friends, inside and outside the religious life. It was a hugely impressive life’s work and encompassed the totality of the man. When he donned the mantle of defender of Christian orthodoxy, and when he engaged in his didactic works, meditations, and commentaries on the Bible, he may have mostly relied on giants who had gone before him, but it was not always without a personal touch. As John Marenbon puts it: ‘Nowhere in the works attributed to him did Alcuin put forward an argument that is original and striking. Yet in his choice and juxtaposition of second-hand material, he reveals a mind clear and resolved in its purpose’.57 John Cavadini, on the other hand, argues for a certain kind of Alcuinian originality: It is a commonplace in scholarship on the Carolingian age to observe that such writers as Alcuin were unoriginal and, more precisely, were rather slavishly devoted to the authority of writers from the classical period of the church. But paradoxically enough, when a close examination is made of the way in which Alcuin handles the many passages which he takes over from earlier writers, one cannot fail to be almost shocked by the degree to which he felt free to cut up these sources as he wished, to combine them with his own comments and with other sources, and to leave them without acknowledgment […] He uses texts, rather, much more like a kind of raw material, one which he appropriates and molds freely, pressing it into structures of his own choosing, indeed creating these structures out of the shards of earlier ones, much as medieval builders recycled the blocks from ancient Roman structures.58

Michael Fox, in an essay on Alcuin’s Questiones in Genesim, a commentary in question-and-answer form on Genesis, assesses the level of originality present.59 Noting at one point that ‘as Alcuin addresses each of the major issues in Genesis, he exhibits a surprising degree of originality Dales, Alcuin, pp. 132, 142. John Marenbon, From the Circle of Alcuin to the School of Auxerre: Logic, Theology and Philosophy in the Early Middle Ages (Cambridge, 1981), pp. 30–1; for further discussion of Alcuin’s originality, or lack of it, see Marenbon, Early Medieval Philosophy (480–1150): An Introduction, 2nd edn (London, 1988), p. 34; Allott, Alcuin of York, p. 90; Dales, Alcuin, p. 17; Duckett, Alcuin, p. 109. 58 John Cavadini, ‘The Sources and Theology of Alcuin’s De Fide Sanctae et Individuae Trinitatis’, Traditio, 46 (1991), 123–46, at 132. 59 Michael Fox, ‘Alcuin the Exegete: The Evidence of the Questiones in Genesim’, The Study of the Bible in the Carolingian Era, ed. Celia Chazelle and Burton Van Name Edwards (Turnhout, 2003), pp. 39–60. 56 57

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and exegetical skill’,60 Fox concludes that although the commentary ‘makes no claims to complexity or originality, the level of exegetical sophistication is at times deceptive’.61 This and other recent reassessments of Alcuin’s creativity62 chime, if distantly, with the fact that he opted to fill Charlemagne’s blank page not with poetry or art, but with that currency of friendship, and of rivalry, in which he and Charlemagne had traded for years – novelty, riddling, and recreational mathematics.63 The circumstantial evidence makes it safe to say that the Propositiones ad acuendos iuvenes could well be a compendium, and not an entirely original creation, of problems assembled for the Palace School in the late eighth or the ninth century. The problems could have been edited by a puzzle devotee like Alcuin, and some might even have been created by him. Those would not have been among the more interesting, however, since if the editor had been a responsible mathematician he would not have combined both clever and trivial problems in the same volume. But even if that particular compendium was not Alcuin’s, and even if he was not gifted with a flair for original mathematics, and if the full extent of his provision of school textbooks remains unknown, Alcuin was in the thick of mathematical education in the Carolingian era, and was, like the great educator being celebrated in the current volume, a multi-faceted communicator of critical learning, of whom York can be proud.

Fox, ‘Alcuin the Exegete’, p. 42. Fox, ‘Alcuin the Exegete’, p. 45; Fox also suggests (p. 48) that in the hexameral part of the commentary (i.e. that dealing with the six days of creation) approximately half is Alcuin’s original work. 62 See Owen M. Phelan, ‘Cathechising the Wild: The Continuity and Innovation of Missionary Cathesis under the Carolingians’, Journal of Ecclesiastical History, 61 (2010), 455–74, at 456. Phelan states that Alcuin’s ‘plan for catechising the Avars shows a characteristically Carolingian innovative deference to the Fathers of the Church: a conscious and clever capacity to recast the language and ideas of the Fathers of the Church into new moulds more directly applicable to the world of the late eighth century’; see also Dales, Alcuin, p. 87. 63 According to Duckett, Alcuin, p. 106, Alcuin enjoyed sharing puzzles also with Riculf, archbishop of Mainz, and with young men of the court school. 60 61

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mere five generations of scholarship away from John Ruskin (with W. G. Collingwood, T. D. Kendrick, Rosemary Cramp, and Richard Bailey forming the intellectual chain), a central and highly significant aspect of Jane Hawkes’ work is her consistent foregrounding of the artistic importance of Anglo-Saxon England, and the sophistication of its visual products, while fully acknowledging its debt to its origins in the post Roman world.1 This approach, which firmly situates Anglo-Saxon art as an inheritor of the visual traditions of late antique and early Christian art, has done much to rid the period of its ‘Dark Age’ reputation, where the artists and artisans who produced the era’s visual motifs and schemes For select discussion of her understanding/s of the relationship between late antique and early Christian art see Jane Hawkes, ‘The Church Triumphant: The Masham Column and the Art of the Church in Ninth-Century Anglo-Saxon England’, Hortus Artium Medievalium, 8 (2002), 337–48; ‘Reading Stone’, Theorizing Anglo-Saxon Stone Sculpture, ed. Fred Orton and Catherine Karkov (Morgantown, WV, 2003), pp. 5–30; ‘“Iuxta Morem Romanorum”: Stone and Sculpture in Anglo-Saxon England’, Anglo-Saxon Styles, ed. Catherine Karkov and George Hardin Brown (New York, NY, 2003), pp. 69–100; ‘AngloSaxon “Romanitas”: The Transmission and Use of Early Christian Art in Anglo-Saxon England’, Freedom of Movement in the Middle Ages, ed. Peregrin Horden, Harlaxton Medieval Studies 15 (Donington, 2007), pp. 19–36; ‘Design and Decoration: Revisualising Rome in Anglo-Saxon Sculpture’, Rome across Time and Space: Cultural Transmission and the Exchange of Ideas, c. 500–1400, ed. Claudia Bolgia, Rosamond McKitterick, and John Osborne (Cambridge, 2011), pp. 201–21; ‘Stones of the North: Sculpture in Northumbria in the “Age of Bede”’, Northumberland: Medieval Art and Architecture, ed. Jeremy Ashbee and Julian Luxford (Leeds, 2013), pp. 34–53. See also Meg Boulton and Jane Hawkes, ‘The Anglo-Saxon Church in Kent’, Places of Worship in Britain and Ireland, 300–950, ed. Paul S. Barnwell, Rewley House Studies in the Historic Environment 4 (Donington, 2015), pp. 92–118.

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were often seen by early scholars as ‘blind copyists’, incapable of the independent creation of innovative or sophisticated imagery.2 Further, Hawkes’ approach to Anglo-Saxon art has not only challenged the periodbased assumptions surrounding the style and sophistry of Insular art, but has also served to reposition these sculpted objects as artworks worthy of close art-historical scrutiny and attention. Indeed, so convincing is her art-historical engagement with these carved stone monuments, and so complete her repositioning of them as art-historical objects, that her research has ensured that they may be fully treated as belonging to a period of art worth studying in and of its own right in any art-historical setting, alongside more ‘known’ and studied periods such as the Classical, the Renaissance and the Modern.3 However, despite the work of Hawkes and other scholars – such as Catherine Karkov, Heather Pulliam, and the late Jennifer O’Reilly, as well as many others – the period has remained somewhat outside the canon of works discussed by most Art History departments in the UK (at least), and the canonical discussions such departments perpetuate and (re)structure. Yet Anglo-Saxon art offers many glimpses of artistic processes, including virtuoso carving, both in the round and in relief; monumental (if fragmentary or fragmented) objects; luxe manuscripts; and elaborate, small-scale, precious decorative objects. Many of these demonstrate delicate and beguiling paintwork alongside their innovative sculptural techniques and iconographies,4 and a proficiency with mixed media. Nevertheless, despite this material, technical and conceptual complexity, and the strides taken in the scholarship in the last three decades notwithstanding, relocating Anglo-Saxon art fully within the discourse of art history may still require a shift in emphasis in the way we conceptualise and discuss viewing practices surrounding such works. As part of this shift, scholars increasingly informed by interdisciplinary approaches and new methodological options may want to consider emerging theoretical modes of looking at medieval objects, such as those that encompass the 2 For numerous references to so-called ‘barbarous’ art in Britain, see Alfred William Clapham, English Romanesque Architecture before the Conquest (Oxford, 1930); Thomas Downing Kendrick, Anglo-Saxon Art to AD 900 (London, 1938); Fritz Saxl and Rudolf Wittkower, British Art and the Mediterranean (Oxford, 1948). See also Meg Boulton, ‘Art History in the Dark Ages: (Re)Considering Space, Stasis and Modern Viewing Practices in Relation to Anglo-Saxon Imagery’, Stasis in the Medieval West? Questioning Change and Continuity, ed. Michael D. J. Bintley et al. (New York, NY, 2017), pp. 69–86. 3 See Meg Boulton, Melissa Herman, and Jane Hawkes, ‘Interrogating the Bastard Children of Change: An Introduction to the Critical Terminology of Transition, Transformation and Taxonomy’, The Art, Literature and Material Culture of the Middle Ages: Transition, Transformation and Taxonomy, ed. Meg Boulton and Jane Hawkes with Melissa Herman (Dublin, 2015), pp. 1–13. 4 See, for example, the exceptionally well preserved, gradiated, polychrome paintwork shading from reddish-purple to white which delineates the individual feathers on the wings of the so-called Lichfield Angel, which may once have adorned the shrine of St Chad; Warwick Rodwell et al., ‘The Lichfield Angel: A Spectacular Anglo-Saxon Painted Sculpture’, AntJ, 88 (2008), 1–60.

Looking Down from the Rothbury Cross

phenomenological and anachronic relationships between viewer and viewed object. As the surviving pieces and fragments of Anglo-Saxon art are temporally dislocated from the context of their making, such approaches may facilitate a more complete appreciation.5 Nevertheless, regardless of individual methodological choices, it can probably be agreed that it is past time to reconsider the spaces, places, objects, and images as a corner-stone of artistic and cultural heritage, rather than existing on the periphery of other periods of artistic production hitherto considered more ‘valuable’ than this – including the carved stone fragments discussed here. Antiquarian scholarship underlying the early study of Anglo-Saxon sculpture provides tantalising accounts and reconstructions of the monumental carved stone sculpture of early medieval England that are as fascinating as they are, at times, creative – as demonstrated by the evolution of the drawings of the Rothbury Cross. These reconstructive drawings follow the diagrams produced by C. C. Hodges in 1925, which were subsequently revised by W. G. Collingwood in 1927 (Fig. 12.1), who, in an innovative piece of scholarship, approached the monuments of Anglo-Saxon England with the aim of considering the ‘ancient styles as phases of a process and to placing […] them in a series’.6 The drawings produced by Collingwood were later revised by Rosemary Cramp in 1984, whose version was, until recently, the authoritative source for piecing this fragmented monument back together in the mind’s eye, in order to consider its iconographic schema as a whole (Fig. 12.2). These antiquarian and archaeological reconstructions have been indispensable to the study of these monuments.7 Today, the monument at Rothbury is encountered as three fragments, preserved at two disparate sites (All

Meg Boulton, ‘“The End of the World as We Know It”: The Eschatology of Symbolic Space/s in Insular Art’, Making Histories: Proceedings of the Sixth International Insular Arts Conference, ed. Jane Hawkes (Donington, 2013), pp. 279–90; ‘(Re)Viewing “Iuxta Morem Romanorum”: Considering Perception, Phenomenology and Anglo-Saxon Ecclesiastical Architecture’, Sensory Perception in the Medieval World: Manuscripts, Texts, and other Material Matters, ed. Simon Thomson and Michael D. J. Bintley (Turnhout, 2016), pp. 206–26; and Boulton, ‘Art History in the Dark Ages’, pp. 69–86. See also Georges Didi-Huberman, ‘Before the Image, before Time: The Sovereignty of Anachronism’, Compelling Visuality: The Work of Art in and out of History, ed. Claire J. Farago and Robert Zwijnenberg (Minneapolis, MN, 2003), pp. 31–44; David Summers, Real Spaces: World Art History and the Rise of Western Modernism (London and New York, NY, 2003); Alexander Nagel and Christopher S. Wood, Anachronic Renaissance (New York, NY, 2010); and Alexander Nagel, Medieval Modern Art Out of Time (London, 2012). 6 W. G. Collingwood, Northumbrian Crosses of the Pre-Norman Age (Oxford, 1927), preface, n.p. 7 See Rosemary Cramp, Newcastle and Northumberland, CASSS 1, Part 1 (Oxford, 1984), pp. 217–22, which describes the Rothbury fragments in detail, including the incomplete cross-shaft and head, housed in the Great North Museum, and the base of the cross, which has been reworked into a font base in the Church of All Saints, Rothbury. See also Jane Hawkes, ‘W. G. Collingwood and Anglo-Saxon Sculpture: Art History or Archaeology’, Making and Meaning in Insular Art, ed. Rachel Moss (Dublin, 2007), pp. 259–75. 5

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FIG. 12.1 ​RECONSTRUCTIVE DIAGRAM OF THE ROTHBURY CROSS, INFORMED BY THE DRAWINGS AND DIAGRAMS PRODUCED BY C. C. HODGES IN 1925, WHICH WERE SUBSEQUENTLY REVISED BY W. G. COLLINGWOOD IN 1927. REPRODUCED FROM IRENE SIEBERGER, ‘RECONSTRUCTING THE ROTHBURY CROSS: HOW THE DISCOVERY OF ONE MISTAKE CHANGES ALMOST A CENTURY OF SCHOLARSHIP’, ARCHAEOLOGIA AELIANA, 41 (2012), 237–50.

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Saints Church, Rothbury, and the Great North Museum in Newcastle).8 These fragments, in various states of preservation, present a picture of an extremely elaborate carved sandstone cross, likely originally positioned indoors, with an elaborate iconographic scheme that continues to prompt scholarly debate to this day. Here, before turning to address the cross fragments in detail, it is perhaps necessary to mention the perceived gap between medieval and modern ways of understanding, articulating, and viewing medieval images and objects; this perceived gap has largely shaped the scholarship to date, particularly in terms of differing perceptions of space, plane, and surface across periods. As I have discussed elsewhere, this perceived spatial dislocation between medieval and modern ways of conceptualising For select discussion of the Rothbury cross see C. C. Hodges, ‘The Ancient Cross of Rothbury’, Archaeologia Æliana, 1 (1925), 159–68; W. G. Collingwood, Northumbrian Crosses of the Pre-Norman Age (Oxford, 1927), pp. 76–8, 84, 106, figs. 94–5; Alfred Clapham, English Romanesque Architecture, p. 68, pl. 18; Ernst Kitzinger, ‘Anglo-Saxon Vinescroll Ornament’, Antiquity, 10 (1936), 67–71, at 69–70; Kendrick, Anglo-Saxon Art, pp. 154–8, 164–5, 167, 169, 176, 180, 182, pls. 63–4; Cramp, CASSS 1; Jane Hawkes, ‘The Miracle Scene on the Rothbury Cross’, Archaeologia Æliana, 5th ser. 17 (1989), 207–11; Jane Hawkes, ‘The Rothbury Cross: An Iconographic Bricolage’, Gesta, 35 (1995), 73–90; Jane Hawkes, ‘Symbols of the Passion or Power? The Iconography of the Rothbury CrossHead’, The Insular Tradition, ed. Catherine Karkov, Michael Ryan, and Robert T. Farrell (Albany, NY, 1997), pp. 27–44; Brendan Cassidy, ‘Dream of Joseph on an Anglo-Saxon Cross from Rothbury’, Gesta, 36 (1996), 149–55; and Irene Sieberger, ‘Reconstructing the Rothbury Cross: How the Discovery of One Mistake Changes Almost a Century of Scholarship’, Archaeologia Aeliana, 41 (2012), 237–50.

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FIG. 12.2 ​ ROSEMARY CRAMP’S 1984 RECONSTRUCTION OF THE ROTHBURY CROSS BASE, DRAWN BY KEITH McBARRON.

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and understanding space does not arise solely from the fragmentation and deterioration of these carved stones, or result from anachronistic viewing of unfamiliar objects and artistic styles across time and space, but also stems from the scholarly precept of there being a fundamental difference in the way space has been conceived across centuries.9 Contemporary art historians have tended to perpetuate this difference, remaining mired in a disciplinary approach that, while happy to allow the complex spatial and surficial turn that grew from the rise of Modern Art, has been somewhat reluctant to ascribe a similar spatial innovation to works produced before the advent of single-point perspective in the Renaissance – a spatial system that proved intellectually pervasive in terms of constructing and conceptualising space. This inclination towards period-based study has resulted in an art-historical reliance on depth, perspective, and quantifiable (and therefore notionally complete) space to draw conclusions about the studied object or artwork. In other words, Early Medieval images and structures have been defined in terms of what they are not as much as what they are. The formalised consideration of space and surface has dominated art-historical research, resulting in the concomitant tendency to confuse a proficient use of perspective with a sophisticated understanding of space. In turn, this has led to a lack of attention to the complex relationalities of space and surface, viewer and viewed object that are demonstrably evident in Anglo-Saxon artworks, which have only recently begun to be readdressed in scholarship. As I have argued elsewhere, underlying this pervasive model of looking is the presupposition that because the Anglo-Saxon method of depicting space and adorning surface is planar rather than perspectival, apparently confined to two dimensions on the surface of the image or object, then the method of conceptualising space must also be two-dimensional.10 This is clearly not the case in the early medieval period, as examination of the spatial patterning of almost any image produced across the period demonstrates, but it may require a greater flexibility on the part of modern viewers to fully recognise the complexities at play in this type of imagery. That said, two-dimensional depicted space as visualised and conceptualised by the modern eye is not necessarily the same as depicted space in the early medieval period, either in the way it is constructed, or in the way it is understood. Yet, despite these differences of spatial articulation, by reconsidering our approach to these surfaces and structures as cognate, embodied viewers – as were those looking from within the period – 9 Meg Boulton, ‘The Conceptualisation of Sacred Space in Anglo-Saxon Northumbria in the Sixth-Ninth Centuries’, 2 vols (unpublished doctoral thesis, University of York, 2012); Boulton, ‘“The End of the World as We Know It”, pp. 279–90; Boulton, ‘(Re)Viewing “Iuxta Morem Romanorum”’, pp. 206–26; and Boulton, ‘Art History in the Dark Ages’, pp. 69–86. 10 Boulton, The Conceptualisation of Sacred Space; Boulton, ‘“The End of the World as We Know It”’, pp. 279–90; and Boulton, ‘Art History in the Dark Ages’, pp. 69–86.

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these differences may be negotiated. Through this negotiation, it may become possible to bring the instinctive viewing habits of the modern closer to those of the medieval, in a type of palimpsestic viewing practice. This would facilitate a fuller exploration of the visual, and thus of the conceptual potential exhibited by the pre-perspectival imagery of AngloSaxon art, promoting an exploratory process of viewing that has been largely facilitated by the pioneering work of scholars such as Hawkes.11 Ideas of ‘space’ and ‘place’ are understood to be increasingly important to art history, and also to any consideration of the cultural or intellectual landscape of the medieval period.12 These ideas are important both as they may be understood and reconstructed on a lived and local level, and for consideration of the simultaneous creation and conceptualisation of metaphysical spaces and places beyond those which may be experienced and understood in terms of the earthly and the actual. Despite the widespread disciplinary focus on the topic, space has only recently become part of the scholarly vocabulary of Anglo-Saxon studies. This omission is perhaps because of the often fragmentary condition of the art objects themselves, but also possibly because the majority of the foundational scholarship surrounding this period belongs to nineteenthcentury antiquarian and archaeological practices.13 This is partly because these classificatory practices prioritise focusing on individual objects, and their role in constructing chronological or taxonomical understandings of the milieu,14 but also, perhaps, because of the manner in which the early reconstructive drawings are articulated on the pages that present them to the viewer’s gaze. As stated, these early paper (re)presentations of these monuments are invaluable to scholars. However, in their forensic, archaeological format, which deconstructs face from face, plane from plane, and side from side, they treat each face of the carved stone as an individual See Jane Hawkes, ‘Wilfrid: Carving Contemplation’, Wilfrid: Bishop, Abbot, Saint: Papers from the 1,300th Anniversary Conferences, ed. Nicholas J. Higham (Donington, 2013), pp. 124–35; Hawkes, ‘Stones of the North’, pp. 34–53; and Jane Hawkes, ‘The Body in the Box: The Iconography of the Cuthbert Coffin’, Crossing Boundaries: Interdisciplinary Approaches to the Art, Material Culture, Language and Literature of the Early Medieval World, ed. Eric Cambridge and Jane Hawkes (Oxford, 2017), pp. 78–89. 12 See Meg Boulton, ‘Introduction: Place and Space’, Place and Space in the Medieval World, ed. Meg Boulton, Jane Hawkes, and Heidi Stoner (Abingdon, 2018), pp. xv–xxv. 13 See Jane Hawkes, ‘Creating a View: Anglo-Saxon Sculpture in the Sixteenth Century’, Making Histories: Proceedings of the Sixth International Conference on Insular Art, University of York, July 2011, ed. Jane Hawkes (Donington, 2013) pp. 372–84; see also Hawkes, ‘W. G. Collingwood and Anglo-Saxon Sculpture’, pp. 259–75. 14 For selected discussion see Collingwood, Northumbrian Crosses of the Pre-Norman Age; Gerard Baldwin Brown, The Arts in Early England Anglo-Saxon, 6 vols (London, 1903–37); Kendrick, Anglo-Saxon Art; Charles Reginald Dodwell, Anglo-Saxon Art: A New Perspective (Manchester, 1982); Catherine E. Karkov, The Art of Anglo-Saxon England (Woodbridge, 2011); Leslie Webster, Anglo-Saxon Art (London, 2012); Hawkes, ‘Creating a View’, pp. 372–84; and Hawkes, ‘W. G. Collingwood and Anglo-Saxon Sculpture’, pp. 259–75. 11

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monument with an isolated iconography, and in effect fragment already fragmented monuments further. They isolate each monumental face, separating each into its own space on the page, bordered by white and juxtaposed with the other faces of the form, thus creating a series of (re)constructed, (de)constructed planes on surface. As such they further support our scholarly encounter with these monuments as something that is governed by fragmentation, surface, and plane – turning the study of such sculptures into a largely reconstructive art of planar presentation. Consequently, the vital spatial agency of these sculptures, which operate outside planar boundaries and surface constructions,15 has been seen as a type of contextual influence against which material is addressed, rather than as an active agent in its own right. In fact, space is something which can both affect and effect such material and its conceptualisations. As useful as these drawings are, and as intriguing as they prove – useful in terms of capturing (possible) artistic details on these stone surfaces,16 now lost to our gaze, and intriguing in that they evince earlier scholarly engagement with these monuments – they also detach the monument from its three-dimensional reality, and thus must be used thoughtfully and critically. Once conceptually removed from their early scholarly planar articulations as they exist on paper, (re)constructed and remembered as the three-dimensional objects they are in the mind’s eye, as well as their past physical reality, and thus considered in relation to both their planar and their spatial identities, these monuments demonstrate a series of complex connections of past, memory, space, and visual representation.17 This is unsurprising, as space is not a passive medium, and these monuments are deeply and inherently spatial, both in the construction of the images that occupy their carved surfaces, but also in the spaces they occupy, being bound up with the highly visible construction of ecclesiastical identity.18 Rather than being a passive, contextualising agent, space is Boulton, ‘The Conceptualisation of Sacred Space’; Boulton, ‘Introduction’, pp. xv–xxv. It must be noted that these drawings are not failsafe in their recording of these monuments – many of the proposed iconographic details presented in the early drawings are hotly debated by later scholars looking at the motifs preserved upon the stone surfaces of these sculptures. As such they must and should remain open to interpretation, and repay reconsideration, as the discussion below demonstrates; see Sieberger, ‘Reconstructing the Rothbury Cross’, pp. 237–50. 17 Boulton, ‘(Re)Viewing “Iuxta Morem Romanorum”’, pp. 206–26; Boulton, ‘Art History in the Dark Ages’, pp. 69–86; and Meg Boulton, ‘Pearls before Paradise: Liminal Spaces, Precious Stones and Heavenly Waters in Early Christian Art’, Water in Early Medieval England, ed. Carolyn Twomey and Daniel Anlezark (forthcoming, 2020). 18 See Boulton, ‘Pearls before Paradise’. I would like to thank my colleague, Nicholas G. Baker, for discussion of crosses inhabiting the landscape in this manner, following research presented in the unpublished conference paper ‘Climbing a Stairway to Heaven: Early Insular Images and the Contemplative’s Journey to the Divine’, given at the Subterranean in the Medieval World conference on 17 May 2014, where he drew attention to Cassiodorus’s Explanation of the Psalms, vol. 1. Particularly apposite to his argument is Commentary on Psalm 21 (pp. 224–5): ‘They have dug my hands and feet. Before coming to the beginning of the passion itself, we must examine why He chose for himself such 15

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produced, and moreover is often designed – perhaps particularly in the loaded context of pre- and post-conversion England, as the Church inscribed itself the landscape, primarily through monumental acts of building and by placing large-scale artworks in highly visible settings.19 The visual act of inscribing the landscape with markers of Anglo-Saxon Christianity powerfully made present the sites and spaces of the Universal Church in England, through the physical presence of ecclesiastical architecture and artworks. Not least the standing stone crosses that, through their iconic form and carved pictorial schemes, realised scriptural narratives such as those of Incarnation, Passion, and Apocalypse, recasting them in an AngloSaxon setting. These sculptures, through the sacred spaces they created, presented, and actualised, served to realise the disparate places of Jerusalem in England: the earthly place and the heavenly city of the historical past and of an eschatological future, connecting them in and through this place. Indeed, it is arguable that for their viewers these Christian monuments functioned outside the experiential realities of time, space, and geography to make present a sacred landscape, actualising both Christian past and future in the present.20 It is notable that these strategies also retain resonance for modern viewers encountering these structures and objects, particularly when examined from a standpoint that appreciates their complexity as artworks. This manner of looking builds on the detailed iconographic scholarship produced by Hawkes and others, which laid the foundations for an appreciation of their multivalency. While the understanding of such works as physical objects that simultaneously exist both in and out of linear time, functioning on several levels at once, is one that can be applied a death, whereas He said: I have power to lay down my life, and I have power to take it up again. A first reason is that the setting of the cross is such that its top points to the heavens yet its base does not quit the earth. When implanted it touches the depths of the realm below, and its breadth, with arms so to say extended, stretches towards the regions of the whole world; when flat it marks out the four points of the earth’. This presents an image of the cross, embedded in the material landscape of the earth and connected to the material of heaven, that functions in a similar fashion to the substance and symbolism of the pearl, joining heaven and earth through material substance. See also James Lang, ‘The Apostles in Anglo-Saxon Sculpture in the Age of Alcuin’, Early Medieval Europe, 8.2 (2003), 280–2; Jane Hawkes, ‘Planting the Cross in Anglo-Saxon England’, Place and Space in the Medieval World, ed. Meg Boulton, Jane Hawkes, and Heidi Stoner (Abingdon, 2018), pp. 47–62; and Carolyn Twomey, ‘Living Water, Living Stone: The History and Material Culture of Baptism in Early Medieval England, c. 600–c. 1200’ (unpublished doctoral thesis, Boston College, 2017). 19 Hawkes, ‘Planting the Cross in Anglo-Saxon England’, pp. 47–62; Lang, ‘The Apostles in Anglo-Saxon Sculpture’, pp. 280–2; and Boulton ‘The Conceptualisation of Sacred Space’ and ‘Pearls Before Paradise’. 20 Boulton ‘The Conceptualisation of Sacred Space’; Boulton, ‘“The End of the World as We Know It”’, pp. 279–90; Meg Boulton, ‘Bejewelling Jerusalem: Architectural Adornment and Symbolic Significance in the Early Church in the Christian West’, Islands in a Global Context: Proceedings of the Seventh International Insular Arts Conference, ed. Conor Newman, Mags Mannion, and Fiona Gavin (Dublin, 2017), pp. 15–23; Boulton, ‘Art History in the Dark Ages’, pp. 69–86; and Boulton, ‘(Re)Viewing “Iuxta Morem Romanorum”’, pp. 206–26.

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to almost any material example from the Anglo-Saxon world, here I will consider the fragments of the monumental cross at Rothbury, a monument that Jane herself has addressed on several occasions,21 and that one of her former students, Irene Sieberger, has recently (and radically) rearranged from its early antiquarian and scholarly (re)constructions.22 The Rothbury Cross is intriguing, even when considered against the standard of its contemporary standing stone crosses. Less than half of the original monument remains and, as noted above, the three fragments that do exist are in two different locations, making it difficult to address the monument as a ‘whole’. It offers itself as pieces of a puzzle playing out in different places – while the whole of the sandstone monument will most likely never be encountered. The monument has not been definitively dated, with Collingwood suggesting a tenth-century date, Cramp placing it in the early ninth-century, and Hawkes proposing a late eighth-century origin. Regardless of dating, what is certain is that it would have been an impressive monument. Collingwood estimated that the cross would stand around 14 feet high, while the holes found on the cross head, as noted in the CASSS, are believed to have held candles which would have produced astounding effects on the painted surface likely studded with glass and perhaps precious stones, as several scholars have suggested.23 The iconography found on the Rothbury Cross is complex, comprising a mix of figural ornament, pattern, and interlace. Before considering the symbolism of the iconography, and the implication of Sieberger’s (re)arrangement of the monument, I want to briefly address the figural ornament on the cross, which causes the most iconographic debate. Beginning with the cross head, currently housed in the Great North Museum, it may be seen that the surviving carving is fragmentary – although what survives is very fine. The cross head preserves a partial crucifixion scene, which is beautifully carved. In the left arm of the cross, an exceptionally well-modelled arm and hand are, as noted by Cramp, carved so as to be ‘almost cut free from the surface’.24 The arm has real weight and mass, and an elegant solidity, as it is held taught across the cross arm, while the hand stems from a wrist that is bent, drooping, 21 Hawkes, ‘The Miracle Scene’, pp. 208–10; and Hawkes, ‘The Rothbury Cross’, pp. 73–90. 22 Sieberger, ‘Reconstructing the Rothbury Cross, pp. 237–50. 23 Collingwood, Northumbrian Crosses, p. 49; Richard N. Bailey, England’s Earliest Sculptors (Toronto, 1996), p. 8; Richard N. Bailey, Viking Age Sculpture (London, 1980), pp. 25–9; and Richard N. Bailey ‘“What Mean these Stones?” Some Aspects of Pre-Norman Sculpture in Cheshire and Lancashire’, Bulletin of the John Rylands University Library of Manchester, 78.1 (1996), 21–46, at 35–6; James Lang, ‘The Painting of Pre-Conquest Sculpture in Northumbria’, Early Medieval Wall Painting and Painted Sculpture in England, Based on the Proceedings of a Symposium at the Courtauld Institute of Art, February 1985, ed. Sharon Cather, David Park, and Paul Williamson, BAR British Series 216 (Oxford, 1990), pp. 135–46; and Jane Hawkes, The Sandbach Crosses Sign and Significance in Anglo-Saxon Sculpture (Dublin, 2002), pp. 145–7. 24 Cramp, CASSS 1, pp. 217–19.

Looking Down from the Rothbury Cross

defeated, somewhat at odds with the rigidity of the carved limb, the whole seeming to express the enormity and sadness of the Passion – a very real, highly physical representation of the bodily torment of the Crucifixion, heighted by the nail that pierces the palm.25 The rest of the figure of Christ is lost, aside from part of a deeply dished, triple-cruciform halo which survives at the bottom of the upper cross-arm. This, in turn, is grasped by a moustachioed angel carved in profile, with deeply drilled eyes, who seems to swoop in from the top arm of the cross – drapery in flowing motion and wings outstretched in rapid flight. The back of the cross head is also badly damaged, with the central roundel lacking any discernible figure, although it is more than likely that this contained an image akin to the type depicting a bust of Christ, centralised, glorious, and portrayed as victorious over death. The surviving arms of the cross preserve figures, plausibly read as angels (who hold objects that may be instruments of the Passion) due to their stylistic similarity with the moustachioed angel with dramatically flowing drapery on the other side of the cross face. Moving to the top of the cross shaft, which is again housed in the Great North Museum, there is a partial but nonetheless imposing representation of a sombre and austere Christ in Majesty, wearing a robe carved in elegant folds and holding a book. The whole is set within an architectural surround, the significance of which has again been addressed by Hawkes, who has suggested that such frontally carved figures, with marked eyes, set in fictive niches may be related to, and have performed as, icons – translated to a different material medium in an Anglo-Saxon context.26 Moving round the shaft we find an inhabited spiral scroll which shows the head and shoulders of a calf tangled among the foliage. The next face of the cross presents a miracle scene, which is the subject of various interpretations – either the raising of Lazarus, as suggested by Hawkes,27 or the healing of the blind man as suggested by Cramp,28 or Joseph’s Dream, as argued by Brendan Cassidy.29 What is clear is that this panel of the cross contains three figures, one male, one female, and one most usually read as a miracle-working figure (seen variously as Christ, or as an angel). Depending on how they are interpreted, these figures are read as occupying or crossing the same plane of existence, either existing as one sculptural group (in the case of the Lazarus narrative, or indeed in the Dream of Joseph – although the inclusion of the female figure would present a very unconventional iconographical interpretation of this event), or as two distinct sets of carved narrative scenes juxtaposed in the same space. The final carved panel on the top of the shaft, and the one I shall Cramp, CASSS 1, p. 219. See Hawkes, ‘The Rothbury Cross’, pp. 73–90; Hawkes, ‘Stones of the North’, pp. 34–53; and Hawkes, ‘Planting the Cross in Anglo-Saxon England’, pp. 47–62. 27 Hawkes, ‘The Miracle Scene’, pp. 208–10. 28 Cramp, CASSS 1, p. 220. 29 Cassidy, ‘Dream of Joseph’, pp. 149–55. 25

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discuss in greatest detail, contains a beguiling crowd of people. The figures in this crowd number eighteen according to CASSS, but they are in fact grouped and arranged as to appear limitless in number, spilling behind, and thus implicitly beyond, the carved frame. As Cramp notes, they at once give an impression of uniform homogeneity and demonstrate huge stylistic individuality. She writes: Of the back row, only the heads can be seen; of the next two rows, only the upper half of the face or half the faces as they appear to extend behind the frame; the front row figures are shown as heads and shoulders. One in the second row leans forward realistically with his hands on the shoulders of a figure in the front row […] they do not have moustaches and their hair is dressed with distinctive fillets. Despite the identical formula for the faces, the variety in size, in posture (one, bottom left, has his fingers to his mouth) and in dress creates a very dramatic group.30

Cramp hesitates between a definite identification of these figures as either heavenly figures looking down from the top of the cross, or as a group of earthly spectators, peering intently at a now lost scene below. As will become apparent, I lean toward the former identification. Moving over the missing portion of the shaft to consider the base of the Rothbury Cross, which now acts as a font base in the church of All Saints in Rothbury, we begin with an Ascension scene. This has been identified predominantly through its carved, cloud-like frame, and its peripheral actors, as the stone has been broken in such a way as to remove the head and part of the right arm of Christ, leading to a highly theatrical, if rather impersonal scene today, as the body rises past the point of the surviving stone. The figure is possibly attended by two angels, and is surrounded by eleven figures below, likely the apostles, who form a rapt audience to the central event of the Ascension. Moving around the base, the next panel presents an inhabited vine scroll like the one on the top of the shaft, this one housing a creature that is plausibly a lion, again enmeshed in vines. There is then a very elaborate panel of interlace in a round-headed frame, which may function in an analogous visual manner to the shifting, riddling checkerboard pattern at Bewcastle, or the intricate shapes of the carpet pages in Insular manuscripts,31 which prompt contemplation of the divine through recognition of and meditation on the (hidden) form/s of the cross. Finally, one encounters the so-called hell scene, in which humans struggle to elude the violent, tense, and serpentine coils of biting, gnawing reptiles. Each reptile has deeply drilled eyes and blunt jaws, with

Cramp, CASSS 1, p. 220. Michelle Brown, The Lindisfarne Gospels: Society, Spirituality and the Scribe (London, 2003). 30 31

Looking Down from the Rothbury Cross

paws and a tail. As described by Cramp, this is a scene which creates ‘genuine tension and horror’ for the viewer.32 So much for the identification of the surviving scenes on the cross – now to piecing the monument back together. All reconstructions of the monument to date have relied heavily upon the vertical shaft of continuous vine-scroll that is presumed to run the length of the cross, as on the analogous examples of Ruthwell and Bewcastle (which have both been dated to the eighth century, thus perhaps supporting Hawkes’ dating of this monument). But Sieberger, when studying this cross during an MA module and primarily working with the antiquarian reconstructions of the monument fragments (adhering to the identificatory device of the strip of vine scroll), noticed that the early reconstructions – which have been so foundational to subsequent scholarly encounters with the monument for nearly 100 years – had all been mistaken in their ordering of the fragments. None of the extant diagrammatic depictions of Rothbury, neither Hodges’, nor Collingwood’s, nor Cramp’s, matched the arrangements of the fragments as they are encountered if viewed as a physical object. Previous iterations of reconstructions paired the ascension scene with the Majestus panel; the vine scroll with the vine scroll; the interlace panel with the scene that has been variously identified as the raising of Lazarus (by Hawkes) or the Dream of Joseph (by Cassidy), and the damned in hell with the crowd scene that is variously placed in earth or heaven by those studying it. The mistaken identities of these reconstructed panels as noted by Sieberger may be directly related to the medium of antiquarian/ archaeological drawings – which are largely dissociative and dislocating for the viewer. Sieberger, working with both the reconstructions and foregrounding a consideration of the object as a three-dimensional entity that exits in space, rather than a planar non-place, created a new reconstruction that, for the first time in the history of its scholarship, accurately records the planar faces of the cross (Fig. 12.3). In her (re)reading of the monument, Sieberger pairs the hell scene with the crowd scene, as before, and the vine scroll with the vine scroll, but the broad sides of the cross are transformed in this reading, with the interlace panel now paired with Christ in Majesty and the Ascension with the miracle scene. In addition, the cross head with its Crucifixion scene and the hardto-identify symbols of imperial power (as identified by Hawkes in 1997),33 or of the Passion (as suggested by Charlton in 1855),34 works to support either side in this new iconographic arrangement – although Sieberger prefers an arrangement that pairs the Crucifixion with the Ascension and the miracle scene. Her arrangement thus supports Hawkes’ reading of the miracle panel as Lazarus and places a figure that might be the Virgin in Cramp, CASSS 1, p. 221. Hawkes, ‘Symbols of the Passion or Power?’, pp. 31–9. 34 E. Charlton, ‘On an Ancient Saxon Cross from the Church of Rothbury, Northumberland’, Archaeologia Aeliana, 1st ser. 4 (1855), 60–2, at 61. 32 33

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FIG. 12.3 ​IRENE SIEBERGER’S RECONSTRUCTION OF THE ROTHBURY CROSS BASE. REPRODUCED FROM IRENE SIEBERGER, ‘RECONSTRUCTING THE ROTHBURY CROSS: HOW THE DISCOVERY OF ONE MISTAKE CHANGES ALMOST A CENTURY OF SCHOLARSHIP’,

Meg Boulton

proximity to both Ascension and Crucifixion, which she sees as curiously absent in the current schema.35 In her interpretation of the monument, the symbols surrounding the bust of Christ (identified by Cramp),36 are thus viewed in line with the Majestus and the interlace panel (which is riddled with hidden crosses, as is usual with such panels). This placement would heighten the emphasis on the importance of the recognition of Christ by the viewer – both those carved on the monument and those viewing the sculpture. Both these scenes are surrounded by arched or arcaded frames, which may themselves have symbolic significance recalling the space of heaven. Certainly, this framing device, in its static, fixed, niche-like presence, is treated differently from the others presented on the cross, which are somewhat fluid in their relationship to the carved figures they contain. Sieberger, following Hawkes, describes the rectilinear frames on the shaft as a ‘window frame technique – where various heads are cut off at random and disappear behind the frame as if the confined space had no influence at all on the design or layout of a scene’.37 While her reading of the cross is revolutionary, her consideration of the space and surface

ARCHAEOLOGIA AELIANA, 41 (2012), 237–50.

35 Sieberger, ‘Reconstructing the Rothbury Cross’, p. 244. See also Hawkes, ‘The Rothbury Cross: An Iconographic Bricolage’, p. 82. 36 Cramp, CASSS 1, p. 219. See also Sieberger, ‘Reconstructing the Rothbury Cross’, p. 248. 37 Hawkes, ‘The Miracle Scene on the Rothbury Cross’, p. 209. See also Sieberger, ‘Reconstructing the Rothbury Cross’, pp. 246–7.

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FIG. 12.4 ​THE DAMNED PANEL ON THE ROTHBURY CROSS BASE, C. EARLY NINTH CENTURY, ALL SAINTS CHURCH, ROTHBURY (NORTHUMBERLAND).

as they mediate an encounter between viewer and viewed object may be taken still further. Sieberger’s reconstruction offers a multitude of new ways to consider the spaces that play out across the cross, both as a (fragmented) whole and in terms of the relationships and links that occur from panel to panel across the monument. All of the surviving Rothbury panels can be said to ‘play’ with the viewer, in an interactive viewing experience constructed via the device of plane and space through the depth of carving and arrangement of figures they present – indeed at times these almost break the frame of the carved stone to emerge into the space of the viewer. The panels that most interest me in terms of an immediate relationship of space, plane, and surface are those on the side of the shaft linking the damned in hell with the crowd scene above. The hell panel (Fig. 12.4) has been much studied, with Hawkes describing how the planar arrangement of the twisted, intricately carved beasts emphasizes a sense of confinement and unending damnation, which is particularly graphic in this instance.38 In the tight confines of the panel, which seems almost claustrophobic – filled with writhing, massed, constricting forms – the serpentine creatures and diminutive figures twist and twine in perpetuity, caught forever in their all-consuming relationship of biting and bitten. As Hawkes notes, the tiny Cramp, CASSS 1, p. 220; Bailey, England’s Earliest Sculptors, p. 3; Hawkes, ‘The Rothbury Cross’, p. 89; and Sieberger, ‘Reconstructing the Rothbury Cross’, p. 239.

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FIG. 12.5A ​ THE BLESSED PANEL ON THE ROTHBURY CROSS BASE, C. EARLY NINTH CENTURY, THE GREAT NORTH MUSEUM, TYNE AND WEAR.

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and vulnerable human forms struggle in their serpentine, bestial confines, physically attempting to push the beastly bodies apart,39 while the biting creatures undulate along and around the rectilinear frame, continually curving away from it and then pressing toward its structure in a manner that emphasises the spatial confinement and relative temporal fixity of the scene. They take up all available space, filling it, and possessing it with their bodily presence. Markedly, this is happening in place, and in so rapacious, repetitious, nightmarish, and all-consuming a manner as to appear eternal, outside of time – a powerful visual evocation of an unending torment, the whole potentially exacerbated by the application of painted pigment and glass or paste eyes to the beasts and humans alike, which must have glittered in candlelight, the whole seeming to writhe and twist and move and breathe when viewed in a dim and flickering environment. These contorted and twisted forms exist in stark counterpoint to the ordered ranks of the crowd above them, who are placed above a scrolled edge that, to my mind, articulates a cloudscape that this (along with their neatly ordered hair and the small bands on their exquisitely carved heads) absolutely indicates a heavenly location for this scene, as they peer down 39

Hawkes, ‘The Rothbury Cross’, pp. 73–90.

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FIG. 12.5B ​DETAIL OF THE BLESSED PANEL ON THE ROTHBURY CROSS BASE, C. EARLY NINTH CENTURY, THE GREAT NORTH MUSEUM, TYNE AND WEAR.

(past a lost portion of iconography) into the infernal and disordered torment below (Figs. 12.5a and 12.5b). The order and calm of the scene is slightly belied by the onlookers’ anxious expressions as they peer over shoulders and from behind the frame that arbitrarily represents the limits of the space the viewer is permitted to see – some with their hands pressed to their mouths as they (and thus the viewer) contemplate a place that is the antithesis of their own neatly framed and eternally composed space: terror-filled and horrifying. The spatial arrangement of these two scenes is particularly complex in the visual paradigm they set up for the viewer, as it is in all the scenes paired on the cross – either in the long-held pairings demonstrated in the earlier scholarly reconstructions, or in those more recently articulated in Sieberger’s convincing rearrangement. Each of these panels, the blessed and the damned, constructs a potent ‘space’ for the viewer. The one is relatively calm and ordered (if crowded), making present the space of heaven, filled with the faces of the blessed as they peer down the shaft of the cross, flooding and filling the peaceful geometry of their frame. The other, with its contorted beasts that seem to pulsate around the frame they fill, squeezing and biting and clawing, is a stark contrast to this, a truly ‘hellish’ space which offers a moment of horror and terror to its viewers – both the blessed above, and those earthly Anglo-Saxon Christians viewing the cross. It is perhaps this observation that brings the complexity of the Rothbury cross and similar monuments to the fore for scholars today. Through the images carved, and possibly once painted on its surface, the cross as a whole offers us a view into these eschatological locations. But it also allows us to witness an ongoing viewing experience happening in this eschatological moment – that is to say, we see the blessed and the damned,

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but we also witness the blessed viewing the damned. As we become privy to their responses, their horror (which is made more awful by its presence within their peaceful paradise) heightens and exacerbates our own. Thus, these monuments offer a multi-layered viewing experience in which we not only ‘see’, but also view and witness, in a complex unfolding of time, space, monument, and moment, with both the images and the monument eliciting powerful psychological and emotional responses. There is doubtless much more to say about these scenes, their arrangement, and their placement on the cross, in terms of both the individual face of the cross and its relation to the other faces and scenes as reordered by Sieberger. The whole indicates an extraordinarily sophisticated monument that is concerned with eschatological awareness, with salvation, judgement, and resurrection. It asks the viewer to recognise the interlinked and multivalent importance of the majesty of Christ, his Passion, and the promise of ultimate resurrection (represented by Lazarus, following Hawkes) and salvation as recognised through the crosses seen in the interlace and underscored by the presence of the damned in hell. These lost souls, placed close to the viewer, serve as a visceral reminder of the eschatological alternative to Christian salvation, all held and framed by the salvific symbol of the cross itself. All the themes presented on the surviving portions of the Rothbury Cross play on binary and interrelated ideas of space and time, of past, present and future, and of salvation and damnation, reminding those viewing the monument that earthly time was not a constant. Instead, as is demonstrated through the iconography at Rothbury, earthly time as embodied by the daily and lived experiences of the assumed viewer of the cross is set against both the historic past demonstrated and enlivened by scenes from the life of Christ, and the eternal, achronic (future) present of the ecstasies of heaven, and the torments of hell. Both of these states are boldly conjured for its viewers, both past and present, through the employment of a sophisticated visual lexicon and astonishing physicality (both in the coiled, biting serpentine hell-beasts, and in the realistic placement of the crowd of heavenly onlookers who flood the frame in their act of aghast witness), alongside the astoundingly vivid imagery and comprehensive exegetical awareness demonstrated by its finely carved surface – undeniably art in any imagination, past or present.

BIBLIOGRAPHY OF JANE HAWKES’ WRITINGS BOOKS The Golden Age of Northumbria (Newcastle upon Tyne, 1996). The Sandbach Crosses: Sign and Significance in Anglo-Saxon Sculpture (Dublin, 2002). = P. Sidebottom, Derbyshire and Staffordshire, CASSS, 13 (Oxford, 2018).

OTHER REPORTS IN THE PUBLIC DOMAIN ‘Appendix VII: Description of the Decoration and Iconography of St Mary’s Church’, in Conservation Plan: St Mary the Virgin, Studley Royal, vol. 3 (London, 2001), 1–4. = S. Goldrick and C. Joyce, ‘Mayo of the Saxons’, in South Central Mayo. Field Guide No. 22 (Dublin, 1998), 32–9. The Iconography of St Mary’s, Studley Royal (London, 1997).

CHAPTERS IN BOOKS ‘Art and Society’, in The Cambridge History of Ireland, ed. Brendan Smith, vol. 1 (Cambridge, 2018), pp. 87–118. ‘Introduction: Crossing Boundaries’, Crossing Boundaries: Interdisciplinary Approaches to the Art, Material Culture, Language and Literature of the Early Medieval World, ed. Eric Cambridge and Jane Hawkes (Oxford, 2017), pp. xiii–xv. ‘“The Body in the Box”: The Iconography of the Cuthbert Coffin’, Crossing Boundaries: Interdisciplinary Approaches to the Art, Material Culture, Language and Literature of the Early Medieval World, ed. Eric Cambridge and Jane Hawkes (Oxford, 2017), pp. 78–89. ‘Constructing Identities in the Eighteenth Century: Thomas Pennant and the Early Medieval Sculpture of Scotland and England’, Enlightenment

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Travel and British Identities: Thomas Pennant’s Tours in Scotland and Wales, ed. Mary-Ann Constantine and Nigel Leask (London, 2017), pp. 85–104. ‘Planting the Cross in Anglo-Saxon England’, Place and Space in the Medieval World, ed. Meg Boulton, Jane Hawkes, and Heidi Stoner (New York, NY, 2017), pp. 57–62. ‘“Hail the Conquering Hero”: Coming and Going at Ruthwell – Adventus and Transition’, The Art, Literature and Material Culture of the Medieval World: Transition, Transformation, Taxonomy, ed. Meg Boulton and Jane Hawkes, with Melissa Herman (Dublin, 2015), pp. 80–96. = Meg Boulton, ‘The Anglo-Saxon Church in Kent’, Places of Worship in Britain and Ireland, 300–950, ed. P. S. Barnwell, Rewley House Studies in the Historic Environment 4 (Donington, 2015), pp. 92–118. ‘Wilfrid: Carving Contemplation’, Wilfrid: Bishop, Abbot, Saint, ed. N. J. Higham (Donington, 2013), pp. 124–35. ‘The Road to Hell: The Art of Damnation in Anglo-Saxon Sculpture’, Listen, O Isles, unto me: Studies in Medieval Word and Image in honour of Jennifer O’Reilly, ed. Elizabeth Mullins and Diarmuid Scully (Cork, 2011), pp. 230–42. ‘Art at Sutton Hoo’, and ‘The Lindisfarne Gospels’, The History of British Art, 600–1600, ed. Tim Ayers (London, 2009) pp. 44–5; 198–9. ‘Gregory the Great and Angelic Mediation: the Anglo-Saxon Crosses of the Derbyshire Peaks’, Text, Image and Interpretation: Studies in AngloSaxon Literature in Honour of Éamonn Ó Carragáin, ed. Alastair Minnis and Jane Roberts (Turnhout, 2007), pp. 431–48. ‘The Anglo-Saxon Legacy’, Constantine the Great: York’s Roman Emperor, ed. Elizabeth Hartley, Jane Hawkes, and Martin Henig, with Frances Mee (London, 2006), pp. 104–14. ‘The Honan Chapel: An Iconographic Excursus’, The Honan Chapel: A Golden Vision, ed. Virginia Teehan and Elizabeth Wincott Heckett (Cork, 2004), pp. 105–31. ‘Reading Stone’, Theorizing Anglo-Saxon Stone Sculpture, ed. Fred Orton and Catherine Karkov (Morgantown, WV, 2003), pp. 5–30. ‘“Iuxta Morem Romanorum”: Stone and Sculpture in Anglo-Saxon England’, Anglo-Saxon Styles, ed. Catherine Karkov and George Hardin Brown (New York, NY, 2003), pp. 69–100. ‘Constructing Iconographies: Questions of Identity in Mercian Sculpture’, in Mercia: An Early Medieval Superpower, ed. Michelle Brown and Carol Farr (Leicester, 2001), pp. 230–45. ‘An Iconography of Identity? The Cross-Head from Mayo Abbey’, From Ireland Coming: Irish Art from the Early Christian to the late Gothic Period and its European Context, ed. Colum Hourihane (Princeton, NJ, 2001), pp. 184–95. ‘Statements in Stone: Anglo-Saxon Sculpture, Whitby and the

Bibliography of Jane Hawkes’ Writings

Christianisation of the North’, The Archaeology of Anglo-Saxon England: Basic Readings, ed. Catherine Karkov (New York, NY, 1999), pp. 403–21. ‘Breaking the Silence: The Road to Calvary at Sandbach’, Le Isole Britanniche e Roma in Età Romanobarbarica, ed. Anna Maria Luiselli Fadda and Éamonn Ó Carragáin (Rome, 1998), pp. 37–48. ‘The Iconography of the Passion or Power?’, The Insular Tradition, ed. Catherine Karkov, Robert T. Farrell, and Michael Ryan (New York, NY, 1997), pp. 27–44. ‘Old Testament Heroes: Iconographies of Insular Sculpture’, The Worm, the Germ, and the Thorn: Pictish and Related Studies Presented to Isabel Henderson, ed. David Henry (Balgavies, 1997), pp. 149–58. ‘Columban Virgins: Iconic Images of the Virgin and Child in Insular Sculpture’, Studies in the Cult of St Columba, ed. Cormac Bourke (Dublin, 1997), pp. 107–35.

ARTICLES IN (REFEREED) JOURNALS ‘W. G. Collingwood. Artist, Art Historian, Critic, Archaeologist and AngloSaxonist: Continuities and Ruptures, 1883–1907’, Nineteenth-Century Art Worldwide, 2015: online (www.19thc-artworldwide.org). = Change/ Continuity: Writing about Art in Britain before and after 1900, ed. Martina Droth and Peter Trippi, 2015. ‘There’s no such thing as British Art: the case of the Early Medieval’, British Art Studies, Issue 1 (http://dx.doi.org/10.17658/issn.2058-5462/issue-01/ conversation). = There’s No Such Thing as British Art, ed. Richard Johns, 2015. ‘Gathering Fruit at Ingleby: An Early Medieval Sculptural Fragment from Ingleby, Derbyshire’, Journal of the British Archaeological Association, 163 (2010), 1–15. ‘An Anglo-Saxon Carving at Skipwith, East Yorkshire’, Archaeological Journal, 165 (2009), 446–55. = Warwick Rodwell, Jane Hawkes, Rosemary Cramp, and Emily Howe, ‘The Lichfield Angel: A Spectacular Anglo-Saxon Painted Sculpture’, AntJ, 88 (2008), 1–60. ‘The Church Triumphant: The Masham Column and the Art of the Church in Ninth-Century Anglo-Saxon England’, Hortus Artium Medievalium, 8 (2002), 337–48. = Jane Hawkes and Éamonn Ó Carragáin, ‘John the Baptist and the Agnus Dei: Ruthwell (and Bewcastle) Re-visited’, AntJ, 81 (2001), 131–54. ‘The Rothbury Cross: An Iconographic Bricolage’, Gesta, 35.i (1996), 73–90. ‘The Wirksworth Slab: An Iconography of Humilitas’, Peritia, 9 (1995), 246–89. ‘The Miracle Scene on the Rothbury Cross’, Archæologia Æliana, 17 (1989), 208–10.

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PAPERS IN (REFEREED) CONFERENCE PROCEEDINGS ‘East Meets West in Anglo-Saxon Sculpture’, England, Ireland and the Insular World: Textual and Material Connections in the Early Middle Ages, Meeting of the International Society of Anglo-Saxonists, Dublin 2013, ed. Mary Clayton, Alice Jorgensen, and Juliet Mullins, Medieval and Renaissance Texts and Studies 509; Essays in Anglo-Saxon Studies 7 (Tempe, AZ, 2017), pp. 41–62. ‘The Transformative Nature of Stone: Early Medieval Sculpture of the Insular World and the “Graven Image”’, Islands in a Global Context: Proceedings of the Seventh International Conference on Insular Art, Galway 2015, ed. Conor Newman, Mags Mannion, and Fiona Gavin (Dublin, 2017), pp. 104–10. ‘Creating a View: Anglo-Saxon Sculpture in the Sixteenth Century’, Making Histories: Proceedings of the Sixth International Conference on Insular Art, University of York, July 2011, ed. Jane Hawkes (Donington, 2013), pp. 372–84. ‘Stones of the North: Sculpture in Northumbria in the “Age of Bede”’, Northumberland: Medieval Art and Architecture, BAA Conference Proceedings, ed. Jeremy Ashbee and Julian Luxford (Newcastle upon Tyne, 2010; Leeds, 2013), pp. 34–53. ‘Design and Decoration: Revisualising Rome in Anglo-Saxon Sculpture’, Rome Across Time and Space: Cultural Transmission and the Exchange of Ideas, c. 500–1400, Conference: Cambridge 2008, Claudia Bolgia, Rosamond McKitterick, and John Osborne (Cambridge, 2011), pp. 201–21. ‘Superabundance and Disorder: Ruskin’s “Two Great Evils” and the Church of St Mary, Studley Royal’, Rethinking the Interior, c. 1867–1896: Aestheticism and Arts and Crafts, Meeting at University College: London 2005, ed. Jason Edwards and Imogen Hart (London, 2010), pp. 41–66. ‘The Church Triumphant: The Figural Columns of Early Ninth-Century Anglo-Saxon England’, Form and Order in the Anglo-Saxon World, AD 600–1100, Meeting at the British Museum, London 2002, ed. Sally Crawford and Helena Hamerow, with Leslie Webster (Oxford, 2009), pp. 29–42. “Studying Early Christian Sculpture in England and Ireland: The Object of Art History or Archaeology?”, Anglo-Saxon/Irish Relations before the Vikings, Joint Meeting of the British and Royal Irish Academies, London 2005, ed. James Graham-Campbell and Michael Ryan (London, 2009), pp. 397–408. ‘Programmes of Salvation: the Iconography of the Crosses of Iona’, Aedifico Nova: Studies in Honour of Rosemary Cramp, 42nd International Congress on Medieval Studies, Kalamazoo 2007, ed. Helen Damico and Catherine Karkov (Kalamazoo, MI, 2008), pp. 198–225.

Bibliography of Jane Hawkes’ Writings

‘Anglo-Saxon “Romanitas”: the Transmission and Use of Early Christian Art in Anglo-Saxon England’, Freedom of Movement in the Middle Ages, Harlaxton Symposium 2003, ed. Peregrine Horden, Harlaxton Medieval Studies 25 (Donington, 2007), pp. 19–36. ‘W. G. Collingwood and Anglo-Saxon Sculpture: Art History or Archaeology’, Making and Meaning in Insular Art, Proceedings of the Fifth International Conference on Insular Art, Dublin 2005, ed. Rachel Moss (Dublin, 2007), pp. 142–52. ‘Figuring Salvation: An Excursus into the Iconography of the Iona Crosses’, Able Minds and Practised Hands, Conference on Scotland’s Early Medieval Sculpture in the 21st Century, Edinburgh 2003, ed. Sally Foster and Morag Cross, Society for Medieval Archaeology 23 (London, 2005), pp. 259–75. ‘The Plant-life of Early Anglo-Saxon Art’, From Earth to Art, ASPNS International Conference, Glasgow 2000, ed. Carole Biggam (Amsterdam, 2003), pp. 263–86. ‘Sermons in Stone: The Mysteries of Christ in Anglo-Saxon Sculpture’, The Cross Goes North, Proceedings of Conference, The Age of Conversion in Northern Europe, York 2000, ed. Martin Carver (Woodbridge, 2002) pp. 351–70. ‘Symbolic Lives: The Visual Evidence’, The Anglo-Saxons from the Migration Period to the Eighth Century, 2nd International Congress on Historical Archaeoethnology, San Marino, RSM 1994, ed. John Hines (Woodbridge, 1997), pp. 311–44. ‘A Question of Judgment: The Iconic Programme at Sandbach’, From the Isles of the North, 3rd International Conference on Insular Art, Belfast 1994, ed. Cormac Bourke (Belfast, 1995), pp. 213–20. ‘Mary and the Cycle of Resurrection: The Iconography of the Hovingham Panel’, The Age of Migrating Ideas, 2nd International Conference on Insular Art, Edinburgh 1991, ed. Michael R. Spearman and John Higgitt (Edinburgh, NMS, 1993), pp. 254–60.

ALL OTHER WORKS MEMORIAL LECTURES Sculpture on the Mercian Fringe: the Anglo-Saxon crosses at Sandbach, Cheshire, Brixworth Lecture 17 (Leicester, 1999). Venerating the Cross around the year 800 in Anglo-Saxon England, Jennifer O’Reilly Memorial Lecture 2 (Cork, 2018) (online: https://www.ucc.ie/ en/history/drjenniferoreillymemorialpage/thejenniferoreillymemorial​ lectureseries/).

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EXHIBITION CATALOGUE ENTRIES “The Lichfield Angel”, in Breay, C. and Story, J. (eds.), Anglo-Saxon Kingdoms. Art, Word, War (London, 2018), 144, cat. 42. “The Reculver Column: in six pieces”, in Hartley, E., Hawkes, J. and Henig, M. (eds.), Constantine the Great: York’s Roman Emperor (London, 2006), 247–250, cat. 267–272. “The Dewsbury Column: in three pieces”, in Hartley, E., Hawkes, J. and Henig, M. (eds.), Constantine the Great: York’s Roman Emperor (London, 2006), 250–252, cat. 274–276. ENCYCLOPAEDIA ENTRIES Entries on Anglo-Saxon Art; the Cuthbert Coffin; Anglo-Saxon Sculpture; Anglo-Saxon Stonework, in Medieval England. An Encyclopedia (New York, NY, 1998), 77–81, 199–200, 679–683, 716–718. Entry on the Ruthwell Cross. Reallexikon der Germanischen Altertumskunde, vol. 25 (Berlin and New York, NY, 2003), 622–625. CD-ROMS 7 entries on Anglo-Saxon Art and Architecture, in English Cathedrals and Monasteries. York: Christianity and Culture, 2013. 5 entries on Anglo-Saxon art and Architecture, and 1 video on St Mary’s, Studley Royal, Yorkshire, in The English Parish Church. York: Christianity and Culture, 2010. 24 entries on Anglo-Saxon Art and Architecture, in Patterns of Pilgrimage. York: Christianity and Culture, 2007. 22 entries on Anglo-Saxon Art, in Images of Salvation. York: Christianity and Culture, 2004.

INDEX 1 Corinthians ​19, 162 1 Kings, Book of ​64n, 126–9 1 Peter ​18–19 2 Chronicles, Book of ​64n 2 Corinthians ​19 2 Kings, Book of ​64n Aachen ​211–12 Aaron, prophet ​124, 127–8 abbots ​13, 38, 64, 113, 214 Abiron ​4, 124–31, 140–2 Abraham, prophet ​3, 41, 50–9, 64–5 Achnabreck, Argyll ​179–80 Acts of the Apostles ​66 Adam and Eve ​41, 50, 59, 139 Adamnán, saint and abbot of Iona ​38 Aegean Sea ​179 Ælfric of Eynsham ​56 Hexateuch ​139–40 In dedicatione ecclesiae ​67 Æthelberht, king of Kent ​93 Æthelstan, king of the Anglo-Saxons ​ 113 Æthelthryth, saint and abbess of Ely ​ 87–8, 114 Æthelwald, king of Deira ​95 Æthelwealh, king of Sussex ​87 age, ageing ​91, 97 Agnus Dei ​29 Aidan, saint and bishop of Lindisfarne ​ 96, 105–11, 115–20 Alcuin, abbot of Tours ​4, 8, 44, 203–16 Alexander III, pope ​129–30 Alfred, son of Westou ​110–11 Alfred Jewel ​61–2 Allen, J. Romilly ​147n, 153–6 alloy ​12, 174, 176, 198–9, 201

altars ​20–1, 51, 53–4, 56, 72–3, 114–20 amber ​91–2 Ambrose, bishop of Milan ​56–7, 213 De Abraham ​57 amethyst ​92 amulets ​91–2, 167, 175–7, 181–2 anachronism, anachronic ​106n, 218–19, 222 Andreas ​61–79 Andreas Stone ​158–9 Andrew, saint ​61–79 Angelomus of Luxeuil, monk ​44 angels ​51–3, 63–6, 72, 73n, 76, 79, 117, 127, 131–3, 139–40, 163, 171, 173, 218n, 227 Anglia, Anglians ​146, 148, 194 Anglo-Saxon studies ​5, 223 Anglo-Scandinavian ​21n, 22 animals ​7–9, 10–14, 17, 20–1, 22, 25, 27, 29–37, 42, 44–5, 54, 123–4, 134–41, 195, 231–4 Annales monasterii de Wintonia ​113 Apocalypse ​39–40, 225 Apollo, god ​191 apostasy ​75 apostles ​12–21, 44–6, 58, 61–79, 117–18, 212, 228 archers ​29 arches ​15–16, 45–6, 55, 201 architecture ​8–12, 15–21, 45–7, 64n, 68, 74, 78, 82, 84, 87–9, 96–7, 114–15, 119–21, 126, 140–1, 178, 225–7 arithmetic ​203–16 armour ​96, 191–3 Arrest of Christ ​45–6 artisans ​167–86, 217–18 Ascension ​46, 118n, 228–30

242 Index assemblages ​85, 168, 170–1, 181, 184–5 assemblies ​78, 93, 211, 216. See also meeting places Augustine of Canterbury, saint ​68, 74 Augustine of Hippo, saint ​41, 56–7, 59, 126, 208–10, 213 Confessiones ​126 De civitate dei ​57, 69–71 Enarrationes in Psalmos ​57 Austroberta, saint ​117 authority ​15, 35, 44, 71, 81–3, 93, 130n, 152, 168, 214–15, 219 axes ​56 Babylon ​74 bags ​92, 111, 176–8, 204 Ballinderry, Co. Offaly ​168, 176, 184 Ballydoo, Co. Armagh ​174 Balor ​182 baptism ​7–22, 36, 72–9, 86 baptisteries ​21, 36, 77–9 barbarians ​191, 198 barrels ​18, 204n barrows ​72, 92, 93n. See also mounds Basel cathedral ​116–19 bases ​16, 19, 23, 26–7, 33n, 34–9, 42, 44–6, 54, 74–5, 114–15, 219n, 221, 224–5n, 228–34 battle, battles ​90, 134, 191–5 of Ashingdon ​67 of Heavenfield ​94–5 of Maserfelth ​95 beaches ​68n beads ​4, 91–2, 167–86, 195, 198–9 beaks ​11, 200 beams ​56, 68n beards ​192, 195–201 beasts. See animals Becket, Thomas, saint and archbishop of Canterbury ​114 Bede the Venerable, saint ​2, 8, 38, 43–6, 56–8, 66–8, 72n, 81, 87–98, 106–7, 110–11, 120, 208 De Tabernaculo ​56–8, 66, 72n De Templo ​15, 56, 66–7 Historia abbatum ​56–8, 91 Historia ecclesiastica gentis Anglorum ​ 8, 56n, 68, 149 Vita Sancti Cuthberti ​120 Benedict Biscop, abbot of Monkwearmouth-Jarrow ​58

Benedictines ​103, 110, 113–14, 120–1 Benedictional of Æthelwold ​15–16 Beowulf, Beowulf ​68–9, 96 Bernicia, kingdom of ​83, 90–1, 148 berries ​27, 30–3 Bible, bibles ​4, 55–6, 123–42, 187n, 208, 215 birds ​7, 11, 13–16, 20, 22, 27, 29–32, 35, 50, 160–2, 195, 199–201, 206–7 bishops ​12–13, 31, 40, 44, 77, 94, 96, 105, 111–13, 118, 120, 150, 214, 216n Blaise, saint ​117 blood ​69n, 71, 118, 213 Bloodmoor Hill, Suffolk ​176 blossoms, blossoming ​71 boars ​91–2 body, bodies ​14–15, 18–19, 22, 51, 54, 71, 86n, 96–7, 101–21, 170–1, 174–5, 178, 184–5, 196, 200, 228 Boethius ​204 Boisil, saint ​105–11, 120 bone, bones ​12, 105–21, 181 Book of the Cave of Treasures ​37 borders ​26, 29–33, 42–5, 47, 54–5, 191, 195, 224 Borre Ring Chain ​166 bosses ​27–8, 92, 138, 179 boundaries ​30, 42, 44, 73, 158 boxes ​54, 92, 101–21 bracteates ​92 Breguswith, mother of Hild of Whitby ​ 94 Bridlington, East Yorkshire ​92 bronze ​92, 155n, 176 Bronze Age ​179 brooches ​170, 197, 200–2 Brú na Bóinne, Co. Meath ​179 buckles ​92, 187n, 197n building, buildings. See architecture Buildwas Abbey, Shropshire ​125 bulls ​158–9 burial, burials ​21, 50, 77, 81–99, 133, 168, 176–8, 183, 185, 193–4, 198 Butrint, Albania ​173 Byzantium, Byzantine, Byzantines ​40, 93, 96, 204 Cain ​70, 74 Calvary, Mount ​56n, 109 cannibals, cannibalism ​61–79, 135–6 Canon law ​64n, 129–30

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canonicity ​218 Canterbury ​51, 68, 74, 77, 117, 133–4, 137, 139 Carolingian ​8, 34, 44, 53, 130, 136, 203–16 caskets ​11, 34, 105, 112–13 Castle Rushen, Isle of Man ​161 cataloguing ​26, 144–7, 154–6 catechumens ​20, 40 categorisation ​4, 9–10, 26, 143–66, 177, 197–8 Cathars ​129 Cathedral Hill, Co. Armagh ​172 Catterick, North Yorkshire ​15, 74n cattle ​35, 158–9 Cedd, saint and bishop of the East Saxons ​95 cemeteries ​3, 81–99, 176–7 cenotaphs ​88, 95 Ceolwulf, saint and king of Northumbria ​105, 106, 109–10 Cerberus ​134 ceremony, ceremonies ​16, 20, 112, 179, 185, 191–3, 195 Chad, saint and abbot of Lastingham ​ 3, 7–23, 66 Chaldeans ​74 chalices ​13, 170 chambers ​89, 96–7 Channel Style ​125 chapels ​27, 29, 39, 89, 97, 111, 150 Charlemagne, king of the Franks and emperor ​197, 205–8, 212–16 Chester ​12 Chichester, Sussex ​74n, 77 China ​204n Christ ​3, 12–15, 18–22, 25, 27, 29, 31, 34–47, 57–68, 71, 78, 227–30, 234 Christ in Majesty ​12–13, 41, 44, 227, 229 Christology ​56–9 Christopher, saint ​118 Chronicles of Man ​149–50 chronology ​26, 86, 92, 109–10, 114, 143, 154, 176, 212, 223 churches All Saints, Rothbury, Co. Northumberland ​219n, 228, 231 Barking, Essex ​88, 172 Barton-upon-Humber, Lincolnshire ​ 21

Basilica of St Martin, Tours ​214 Brixworth, Northamptonshire ​18 Christ Church, Canterbury ​117 Ely, Cambridgeshire ​87–8, 114 Escomb, Co. Durham ​18 Lindisfarne, Co. Northumberland ​ 27, 95, 101–2, 105, 109, 120 Minster-in-Thanet, Kent ​87 Old St Peter’s, Rome ​13 Potterne, Wiltshire ​9, 10n, 21 Ripon, North Yorkshire ​18, 90 Saint Chad’s, Church Wilne, Derbyshire ​7–22 Saint Mary de Lode, Gloucestershire ​ 21 Saint Pancras, Canterbury ​74 Saint Wystan, Repton ​12 San Clemente, Rome ​36 San Vitale, Ravenna ​31, 33, 51 Sant’ Apollinare in Classe, Ravenna ​ 39 Winchester Cathedral ​113 Cirencester, Gloucestershire ​74n claustrophobia ​231 cliffs ​69, 76 Clonmacnoise, Co. Offaly ​32, 184 clothing ​54, 97–8, 191–2, 228 Cnut the Great, king of England, Denmark, and Norway ​64n, 67 coffins ​3, 55, 101–21 Coifi ​96 collars ​11, 116, 168, 183, 198n collecting ​38, 92, 110–13, 117, 121, 143, 148, 155, 158–61, 173, 176–8, 203–6, 210 Collingwood, W. G. ​148–56, 217–21, 226, 229 Cologne, Germany ​106, 110, 115–16 colour, colours black ​109, 164, 199 blue ​171–6, 179, 181–3 brown ​128, 141 green ​65, 170, 175–6 grey ​125, 141 purple ​218n red ​141, 183, 218n white ​171, 173, 181, 218n, 224 yellow ​170, 175, 179, 181–3 Columba, saint and abbot of Iona ​23, 163, 172

244 Index columns Dewsbury, West Yorkshire ​12–13, 74 of Jupiter, Mainz ​74 Masham, North Yorkshire ​12–13, 14–15n, 49–50, 74 Reculver, Kent ​13, 51, 53, 74 of Trajan, Rome ​74 Winchester, Priors Barton 1, Hampshire ​12 Wolverhampton, West Midlands ​12, 14 Commandments, Ten ​71–2, 208 commands ​3, 41, 54, 57, 63–5, 67–8, 71–6 commemoration ​14–15, 19, 22, 27, 29, 38, 47, 89, 95, 97, 151 commentary ​43, 45, 130, 215–16 communication ​89, 177, 183–4, 188–9, 196 community, communities ​10, 12–14, 17–19, 22, 24, 43–7, 77–8, 83–99, 101n, 103, 109, 112, 117, 120–1, 126, 128–9, 131, 172–3, 177, 183, 185–6, 205 concealment ​59, 65, 126–7, 136, 189n, 190, 194n, 196, 214n, 228–30 Conquest, Norman ​9, 131 conversion ​8, 18, 64n, 81–99, 212, 224–5 copper ​12, 73, 105, 115, 174, 176, 198–9 Coppergate, York ​172, 194, 201 Corieltavi ​86 Corpus of Anglo-Saxon Stone Sculpture ​ 2, 8n, 51n, 53n, 146, 150n correspondence ​152–4, 157, 212 cosmos, cosmology ​26, 36–9, 41–2, 45–7, 180 council/s Fourth Lateran ​130 of Tours ​129 of Whitby ​94 creatures. See animals cross slabs Hilton of Cadboll ​30 Tarbat ​30 crosses Bewcastle ​27, 146–7, 228–9 Croft-on-Tees ​32–4 Easby ​27 Gosforth ​134 Halton ​164–6 Jarrow ​14

Jedburgh ​32 Leeds ​148, 164–6 Manx ​143–66 Market Cross, Kells ​24 Middleton ​164, 166 Muiredach ​32, 34 Newent ​49–59 Nunburnholme ​164, 166 Rothbury ​54, 217–34 Ruthwell ​14, 27–32, 34, 61, 146, 229 Sandbach ​27 South Cross, Clonmacnoise ​32 South Cross, Kells ​23–47 crown of thorns ​57–9 crucibles ​170–4 crucifixion ​21–2, 29, 38–9, 41, 47, 55–9, 163, 226–30 crystal, phials ​109, 113 crystal, rock ​91–2, 136 cullet ​172–3 cults ​66, 92–9, 101–21 cupboards ​101–21 cups ​118, 184, 198, 213n curation ​39, 150–1, 155, 178 Cuthbert, saint and bishop of Hexham and Lindisfarne ​55, 83, 87, 95, 101–21 Cyril, saint and bishop of Jerusalem ​ 40–2 damage ​7, 10, 12, 22, 105–6, 129, 172–3, 190, 194, 227 Danelaw ​144 Daniel, Book of ​64n Daniel, prophet ​35, 138 Dark Ages ​218–19 Dathan ​123–42 dating ​12, 16, 84–5, 107n, 113, 144n, 145–6, 158, 162, 185, 200, 202, 226, 229 David, king ​44, 45, 50, 59, 138–9, 142 David slaying Goliath ​50, 59 death, dying ​17–21, 39, 56, 59, 91–2, 97–8, 110, 114, 133, 180, 212, 227 death masks ​189 decoration ​10, 13, 24, 27, 31, 35, 39, 40, 88–9, 92, 105–6, 113, 126, 147, 167–8, 170, 173–4, 178–85, 188, 191–2, 194–8, 200–2, 217–18 dedications ​12, 19, 67, 83, 87, 95, 97, 162

245

Index

deer ​37 Deira, kingdom of ​83, 86, 90–8, 148 demons ​71, 134–5, 139 Denmark ​185 Derrynaflan paten ​172, 180 Deuteronomy, Book of ​64n devil. See Satan dialectic ​82, 215 diet ​86n dimensions ​29–30, 94, 167, 174, 187n, 195, 222, 224, 229 diplomas ​90 discourse ​143, 156, 188, 218 Dissolution of the monasteries ​105, 111, 121 ditches ​88–9, 95, 140–1 dogs ​134, 137 Domesday Book ​12, 84 Dominicans ​130 doors ​20, 105 dots ​167, 174, 185 dragons ​132, 134, 137, 139 drawing ​10, 16–17, 117, 139, 141, 153–4, 156, 159, 160–1, 219–24, 229 Dream of Joseph ​227, 229 Dream of the Rood ​13, 29, 61 dreams ​35, 94 Driffield, East Yorkshire ​91–2 Drosten Stone, St Vigeans, Angus ​27 drypoint ​141 Dublin ​144 Dunmisk fort, Co. Tyrone ​171–2 Durham cathedral priory ​101–21 Eanflæd, queen of Northumbria and abbess of Whitby ​83 earth, earthly realm ​13–14, 18–19, 33n, 35, 38–9, 43, 61, 63, 65, 70–2, 74–5, 78, 79, 96, 124–5, 128, 133, 140–1, 223, 225, 228–9, 233–4 earthworks ​92, 95 Easington, Co. Durham ​83–4, 87–8, 94n, 95–8 Easter ​94, 118n, 212 Eata, saint and bishop of Hexham and Lindisfarne ​120 Ecgberht, archbishop of York ​64n Eden ​37–42, 46–7, 72 Edmund the Martyr, saint and king of East Anglia ​114

Edward the Confessor, saint and king of England ​118 Edwin, saint and king of Northumbria ​ 83, 96 eggs ​180–1 Egypt ​42n, 169, 176, 182, 185, 204 Einhard ​206 Eleven Thousand Virgins of Cologne. See Ursula’s Companion(s) emblema ​31, 37, 45, 47 emotion ​185, 187–90, 196, 234 enclosure, enclosures ​84, 88, 92, 95–8, 110, 112–15, 170 Enoch ​74 entanglement ​7, 22, 45, 195 enthronement ​13, 42 Eormengyth, saint ​87 Ephesians, Letter to the ​19 equinoxes ​180 eternity ​21, 32, 35, 44, 46, 62–3, 208, 232–4 Etheldreda of Ely. See Æthelthryth Eucharist ​13–14, 20, 69n Euclidian geometry ​211 Eustace, saint ​118 Evangelists ​29–31, 162–3 Everilda, saint and abbess of Everingham ​115 evil ​17, 72, 74, 130, 182, 214 exegesis ​16, 22, 46, 50, 56–9, 66, 209–10, 213, 215–16, 234 exemplars ​2, 51, 93, 96–7, 192, 194 Exodus, Book of ​72 expertise ​152, 154, 169 expression ​24, 26, 31, 175, 185, 187–90, 194, 196, 200, 202, 232 Eye of Horus ​182 eyes ​182–3, 185, 197, 199, 201 Ezekiel, Book of ​35–6, 38, 64n faces ​27, 53, 63, 187–202 Fajita Butte, Chaco Canyon, New Mexico ​180 Fall of Adam and Eve ​50, 59 Fall of the Rebel Angels ​131, 133, 140 families ​72, 83, 86, 88–90, 93, 98, 172–3, 178, 204 farms, farmers, farming ​178, 204–5, 207 fashion ​168, 197 fawns ​37

246 Index feathers ​11, 195, 218 feet ​7, 11, 16–17, 19–20, 54, 72, 124, 224n Fenrir ​134, 158 feretory ​101, 103–5, 110–11, 115, 117, 121 figura ​57, 71, 74, 79 fire ​7, 10, 36, 51, 53–4, 72, 76, 124–8, 132–3, 135, 142, 209 First World War ​155n, 157 fishes ​179, 208–9 flames. See fire Flood, Noahic ​77 flooding ​12, 20, 72, 74–8 foils ​195, 198 fonts ​7–22, 75–7, 79, 219n, 228 Bingley, West Yorkshire ​9, 10n Deerhurst, Gloucestershire ​9–10, 14–15n Haydon Bridge, Co. Northumberland ​ 21 Hexham, Co. Northumberland ​21 Little Billing, Northamptonshire ​9, 10n Melbury Bubb, Dorset ​9, 10n, 17 Potterne, Wiltshire ​9, 10n, 21 Tintagel, Cornwall ​9 Wilne, Derbyshire ​7–22 Wroxeter, Shropshire ​10n, 21 form ​7–8, 10, 14–16, 21–2, 27, 33–4, 37, 51, 53, 74, 95–6, 147, 151, 166, 174–5, 183, 185, 192, 194–5, 196–8, 200–2, 225, 228 fossils ​176 fragments, fragmentation ​4, 10, 14, 18, 20, 27, 30, 32, 39, 40, 51, 53, 84, 109, 158, 164, 171, 176, 183, 192, 194, 208, 218–19, 221–6, 229, 231 frames, framing ​11, 26, 29–33, 37, 44–5, 47, 54, 141, 195, 228, 230–4 France, French ​123, 129 Franks ​95, 183–4, 194 freemen ​90, 93 frescoes ​51 fretwork ​164 Freud, Lucien ​189 fruits ​25, 27, 31–3, 35–6, 43, 75, 210n funerals, funerary customs ​22n, 39, 96, 168, 176 furnaces ​171–2 Fursey, saint ​117

Gabriel, saint and archangel ​66 Galatians, Book of ​15 Garboldisham mace ​179, 185 gardens ​37–47, 213 garnet, garnets ​96 Garranes, Co. Cork ​172–4, 176, 184 Garryduff 1, Co. Cork ​172, 181, 184 Garton, East Yorkshire ​91–3, 95 gates ​44–5, 47, 69, 72, 73n, 76 Gavrinis, Carnac ​180 gender ​84–92, 97–9, 117, 177, 192, 195–6, 198, 200, 205, 209n, 227 Genesis, Book of ​37, 39, 53n, 54, 58, 59n, 74, 139–40, 215 geology ​22, 158, 164 geometry ​32, 164, 179, 192, 195, 198, 206, 208, 211, 233 giants ​71, 136, 139, 215 gifts ​40, 72, 91, 110, 113, 208 glass ​51, 91–2, 112, 120, 131 beads ​167–86 Glastonbury, Somerset ​110, 113, 172 Gloucester, Gloucestershire ​11n, 125 goats ​204–5 God ​19, 20, 35, 38, 43, 53, 57, 59, 62, 64, 65, 67–73, 77–9, 94, 97, 124–5, 127, 130, 139–40, 181 gods, goddesses ​42n, 93, 133–6, 158, 161–2, 180–1, 210 gold ​51, 61, 71–2, 78, 92–4, 96, 105, 114, 118, 128, 172, 178, 182–3, 187, 198 Golgotha ​27, 38–9, 46, 56 grammar ​89–90, 96–7, 151, 205, 206, 208, 215 Grannagh, Co. Galway ​181, 183 graves ​21n, 64–5, 81–99, 110, 140, 176, 178, 184 Great Rebuilding ​8, 16 griffins ​7, 11, 191 groups, grouping ​7, 9–10, 13, 45, 88–9, 91–2, 96–8, 103, 118, 136, 143, 150, 158, 175, 227–8 Habakkuk, Book of ​42, 61, 64n, 68 Hackness, North Yorkshire ​83–4 Hades ​133–6, 139 Haimo of Auxerre ​44 hair, hairstyles ​53, 71, 109–10, 195–8, 200, 228, 232 Hand of God ​54, 59

247

Index

hands ​51, 53–4, 63, 135–6, 141, 159, 173, 176, 224n, 226, 228, 233 Harrowing of Hell ​126, 131, 133 Hartlepool, Co. Durham ​86, 88 Haydon Bridge, Co. Northumberland ​ 21 heads ​33, 35, 42, 51, 53–5, 59, 96, 102–21, 128, 134–9, 142, 159, 181, 196–201, 230–2 healing ​71, 114, 181, 227 heathenism, heathens. See paganism heaven ​14, 16, 18–22, 35, 37–47, 53n, 63, 68n, 70, 75, 78, 94, 121, 132–5, 225, 228–9, 230, 232–4 Hebridean islands ​158 Hedda Stone, Peterborough Cathedral ​ 13 height ​7, 14, 35, 45, 192 Heimdallr, god ​160–3 heirlooms ​175–6, 178 Hel, goddess ​134–5 Hell ​123–42, 228–34 helmets ​96, 191–201 Benty Grange ​194 Coppergate ​194, 201 Crosby Garret ​191 Pioneer ​194 Shorwell ​194 Henry I, king of England ​120 Henry II, king of England ​129 Henry III, king of England ​118 heresy, heretics ​127–31, 142, 213 heritage ​150, 155, 219 heroism, heroes ​68n, 145, 148, 202 Hexham, Co. Northumberland ​21 Hild, saint and abbess of Whitby ​83, 87, 94 Holy Blood ​118 Holy Land ​39 Holy Sepulchre, Jerusalem ​27, 38–40, 46–7 Holy Spirit ​21, 66, 75, 208 hooks ​92, 135, 191 horn, horns ​54, 57, 162, 194, 198n, 199–201 horses ​175–6 Hosea, Book of ​64n, 130 houses ​68n, 73, 89, 206, 208 Hugh le Puiset, bishop of Durham ​111, 120

humanity ​39, 44, 47, 56, 189, 195–6, 202, 213 Iceland ​151 iconoclasm ​10 identity ​1, 4, 9–11, 15–16, 29, 39, 40, 91, 98, 107, 117, 118, 124, 143, 150n, 151, 156–7, 168, 174–5, 185, 189–90, 195, 198, 224, 229 idols ​61, 64, 78 Incarnation ​225 India ​204 industry ​18, 170, 174 Ine, king of Wessex ​90 inhumation. See burial Inquisition ​130 interiors, interiority ​7, 8, 13, 20, 31, 43, 104–5, 114, 121 interlace ​7, 10–11, 33, 42, 44–5, 54, 164, 192, 226, 228–30, 234 inversion ​18–20, 37, 47, 69, 97 Iona ​23, 163–6, 172 Ireland, Irish ​23–47, 148–51, 157–8, 168–86 iron ​12, 86, 92, 160, 170 Iron Age ​84, 95, 178, 181 Isaac, biblical patriarch ​41, 50–65 Isaiah, Book of ​19, 64n, 131 Isidore of Seville ​204 Isis, goddess ​181 Isle of Man ​143–66 Israel ​35, 72–3, 130 ivory, ivories ​11, 29, 53, 109, 113, 136–7, 171 Jacob, biblical patriarch ​64–5 James, saint ​86 jaws ​4, 134, 138–40, 198, 228–9 Jeremiah, Book of ​64n, 74 Jerome, saint ​38, 43n, 120, 126–8, 139–40 Jerusalem ​19, 27, 29, 37–42, 44, 46–7, 62, 65, 68, 73–4, 79, 225, 234 jewellery ​97–8, 179, 200 jewels ​27, 29, 38, 46–7, 61, 78, 97–8 Jewish people ​41, 67 John, Gospel of ​36, 39–40, 56n, 59, 208–9, 213n John the Baptist, saint ​21, 31, 118 Jörmungandr ​134

248 Index Joseph, son of Jacob and Rachel ​31, 227, 229 Joshua ​71–2 journeys ​62, 65, 68, 78, 98, 110 judicial, judicial practices ​61, 64n, 66, 68, 72–3, 90, 93, 214 Jupiter, god ​74 Jurby, Isle of Man ​160–2 Justus of Beauvais, saint ​113–14 keeills ​150, 158 Kells, Co. Meath ​23–47 Kermode, P. M. C. ​144–5, 149–62, 166 Kiltierney, Co. Fermanagh ​183 kings, kingship ​38–9, 68n, 81, 83, 87, 90–6, 105, 113, 118n, 120, 129, 144, 150, 168, 182, 211 knotwork ​44, 164 Knowth, Co. Meath ​179, 185 Korah ​124–6, 128, 130–1, 142 labour ​16n, 83, 86–7, 170–4 Lagore, Co. Meath ​168, 172, 174, 184 landscapes ​7–8, 12–18, 22, 31, 41, 65, 72, 75, 81–99, 135–7, 223–5 Last Judgement ​126, 131–2, 136–9 Last Supper ​46 Lastingham, North Yorkshire ​95 Late Antiquity ​3, 21n, 27, 38 Latin, Latinity ​66, 139, 158 Laud Bible ​123–42 Law, Mosaic ​71–2, 78 law codes ​61, 66 Lazarus ​54, 227, 229, 234 lead ​9, 105n leaves ​35 legitimacy ​86, 99, 118, 130 legs ​11, 54, 136 letters ​43n, 127, 151–3, 203, 205–11, 214. See also script Levites ​124 Leviticus, Book of ​64n Lichfield Angel ​171, 218n life-cycles ​65, 69n, 90–2, 96–8, 178–80, 185, 192, 198 limbs ​11, 14, 35–7, 53–4, 59, 65, 78, 117–18, 136, 181, 226–8 Lindisfarne, Co. Northumberland ​27, 95, 102, 105, 109, 120 Lindisfarne Gospels ​162 lineage ​63–4, 93

linen ​111, 207n lions ​42, 44–5, 96, 138–9, 142, 228 Lisnacrogher, Co. Antrim ​180 Litlington Missal ​117–18 Little Meg, Cumbria ​179–80 liturgy ​8, 10, 16, 19, 22, 40, 46, 121 lizards ​44 logic ​203, 205–6, 208, 212–13 Loki, god ​134–5 Lombards ​183 Lordship ​90, 91, 94 Loughey, Co. Down ​181 Luke, Book of ​66, 68, 71, 212–13 Lythe, North Yorkshire ​83–4, 94 maces ​179, 185 magic ​92, 97. See also ritual Magnus III, king of Norway and Mann ​ 144 Mainz, Germany ​74, 216n making ​61, 75, 114–15, 119–20, 136, 169–73, 192, 219 Malta ​179 Mamre ​64–5, 79 manufacture. See making manuscripts Book of Durrow (Dublin, Trinity College MS 57) ​180 Cambridge, Trinity College MS O.3.55 ​106–8 Codex Amiatinus (Florence, Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana, MS Amiatino 1) ​42 Cuthbert Gospel (London, British Library Add MS 89000) ​34 Junius 11 (Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Junius 11) ​131, 133–4, 138–9, 141–2 Kells (Trinity College Dublin, MS 58) ​23–47 Munich Psalter (Munich, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, Clm. 835) ​ 114, 125–6, 131 New Minster Liber Vitae (London, British Library, Stowe MS 944) ​ 131–2, 139–42 San Paolo Bible (Rome, San Paolo Fouri le Mura MS f. 12. M. 337) ​125 St Albans Psalter (Hildesheim,

249

Index

Dombibliothek, MS St Godehard 1) ​126 Tiberius Psalter (London, British Library, Cotton MS Tiberius C VI) ​131, 139 Utrecht Psalter (Utrecht, Universiteitsbibliotheek, MS Bibl. Rhenotraiectinae I Nr 32) ​ 134–7, 139, 142 Vercelli Book (Vercelli, Biblioteca Capitolare di Vercelli, MS CXVII) ​29 Vespasian Psalter (London, British Library, Cotton MS Vespasian A I) ​11 Winchester Psalter (London, British Library, Cotton MS Nero C IV) ​126 Māori people ​180 Marajó, Brazil ​180 marble ​27, 71, 73–4 Marcus Aurelius, emperor ​15, 74 marginalia ​107 Mark, Gospel of ​59, 66, 213n markers ​89, 225 marriage ​57, 83, 90–1, 97, 150, 205 Mars, god ​191 Mary, mother of Jesus ​121n masculinity ​192, 196, 198, 200 Masham column, North Yorkshire ​ 12–15, 49, 74 masks ​138, 187–202 masons ​10 materiality ​19, 22, 78–9, 115, 143, 149, 158, 166 Matthew, Gospel of ​41, 59, 62, 66, 187n, 212–13 Matthew, saint ​71, 73, 77 Maughold ​144n, 151, 156–7, 163–4 Maurice, saint ​113 Maximian, bishop of Ravenna ​31–3 Medusa ​182 meeting places ​73, 77–8, 96 Melrose Abbey, Roxburghshire ​105, 110 memorials, memorialisation. See commemoration memory ​15, 19, 27, 40–1, 83, 151, 224 Mercia, kingdom of ​7, 11, 87, 90 Mermedonia, Mermedonians ​62, 68–79 Mesopotamia ​185

metal, metalwork, metalworking ​27–9, 74, 136, 154, 169–74, 180, 188–200. See also alloy; bronze; copper; gold; iron; jewellery; silver Metrodorus ​204 Micah, Book of ​64n Michael, saint and archangel ​162–4 miles Christi ​69 military ​15, 73, 94, 175, 191–2, 212 millefiori ​173–4 Minerva Business Park, Peterborough ​ 177 Minoans ​180 miracles ​62–3, 107, 114, 227, 229 missions, missionaries ​8, 13, 15, 18, 20, 37, 44, 62, 65, 69, 208 monasticism, monastics, monasteries ​ 15, 22–3, 43–7, 58, 83, 88, 105, 109–10, 113, 117, 120–1, 126–9, 133, 138, 172, 183–4, 208–10, 214–15 monstrosity ​17, 21, 134, 136–7, 139, 142 mortality ​87, 97 Morwick, Co. Northumberland ​179 mosaics ​31, 33, 36–7, 51 Moses ​67n, 72–3, 78, 124, 127–8, 141 mounds ​12–13, 72, 88–9, 92, 95–7, 193, 199 mountains ​35, 46, 68n, 69, 72–3, 79, 109 mounts ​92, 199–200 moustaches ​192, 195, 197–200, 202, 227–8 mouths ​71, 74, 123–42, 162, 195, 197, 199, 228, 233 Movilla Abbey, Co. Down ​170 Moylarg Crannóg, Co. Antrim ​180 Moynagh Lough, Co. Meath ​172 multivalence ​35, 45–7, 51, 59, 196, 202, 225, 234 muscles ​187–8 Mycenaeans ​180 nails ​89, 227 nails, finger ​110 nationalism ​152, 156–7, 166 Nebuchadnezzar II, king of Babylon ​35 necks ​11, 54, 114, 176, 181 Neolithic ​175, 189 New Testament ​66, 126–8, 132, 138, 212 Newgrange, Co. Meath ​185 Newtownbalregan, Co. Louth ​182

250 Index nexus, nexus ​22, 39, 120 Noah ​76–7, 209n nobles, nobility ​86, 90, 93–4, 96, 168 Norðleoda Laga ​90. See also law codes North America ​180 Northumbria, kingdom of ​53, 64n, 90, 95, 105, 107, 152 noses ​192, 194–5, 197, 199, 201 Numbers, Book of ​123–41 nunneries ​83 nuts ​40 oats ​204–5 Odin, god ​134, 158, 161–2 Ogham. See script oil ​38, 51 Old Testament ​31, 35, 38, 41, 49, 50–1, 53, 56, 59, 64, 66, 127–42, 208, 212n Olivet, Mount ​46, 68n omphaloi ​40, 42, 47 opacity ​125, 167, 179–83 orality ​93, 177, 204 orientation ​20, 98 Origen of Alexandria ​43 Original Sin ​56, 59, 70 Orkneyinga saga ​163 ornament, ornamentation ​7, 9–14, 16, 20, 23–4, 29–31, 37, 124, 167–86, 191–2, 195–6, 198, 201–2, 226 Oswald, saint and king of Northumbria ​ 94–5, 103–7, 111–12, 120 Oswine, king of Deira ​95–6 Oswiu, king of Bernicia ​83, 87, 95 paganism, pagans ​14, 64n, 87, 92–3, 133, 138, 163 paint, painting ​14, 24, 45, 55, 58, 63, 65–6, 125, 179, 189, 218, 232–3 Palaeolithic ​185 palimpsests ​223 panels ​11, 13, 20, 24–59, 63, 136, 148, 183, 197, 227–33 Pantalus, saint ​118–19 paradise ​36–47, 233 parents ​19, 68–9, 74, 94, 97 participation ​13–15, 20, 22, 55–6, 59, 82, 90, 96–7, 214n Passion ​38, 46, 57, 59, 78, 212, 225, 227, 229, 234 patrimony ​103, 109–10, 120–1

patriotism ​151–2, 156 patronage ​10, 22, 112, 121n, 191 patterns, patterning ​11, 45, 72, 86, 92, 121, 147, 154, 164, 167, 173, 178, 192, 195–6, 198, 200, 202, 222, 226, 228 Paul, saint ​58, 127, 138 paws ​228–9 peasants ​83, 87, 90–1, 93–4 pedestals ​97 Penda, king of Mercia ​87 pendants ​86, 92, 178 penitentials ​64n, 66, 68 performance, performativity ​7, 18, 22, 62, 76, 82–3, 88–9, 92, 97–8, 190, 227 perspective ​8, 26, 29, 45–7, 222–3 Peter, saint ​66, 118, 127, 138, 212–13 petroglyphs ​180 Pharisees ​68, 71 Picts, Pictish ​26–7, 30, 32, 148, 157 pilgrimage ​38, 69n, 70, 96–7, 101n, 109, 114n, 117–18, 126 pillars ​15, 18, 20, 51, 53–4, 68, 71–6, 78, 208 pins ​170, 181 place ​8, 14–15, 18, 20–1, 38–42, 50, 56n, 69, 70, 73, 77–8, 84, 87, 94, 103, 109, 112, 157–8, 166, 172, 197, 219, 223–6, 229, 232–4 placing, placement ​13, 54, 57, 105, 111–13, 118, 141, 155, 178, 195–6, 225–6, 229, 232, 234 planar ​222, 224, 229, 231 planets ​208 planks ​54, 58 plants ​27, 32–9, 47, 50, 75, 169 Pliny the Elder ​133n, 181 polyfocalism ​14, 91 Pompeii, Italy ​176 popularity ​13, 19n, 95, 109, 114, 168, 173, 175, 176, 181, 185, 203–5 Portmahomack, Tarbat Ness, Scotland ​ 172 Poseidon, god ​133 posts ​14n, 75n pottery ​12, 180, 184 power ​22, 43–4, 62–5, 78, 81–2, 92–4, 143, 149, 168, 182, 209, 229 prayer ​14, 76, 101n, 135, 141 preaching ​13–16, 81, 129, 138

251

Index

predators ​200–1 prehistory, prehistoric ​177, 179, 181–2 priests ​12, 62, 64n, 96, 124, 129–31, 213 priories ​101–21 Propositiones ad acuendos iuvenes ​ 203–16 Proverbs, Book of ​131, 208 Psalms, Book of ​36, 38, 41, 42n, 56–9, 127–8, 131, 134–8, 211, 224 psalters ​11, 125–6, 131, 134–9, 142 psychology ​96, 188, 205, 234 public ​82, 190, 192–3 puzzles ​203–16 pyrotechnics ​169–70 pyxes ​109 quadrivium ​208, 211 quadrupeds ​11, 17, 26, 32, 37, 42, 50 Raising of Lazarus ​54, 227, 229 ram ​51, 54, 57–9 Ravenna, Italy ​31, 39, 51 ravens ​158, 161–2 rebirth ​7, 19, 21–2, 86, 180–1 Reculver, Kent ​12–13, 51–3, 74 Reims, France ​125, 134, 136 relics ​101–21, 126, 163 reliquaries ​29, 32, 101–21 repoussé ​192, 197n, 198–9 Repton, Derbyshire ​12, 77 resources ​18, 83–4, 87, 91, 93–4, 98 restoration ​20, 113 resurrection ​22, 25, 36–8, 59, 72, 78, 96, 97, 234 reuse ​8–10, 16–18, 22, 69, 75, 98, 172–3, 177–8 Revelations, Book of ​15, 20, 39, 43–4, 64n, 73, 132, 140 Ribe, Denmark ​171 ribs ​105, 112 rings ​26, 92, 164 Rites of Durham ​101–21 ritual ​7, 20–2, 38, 81–99, 176, 182, 185, 190 rivers ​75, 133–5, 204–7 Amazon ​180 Derwent ​12 Little Ouse ​179 of paradise ​36, 42 Trent ​12 roads ​65

robes ​11, 53, 227 rods ​42, 75n, 171–4 Roestown, Co. Meath ​170 Romanesque ​9, 17, 125–6 romanitas ​8, 15, 22 Romano-British ​93 Rome, Roman, Romans ​10, 12–15, 18, 20–2, 32, 33, 36, 39, 58, 70, 74–5, 77, 93–6, 110, 117–18, 135, 175–7, 181, 189–93, 195, 202n, 204, 206, 215, 217 Romulus ​70 roots ​20, 33–4, 36–7, 44–5, 47 Rosemarkie, Ross-shire ​32 roundels ​7, 10, 11, 14, 128, 227 roundhouses ​88 Royal Commission on the Ancient and Historical Monuments of Scotland ​144, 164 royal vills ​83, 91 ruin, ruins ​15, 68n, 78 runes. See script Ryedale, North Yorkshire ​84, 164, 166 sacraments ​7–21, 35, 56, 69n, 91, 97, 170 sacrifice ​20, 72, 212 Sacrifice of Isaac ​41, 49–59 salvation ​34–5, 38–9, 47, 55–6, 94, 96, 135, 234 Sara, wife of Abraham ​57 sarcophagi ​51–2 Satan ​59, 62, 70–1, 132–4, 138–9 scabbards ​180, 213n Scandinavia ​144–6, 148, 154–6, 158, 161, 163–4, 179, 197 scholarship ​1, 2, 23n, 26, 50, 82n, 98, 104, 139, 143–50, 154–7, 166, 167n, 203n, 215–25, 229 Scotch Street, Co. Armagh ​172–3 Scotland, Scottish ​23, 30, 144, 146, 148, 149, 151, 153–8, 163–4, 172, 180 scribes, scribal practice ​107, 124–5, 128, 137 script, scripts ​107, 138, 158 scriptoria ​123 scrolls ​124, 128, 162 sea, seafaring ​62, 68, 75, 78, 134, 179 seats, seated figures ​13, 44 Sedulius, Carmen Paschale ​53 seraphs ​62–3

252 Index serpents, serpentine forms ​132, 134–5, 137–8, 180–1, 228, 231–2, 234 service, services ​83–4, 87, 90–3 settlements ​12, 38, 43n, 58, 62–5, 68–79, 84, 88, 91, 95, 145–6, 167–8, 173, 177–8, 206 Seven Liberal Arts ​208 shamanism ​92 sheadings ​150, 162 shells ​86, 180 shelves ​104–5 shields ​92, 96 ships ​62, 164, 166, 193 shrines ​27, 29, 32, 38–9, 46, 66, 89, 92, 95–8, 101–21, 126, 170, 180, 218n shrubs ​33, 36 Sigurd ​153, 163 Silchester, Hampshire ​77 silver ​61, 93, 96, 105, 117, 178, 191, 200 Sinai, Mount ​72–3 Sion, Mount ​14, 94 skeletons ​84–5, 176. See also bone skeuomorphs ​9, 18 skulls ​101–21. See also bone; heads slag ​12 slavery, enslaved people ​87, 90, 98, 198 snakes. See serpents Snorri Sturluson, Poetic Edda ​163 snouts ​138, 141 soldiers ​175, 192, 212. See also military solstice ​38, 180 space, spatiality ​11, 21, 26–7, 30–2, 34, 37–9, 41–7, 54–5, 92, 97, 183, 188, 197, 217–34 speech ​62–4, 71, 75, 90, 208 spindles, spindle whorls ​92 spirals ​32, 34, 174, 179–85, 227 spoliation ​7, 18, 74 spoons ​92 springs ​41, 64n Staffordshire Hoard ​194, 198 staffs ​11, 13, 42 Stamford Bridge, East Yorkshire ​199 stars ​208, 210n status ​11, 82, 86–98, 109–13, 118–19, 126, 129, 155, 168, 170–1, 208, 212 stems ​15n, 20, 26, 29, 32, 33n, 34, 36–7, 41–2, 45–7 Stephen, saint ​109 Stephen of Ripon ​90

stone balls ​179–80 bowls ​7, 9, 17, 20 circles ​179–80 precious ​105, 114 sculpture ​7–79, 82n, 83–4, 89, 143–66, 171, 217–34 tubs ​9 storytelling ​177 Street House, Loftus, North Yorkshire ​ 81–99, 178 streets ​64–5, 71–3 Streoneshalh. See Whitby style ​82, 84, 102, 115, 125, 145–8, 154, 166, 168, 185, 191, 194, 198, 218–19, 222 Sueno’s Stone, St Vigeans, Angus ​27 summer ​38, 180 sun, sunlight ​30, 38, 68, 180 sunken featured building (SFB) ​89, 96–7, 178 surface ​18, 31, 34, 55, 127, 154, 171, 174, 221–4, 226, 230–4 Sutton Hoo, Suffolk ​39, 192–5, 197, 199, 201 Swithun, saint and bishop of Winchester ​ 16 swords ​51, 53–5, 212–13 Symeon of Durham ​103, 107, 110–11, 120 tabernacles ​72, 124–5, 129 tables ​56 Tacitus, Germania ​198 tails ​195, 228–9 talismans ​167, 175–7, 182 Taplow, Buckinghamshire ​198 Tartarus ​134 Tarxien, Malta ​179 taxonomy ​143, 146–7, 150n, 152n, 223 teaching ​13–14, 16, 61, 96, 105, 207n, 209, 213 teeth ​109, 139 Temple of Jerusalem ​3, 19, 57, 62, 65–6, 68, 72n, 74, 77–9, 213 tendrils ​27, 33, 36 tents ​88, 125, 129, 140–1 Terra Mater, goddess ​135 Thecla, saint ​118 Theodore of Tarsus, saint and archbishop of Canterbury ​64

253

Index

Theodulf, bishop of Orléans ​214 thickets ​54, 57–9 Thor, god ​158 tiles ​69 timber. See wood Tobias ​57, 71–2 tombs ​21n, 27, 29, 38–9, 47, 102, 112, 168, 179, 182 tongues ​10–11, 42, 44–5, 200 tools ​164, 166 Tours ​129, 205, 214 Tours, Council of ​129 towers ​69, 94, 173 towns. See settlements trails ​167, 174 translation of relics ​88, 95, 97, 102–3, 109–12, 119 of texts ​139, 151–2 translucence ​167, 175, 181–3 transmission ​26, 44, 83, 86, 94, 97–8, 185 travel ​65, 110, 168, 173, 183–4. See also journeys Tree of Knowledge ​59 Tree of Life ​14, 23–47 trees ​20, 23–47, 64n, 71, 75n triangles, triangularity ​33–4, 178, 198–9, 206 True Cross ​27, 38–9 Tubalcain ​74 tusks ​91–2 Tutankhamun ​168, 182 Tynwald, Isle of Man ​151, 155 Üçağızlı Cave, Hatay, Turkey ​184 Ursula, saint ​115–16, 118–19. See also Ursula’s Companion(s) Ursula’s Companion(s), saint ​106–10, 115–19 utland/warland ​83, 87, 98 Valentine, saint ​118 vegetation ​24, 30, 88 Vendels ​184 vessels ​11, 16, 18, 34, 76, 91–2, 118, 180, 184, 198, 213n victory ​8, 14, 22, 74, 87, 93 Vidar, god ​134

viewing ​10, 14, 19, 24–5, 30, 45–7, 53–5, 58–9, 187–90, 195–6, 200, 202, 217–34 Viking, Vikings ​143–66, 176 villages. See settlements vine scroll ​23–39, 44–7, 75, 228–9 vines ​9, 13, 23–47 violence ​71, 157, 190, 228 Virgin and Child ​55 Virgin Mary. See Mary, mother of Jesus visions ​35, 39 voices ​61, 63, 65, 68n, 72, 76, 78 Wadi Natrum, Egypt ​169 Waldensians ​129 Wales, Welsh ​146–8, 179–80 walls ​31, 62–3, 65–6, 68n, 77, 131, 206 Walpert, saint ​118 war ​63, 151, 155, 157 warland. See utland/warland warriors. See soldiers water ​12, 20–1, 36, 40–3, 67, 72, 74–8, 88, 179 waves ​167, 174, 185 wealth ​84–7, 90, 92–3, 96–9, 168 Wearmouth, Co. Durham ​56n, 57–8, 98 Westfield Farm, Cambridgeshire ​87–8 whetstones ​86, 91–2 Whitby, North Yorkshire ​81–99 Wilfrid, saint and bishop of York ​87 Winchester, Hampshire ​77, 113, 133, 137–8, 182 wings ​11, 195, 218n, 227 Wolverhampton, West Midlands ​12, 14 wolves ​134, 158, 204–5 wood ​9, 12, 14, 16, 18, 21n, 55, 61, 84, 89, 173 workshops ​169–72 Wroxeter, Shropshire ​21, 77 Wulfstan, bishop of London and Worcester, archbishop of York ​8, 64n, 67 York, North Yorkshire ​15, 74n, 115, 121n, 144, 172, 207, 212 Zeus, god ​133 zoomorphism ​136–7, 192, 195–202

TABULA GRATULATORIA Lesley Abrams Elizabeth A. Alexander N. G. Baker Martin Biddle Michael D. J. Bintley John Blair Meg Boulton Michael N. Brennan George Brown Phyllis Brown Eric Cambridge Rosemary Cramp Nancy Edwards Paul Everson Sarah Foot Sally Foster Megan Henvey Melissa Herman John Hines Aideen Ireland Karen Louise Jolly

Catherine E. Karkov Lilla Kopár Julian Luxford Mags Mannion Asa Simon Mittman Carol Neuman de Vegvar Elizabeth O’Brien Éamonn Ó Carragáin David Pelteret Tom Pickles Heather Pulliam Jane Roberts Harry Stirrup Heidi Stoner Colleen M. Thomas Ross Trench-Jellicoe Carolyn Twomey Philippa Turner Lorna Watts Niamh Whitfield Susan Youngs

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