Brief Update: Revenants and Alchemical Monsters

Fig. 1. Strange Alchemical Images


Well, it’s been a while since I’ve made any updates. Real life has the habit of getting in the way. Just to keep the engine turning over, I thought I’d provide a couple of links to blog posts I put together for the nascent Pulp Impact public engagement website (of which I am a contributing editor).


The first essay is basically a brief overview of my one true academic love, medieval revenants, while the second looks at the alchemical figure of the Rebis (or ‘double thing’). Enjoy!


From Beatus to Buffy: A Few Notes on the Mouth of Hell

It’s been twenty years since Buffy the Vampire Slayer first hit the airwaves. As a child, I thought the fact that Sunnydale High School was located atop a ‘hellmouth’ – a portal to the demonic realms – was merely a cool dramatic conceit, another example of Joss Whedon’s genius. As I got older, went to university, and developed my interest in medieval history, I was intrigued to discover that the concept of a ‘Mouth of Hell’ was a central feature of Christian iconography.  For centuries it was a popular motif in sculpture, manuscript illumination, and drama.  What, then, are the origins of the hellmouth, and why does its symbolism resonate so strongly even today.

Fig. 1 Hours of Catherine of ClevesFig. 1. A stereotypical Hellmouth, Hours of Catherine of Cleves, Morgan M.945 (c.1440), fol. 107r  (source: wikicommons)

It’s assumed that the idea of an all-consuming Hellmouth derived, in part,  from ancient Mesopotamian creation myths, which, through many transformations, found their way into Judo-Christian thought as the mighty sea-beast Leviathan. Job 41 was the Biblical precedent through which the concrete association between Leviathan and Hell was made.  Verses 19-21 are particularly evocative:

Flames stream from its mouth;
sparks of fire shoot out.
Smoke pours from its nostrils
as from a boiling pot over burning reeds.
Its breath sets coals ablaze,
and flames dart from its mouth

Biblical exegesis often involved the creation of typologies. That is, it was believed that events in the Old Testament prefigured and anticipated those found in the New.  Thus, the swallowing of Jonah by the whale – only to be disgorged after three days – was said to correspond with apocryphal tale of Christ’s Harrowing of Hell and the liberation of the Patriarchs from the shackles of the Devil (fig. 2). It was the reference to the ‘hooking of Leviathan’ in Job 41: 1-2 that made the connections between Leviathan/Hellmouth, the whale that swallowed Jonah, and the Harrowing of Hell explicit. In sum, to be swallowed was to be damned. The motif of the infernal, consuming mouth was the perfect image through which to weave all these disparate theological motifs together.

Fig. 2 Harrowing of HellFig. 2. Harrowing of Hell, alabaster relief (c.15th century) Honolulu Museum of Art (source: wiki commons)
Fig 3 WinchesterFig. 3. Hellmouth, Last Judgement, Winchester Psalter (c.1150s), fol. 39r (source: wikicommons)

The Hellmouth was often employed as a general symbol of damnation. The famous full-page illumination contained in the Winchester Psalter (1150) is a case in point (fig. 3). Here, an archangel locks the gates of Hell in the aftermath of the Last Judgement. The multitude of eyes, snouts, mouths and maws is suggestive of chaos, sinfulness and monstrosity – a complete inverse of Divine order.

Fig. 4. Beatus detailFig. 4. Hellmouth (detail), Beatus Apocalypse (c.12 century), Rylands Latin MS 8, fol. 197r (source: John Rylands Library)

A significant number of Hellmouths contain leonine features.  Figure four, taken from the Rylands MS 8 Beatus Apocalypse (c.1200) depicts a giant, yawning mouth with a clearly noticeable mane. Illuminators taken with the lion-motif were most likely working form scriptural precedents. Psalms 22: 21 (“Rescue me from the mouth of the lion”) and Psalm 10: 19 (“He lies in wait like a lion in cover; he lies in wait to catch the helpless; he catches the helpless and drags them off in his net”) appear to be the most likely sources.

As well as acting as a symbol for the gateway to Hell, the motif of unnatural consumption was further highlighted through the depiction of Satan himself feasting on the damned. One of the most famous examples can be discerned in the thirteenth-century Last Judgement mosaic found in the Florentine Baptistery (fig. 5). Showing a vivid and appropriately chaotic vision of Hell, the image of Satan can be read as a pointed inversion of Christ Panocrator (Christ Enthroned), while the three heads are likely to represent an infernal parody of the Holy Trinity. The attention of the viewer is directed to the sinner being consumed in Satan’s maw.  Likewise, Giotto’s Last Judgement scene in the Scrovegni Chapel, Padua (c.1305), depicts a hairy, corpulent Satan simultaneously gorging on and defecating the damned.

Fig. 5 BaptisteryFig. 5. Last Judgement, Florentine Baptistery (c.13th century) (source: Wikicommons)
Fig. 6 GiottoFig. 6. Last Judgement (detail), Scrovegni Chapel, Padua (c.1305) (source: Wikicommons)

As the centuries progressed, the ubiquity of the Hellmouth image led to its use in more popular and commercial contexts. By the early modern period elaborate hellmouths were being used as props in Mystery Plays.  As noted by Gary D. Schmidt, surviving documentation from the Drapers Guild, Coventry (1562), reveals a payment for ‘kepyng of fyer at hell mouthe’, suggesting that pyrotechnics were being employed to simulate an appropriately hellish environment.  Bellows and braziers were likely used to create the illusion of a fiery, smoky, and actively monstrous doorway to damnation – the very image of Leviathan as described in Job 41:19-21.

This talk of special effects and stagecraft brings us, appropriately enough, back to Buffy. The series ends with the reformed vampire Spike destroying Sunnydale’s hellmouth with the  the help of a magical amulet.  It is a spectacular ending, one that would have surely impressed the directors of the Last Judgement mystery plays.


Further Reading

Hughes, Robert, Heaven and Hell in Western Art (London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1968)

Schmidt, Gary D., The Iconography of the Mouth of Hell (London: SUP, 1995)

Sheingorn, Pamela, ‘Who Can Open the Doors of His Face?’ The Iconography of Hell Mouth’, in The Iconography of Hell, ed. by Clifford Davidson and Thomas H. Seiler (Kalamazoo, MI: Medieval Institute Publications, 1992), 1-19

Boasting and Gloves: Some Thoughts on Hondscio, Grendel’s Forgotten Victim

Beowulf Detail


I’ve taught Beowulf to undergraduates for a number of years now, covering a wide range of topics, from the ‘hellish’ nature of the natural environment and the social role of gift-giving, to the question of what actually defines a ‘monster’ in the Anglo-Saxon mindset. The social function of boasting has also generated lively and interesting discussions in the past.  On this latter point, one character whose name never fails to raise a smile amongst students is mentioned only once in the poem, in Beowulf’s colourful retelling of his fight with Grendel during his audience with Hygelac (ll.2076-2080). From Seamus Heaney’s translation, the passage is as follows:


There deadly violence came down on Handsio

and he fell as fate ordained, the first to perish,

rigged out for the combat. A comrade from our ranks

had come to grief in Grendel’s maw:

he ate up the entire body


Who, then, is Hondscio, this most unlucky of Geatish warriors? In the parlance of Star Trek, he’s a redshirt to Beowulf’s Captain Kirk. As a victim of Grendel’s wrath, he meets his demise in ll. 740-744a:


He [Grendel] grabbed and mauled a man on the bench,

bit into his bone-lappings, bolted down his blood

and gorged on him in lumps, leaving the body

utterly lifeless, eaten up

hand and foot. Venturing closer

his talon was raised to attack Beowulf.


Our omnipresent narrator does not give Hondscio’s name, nor dwell on his untimely death. He’s merely an obstacle between Grendel and his intended target, Beowulf. Compare this to the immediate naming of Aeschre, Hrothgar’s advisor, who is abducted by Grendel’s Mother in a revenge attack against Heorot, and whose severed head is found near the grendelkin’s lair (l.1421). Hrothgar shows more sorrow for Aeschere  (ll. 1328-30) than Beowulf does for his yet unnamed comrade.


For those of you familiar with Old English, Hondscio is not the subtlest of puns. It reflects the famed Anglo-Saxon love of riddles and wordplay. Hondscio is a compound word, comprising hond (hand) and scio (shoe) – literally ‘handshoe’, or ‘glove’. Tell a bunch of students that a mighty Geatish warrior was named Glove and mirth usually follows.  But why ‘glove’? As noted by such scholars as James L. Rosier and Seth Lerer, the Beowulf poet is making a playful connection between Hondscio, a man consumed by Grendel, and the monster’s own ‘pouch’ or glove (OE glof, l. 2085), in which he intended to ensnare (or consume) Beowulf. As with Hondscio’s name, this is the only reference to the pouch in the entire poem.  The imagery of grasping hands, empty hands, and covered (or swallowed) hands interweaves throughout Beowulf’s boastful speech. As Seth Lerer eloquently puts it: ‘what is it that looks like a hand but swallows like a mouth? Answer: a glove.’ That Grendel swallows a Glove is suitably ironic and may have been worth a laugh or two around the mead hall.


There may be another reason why we have a victim named Handscio, and this is to do with the context in which he is mentioned. Boasting was an integral part of Anglo-Saxon warrior culture. Much as Anglo-Saxon poetry involved the formation of compound words and the use of appositions to build upon linguistic and poetic themes, so the act of boasting – elaborating upon one’s achievements – can be read along similar lines. Beowulf, of course, takes Unferth’s riposte about his failed swimming contest with Breca (l.516) and turns it into a boast about an epic battle with sea creatures at the bottom of the ocean (ll.530-606). He does the same in his audience before Hygelac, adding impressive new details about his battle with Grendel, including a reference to Hondscio and a detailed description of his adversary’s glof. In some respects, the act of ‘boasting’ is also like wearing a glove: the facts (the hand), are given a brash new covering.


We can understand now why Hondscio was not named in the original onslaught. There he was only a helping hand, an unlucky first victim. As related to Hygelac, he becomes Hondscio, an adornment, the very epitome of a hero’s boast.


Sources Cited


Beowulf: A Verse Translation, trans. by Seamus Heaney; ed. by Daniel Donoghue (London: Norton, 2002

Seth Lerer, ‘Grendel’s Glove’, ELH 61 (1994), 721-751

James L. Rosier, ‘The Uses of Association: Hands and Feasts in Beowulf’,  PMLA 78 (1963), 8-14


An Alchemical Miscellany from the John Rylands Library

The horror film As Above, So Below (dir. Dowdle, 2011) taps into the popular perception of alchemy as a mysterious, decedent, unnatural art. Delving deep into the Parisian catacombs in an attempt recover the mythical ‘Philosophers’ Stone’ –  an artefact said to grant eternal life and turn base metals into gold – the story’s protagonists are instead picked off one-by-one by the ghosts and demons that dwell within. Whereas modern fiction writers have focused mainly on the negative aspects of alchemy, early modern period practitioners would not have viewed their endeavours as being morally or spiritually suspect in any way.  As we shall see, alchemy was considered a learned and noble pursuit.

Alchemy Fig. 1

Fol. 2v. Dedication to John Dee and inscription of ‘Jo. Huniades’ (top left) (photo: Stephen Gordon)

Latin MS 82 from the John Rylands Library in Manchester is a fascinating, if often overlooked, alchemical miscellany dating to the early seventeenth century. According to an inscription on the top of fol. 2r, the book appears to have once been owned by ‘Jo. Huniades’ –  Janos Banfi-Hunyadi (1576-1646) –   a Hungarian alchemist who lectured in chemistry at Gresham College, London, and was good friends with Arthur Dee, the son of the famed astrologer, John Dee (to whom the book is dedicated).

The book contains extracts from a variety of well-known alchemical and scientific works, including those by Thomas Norton, Raymond Lull, Heinrich Khunrath, Paracelsus and Michał Sędziwój (otherwise known as Sendivogius). While the purpose, processes, and symbolism of alchemy are much too dense to go into detail here, for the remainder of this post I just want to take you through some of the more interesting folios from this manuscript.

Alchemy Fig. 2

Fol. 4r: John Dee’s Monad Heiroglyphica (photo: Stephen Gordon)

One of the most striking pages from this miscellany included a representation of John Dee’s famous Hieroglyphic Monad. The Monad defies easy explanation, but can generally be read an amalgamation of the seven main astrological symbols (pictured to the left and right of the Monad) and as an expression of the alchemical process – i.e. the mystical joining of the sun ☉ and moon ☽; the four elements emerging from the fifth (represented as a cross); enabled through the active ingredient of fire ♈. In sum, the Monad is a symbol of physical and metaphysical perfection. Alchemical bon mots that frame this central image include:

  • Omne domum perfectum à יהוה (every perfect gift is from God’, taken from James 1:17)
  • Orando et Laborando quaeras, & invenies (You strive by prayer and work, and you will discover)
  • Est in mercurio quicquid quaerunt sapientes (there is in Mercury whatever wise men seek)
  • Unum in Omnibus Omnia in Uno (one in everything; everything in one)


Alchemy Fig. 3

Fol. 23r: The Unitrinum alchemical monster (photo: Stephen Gordon)

The idea of the interconnectedness of things – ‘one in everything, everything in one’ – is a central tenet of alchemical philosophy. Often this idea was expressed in the form of the ‘alchemical monster’, such as that seen on fol. 23r and which, incidentally, is my favourite image from the manuscript. The name of the monster, the Unitrinum, seems to derive from Nicholas of Cusa’s 1441 treatise, De docta ignorantia, specifically the passage “join together what seems to be the opposite and you will not have ‘one and three’ or the reverse, but ‘one-in three or a ‘three in one’ (unitrinum seu triunun), that is the Absolute Truth”.

As with all alchemical illustrations, the image is thick with symbolism. The head to the far left, with the red, bird-like beak, incorporates another version of Dee’s Heiroglyphic Monad, while the other two heads would seem to represent the sun or moon (or else the ideals of mercury and sulphur). The wings attached to the feet of the monster provide further references to Mercury.

Alchemy 4

Fol. 26r: Diagram of the alchemical citadel (photo: Stephen Gordon)

The compiler of Latin MS 82 – perhaps Banfi-Hunyadi himself – incorporated a number of engravings from Heinrich Khunrath’s  Amphitheatrum sapientiae aeternae (1595), such as this diagram showing the ‘alchemical citadel’. According to Khunrath, there is only one true door to alchemical and spiritual truth – a truth represented by a tiny version of the Hieroglyphic Monad atop the entranceway to the inner sanctum.

Alchemy fig. 5

Fol. 69r: the ponderous life of an alchemist (photo: Stephen Gordon)

Alchemy wasn’t all about discovery and creation, it also involved a lot of thought and spiritual contemplation. This ink drawing of a woman, head in hand and looking pensively out at the reader, is titled nescio quid meditans (‘Contemplating I know no what’), a quote taken from the from Satires of the Roman poet Horace.  Are we seeing here the inner thought and frustrations of Banfi-Hunyadi?

Alchemy fig. 6

Fol. 12v: Thomas Norton’s alchemical poetry (photo: Stephen Gordon)

Alchemy fig. 7.1

Fol. 73r: The ‘anatomical furnace’ from Latin MS 82 (left) (photo: Stephen Gordon), compared to diagram found in the Latin Aurora Thesaurusque Philosophorum (Basel 1577) (right)

While most of Latin MS 82 is written in Latin, there are numerous vernacular passages and annotations interspersed throughout the text. Folio 12v, for example, contains two extracts from Thomas Norton’s poetic Ordinal of Alchemy (1477), an alchemical reference guide that enjoyed much popularity at the beginning of the seventeenth century. Another text copied into Latin MS 82 includes part of the vernacular version of the Anatomia Corporum adhuc viventium (‘the anatomy of still living bodies’) by the physician and mystic, Paracelsus. Specifically, the compiler has copied the section relating to the distillation of urine and the diagnosis of illness. As you can see here, the monstrous-looking still has been given the proportions of an average human figure. It was believed that a diagnosis of the patient’s illness could be made by observing the parts of the ‘body’ where the urine vapours condensed. Although dubious to modern sensibilities, this is one of the most practical extracts in the entire manuscript.

Alchemy fig. 8

Fol. 18r: Further alchemical/astrological diagrams

Latin MS 82 provides a fascinating insight into the world of early modern occultism and the erudition of its practitioners. Of course, it is difficult for the modern reader to truly understand the nuances behind alchemical symbolism. Books of spiritual alchemy were intentionally obtuse, making that much harder to decipher the intentions behind such images as the monstrous Unitrinum. Further work needs to be conducted on Latin MS 82 for it to truly reveal its secrets.

Works Cited

Appleby, John H., Arthur Dee and Johannes Bánfi Hunyades: Further Information on their Alchemical and Professional Activities, Ambix 24 (1977), 96-109


Forshaw, Peter J., ‘The Early Alchemical Reception of John Dee’s Monas Hieroglyphica’, Ambix 52 (2005), 247-269

McGinn, Bernard, ‘Unitrinum seu Triunun: Nicholas of Cusa’s Trinitarian Mysticism’, in Mystics: Presence and Aporia, ed. by Michael Kessler and Christian Sheppard (Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 2003), 90-117

Sin Eaters and Walking Corpses in Welsh Folk Belief: A Brief Note

As many of you may be aware, my main area of interest lies in the cultural history of the walking corpse.  I’m especially fascinated by medieval accounts of the marauding, troublesome dead.  I’ve written previously on how William of Newburgh employed revenant stories to criticise the conduct of William FitzOsbert, instigator of the London rebellion of 1196, and the hated Chancellor of England, William Longchamp. Newburgh’s contemporary, Walter Map, includes stories of walking corpses in his satire on court life, the De Nugis Curialium (c.1182).  Much like his wry putdowns of Bernard of Clairvoux and the Cistercian Order, Map takes a more ironic, humorous approach to the phenomenon.

One story concerns the hardships faced by a knight named William Laudun, who petitioned Gilbert Foliot (then Bishop of Hereford and, incidentally, one of Map’s closest confidants) for help in quelling a corpse that had been making a nuisance of itself in his village. Foliot advised that the corpse’s neck be cut and the entire body sprinkled with holy water (an orthodox method of containment, all things considered).  Ironically – and somewhat humorously, given Map’s close relationship to Foliot – the Bishop’s advice failed and the corpse contained to wreak havoc.  Only after Laudun had chased the corpse back to its grave and cleaved its head in two, from the crown to the base of the neck, did the hauntings finally cease.

This story purports to have taken place in Wales, most likely in Marcher territory. It is possible that Map is playing up and satirising the contemporary belief that Wales, situated on the very edge of ‘civilisation’, was a place filled with prodigies, marvels and monsters. The story may also have been intended as a gentle riposte to spiritual authority of his close friend, Foliot.  After many years of studying Walter Map and the De Nugis Curialium I have learnt not to take anything he says at face value. And yet, this is not to suggest that Wales in general (and Herefordshire in particular) did not possess a rich and long-lasting folklore on the malign activities of walking corpses. Consider the following extract from the antiquarian John Aubrey (1626-1697), whose interests in the history, folklore, and the material culture  of the British Isles yielded priceless information about the survival of ‘Gentilisme’ in the activities of the Welsh.

“In the County of Hereford [there] was an Old Custom at Funeralls, to hire poor people, who were to take upon them all the Sinnes of the party deceased. One of them I remember (he was a long, lean, lamentable, poor raskal) lived in a Cottage on Rosse-high-way.  The manner was that when the Corps was brought-out of the house and layd on the Biere; a Loafe of bread was brought out, and delivered to the Sinne-eater over the corps, as also a Mazar-bowle [of Maple] full of beer, which he was to drinke up, and sixpence in money, in consideration whereof, he took upon himself all the Sinnes of the Defunct, and freed him [or her] from Walking after they were dead.”


Portrait of the Antiquarian and folklorist, John Aubrey (source: wikicommons)

Sin-eating is an age-old custom, identified as being practiced in Wales and the borderlands as late as the nineteenth century. Whilst admittedly the evidence is oblique, it is telling that Aubrey makes mention of the belief that dying in a state of sin meant the corpse walked after death. He is very particular on that point.  But to what extent can we trust the accuracy of Aubrey’s account?  If the veracity of his folkloric writings can be measured against the meticulousness of his antiquarian work, such as the mapping of the Avebury henge monument, then the answer is ‘quite a lot’.  Unresolved sin was one of the main factors that caused the dead to rise.  In placed where the habitual belief in restless corpses still held sway, the sin-eater had an extremely important task to perform.

Although often ignored in favour of more historically-identifiable entities such as the witch, airy demon, and disembodied ghost, there is much left to discover about the fear of the embodied ghost in early modern Britain. A closer look at the work of antiquarian writers such as John Aubrey may yield fruitful results.


Sources Cited

John Aubrey, ‘Remaines of Gentilisme’, in John Aubrey: Three Prose Works, ed. John Buchanan-Brown (Fontwell: Centaur Press, 1972), p. 179

Stephen Gordon, ‘Monstrous Words, Monstrous Bodies: Irony and the Walking Dead in Walter Map’s De Nugis Curialium’, English Studies 96 (2015), 379−402

E. Sidney Hartland, ‘The Sin-Eater’, Folklore 3 (1892), 145-157

A Medieval English Crime Spree?


The murder of Thomas Becket, Canterbury Cathedral (source: wikicommons)


The study of the supernatural is inextricably linked with the concept of ‘bad’ death. Although this isn’t the time or place to dwell too much on the minutiae of anthropological theory and its application in medieval contexts, it suffices to say that death can only be considered ‘bad’ if judged against its opposite. For medieval populaces, ‘good’ death was said to occur at home, in bed, following the reception of Last Rites from a priest. Very rarely did everyday death performances live up to this ideal. As I have discussed previously, mourners often used a variety of strategies to ensure the soul of the deceased had an unimpeded passage into heaven. Even so, examples of deaths that were particularly ill-performed or ill-timed – suicide, murder, drowning – appear time and again in the English eyre rolls (ca.1198–1348).  These records, which detail the cases heard by itinerant royal judges as they travelled from county to county presiding over local courts (eyres), provide a fascinating insight into the types of accidental and not-so accidental deaths that beset local village life.

Drowning seems to have been a common cause of death. To pick but one example, a case recorded in the Berkshire pleas of 1248 notes how four men attempted to cross a river in a boat that also contained a horse. Owing to the ‘agitation’ of the horse, the boat capsized and three of the four men drowned. The horse survived.  A sense of tragi-comedy can also be detected in an unusual case from the Shropshire rolls of 1256, where it was said a certain William, son of Robert Seys, accidentally killed Thomas of Worthen by throwing a javelin at his head. Despite being a child of 8-9 years, William was known to be of ‘ill-repute’ and thus outlawed.



The Murder of Antiochus III (c.1415) (source: wikicommons)


Investigations into cases of suspected suicide are another common feature of the eyre rolls, with the prosecution of self-murder often leading to the forfeiture of the deceased’s chattels – hence why many of the cases often concluded with the less financially-ruinous verdicts of temporary insanity or ‘misadventure’. It was while investigating such cases in the Warwickshire Eyre Roll of 1221 that, purely by chance, I came across the following:


“Thomas the clerk of Sutton Coldfield, William son of Hasculf the chaplain, William the turner, Robert de Bromhal, Osbert the charcoal burner, and Geoffrey his brother robbed a house in Sutton Coldfield and carried off two loads of cloth. Thomas, William and William were taken in flight with the cloth and hanged, and the others are outlawed by suit of Hugh of Bordseley for another deed, namely for the death of Arnold the Reeve. Thomas’ chattels, 12 shillings, whence let the sheriff answer. The others were of the county of Worcester and therefore no chattels…”


So far, so interesting.  Domestic robberies feature heavily in criminal pleas from this era. Much later, while examining the Worcestershire eyre roll of the same year (1221), a reference to ‘Robert de Bramhal’ caught my eye:


“John Colfox, Obsert the charcoal burner and Geoffrey his brother, and Robert de Bramhal came to Roger the beadle of Beoley’s house by night and broke into it and took Roger and his wife and cut off Roger’s foot and his wife’s finger-nails and fled. And it is said that Geoffrey the charcoal burner was taken at Hereford. Speak about it there. John was living in Warwickshire at Beoley [i.e. Beoley was on the county line]. They are all suspected, and therefore let them be interrogated and outlawed…”


Had I stumbled upon two crimes committed by the same group of people? It certainly seems that this plea refers to the same Robert, Geoffrey, and Osbert as reported in the Warwickshire eyre. Reading between the lines, the evidence suggests that the gang had embarked on a quite significant crime spree, ranging from robbery to maiming and murder. The pointed absence of Thomas the clerk and the two Williams from the second plea, combined with the offhand remark that Geoffrey had been apprehended in Hereford, suggests that the gang – or what was left of them – were travelling westwards. The records do not specify if anything was taken from Roger of Beoley’s house, but the very act of cutting off his foot and removing his wife’s fingernails suggests that extortion  was most definitely on the criminals’ minds.  With the Warwickshire pleas being heard before the royal justices in the autumn and the Worcestershire cases in June, it can be presumed that the events took place within the first few months of 1221.

Getting a glimpse into the everyday lives of past peoples is one of the most gratifying aspects of studying history. I started off my investigations into the eyre records intending to find cases of ‘bad’ death and the unusual treatment of the body. In the end, I found myself on the trail of a gang of murderous outlaws. If anyone has any information about what happened to Robert de Bromhal and Osbert the charcoal maker, please don’t hesitate to get in touch!


Sources Cited:

Rolls of the Justices in the Eyre for Lincolnshire 1218-9 and Worcestershire 1221, ed. Doris Mary Stenton, Seldon Society 53 (London: Quaritch, 1934)

Rolls of the Justices in the Eyre for Gloucestershire, Warwickshire and Staffordshire, 1221, 1222, ed. Doris Mary Stenton, Seldon Society 59 (London: Quaritch, 1940)

The Roll of the Shropshire Eyre of 1256, ed. Alan Harding, Seldon Society 95 (London: Seldon, 1981)