lead; and if a walk down Oxford Street lands us among 'coronation' cuffs
and collars and soaps and souvenirs it is only to be expected that a
Mediæval Byway should bring us into the subject of coronations. For of all
the survivals with which we are surrounded in this conservative country
the coronation ceremonies, though shorn of much of their grandeur and
significance during the last hundred years, are still the most unchanged
in spirit and in detail. For one thing, they restore to London for a brief
period the predominant feature of mediæval life--colour. For a few days,
in 1911 as in 1236, the city is 'adorned with silkes, banners, crownes,
pals, tapers, lampes, and with certaine wonders of wit and strange
showes'; and, though the colour-scheme is baulked of fulness by the sad
clothes of the spectators, there is a blaze of gaiety which is pleasing in
its appeal to primitive instincts and its disregard of business and
utilitarianism.
[Illustration: '_Henry's badge._']
The proceedings in connection with the coronation of our mediæval kings
began at the Tower. Very significant was it that before taking formal
possession of his throne the king took practical possession of the
fortress. But if his claim to the crown rested partly on force and the
strong hand, it rested also upon the elective will of the people, and
accordingly, on the day before the coronation the king rode from the Tower
to Westminster Palace to show himself to his subjects that they might see
what sort of man it was whom they were choosing for king. Naturally the
processional ride was made as magnificent and impressive as possible. With
the king went a crowd of nobles, all on horseback, conspicuous amongst
them being the recipients of 'coronation honours,' the new-made Knights of
the Bath, usually thirty or forty in number, upon whom the honour of
knighthood had been bestowed, with the accompaniment of scarlet-furred
robes and other gifts of apparel, the previous day. Richard III., whose
cavalcade eclipsed the splendour of his predecessors, was accompanied by
three dukes, nine earls, and a hundred knights and lords, all gorgeously
attired, 'whereof the Duke of Buckingham so farre exceeded, that the
caparison of his horse was so charged with embroydered worke of gold, as
it was borne up from the ground by certaine his footmen thereto
appointed.' Nor did Henry VII., though careful and even parsimonious in
most matters, spare expense over his procession. He himself was arrayed in
rich cloth of gold of a purple ground, of which ten yards were bought from
Jerome Friscobaldi at the prodigious price of £8 the yard; the 'trappour,'
or caparison, of his charger was made of crimson damask cloth of gold,
costing £80, and either this or another trappour was adorned with 102
silver-gilt 'portculiez' (Henry's badge, so often repeated upon the walls
of his chapel at the Abbey) made by 'Hanche Doucheman.' Over the king's
head was a canopy of cloth of gold, the gilded staves of which were
carried by relays of knights, changed at frequent intervals that many
might partake of the honourable but arduous duty, and in attendance on him
were the 'henxmen,' dressed in crimson satin (costing 16_s._ the yard) and
white cloth of gold embroidered with the royal arms from designs by
Christian Poynter, who also executed twelve 'cotes of armes for herauldes,
beten and wrought in oyle colours with fyne gold,' and twelve similar
trumpet banners. The henchmen led the spare charger which for some reason
always formed part of the royal procession. It was, possibly, for this
state charger that the 'trappours of St. George' were made, of white cloth
of gold, but the 'trappour of blue velvet with 102 red roses worked with
Venice gold and dragons of red velvet,' and the other 'trappour' with the
arms of Cadwallader, clearly belonged to the queen's portion of the
procession. She was clad in white damask cloth of gold, reclining on
cushions of the same material in a litter drawn by two horses with white
harness and trappings, under a canopy of white damask with silver staves.
Five henchmen in crimson and blue led her palfrey of estate; then came
three 'cheires,' or carriages, each containing four ladies and draped in
crimson, and then seven ladies in blue velvet 'purfelled' with crimson
satin, riding on palfreys all of one colour with harness of crimson cloth
of gold, her suite displaying a splendour of colour which formed an
excellent foil to her own silvery radiance.
[Illustration: _A 'herauld.'_]
Our sovereigns no longer start from a fortress to ascend the throne, and
they show themselves to their loyal subjects after they have been crowned
instead of before the ceremony, not from any fear that they may prove
unacceptable to the people, but because none would dream of challenging
their right. But if Buckingham Palace is a less satisfactory
starting-point than the Tower (and there are artists who consider the
latter the more picturesque), there are some things in which we have
improved upon our ancestors. Chief amongst these are the police
arrangements. It is no longer necessary to proclaim, as was done when
Edward II. was crowned, 'That no one shall dare to carry sword, or pointed
knife, or dagger, mace, or club, or other arms on pain of imprisonment for
a year and a day'--the only weapon of offence thus sternly prohibited
now-a-days being the aeroplane. Nor is the threat of a similar penalty
needed to ensure the polite treatment of foreigners attending the
coronation. A certain amount of severity was no doubt required to
counteract the effects of nine conduits in the Cheap running red and white
wine, with auxiliary fountains at Westminster, however weak the wine may
have been. Modern coronations are not 'hanseld and auspicated,' as was
that of Richard I., with the blood of many Jews, because some of their
number had dared sacrilegiously to gaze upon the king--a privilege
notoriously accorded to cats, but evidently forbidden to a dog of a Jew.
On the other hand, we are spared such disastrous overcrowding as occurred
at the coronation of Edward II., when the king had to go out of his palace
by the back door to avoid the crush, and by the pressure of the crowd
within the Abbey a stout earthen wall was broken down, a prominent citizen
'threstyd to deth,' and the area reserved for the ceremony invaded.
It would seem from the instance just quoted that the temporary erections
made by our ancestors on these occasions would not have passed the L.C.C.
tests, and we may also flatter ourselves that they would never have been
capable of hiding their churches and other public buildings under a sea of
ingeniously constructed deal seats, but still the carpenters and
upholsterers were kept pretty busy at the Abbey for some little time
before the ceremony, though the tradesmen who most benefited were the
leading mercers, who had to supply great quantities of cloth of gold,
velvet, Turkish and Italian silks, samite, and fine linen of Tripoli.
Within the Abbey, at the crossing of the transepts, a high stage had to be
erected for the chair of state, where the king sat in full view of the
people during the first part of the service. This stage was covered with
rugs and hung round with silken cloth of gold, the chair of state being
also provided with a golden canopy and silken cushions. Several varieties
of cloth of gold were used, the bill for this material at the coronation
of Edward III., in 1327, amounting to £450, much of it being bought from
one John de Perers, who might very well have been the father of Alice
Perers, that 'busy court-flie' who infatuated the king in his declining
years. The most expensive variety was 'silken cloth of gold of Nak,' but
what place is meant by Nak I cannot say with any certainty: just
conceivably it might be Nasik close to Bombay, for much of this material
came from at least as far east as Turkey; but whatever its place of
origin, it was used for the king's hose and shoes, and for the little tent
or shrine before the high altar within which the ceremony of anointing,
with its attendant disrobing, took place. The next most valuable kind is
described as _raffata_--presumably 'reeded,' though the word is not to be
found in Ducange (when will some one do for mediæval Latin what Oxford and
Sir James Murray are doing for modern English?)--was used for covering the
archbishop's chair, while of a third variety, diapered or damask, one
whole cloth was offered at the high altar, and two cloths sewed together
were used to cover the tomb of the king's grandfather, Edward I. Others of
these diaper cloths, with purple velvet and cloth of Tartar, or Armenian,
silk, were used in the chancel and round the high altar, while canvas
cloth of gold was mixed with the more precious kinds or employed in less
important positions.
[Illustration: '_The young Edward III._']
The king, after his ride to Westminster Palace, partook of a light supper
and retired to his chamber. If he had not already been knighted he
prepared for that ceremony, a usual though not invariable preliminary to
coronation, by keeping vigil. The room in which the young Edward III.
rested was provided with red rugs with the royal arms worked in the
corners, three 'bankers' or bench covers of a like design, and other
'bankers' of red, green, murrey and blue, and his bath was covered with
silken cloth of gold, though for the bath of Henry VII. Flemish linen was
considered good enough. On the morning of the coronation day the king,
after the ceremonial bath, put on spotless raiment, to signify that 'as
his body glistens with the washing and the beauty of his vestments so may
his soul shine,' and went into Westminster Hall, where he was lifted by
his lords into his throne. Presently the royal procession, the king
walking barefoot and the various nobles carrying the regalia, started
down the covered way, carpeted with the coarse burrell cloth of
Candlewykstrete (now Cannon Street), so much of this carpet as lay outside
the church being the perquisite of the lord of the manor of Bedford as
almoner for the day, and were met by the monks and clergy, and by them
conducted into the Abbey. With the details of the ceremony that then
ensued, 'whereof the circumstaunce to shewe in ordre wolde aske a longe
leysoure,' all who are interested must by this time be well acquainted, so
often and so fully has it been described.
[Illustration: _Crowns ancient and modern._]
The ceremonial investiture was performed with the regalia of St. Edward,
preserved in the Abbey treasury and regarded as too sacred for lay hands
to touch, so that in the procession they were carried set out upon a
covered board; but before the close of the service the king laid aside the
crown of St. Edward and assumed his royal crown. This did not resemble the
glittering monstrosity with which we now render our sovereigns' heads
uncomfortable and slightly absurd, but was a dignified and artistic
circlet of the type known to heraldic writers as a ducal coronet. Edward
III. had three crowns, all of gold, the chief--described in 1356 as
'lately pawned in Flanders'--with eight fleurs-de-lys of rubies and
emeralds with four great orient pearls and eight sprays of balas rubies
and orient sapphires; the second, given to Queen Philippa, had ten
fleurs-de-lys of rubies and emeralds with groups of emeralds and six
pearls; the third was not, strictly speaking, a crown, but a chaplet,
being an unflowered circlet with nine groups of great oriental pearls and
in the midst a beautiful ruby. Wearing his crown and attended by his
nobles bearing the other insignia of royalty, the newly anointed king
returned to Westminster Palace for the great business of the coronation
banquet. For this event Westminster Hall was prepared, a 'siege royal,' or
throne, being set for the king at the upper end, covered with 'Turkish
cloth of gold,' or other handsome material, with a canopy. The benches of
the lower tables were covered with 'bankers' of red or blue cloth and
'dorsers' of the same material hung behind the guests--the 'dorser' being
the mediæval equivalent of the 'thing they call a dodo, running round the
wall.' The 'dorsers' behind the royal seat were of cloth of gold and were
protected from the dampness of the walls by a lining of canvas. When the
guests were seated in their order of precedence, and the Earl Marshal and
his attendants had ridden up and down the hall to make room for the
attendants, the banquet began, and during its course a number of nobles
and lords of manors had the duty or privilege of discharging various
services to the king, receiving as a rule valuable perquisites. Thus the
table had been laid by the lord of Kibworth-Beauchamp manor, in return for
which service he kept the salt cellar, knives, and spoons; the cloths and
napkins had been provided by the lord of Ashley in Essex, as Chief Napier,
and remained his property. The important post of Chief Butler was filled
by the Earl of Arundel, though at the coronation of Queen Eleanor, in
1236, his place was taken by the Earl of Surrey, as he had been
excommunicated by the Archbishop of Canterbury in a quarrel over sporting
rights, but the lord of Wimondley had the privilege of passing the first
cup of wine to the king, and then withdrew in favour of the mayor of
London, who acted as chief cupbearer--not without reward, for at the
coronation feast of Edward III. the mayor received as his fee a gold cup
enamelled with the royal arms, and a gold 'water-spout-pot,' or ewer,
ornamented with enamel and two Scottish pearls. At the same feast the
Earl of Lancaster as steward secured four silver chargers stamped with the
arms of Harclay, and four others bearing the badge of the Countess of
Hereford, ten silver skewers, and eight sauce-boats, each marked with the
royal leopard, and the chamberlain carried off two basins parcel gilt and
enamelled with the arms of England and Scotland. The lord of Addington
supplied a dish of gruel and the lord of Liston in Essex wafers; other
persons brought water and held basins and towels, and the head of the
family of Dymoke of Scrivelsby rode into the hall in full armour, with his
punning crest of a moke's ears on his helm, and offered to fight any one
who would deny the king's sovereignty.
[Illustration: '_Dymoke of Scrivelsby._']
But after all the main thing at a feast is the food. And that was
plentiful--even at the banquet of Edward II., where the waiting was
disgraceful. For his coronation feast Edward I. sent out orders to the
sheriffs of the different counties to provide 27,800 chickens, 540 oxen,
about a thousand pigs and 250 sheep, besides instructing the prelates to
send up as many swans, peacocks, cranes, rabbits, and kids as possible,
and also giving large orders for salmon, pike, eels, and lampreys. It is
not surprising that his cook, Hugh of Malvern, required six oaks and six
beeches to be made into tables for the kitchen. This suggests a certain
grossness of feeding which a study of the actual menu might dissipate;
certainly the banquets of later sovereigns were sufficiently elaborate and
varied. When Henry VI. was crowned in 1429, at the early age of nine, he
was served with three 'courses.' The first of these included not only
boiled beef and mutton, capons, herons, and cygnets, but 'Frument with
venyson; viand royall plantyd losynges of golde; Bore hedes in castellys
of golde and enarmed; a rede leche with lyons coruyn therin'--in other
words, a pink jelly or mould ornamented with lions--and, as a crowning
glory, 'Custarde royall with a lyoparde of golde syttynge therein and
holdynge a floure de lyce.' The second course, besides chickens,
partridges, cranes, peacock 'enhakyll' (with its feathers), and rabbits,
contained 'pygge endoryd'--gilded sucking-pig--'a frytour garnysshed with
a leopardes hede and two estryche feders; Gely party wryten and notyd with
Te Deum Laudamus,' and, as a masterpiece, 'A whyte leche (or blancmange)
plantyd with a rede antelop, a crowne aboute his necke with a chayne of
golde; flampayne powderyd with leopardes and flower delyce of golde.'
After this the third course, with no creation more wonderful than 'A bake
mete lyke a shylde, quarteryd red and whyte, sette with losenges gylte and
floures of borage,' falls rather flat. With each course was presented a
'sotyltie,' or elaborate device made, presumably, of sugar and pastry,
representing groups of kings and saints. These 'subtleties,' however, were
not to be compared to those at the coronation banquet of Katherine of
France, queen of Henry V. Her banquet also was of three courses, 'and ye
shall understand that this feest was all of fysshe,' and a most
astonishing variety of fish there was. Besides all the common
fish--salmon, soles, turbot, etc.--there were lampreys, in comparison
with which Henry III. once declared that all other fish were insipid,
'sturgeon with welkes,' a combination of the royal and the plebeian, fried
'menues,' or minnows, the mediæval whitebait, conger, now much neglected,
and 'porpies rostyd,' besides a score of other kinds, including certain
mysterious 'dedellys in burneux.' The sweets included 'Gely coloured with
columbyne floures'; 'flampeyn--a kind of raised pie--flourished with a
scochon royall, therein three crownes of golde plantyd with floure delyce
and floures of camemyll wrought of confeccyons'; 'A whyte leche
flourysshed with hawthorne levys and redde hawys;' and 'A march payne
garnysshed with dyverse fygures of aungellys, amonge the whiche was set an
ymage of Seynt Katheryne holdynge this rason, _Il est escrit, pur voir et
dit, per mariage pur cest guerre ne dure_.' Of the 'sotylties' the first
showed a pelican and its young, and an image of St. Katherine (of
Alexandria) holding a book in one hand and an inscribed scroll in the
other; the second showed a panther, the Queen's badge, and St. Katherine
with her more usual emblem, the wheel. The third and most elaborate was 'a
tigre lokyng in a mirrour and a man sittyng on horse backe, clene armyd,
holdyng in his armys a tiger whelpe, with this reason (_i.e._ motto), _Par
force sanz reson ie ay pryse ceste beste_, and with his one hande makynge
a countenaunce of throwynge of mirrours at the great tigre, the whiche
helde this reason, _Gile de mirrour ma fete distour_.' The legend of the
Tiger and the Mirror has been very fully worked out in connection with the
arms of the Kentish family of Sybill by Mr. G. C. Druce, a great authority
on unnatural history, but he does not appear to have known this instance
of its occurrence. An early bestiary informs us that 'there is a beast
which is called Tiger; it is a kind of serpent' (this suggests the
zoological classification of _Punch's_ railway porter--'Cats is dogs and
rabbits is dogs, but a tortoise is a hinsect'). 'This beast is of a nature
so courageous and fierce that no living man dares to approach it. When
the beast has young the hunters ... watch until they see the tiger go off
and leave its den and its young; they then seize the cubs and place
mirrors in the path just where they leave. The character of the tiger is
such that however angry it may be it is unable to look in the mirror
without its gaze becoming fixed.' (Surely this is more suggestive of Eve
than of the serpent?) 'It believes then that it is its cub that it sees in
the mirror; it recognises its figure with great satisfaction and believes
positively to have found its cub.' (This property of the mirror may
explain the puzzling question why so many ladies persist in dressing like
their own daughters.) Thus the hunters escape while the tiger stops where
it is, and I think that I had better follow the tiger's example.
[Illustration: '_The tiger and the mirror._']
IV
DEATH AND DOCTORS
To read a medical dictionary is to marvel that any man should enjoy even
brief intervals of health, there are so many delicate organs in the body
and so many diseases lying in wait for them. Read the pronouncements of
specialists on diet and the dangers which attend the eating of any food or
the drinking of any liquid, and the marvel grows. Add the extraordinary
facility with which accidents occur, and the margin between life and death
becomes surprisingly narrow. The crew of a destroyer are habitually
separated from the other world by about a quarter of an inch of steel.
With most of us the partition is less obvious, less constant and uniform,
but very nearly as thin in places. For any but the most hardened there
must always be a feeling of pleased surprise upon emerging safely on the
other side of Piccadilly Circus or the Embankment by Blackfriars. (It is
true that in the latter case a paternal, not to say grandmotherly, Council
has provided the unexciting alternative of a subway, but only leisurely
athletes have the time or energy to descend and reascend those stairs.)
The average City man is within inches and seconds of death every day, and
it is only when the inches and seconds become fractional that he realises
for the moment his insecurity of tenure. Which is just as well. Every age
has its own dangers: we have the motor car, unwitting apostle of socialism
in its brutal, individualistic disregard for the rights of others;
mediæval man, I am inclined to think, ran most risk from the quick temper
of his fellows.
From time to time, when some undesirable alien is arrested for stabbing an
enemy or chance acquaintance who has annoyed him, the police-court
magistrate before whom he is brought will comment, with patriotic pride,
on the 'un-English' nature of the offence. And it is true that at the
present time the Englishman as a rule emphasises his disagreement with his
opponent by means of fist or hob-nailed boot rather than with a knife, but
this was certainly not so in mediæval times. Call a man 'a boor' nowadays
and you may get a black eye, but the results were more disastrous in the
thirteenth century, as John Marsh found when he applied that opprobrious
term to Richard Fraunkfee as they were walking back from church at
Doncaster, for Richard promptly knifed him. Every man in those days
carried a knife, dagger, anelace, or baselard, and produced it without
hesitation if angered. Needless to say, the knife was much in evidence
after harvest feasts, wakes, and especially visits to the tavern, for
drunkenness has been an English vice since Fitz Stephen, in the twelfth
century, spoke of 'the inordinate drinking of fools' as one of the two
plagues of London. How far this failing was common to both sexes I do not
know; casual references to women in taverns occur occasionally, but they
might have been there as blamelessly as their descendants in a modern
tea-shop, and, so far as I can remember, I have only come across one woman
who met her death when drunk--a Yorkshire woman who fell down a well. At
the same time, seeing that 'the good wyf taugte hir dougter' in the
fifteenth century that 'if thou be ofte drunke it falle thee to schame,'
it looks as if occasional excess might have been condoned. With the
exception of drunkenness, the moving cause of the innumerable murderous
assaults is rarely given, and it is rather curious that the only two cases
which I have found of men quarrelling, with fatal results, over a woman
both occurred at ironworks in Yorkshire in 1266.
[Illustration: '_... got his arms round a branch._']