Ely.--Island and Isle.--St. Augustine.--St. Etheldreda, Life,
Death, Burial, St. Audrey's Fair.--Danish Sack of Ely.--Alfred's
College.--Abbey restored.--Brithnoth, Song of Maldon.--Battle of
Assandun.--Canute at Ely.--Edward the Confessor.--Alfred the
Etheling.--Camp of Refuge, Hereward, Norman Conquest, Tabula
Eliensis, Nomenclature, Norman Minster.--Bishops of Ely, Rule
over Isle.--Ely Place, Ely House.
The tourist through Cambridgeshire should now turn his attention to
Ely, a place second only in interest, if indeed second, to Cambridge
itself. The central point of note in Ely is the Cathedral; known to us
ever since our schooldays through Macaulay's picture-giving pen, which
sets it before us as "Ely's stately fane." We hope soon to learn
something of the history of this great church, of her growth, of her
decay, of her restoration, of those men and women who have made her
what she is, of the tumults and storms she has over-lived. Truly we
may say, with Stirling the poet that the Minster at Ely
"Still ship-like on for ages fares,
And holds its course, so smooth so true,
For all the madness of the crew;
It must have better rule than theirs."
Before we actually visit the place itself let us make ourselves
familiar with the outline of its chequered history.
The city of Ely has a population approaching 8,000, and stands on the
western edge of the Island of Ely, once truly an island, being an area
of dry land rising from the midst of the fens, and, till their
drainage, accessible only by boat or causeway. This _Island_, a true
bit of natural _terra firma_, measures about eight miles by six, and
lies at the southern end of a much more extensive fenland
archipelago, of irregular shape, measuring approximately thirty miles
by twenty, known from of old as the _Isle_ of Ely. The waters of the
Fen, which, so lately as a century ago, made this wide area an
archipelago indeed, have now given place to a "boundless plain" of
fertile corn-land, so rich in harvests as to be often called "The
Golden Plain of England."
A twelfth century chronicler, the writer of the "Liber Eliensis,"
asserts that, within the first years of the seventh century A.D.,
Ethelbert, King of Kent, newly converted to Christianity, founded a
monastery at Cratendune, about a mile south of Ely, and that Saint
Augustine, the first Archbishop of Canterbury, consecrated it. But we
cannot say that the authentic history of Ely begins till seventy years
later, when we see an Anglo-Saxon lady founding a monastery on this
rising ground in the midst of the Fens. The lady is Etheldreda, once
Queen of Northumbria; her monastery is known to us as Ely. She is the
daughter of Anna, King of East Anglia, who had reigned at Exning,
almost within sight of Ely.
King Anna was a devout man, who himself died a hero's death, fighting
for the Cross and for his country against the overwhelming onset of
Penda, the heathen King of Mercia, who made it the object of his life
to stamp out English Christianity. But, though Anna fell, his cause
triumphed. Penda shortly died, and his work perished with him. Not so
Anna's. After his death the tide of Christian progress ran the
stronger; and all over England it was through members of his family
that it was specially championed.
Married to the King of Northumbria, his daughter Queen Etheldreda had
renounced her husband and her northern kingdom, and had returned to
her native Fenland, there to found a monastery for both monks and
nuns. In taking this step she had been influenced by two persons of
note; by St. Hilda, her aunt, the foundress and first Abbess of
Whitby, and by St. Wilfrid, Bishop of York. Hilda had in early life
gained a firm hold on the heart of her niece, who had become fired
with the wish to follow her example and herself to found a monastery.
In spite of this resolve, of which she made no secret, she had been
forced (while strongly protesting) into a nominal marriage with
Egfrid, the youthful King of Northumbria. After twelve years of
unhappy life, she had been induced by St. Wilfrid to quit her
husband; from St. Wilfrid's hand she had received the veil, before him
she had taken the vows that bound her to a monastic life. It is a
strange, unnatural tale, that cannot claim our approval; but there it
is, and its truth is not questioned.
Queen Etheldreda, accompanied by certain attendants had then fled
southward, with her deeply wronged husband in chase. She had been
sheltered on one occasion from his pursuit by a tide of unprecedented
height, which protected her on a rocky hiding-place while the King
passed by, all unaware that he was close to her. At length she had
reached her own fenland country; and here, still following Hilda's
example, she set herself to build a monastery, choosing the highest
ground available. She was a well dowered lady, for her first husband,
Tonbert, was a Prince of the Girvii, a Celtic tribe descended from
those refugee Britons who had sought safety in the fens when all else
was conquered by the English invaders two centuries earlier. This
prince had bequeathed to his childless widow all his wide fenland
domains; so Etheldreda had no need to seek further for an endowment
for her monastery; while her brother Adwulf, now King of East Anglia,
defrayed the cost of the new buildings. These ere long became the home
of both monks and nuns, who lived in separate houses and met only for
their common worship in the Abbey church. No Abbot was appointed, but
Etheldreda herself was their Abbess, ruling both sexes alike.
It is probable that from its foundation the monastery at Ely was under
the influence of the rule of St. Benedict, for St. Wilfrid during
Etheldreda's life-time was a frequent resident there, and he was in
close touch with St. Botolph, that most influential, though half
legendary saint, who, from his hermitage at Ickenhoe in Suffolk, was
introducing throughout East Anglia the rule of the monks of St.
Benedict, those great preservers of civilisation, which, but for them,
must in many lands have perished, when the strong hand of the Roman
Empire lost its grip.
[Illustration: _The North Triforium of the Nave, Ely._]
Little is recorded of Etheldreda's life as abbess; and, after a rule
of seven years, she died at the age of forty-nine, in the year 679,
her death being due to an epidemic then prevalent, combined with a
tumour in the neck. The death-bed scene is sculptured on one of the
corbels of the Octagon Towers at Ely, where the more picturesque
events of her life are quaintly set before us in stone. The saintly
lady died after much suffering, which the ministrations of her devoted
physician Cynifrid failed to allay; though he did for her all that the
surgery of those days allowed. She bore her sickness with composure of
mind, and when she knew that the end was at hand, she (as others have
done before and since) summoned her whole household to her chamber to
take her last farewell of them all. She told them that the time of her
departure was at hand; she spoke to them of the vanity of this world's
enjoyments, and recommended them to keep Heaven always in view,
whereby they might in some measure have a foretaste of its joys. After
this she received the Communion in both kinds from the hands of Huna,
a priest devoted to her service; then, while praying for the
inhabitants of the monastery, she passed from earth. It may be of
interest to remember that throughout the seven years of her rule at
Ely, Theodore, the great organiser of the Anglican Church, "the first
Archbishop whom the whole Church of England obeyed," filled the See of
Canterbury.
It was Etheldreda's wish to be buried with all simplicity in the
cemetery set apart for the nuns of Ely; so we are glad to learn that
this her last desire was respected by her followers, and that she was
laid to rest among the nuns in a wooden coffin. Her elder sister, St.
Sexburga, widow of the King of Kent, took her place as Abbess, and
ruled at Ely till another generation was arising. After sixteen years
had gone by, those who still remembered and loved Etheldreda wished
that her body should be with them at their devotions in the church,
and they resolved to translate her remains from the cemetery to the
Abbey.
No common coffin was held to be a fitting casket for those precious
relics; but in a waste place named Armeswerke,[207] fifteen miles up
the River Cam (which may be identified as now forming part of the
Fellows' garden at Magdalene College, Cambridge, between the terrace
and the river), there was found a marble sarcophagus of Roman
workmanship.[208] This was brought to Ely; and with careful and simple
ceremony the body of the first Abbess was lifted from the wooden and
laid in the marble coffin, all being carried out under the
superintendence of Sexburga. On beholding the uncorrupted body of the
dear sister who had died in so much pain, Sexburga was heard to
exclaim, "Glory to the name of the Lord most high!" All the look of
suffering had gone, and the Saint appeared as if asleep on her bed.
Gently removed from the wooden to the stone coffin, the body was
carried into the Abbey Church, and placed behind the high altar; and
for eight centuries the shrine of St. Etheldreda was visited by troops
of pilgrims, who came from far and near to worship, to leave their
offerings, and to seek healing from disease and infirmity. Sexburga
was followed as Abbess by her sister, Ermenilda, Queen of Mercia. Thus
Ely had three sister queens as her first three Abbesses; and hence
perhaps the three crowns that still form the arms of the Bishopric.
[Footnote 207: This is the word used by the "Historia Eliensis." Bede,
our earliest authority, speaks of "a small waste city, which in the
English tongue is called Grantchester." He almost certainly means
Cambridge. See p. 221.]
[Footnote 208: Doubt has been cast on this story, owing to the
incidental mention by the chronicler of a shaped head-space in this
coffin. This has been held to point to a twelfth century origin for
the Legend, inasmuch as such head-spaces were not used until that
date. In the present year(1910), however, an undoubtedly Roman
sarcophagus thus shaped has been unearthed in Egypt. It is figured in
the _Illustrated London News_ (July 23, 1910).]
St. Etheldreda was long remembered with affection, and was commonly
spoken of as St. Audrey. The popular Pilgrims' Fair held at Ely was
known at St. Audrey's Fair; and the cheap fairings bought and sold
there (especially the coloured necklets of fine silk known as "St.
Audrey's chains") were called, from her name, "tawdry"; and thus a new
word was coined for us with a strange story of its own, a word hardly
worthy of the great Abbess of the Fenland to whom it owes its origin.
Centuries later, St. Audrey's Fair, held in October, had grown to be
one of the most important in the land, lasting for a fortnight. By the
year 1248 it had become such a centre of merchandise as to interfere
with the traffic of the Fair which Henry the Third had lately
established at Westminster in honour of St. Edward the Confessor; the
King therefore issued a warrant interdicting the fair at Ely. This
suspension meant serious loss to the Bishop, Hugh de Northwold, "who
made a heavy complaint to the King concerning the matter, but he
gained from him nothing except words of soothing promises of future
consolation," says the chronicler.
For two hundred years after the death of the foundress, the abbey of
monks and nuns went on with its pious works and ways. Then, in 870,
appeared the Danes, still pagans; and after working their way through
Yorkshire and Lincolnshire, where they "wasted with fire and sword all
that ever they came to, they brake down all the abbeys of the fens;
nor did Ely, so famous of old, escape." Having laid waste
Peterborough, then known as Medhampsted, they came across the fens to
Ely. The abbey and all the buildings pertaining to it were burnt; the
monks and nuns put to the sword. Before setting fire to the buildings
the Danes had secured for themselves all they contained of value, and
great was the store, for the people of the neighbourhood had brought
their goods into the monastery as to a place of safety. All was seized
by the invaders, and what they could not carry away they destroyed.
Thus Etheldreda's Abbey, after lasting 200 years, was left a deserted
ruin; but her coffin of stone escaped without injury. One of the
depredators, indeed, is said to have made an attempt to break into it,
with the result that his eyes started from his head, and then and
there he died, as the chronicler relates. The ancient sarcophagus had
proved worthy of its trust.
The hour was one of direst need; for all England lay spent and gasping
beneath the bloodstained feet of the heathen pirates. But, with the
need, there arose the deliverer. In 871, the year after the sack of
Ely, Alfred the Great, "England's darling," succeeded to the kingship
of the exhausted realm; and the life and death struggle entered on its
last and most desperate phase. For one moment even he seemed to go
under, and was driven to an outlaw life in the marshes of Athelney;
the next, we see him shattering the invaders by his miraculous victory
of Ethandune, and, with incomparable state-craft, negotiating that
Peace of Wedmore, whereby the Danes had to acknowledge him as their
Overlord.
As such, he shortly established a College of Priests at Ely. Eight of
the clerics who had witnessed the sack of the monastery came back to
their old home, and rebuilt a part of the church that it might serve
again as a place of worship. These priests were not monks, and are
said to have had wives and children. They lived in poverty; for all
the endowments of the Abbey had been seized by Burgraed, the last King
of Mercia. But gradually, as the children of Alfred won back the
kingdom, the endowment of Ely began afresh. Here a fishery, and there
a wood, and again a mill with adjoining pastures, was bestowed on the
little College--a term which still clings to the Cathedral precincts
of Ely, called to this day the College, not the Close as in most
Cathedral cities.
With the accession, in 958, of the great Edgar, the first English King
to be Emperor of all Britain, the monarch who, nearly a thousand years
ago, gained for himself, as but one of our kings has done since, the
title of "Peacemaker," brighter days dawned. Then, as now, the
Catholic Church might have been well called "Cette eternelle
recommenceuse," able to rise from her ashes with life renewed. From
the havoc wrought by the Danes, the Abbey of Ely, as a Benedictine
House, arose once more, rebuilt, refounded, and re-endowed by King
Edgar, who restored to it by Royal Charter all that Etheldreda had
originally bestowed; adding thereto several demesnes and sundry
privileges. The re-constitution of the Abbey was carried out under the
guidance of Ethelwold, Bishop of Winchester.
The monks were thus restored; but the nuns of Ely have disappeared
from view. As for those secular priests who were in possession and had
maintained the sacred character of the spot for well-nigh a hundred
years, ever since its devastation by the Danes, they were allowed to
stay on if they submitted to the Benedictine Rule, otherwise they were
dismissed.
In the year 970, on the Feast of the Purification, a day that we shall
again find eventful in the annals of Ely, the new and restored
monastic buildings were consecrated by Dunstan, who now, as Archbishop
of Canterbury, filled the highest office in the Church of the land.
The chronicler, Roger of Wendover, tells us how, by Dunstan's counsel,
King Edgar "everywhere restrained the rashness of the wicked,
cherished the just and modest, restored and enriched the desolate
churches of God, gathered multitudes of monks and nuns to praise and
glorify the Great Creator, and built more than forty monasteries."
This shews us that, the events taking place at Ely were in no sense
isolated, but were part of a great revival going on throughout the
whole country.
In the year 991 the restored Abbey becomes connected with one of the
most stirring poems of the English language, the "Song of Maldon." The
Danish invasions, which had been checked for a century by the glorious
line of monarchs who inherited King Alfred's blood and energy, were
beginning again. One of these pirate hordes had landed in East Anglia,
now no longer a separate principality but merely a district of the
United Kingdom of England, governed by an "Alderman" named Brithnoth.
Ethelred, surnamed the Unready, was on the throne--a King who for his
lack of good judgment well deserved this contemptuous sobriquet--and
his want of energy and capacity threw on to the shoulders of his
subordinates the burden of the defence of his realm.
Brithnoth rose to the emergency, as a true Christian hero. At the head
of his retainers he hurried to meet the foe, calling out the local
levies to join his march. At Ely, as he hastened past, he, with his
men, was royally entertained. The day before, when he was passing
Ramsey Abbey, the Abbot had offered him hospitality, but only for
himself and half a dozen picked friends. This niggardly invitation
drew from Brithnoth a scornful answer: "Tell my Lord Abbot," he
replied, "that I cannot fight without my men, neither will I feed
without them." At Ely meat and drink were placed before leader and
followers without distinction, and well were the monks rewarded, for
Brithnoth requited their hospitality by the gift of no fewer than nine
manors, all lying near Cambridge--Trumpington, Fulbourn, and
others--stipulating only that, if slain in battle, his body should be
brought back to their church for burial.
At Maldon in Essex on the River Panta (or Blackwater, as it is now
called), he met the Danes, who began by sending a herald demanding a
ransom, to be fixed by themselves, as the price of peace:
"Then back with our booty
To ship will we get us,
Fare forth on the flood,
And pass you in peace."
This degrading offer Brithnoth contemptuously refuses:
"For ransom we give you
Full freely our weapons,
Spear-edge and sword-edge
Of old renown."
The Danes at once make their way across the river and attack the
English levies:
"Then drave from each hand
Full starkly the spear,
Showered the sharp arrows,
Busy were bows,
Shield met shaft,
Bitter the battle."
In the end the pirates are driven back to their ships, but at the cost
of Brithnoth's own life. He is pierced by a spear, and sinks dying to
the ground; to the last exhorting his soldiers to fight on, and
commending his own soul to God in the following beautiful and touching
lines:
"To Thee give I thanks,
Thou Lord of all living,
For all good hap
In this life here.
Sore need I now,
O Maker mild,
That Thou should'st grant
My spirit grace;
That my soul to Thee
May depart in peace,
And flee to Thy keeping,
Thou King of Angels.
To Thee do I pray
That the Gates of Hell
Prevail not against me."
[Illustration: _West Aisle of the North Transept, Ely._]
The Danes carried off Brithnoth's head; but his body was rescued; and,
according to his wish, the monks came and brought it back to Ely,
where the Abbot buried it, replacing the missing head by one of wax.
During the eighteenth century the skeleton was met with in the course
of some excavations and recognised as Brithnoth's by the absence of
the skull. It now lies in Bishop West's beautiful chapel, along with
the bones of other Anglo-Saxon worthies.
The Lady Elfleda, Brithnoth's widow, added largely to the benefactions
he had bestowed on Ely; she gave the Abbey valuable lands within easy
reach of the monastery, and she moreover presented to the church a
golden chain, and a curtain worked with the most notable deeds of her
husband's life. Those who have seen the Bayeux tapestry, representing
the events of the life of William the Conqueror, can picture to
themselves what Lady Elfleda's curtain may have been a century
earlier.
In the next generation (1016) a body of the monks of Ely accompanied
another hero to battle against the Danes. The hero of this generation
was Ethelred's son, King Edmund Ironside; the battle was the great
fight of Assandun, a place impossible to locate with certainty, but
not improbably situated on the south-east border of Cambridgeshire.
During the last twenty-five years the Danes had become more and more
daring, and now, under their great king, Canute, the mightiest of all
Scandinavian monarchs, they were attempting nothing less than the
organised conquest of England. Thus Canute and Edmund were face to
face in a desperate struggle, and, after five indecisive battles in a
single year, Edmund was defeated, on St. Luke's Day, at Assandun, and
his defeat was shortly followed by his death. Canute then assumed the
crown, by right of conquest, a right which he proclaimed by calling
himself not, like his predecessors, "King of the English," but "King
of England."
He proved, however, not at all a bad king. He had been brought up a
Christian, and he took the Church under his protection. He bore no
malice against the monks of Ely for their support of Edmund Ironside,
but, on the contrary, treated the Abbey with marked favour, and gave
her rich endowments. More than once he visited Ely, and we all know
the lines of the cheery old ballad which relates how Canute in his
barge was rowing near the island. It runs thus:
"Merrily sang they, the monks at Ely,
When Cnut the King he rowed thereby;
Row to the shore, men, said the King,
And let us hear these monks to sing."
This was in the summer-time,[209] when the waters were open; but not
seldom Canute made his visits in the depth of winter, when, on the
Feast of the Purification, the Abbot of Ely each year entered on his
Chancellorship of the realm, an office which he shared in turn with
the Abbots of Canterbury and Glastonbury, each holding this office for
four months at a time. The legend may well be true, which tells how,
on one of these mid-winter visits, Canute reached Ely (from
Soham)[210] in a sledge, preceded by the heaviest man that could be
found (characteristically nick-named "Pudding"), who skated ahead of
the King to ensure the ice would bear. On another occasion Canute was
accompanied by his wife Queen Emma, and she, in token of her regard
for the Abbey, left behind, as her gift, splendid hangings for the
church, and for the shrine of the foundress. An altar frontal of green
and red and gold, and a shrine cover of purple cloth, bedecked with
gold and jewels, are described as being of exceptional beauty and
value, "such as there was none like to them in richness throughout all
the realm."
[Footnote 209: Archdeacon Cunningham doubts this.]
[Footnote 210: See p. 178.]
This was not Emma's first connection with Ely. While she was yet the
second wife of Ethelred the Unready (after whose death she married the
victorious Canute), her younger son, Edward, afterwards King Edward
the Confessor, had here been presented in infancy at the altar, and
had been in childhood a pupil of the choir school, where his special
proficiency in learning psalms and hymns gave promise of his future
saintliness. The Ely choir school was, at this time, probably the most
noted educational institution in England, and was under the direction
of the Precentor, who had general charge over all the literary work of
the house, such as the reproducing of books, etc. That this precocious
scholar, who left Ely at nine years old, ultimately came to the
throne, while Alfred, his elder brother, did not, is due to one of the
most ghastly tragedies of English history.
After the death of Canute in 1035, it became a question whether this
same Alfred, "the Etheling" (_i.e._ Prince), Emma's eldest son by
Ethelred, now a man of over thirty, or Harthacnut, her only son by
Canute, a boy of sixteen, or one Harold, who, though not an Etheling,
claimed to be Canute's eldest son, should be chosen King of England.
Harold, in spite of grave doubts as to his paternity, "had all the
cry"; and when Alfred, "the innocent Etheling," made an attempt to
protect his widowed mother against the new King's oppression, he was
sent as a prisoner by ship to Ely. Before being landed his eyes were
put out, in a manner so brutal that he shortly died of the shock, to
find a grave in the Abbey church under its western tower. The
Anglo-Saxon Chronicler records this crime in a pathetic ballad,
denouncing it as even beyond the horrors of the Danish wars:
"Nor was drearier deed
Done in this land,
Since Danes first came."
That no blame need be attached to the monks of Ely for this atrocity
is indicated by the fact that, when Alfred's brother, Edward the
Confessor, came to the throne, he confirmed all their ancient
charters, granting lands and privileges to the Abbey, and himself
became a benefactor to the place of his education.
With the Norman invasion, Ely again becomes a centre of war. Led by
Christian the Bishop, and Osbiorn the Earl, a force of Danish
adventurers had appeared in the Humber, professing to be the allies of
the English in their struggle with the Normans. Their real object was
to place their own King Sweyn, the nephew of Canute, on the throne of
England, and, if foiled in this purpose, at least to enrich themselves
with England's plunder. After partaking in scenes of devastation in
Yorkshire, they sailed southward till they reached Ely, where they
took up their quarters. Here the fenland folk forgathered with them,
for the Norman was a more thoroughgoing oppressor than any Dane; and,
in especial, the "strenuous" outlaw Hereward "the Wake" joined them
"with his gang."
To show their zeal against the French--and to indulge their lust of
plunder--they set off, by water, to Peterborough, where the Abbey had
been recently conferred on a Norman ruffian named Thorold. To save
this good old English foundation from such degrading occupancy,
Hereward, as their guide, led them on, first to sack and then to burn
it to the ground. The Danes, having got their booty, promptly sailed
away, while Hereward returned to Ely, there to make his memorable
stand against William and the Normans. Fiction may have embroidered
the tale of his prowess; but there remains a foundation of truth, even
after the superstructure of romance has been removed. At Ely were now
gathered together to him a mixed company of fugitives; misfortune,
according to her repute, making strange bed-fellows.
When William had conquered at Hastings, England, as a whole, was at
first disposed to accept the verdict of battle, and to acknowledge
his claim to the throne, as it had acknowledged Canute's. But when the
necessities of his position, as the captain of an invading army,
forced him to confiscate every estate in England (except the Church
lands), and to bestow it on some Norman adventurer; when every single
Englishman in high office, Sheriff and Alderman, Bishop and Abbot, was
turned out to make room for a Frenchman,[211] the whole nation glowed
with outraged patriotism, and Ely seemed likely to become a second
Athelney, whence the spark of resistance to the tyrant might spread
like wildfire throughout the length and breadth of the land.
[Footnote 211: See my _History of Cambridgeshire_.]
And had there been a second Alfred this might well have actually come
to pass. As it was, many of the magnates who could not brook
submission retired to the "Camp of Refuge," as the Island of Ely now
got to be called. This fastness, being surrounded on all sides by deep
fens "as by a strong wall," promised them a sure retreat, and for a
while enabled them to baffle all the efforts even of the mighty
Conqueror to subdue them. Thither came Archbishop Stigand (deposed by
the Conqueror to make way for the great Lanfranc); thither came the
Abbot of St. Albans, thither came the valiant Ethelnoth, Bishop of
Durham; thither came Morcar, the last Earl of Northumbria, "with many
a hundred more," both clergy and laity. Here they received shelter and
hospitality from Thurstan, the last of the English Abbots of Ely.
By the general voice Hereward was chosen as their captain, and
fortified the island against the Conqueror. William, on hearing of
this, hastened to Cambridge with his whole army, and invested the
place (so far as it was possible to invest it) both by land and water,
building a castle at Wisbech on the north, and at Reach on the south.
At Aldreth, where scarcely a mile of fen parted the Island from the
mainland at Willingham, he made a floating bridge of trees and
faggots, fastened underneath with cow-hides; but when his men
attempted to cross it, the unsteady structure capsized, and that
portion of the army engaged in the attempt was drowned.
Perplexed and almost daunted, William, with his court and army,
retired for a time to Brandon in Suffolk; while the refugees at Ely
spent stirring days. The knights and churchmen were hospitably
entertained in the refectory of the abbey, every man with his shield
and lance hanging near him, to be ready in case of sudden alarm. Their
days were diversified by raids into the surrounding country beyond the
fens, to snatch what provisions they could for their fastness; and
these raids of the islanders were so dreaded throughout the district,
that its inhabitants were thankful for the protection of William's
soldiery.
Hereward, according to the legend, hearing that another attack was
imminent, followed the example of Alfred the Great by betaking himself
in disguise to Brandon to learn the King's designs. He found that
William, by a judicious mixture of severity and conciliation, had won
over a certain number of the outlying fen-folk, and had imposed upon
them the task of conveying a great store of wood and faggots for him
to Aldreth, with which to construct there a causeway once more.
Hereupon Hereward, still in his disguise, feigned that he was himself
one of these traitors to England, and eager above all the others to
help the Conqueror against the marauding thieves of the Camp of
Refuge. It was he who was foremost in collecting faggots for the
wood-pile at Aldreth, and then, when all was gathered, who was it but
Hereward that set it on fire so that all was lost? And once more, when
the besiegers were making a third attempt to gain the island, under
the auspices of a reputed witch whom the pious William deigned to
employ for the sustaining of his men's sunken courage, it was Hereward
who fired the reed-beds through which the foe was advancing, so that
the whole column, witch and all, were involved in one common
destruction.
Finally William, finding that he could not reduce the island by force,
resolved to bring it under by political pressure, and threatened to
grant to his supporters all the Abbey lands within his power. On
hearing this the Abbot and monks resolved to surrender, and they sent
secret messengers to William, who was at Warwick, offering to submit
to him on condition that he would spare the possessions of the Abbey.
To this the King consented; and during Hereward's absence from Ely on
a foraging expedition, he landed without resistance on the fen-girt
island. Hereward on his return found that all was lost, and himself
barely escaped with a few followers, to live on as outlaws in the
greenwood for a few desperate years, till at length he, too, "came
in," and was granted "the King's peace."
On William's unopposed success through their connivance the monks
fondly imagined that they had something to expect from his gratitude,
and were preparing a formal welcome and act of submission when it
should please him to visit the abbey church in thanksgiving for his
victory. William, however, had other designs, and paid his visit
without notice, at an hour when he knew that the brethren would be in
the refectory at dinner. He stood alone before the High Altar, and
casting upon it a single mark of gold, equivalent to about L150,
quietly departed.
Meanwhile the hapless monks were startled from their meal by the
abrupt entrance of a Norman knight, Gilbert de Clare, with whom they
had made interest, and who now rushed in shouting to them: "Ye
wretched drivellers! Can ye choose no better time for guzzling than
this when the King is here, yea, in your very church?" Instantly every
monk sprang to his feet, and the whole community made a rush for the
church. But it was too late. William was already well on his way out
of Ely, and the unhappy monks had to run three miles before they
caught up to him at Witchford. There they did at last succeed in
impetrating his pardon, but he laid upon them a fine of no less than
700 marks of silver,[212] to meet which almost all the ornaments of
the church had to be melted down. The ingots were minted into coin in
the abbey itself; but the moneyers employed proved fraudulent, and the
royal officers at Cambridge, to whom the cash was paid, reported it
deficient in weight. This gave William an excuse for laying on a
further fine of 300 marks, so that altogether no less than the
equivalent of L20,000 was wrung by him out of the Brotherhood.
[Footnote 212: A mark of silver was worth 13_s._ 4_d._; a mark of gold
was 100 shillings. A labourer's wage was at this date 1_d._ per day,
so that these sums must be multiplied thirty-fold to get their
equivalent value at the present day.]
Yet the monks were not mistaken in thus casting in their lot with the
Normans, for though William imposed these heavy fines upon them,
though he heaped vexatious indignities upon them, though he inflicted
shocking mutilations on their adherents (not on themselves, for he was
careful to spare the monks in this respect), though he compelled them
to maintain a foreign garrison of forty French knights at their very
doors, yet in spite of all this the Abbey, with its seventy monks,
prospered under his iron rule. The strange condition of the house at
this juncture is vividly recorded for us by a picture, still preserved
in the Bishop's palace at Ely and known as the "Tabula Eliensis."
This "tabula" is a painting of no artistic merit, dating probably from
the reign of Henry the Seventh, but copied from an older one which has
perished. It is divided into forty squares, and in each of these
appears a knight and a monk, the names of both being given fully and
distinctly. The knight is helmeted and holds his drawn sword in his
right hand, while between him and his neighbour, the cowled monk,
hangs his shield emblazoned with his arms. All indicate how the
knights and monks, when thus forced to dwell in close contact, became
friendly together as time went by.
Several of the monks bear names which show us that the ancient British
stock of the Girvians still survived in the neighbouring fenlands.
Among them we find, Donald, Evan, Cedd, Nigel, Duff, David,
Constantine: names familiar to us in connection with Highland, Welsh,
or Cornish literature. Strange as it seems to include such names as
David and Constantine in this list, we have history, legend and
geography to justify our counting them as in use among the later
Britons. And it may be noted that, until the twelfth century at least,
a man's name is an almost certain guide to his nationality, as (to
some extent) it is to this day. After that, the old English
nomenclature, both male and female, was almost wholly supplanted by
that of the Normans; the only native names to survive being those of
special heroes and saints, such as Alfred, Edward, Edmund, Edgar,
Ethel, Audrey and Hilda.
The nave and transepts of Ely Minster erected during the century that
followed, still stand to show us to what splendid purpose Norman
architects could design and Norman workmen could build. For here, as
elsewhere throughout England, one of the first and most striking
results of the Conquest was such an outburst of church building as the
country had never yet known. Edgar's church, though barely a century
old, was condemned as hopelessly out of date. Something on a much
grander scale was now felt needful. The new Church was founded, in
1083, by the aged Abbot Simeon, an act of great courage and faith in a
man so old. He it was who began to build the north and south
transepts. He also laid the foundation of the central tower and of an
apsidal choir. Both tower and choir have fallen and been replaced, but
the transepts stand to this day.
As soon as the choir was ready for it, the body of the first Abbess
was brought from the Anglo-Saxon church close by, built under Edgar
the Peacemaker, where it had rested for 130 years, and was placed in
the new Norman choir behind the high altar. At her feet was laid her
sister Sexburga, who had succeeded her as Abbess, and, on either side,
the sister and niece who had, each in turn, followed after her as
rulers of the house. The earlier church was then pulled down. All this
did not take place till 1106, and long before then Simeon, like his
namesake a thousand years before, had sung his "Nunc dimittis,"
leaving his work to be carried on by the devoted and energetic
Richard, the last of the non-episcopal Abbots of Ely.
For an event of even greater moment than the building of the church
took place about this time. Early in the twelfth century, in order to
quell some dispute that had arisen as to the authority of the Bishop
of Lincoln over the Abbot of Ely, the Pope had consented, at the
request of King Henry the First and Archbishop Anselm, that the Abbot
of Ely should become a Bishop, with the Isle of Ely and the County of
Cambridge as his See.[213] More than 700 years went by before any
change was made in the extent of the diocese thus created; for it was
not till 1837 that the counties of Huntingdon and Bedford and the
western half of Suffolk were added to it.
[Footnote 213: The county, at this time, comprised only the district
south of the Isle. This ecclesiastical connection between it and the
Isle was the first towards their later unification. See p. 8.]
We owe to the creation of this Bishopric the very existence of Ely
Minster as it now stands; had it remained merely an abbey, instead of
being also a cathedral, it would have perished at the Reformation,
along with the yet greater church at Bury St. Edmund's not far away,
and with many another sister abbey throughout the land. At Ely, too,
we should see before us ruined arches open to the sky, beautiful
indeed and pathetic, but no longer a centre of worship. To this day
the Bishop of Ely sits in his cathedral not as Bishop but as Abbot;
not at the south-eastern but at the south-western end of the choir
stalls, while the Dean occupies the seat once belonging to the Prior
at the north-western end. Richard, as we have said, was the last of
the Abbots of Ely who were Abbots and nothing else. Hervey, appointed
in 1109, was the first Bishop-Abbot. He had already been Bishop of
Bangor, whence he had been driven by a Welsh revolt.
This may be the place to say something of the abnormal civil position
held by the Bishops of Ely till recent times. Etheldreda, the
foundress of the Abbey, reigned, as the widow of her first husband,
Tonbert, over the whole Isle of Ely, and exercised therein the full
Royal rights of secular jurisdiction. These rights passed on to the
Abbesses who succeeded her, and then in turn to the Abbots who
followed; they were confirmed by the Charter of Edgar in 970, and
again by Edward the Confessor, and when the abbots became bishops they
still continued to exercise this jurisdiction. Each succeeding Prelate
enjoyed rights throughout the Isle somewhat resembling those of the
Prince Bishops of the continent.
This went on until Henry the Eighth fell upon the Church, and took
away not only many of the Episcopal demesnes but also many of the
Episcopal privileges (if indeed they may be so termed). Such rights as
the King spared survived for 300 years longer. The Bishop of Ely still
possessed a jurisdiction of considerable importance and dignity,
holding almost sovereign authority within his "Franchise," which was
styled "the Royal Franchise or Liberty of the Bishops of Ely." He
himself appointed his own Judges to hear all cases within the Isle of
Ely; Assize and Quarter Sessions were held in his name and at his
pleasure; his chief bailiff acted as High Sheriff, and he nominated
the magistrates. It was the Bishop's Peace, and not the King's Peace,
against which malefactors throughout the Isle were held to offend.
This went on till 1836, when on the death of Bishop Spark, these last
remnants of Etheldreda's jurisdiction as Queen-Abbess ceased by Act of
Parliament.
But to this day there live on some far-off echoes of the Girvian
principality. The Isle of Ely, with its three Rural Deaneries and
forty-six benefices, is ecclesiastically under the immediate
jurisdiction of the Bishop; no Archdeacon holds any authority there,
as in other parts of the diocese, except in the parishes of Haddenham
and Wilburton. True, we have an Archdeacon of Ely, but he ought
rather to be designated Archdeacon of Cambridgeshire, for, with the
exceptions named, beyond the limits of the county proper he is
powerless. The Isle, moreover, has its own County Council quite
distinct from that of Cambridgeshire, while the common High Sheriff of
both divisions is nominated from each in turn.
And in the very heart of London, close to Holborn Circus, traces of
this civil jurisdiction still survive in Ely Place, where stands,
abutting on houses of the most commonplace type, the beautiful chapel
dedicated to St. Etheldreda, built at the close of the thirteenth
century, and once attached to the town palace of the Bishops of Ely.
Ely Place was a "Liberty," and, within the memory of those still
living, the Royal writs did not run here, and no police-officer or
sheriff could follow a debtor who had here taken sanctuary; it was,
moreover, rated on a basis peculiar to itself. The "Liberty" is still
governed by certain Commissioners, elected annually by the
householders. It has its own day and night watchmen, with their
gold-laced hats, who fulfil the function of policemen, and the silence
of the night is, even in this twentieth century, broken by their call,
hour by hour, as of yore. We all remember how Shakespeare makes
Richard the Third say to the Bishop of Ely,
"My lord of Ely, when I was last in Holborn
I saw good strawberries in your garden there,"
and the reference to these lines in the "Ingoldsby Legends" is hardly
less familiar. Palace, strawberries, garden are no more; the property
once held in this region by the See of Ely has passed by purchase into
other hands, but the chapel is still here, well tended, the same House
of Prayer, after many vicissitudes, that it was 600 years ago; the din
of modern city life being there shut out by walls eight feet thick.
There exists in London one more very different relic of the old
demesne of the Bishops of Ely. On the frontage of a great house in
Dover Street, now occupied by the Albemarle Club, with massive stone
facings without and marble halls within, there may be seen, over the
second storey, a mitre carved in stone, shewing that once it was the
abode of the Bishops of Ely; for after their old Palace in Holborn was
sold, this "Ely House," built about 1775, took its place, to be sold
in turn early in the twentieth century with a view to forming a
nucleus toward the endowment of a new bishopric, when the proposed
subdivision of the present diocese can be carried out. Times have
changed; and the Bishop of Ely is now free from the burdensome luxury
of an official residence in London.