CHAPTER 18

The household might seem to be waiting for them, but more likely they were all gathered in the kitchen and around the table only because they were just finishing the mid-day meal…

The origins of using a jury to determine guilt or innocence of a crime is rooted so far back in time that scholars write happy reams of speculation on not only when they began but on how they actually functioned.  When matters become somewhat clearer in England around 1200, the problems do not smooth away, because the function and form of juries has proven to be an ongoing process, so that what was true in 1200 was not necessarily still accurate in the 1400s.  But basically, the process of trial began with a jury of presentment.  Their task was to determine who should be tried for whatever crime had been committed.  The matter then went to the petty jury for full trial.

Mind – I said “basically”.  Medieval English juries worked under many different principles than modern ones do, beginning with the fact that rather than being ignorant of the crime and suspect they were trying, medieval English jurors were expected to know about both and “in some cases the presenting jury may have been turned immediately into a trial jury…”¹, guaranteeing they were well-acquainted with the case.

Moreover, besides what they were expected to find out for themselves, “Priming a jury with information … was quite in order.  In personal actions the jurors’ names were supposedly given by the sheriff to the parties so they might supply them with information. . . [A] statute of 1427 suggests it had become the practice to supply it before the trial took place.”² Nonetheless, “At the trial, hearsay was, indeed, taboo and judges must make sure that jurors did not rely upon it.  Jurors must know the truth, and were sworn to tell it to the best of their knowledge.  If, however, they did not know it or possessed imperfect knowledge they could not then support the prosecution, for they must not reach their verdicts on the basis of mere ‘thoughts’.”³ Outside witnesses could be brought in and, like the jurors, were expected to testify to what they knew, not on hearsay or opinion.  “A jury which acquitted in defiance of reason was liable to punishment by the king. . . If the case was one of murder, the jurors, when they returned their verdict, might be asked by the justices who in fact was the guilty party if not the accused.”⁴ [My bold.]

Now there is a scene that would be great fun to write.

Through the 1300s there was a change toward having the petty jury consist increasingly of “members [who] had not served on the juries which presented the crime.  The king was not at all pleased by this for he felt the chances of conviction were reduced.  Maybe he believed that petty jurors who were meeting the case for the first time might, through their lack of knowledge about it, be lacking in sympathy for the party injured.  Despite the increasing use of the testimony of witnesses [my bold] this fear may not have been unfounded.  Nonetheless, in 1352 Edward III had to give in to popular pressure and agree that no indictor should be put on a petty jury if challenged by the accused.”⁵

I emphasize the “increasing use of the testimony of witnesses” to counterbalance a tendency in the more simple sources to undervalue the effort that juries were expected to put into finding correct verdicts.  To quote from (gasp!) Wikipedia: “The source of juror knowledge could include first-hand knowledge, investigation, and less reliable sources such as rumor and hearsay” (citing Daniel Klerman, “Was the Jury Ever Self-Informing” Southern California Law Review 77: (2003), 123), which points up the kind of blanket statements that reduce medieval matters to a simplicity they rarely were in reality.

Of course, as with anything to do with the law, none of this was as simple as given here.  There were all manner of nuances and complexities based on time and place and who was involved — and all of those shifted over the medieval centuries.  I like lawyers but you won’t find me trying to write a book centered on one because I’ve done enough research to realize I have no business getting into the mass of complexities medieval law involves, for fear of the myriad pitfalls awaiting me!

– Margaret

Sources
¹ Bellamy, John.  Crime and Public Order in England in the Later Middle Ages. 1973. p.145
² ibid. p.148
³ Pugh, Ralph B.  “Some Reflections of a Medieval Criminologist”.  Proceedings of the British Academy, vol. 59 (1973) p.98
⁴ Bellamy, John.  Crime and Public Order in England in the Later Middle Ages. 1973. p.151
⁵ ibid. p.145

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CHAPTER 16

The next day began gray, with low clouds and scudding rain, well suited to Joliffe’s dark humour and, he did not doubt, to a number of other people’s.  It had been bad enough, seeing him hanging there, dead.  Today he would have to look at his body again and did not care even for the thought of that...

By late medieval times in England, the coroner (properly “crowner”) had become the official first-responder where a doubtful and/or unexpected death had occurred.  It was his duty to determine whether the death were accidental and therefore of no interest to the king, or due to a crime and therefore potentially bringing profit to the king through the seizure of property of the guilty.

Lacking an established police force (and no quick way to bring them on the scene anyway), it was the duty of any citizens present or in the vicinity of a crime to apprehend the perpetrator or else, if he was fleeing, to raise the “hue and cry”.  The hue and cry required, by law, that everyone in hearing set out in hot pursuit and, if possible, lay hold on the wrong-doer and afterward keep him secure until the crowner could be summoned to take over the official duty of investigating the crime.

The coroner’s business, when he arrived, was to gather as many facts about the death as possible, both by questioning witnesses and studying the body and the scene of the crime (or whether the death was accidental death), as detailed in The Laws and Customs of England by Henry de Bracton (as translated by Samuel Thorne and published by the Harvard University Press, 1968) where the coroner’s duties are given at length, beginning with, “[Wherever men are found dead] it is the business of the coroners to make diligent inquiry with respect to such, and if they have been slain, as to the slayers, when he is unknown, and therefore, as soon as they have their order … they ought to go to those who have been slain or wounded or drowned or have met untimely deaths … [and] at once and without delay to the place where the dead man has been found, and on their arrival there to order four, five or six of the neigbouring vills to come before them at once and by their oath hold an inquest …  on the slain man…”  The coroner is to ask where he was slain and under what circumstances, and who was present when it happened, and which of them “were guilty as principals and which as accessories, counsellors or instigators.”  Whoever is found guilty by inquest is to be arrested at once “if they are present or can be found elsewhere, and handed over to the sheriff and clapped in gaol.”

On the other hand, if the victim is found in the fields or woods, it is to be learned “whether the dead man was slain where he was found or elsewhere.  If he was not slain there, as may be ascertained by presumptions, often, if he has wounds, by the flow of blood, the traces left by the malefactors are to be promptly and immediately discovered and followed,” whether of cart, horses’ hoofmarks, “the footprints of men or in some other way, according as that may best and most efficiently be done.”  And so on.

In The Medieval Coroner by R.F. Hunnisett goes into great detail regarding all the duties of medieval coroners and other matters concerning them, but here, for now, it’s murder that most occupies us, yes?

– Margaret

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The virtual bookclub for A Play of Heresy is resting for today and tomorrow while I spend the Christmas holidays with my sons. May your presents include the joy of many fine books! (I certainly hope mine do!)

– Margaret

CHAPTER 15

The smiths had begun readying their pageant wagon, too, but had yet to roll it out of its shed into the yard. Their shed being higher than the weavers’, they had been able, so far, to work sheltered against the likely chance of rain. With the westering sunlight slanting low and long into the shed, Joliffe could see the steps from the wagon to the ground were already in place and that the stage house’s frame at the wagon’s far end was up. Deeply involved in his own work as he had been, he had not yet taken in much about other guilds’ plays, but here a thick post fixed to one side of the wagon, a high crosspiece thrusting out to one side, could only be the “tree” from which Judas was said to have hung himself in his despair and guilt. That meant the smiths’ pageant must be the Christ’s Passion and Crucifixion…

To put it in brief: We don’t know what they looked like and we don’t know how they were built.  Not for certain.  Not nearer than reasonable guessing.  We know that they were specially constructed for their purpose and were a considerable investment.  When the Protestants finally brought an end to performances of the medieval cycle plays, one guild’s account book recorded the dismantling and piecemeal sale of its wagon; apparently it was so specialized that it could not be put to another use as it was.

Other details are gleaned in bits and pieces from other account books and from what the plays themselves obviously required in production, but there is nothing definitive – neither how the wagons looked nor how they were used.  Most pictures online and in books are either of much later pageant wagons (take note that Baroque extravaganzas from the 1600s do not accurately reflect medieval stages) – or not wagons at all (they lack wheels and are obviously simply scaffolds, no matter what the label says) – or are attempts at reconstruction by people who extrapolate strenuously, sometimes beyond the evidence, in the attempt to make a medieval pageant wagon that could carry the burden of technological complications the author thinks are required for an effective production, even if sometimes that means adding an unwarranted second wagon.

These latter recreations are done apparently by people without actual theatrical experience, unaware of how little it takes to carry an audience imaginatively anywhere director and cast want them to go, but that is a theme for another essay altogether.  Here I have to confess that in writing A Play of Heresy I never had to go into heavy-duty detail on the structure of the pageant wagons or how they looked beyond superficial matters like paint and the position of the stagehouse.  The story doesn’t require more than that, and to include unnecessary details would have been self-indulgent.

Unfortunately for me, I wanted to understand more.  First, there’s the matter of balancing the wagon itself – balance and counterbalance so there’s no danger of tipping.  And the position of the stagehouse for at least one of the plays in the book.  And size.  And proportions.  And… And… And…

I was working things out in my head at the point when my editor asked if I had a picture of what a pageant wagon looked like.  Herewith are the sketches I sent her of my guesses.  You can judge for yourself whether they were of any interest to the cover artist, but they certainly served to settle my thoughts as I moved forward with the story.

– Margaret

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CHAPTER 14

Joliffe took in that bit of information with a jolt deep in his guts.  Was still finding his way to some response when Sebastian said with less satisfaction, “Not that that suffices to prove anything…”

In the early days of new prosperity for Basset’s company, Joliffe treated himself to a small book of poems by Thomas Hoccleve, purchased from a scrivener in London.  If you’d not heard of Hoccleve before then, I’m not particularly surprised.  Despite his poetry seeming to have been reasonably popular in his own time (born in the late 1360s; died 1426), it afterward fell from notice for a few centuries, was then noticed and denigrated by scholars for a few generations, and only in the latter half of the 1900s began to be appreciated again.

Hoccleve himself admired and knew his contemporaries Geoffrey Chaucer and John Gower, and seems to have actually been one of several scribes who copied out some manuscripts of their work.  His admiration did not keep him from a personal creative vigor all his own, though, including a wry willingness to write against the grain of fashion.  Where it was common practice to set poems in the fair, green days of Spring, he began one long work with:

“After that harvest had inned his sheaves,                                                      [brought in]
And that the brown season of Michaelmas
Was come, and began the trees rob of their leaves . . .
And they into color of yellowness
Had died and been down thrown underfoot . . .”

And whereas it was commonplace to have a poem take place as a dream to the poet, Hoccleve instead preferred to keep the moment intensely awake and personal as:

“And in the end of November, upon a night,
Sighing sore, as I in my bed lay,
For this and other thoughts which many a day,
Before, I took, sleep came none in my eye,
So vexed me the thoughtful malady.”                                    [melancholy/depression]

Indeed, he was very much the poet of the personal, to a degree that only the captive Charles, duke of Orleans matched in England at the time.

Hoccleve worked for his living all his life as a government clerk in the Office of the Privy Seal at Westminster, but at some point in his life he had some manner of mental breakdown – “…the substance of my memory, Went away to play for a certain time…”  — so severe that it incapacitated him and frightened people away from him.  When he recovered, he wrote of that, too – the anguish of losing control of his thoughts, the friends who deserted him, and his struggle to recover, all the while questioning the reason why it happened to him.

Hoccleve seems to me very much a poet who would appeal to Joliffe, both for his wry humor and deep thoughtfulness, as well as for his rich use of words.  I personally think I may keep for my own use in moments of severe irk, “Vexation of spirit and torment, Lack I right none.  I have them in plenty”!

There’s a quite satisfactory Wikipedia article about him, including a contemporary painting of him presenting one of his works to the future Henry V, and a painting of his much-admired Geoffrey Chaucer that Hoccleve included in a manuscript of his own poems as a “remembrance” of Chaucer for the sake of those who had not known him or had forgotten what he looked like – an endearing gesture on Hoccleve’s part toward a man he never ceased to admire.

There are various modern editions of his works.  From my own library, I can recommend:

Hoccleve, Thomas. “My compleinte” and Other Poems. ed. Roger Ellis.  University of Exeter Press, 2001.
Hoccleve, Thomas. The Regiment of Princes. ed. Charles R. Blyth.  Medieval Institute Publication, 1999.

– Margaret

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CHAPTER 13

A few days followed that were as near ordinary as Joliffe was used to anymore.  He worked twice with the young devils for hell’s harrowing.  He firmed his lines as Ane and the Prophet into his mind.  He strolled out once to see how Tisbe and Ramus were doing where they were pastured outside of Coventry.  He spent time with Basset and the others, helping with their cart and gear, Basset having decreed that this while off the road was the perfect time to give a good tending to everything, from greasing the wheels and checking all the underpinnings and harness to laying out every one of their playing properties, to mend those that needed it and dispose of such as were past decent use.  Basset set Joliffe and Gil on quest to find and buy what could be used in place of the latter, a quest which diverted Joliffe and Gil for most of a day and gave Joliffe chance to be in places around Coventry for which he might otherwise have lacked excuse…

I’ve said a little bit about Saint Genesius the Actor (otherwise St. Genesius of Rome) elsewhere, but there’s more to be said – as well as adding the fact that there are several Saints Genesius, so you want to be sure you’re invoking the right one, depending on your particular need, right?  Especially since I can’t help the suspicion — given the Church’s official stance against players — that St. Genesius the Bishop is the one who makes it rain on outdoor performances of the Genesius Guild’s plays.

Although it is disputed whether he existed at all, if St. Genesius of Rome did live, it was about 300 CE because his story has him martyred during the reign of the Roman emperor Diocletian.  It seems that Genesius was a happily pagan actor but became well enough acquainted with Christians to understand their faith.  While performing in a play in the emperor’s presence, mocking the Christian rite of baptism, Genesius suddenly converted to belief and acceptance of the faith.

He then proceeded to tell the emperor so.

Diocletian, in return, ordered him tortured.  When Genesius still refused to give up his new faith, he was beheaded.

His feast day is August 25, and he is considered the patron saint not only of actors, but of dancing teachers, mountebanks, musicians, and organ-blowers – apparently the sort of people considered fit companions for actors?

Modern additions to this list include lawyers, barristers, and stenographers.  I am not going to speculate on this.

St. Genesius, Bishop of Clermont is another sort altogether.  For one thing, he is known for certain to have lived.  In the first half of the 600s, when Christianity was the accepted religion in Europe, he grew up at Clermont, France, and was (as told in Alban Butler’s Lives of the Saints) “learned, virtuous, and benevolent”, and so beloved in the area that when the previous bishop died, Genesius was unanimously elected his successor by churchmen and common people alike.  He really didn’t want the job, even tried to go to Rome to ask the pope to release him from the office, but his people insisted and he became “like a wise father” in the diocese, building a church, a hospice, and a monastery.  He died quite peacefully about 660.

Unfortunately for him, a Google search for “St. Genesius” does not bring up a reference to him until the third page.  Apparently being certainly real does not compensate for not being an actor and martyr, however possibly fictitious.  Now that I think about it, he may have more reasons than one for raining out those plays.

– Margaret

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CHAPTER 12

The work with Dick went well enough, and Joliffe told him so.  That did not keep the boy from bolting out the yard’s rear gate as soon as Joliffe released him.  Powet, watching his great-nephew escape, suggested they leave the same way.  “So as not to trouble my niece, you know.”

More likely to avoid being called to account for Dick’s disappearance, Joliffe guessed, but agreed.  His own motives were mixed and he regretted that.  He liked Powet, understood somewhat the hurt the man was in, but beyond that he was not likely to have a better source than Powet for matters in Coventry and about Kydwa.  That made of value every chance to talk with him and draw him out…

Old John Kydwa quotes from the book of Ecclesiastes in this chapter, but while the words are close enough to the familiar form in more modern bibles for the verse to be identifiable, they’re nonetheless different enough to ring strange.  That’s because they’re drawn from the medieval English Bible of John Wycliffe.

There are a number of misconceptions regarding this early translation of the Bible.  For one thing, bibles in the vernacular were not a new phenomenon, either in English or other languages.  As early as the 700s portions of the Bible were being translated into Old English and German and surely other languages.  By the end of the 1100s there were enough vernacular versions abroad in Europe – and several powerful heresies using them – that the pope banned versions of the Bible not authorized by the Church.  Still, in the late 1200s there was a complete Bible in French, with no sign that the Church tried to suppress it, and around the mid-1300s there was a Czech translation of the whole Bible, a few decades ahead of Wyclif’s Bible in the 1380s.

So the concept of a Bible in the language of ordinary people was not a cause of trouble in itself.  In truth, reading the Bible in English was not automatically punishable as heresy.  The heresy lay in using what you interpreted from the Bible as reason to challenge and deny the Church’s authority.  Telling the Church it was wrong and refusing to obey it – that was heresy, and all the more infuriating to the Church because the refusal was usually accompanied by a matching refusal to fulfill the monetary duties the Church required of good Christians.

In England, the heresy that arose in the late 1300s was Lollardy, and its challenge to the Church reached such a pitch that Wyclif’s Bible was banned in 1408.  Even then, however, it was not absolutely illegal to possess a copy of it.  Copies appear listed among the books of a number of nobles, including the famously pious King Henry VI himself, and it can be a fair assumption that many more people had copies that have escaped the records.  In fact, texts from the Wyclif Bible exist in more than 250 medieval manuscripts, more than for any other piece of Middle English literature.  True, by the time of A Play of Heresy it was necessary to have official permission from the Church to possess a copy, but that was not impossible to get nor would it immediately brand you a heretic.

As for reading Wyclif’s Bible today, the language can be dense and difficult going, but every once in a while some familiar passage lights up with a fresh seeming because the words are different.  Perhaps my favorite is from the Psalms:  “. . . and my cuppe, fillinge greetli, is ful cleer.  And thi merci schal sue me; in alle the daies of my lijf.  And that Y dwelle in the hows of the Lord; in to the lengthe of daies.” —  . . . and my cup is greatly filled full clear.  And thy mercy shall pursue me in all the days of my life.  And I [will] dwell in the house of the Lord into the length of days.”

– Margaret

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CHAPTER 11

With Piers full of delight at showing off his skills and surprisingly patient at helping the other boys begin to learn simple tumbling, Joliffe had an easier time with the pack of them than he had feared he would.  Whatever Piers had been doing these days of running wild in the town, he had plainly found an acknowledged place among these boys that made them willing to listen to him and follow his lead.  Of course the thought of anyone following Piers’ lead in anything was usually cause for alarum, but Joliffe was not about the scorn the present usefulness of it…

In A Play of Heresy there’s much talk about merchants traveling back and forth between Coventry and Bristol, with mention made of the iron and wool that come into Coventry as raw materials and later sent out as completed goods.  What some readers may find surprising — given the prevalent notion that medieval people did not travel far from home (the exceptions of course being to go on crusade or pilgrimage, or forming a mob to march on London) — is just how widely medieval people travelled in the ordinary way of things.

In England by late medieval times, serfdom was well on the wane due to economic changes at the manorial level, and by way of people named such things as John of Bywater and Joan of Ramsey turning up hired in towns a goodly distance from their apparent birthplace, we know there was significant shifting of individuals about the landscape and that people did not necessarily stay within a few miles of their village for all their lives.

Among those who most surely travelled farthest and widest were the merchants – the heart of the rising middle class of their day – and with them, not incidentally, would go their servants, taking advantage of an elaborate network of trade routes spread the length and breadth of England and stretching well overseas.  Within England, there was a constant movement of native products: iron and other metals and the finished products made from them; wool to weaving centers from which the finished cloth went Europe-wide; slates from Wales to roof houses in London; coals from the North to heat homes in the south (air pollution from coal fires are noted in London in the 1480s); cattle on the hoof by drove roads from the grazing uplands in far corners of Britain to towns and cities where they could be sold for a profit.  And so on.

And then from the ports, goods and merchants constantly came and went, ranging north to Iceland and the Scandinavian countries and into the Baltic, east to Flanders and France, southward along the Iberian coasts, with hope of eventually breaking the Italian control of the Mediterrean trade.  A fascinating work that details this international trade from the English perspective is The Libelle of Englyshe Polycye – The Little Book of English Policy – written about 1436 and happily to be read online, should you wish to see into what a wide network of international trade the mercers and drapers and other merchants of Coventry were actually bound.

– Margaret

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CHAPTER 10

With both of them mutually silenced for the moment by those thoughts, Joliffe took his empty cup and Sebastian’s and went to have them refilled.  Sitting down again and handing Sebastian his, he said, “It would be good to know if the murderer encountered Kydwa by chance or on purpose, planned ahead to kill him or simply used the moment as it came.  And what happened to the horses Kydwa and his man were riding?”

Here and in the previous chapter, Joliffe is in the first stages of gathering sufficient information to catch a murderer.  But could he, would he – as a medieval man — actually have done this?  I ask because I’ve heard that someone has claimed that all history mysteries set in medieval times are simply wrong from the very outset – are not historical at all — because medieval people didn’t do that kind of thinking, that the concept of detecting anything was beyond them.

This notion has to be rooted in the enduring idea that the Middle Ages were inhabited by people who were, without exception, crude, violent, ignorant, and unremittingly filthy and disease-ridden; that medieval people could not read or wash or stop killing each other, and certainly couldn’t think much beyond the level of “Who do I hit/rape/rob/slaughter next?” or – at best – “When will the Renaissance get here so I can take a bath?”

I shall ignore all the exceedingly overt evidence that might give someone with an ounce of intellectual chutzpa pause over accepting the above clichés.  That’s for another day.  Instead, let’s simply look at the idea of whether medieval people had the concept of “detect”.

The immediate, plain answer is yes.

Admittedly, no one could be a “detective” because the word did not come into being until the 1800s, but the words “detect”, “detection”, and “investigate” were alive and well in England by late medieval times.

More than that, instructions to coroners as early as the 1200s give instructions on what to look for at the scene of a crime that are still procedurally valid today.

But then there’s “sleuthing”.  Oddly enough, until just now I had never given the word much thought.  Maybe it feels too Sherlock Holmesian, but for whatever reason, I’d never thought of using it.  Now, as an exercise in expanding my vocabulary horizons, I just checked my Oxford English Dictionary and am taken by surprise.  (A refreshingly common occurrence.)  “Sleuth” does exist as a medieval word.  Unfortunately, its primary meaning as a noun is “sloth” or “laziness”.  Not the best of qualities for our, um, detective.  Only somewhat better is its secondary, albeit Scottish, meaning, dating from 1200, where “sleuth” means the track or trail of a person or animal.  But as a verb, it seems to have only referred to being slothful – meaning to delay, postpone, and neglect.  Apparently it was not used in the sense of tracking a person until the early 1900s.

So I guess that while Joliffe can go on investigating and detecting, he won’t be doing any sleuthing.  Unless he decides to take some time off work, of course.

– Margaret

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CHAPTER 9

Cautious to make his curiosity seem light, Joliffe said, “I thought I’d heard Lollards were against plays and players.  Mockers of God’s creation.  Mockers of the divine.  All that manner of thing.”

“They wouldn’t live long in Coventry crying havoc against our plays,” Powet said easily.  “Nay, it’s only the worst of them that go that far with things.  Same sort as think they can overthrow the king and lords and church and all.  I’d guess most have naught against it at all, just enjoy suchlike with the rest of us.”

The town of Coventry was a prospering place in the 1400s, and as was usual in prospering medieval towns, the citizens showed their gratitude to God (and, not so incidentally, their prosperity) by building grand churches. In Coventry’s case, that included three churches with fine spires.

Over the following centuries, Coventry’s prosperity fell and rose in cycles, but always rising proud against the sky above the town were the three spires of its great churches. Of course when Joliffe comes to Coventry in 1438, there are only two finished spires. He sees the third, unfinished, as he approaches the town, and later, he has an assignation in the church there – St. Michael’s, a parish church so grand that when Coventry became a bishopric, St. Michael’s became its cathedral.

In my travels around Britain, I’ve been in many cathedrals, collecting guidebooks, taking notes, garnering impressions, but although I’ve been to Coventry several times, I’ve never been inside medieval St. Michael’s. It isn’t there anymore. When the medieval heart of Coventry burned in 1940, its cathedral burned with it. The handsome church that Joliffe walks through in A Play of Heresy was hit with too many incendiary bombs to survive even the heroic efforts made to save it. The lead covering the roof melted and ran like rainwater. The carved roof timbers burned and crashed into the nave and chapels. The stained glass windows shattered. The great stone pillars cracked and fell into rubble.

What the people of Coventry did afterward is an inspiration to warm the heart, but it’s not for telling here. Here the question is: If St. Michael’s is gone, what do we actually know of what Joliffe sees there?

Happily, the age of photography had come before St. Michael’s went. There are useful books and online sites in plenty that show its floorplan and how it was before World War II. For me, though, the source that touched me most deeply came in a fat bundle of little pamphlets from a series called Notes on Famous Churches and Abbeys. Sent by English friends, they include one on St. Michael’s, Coventry, and while other sources had much to tell me, there is sometime particularly immediate in reading words about St. Michael’s written by someone when St. Michael’s was still “alive”, when it was an actual place that could be walked through and experienced, not merely a memory and a regret.

For me, this particularly matters, because bringing alive a past time and place and people is what I try so hard to do in all my books. So much is gone from medieval times, most of it leaving behind far less trace than St. Michael’s has, that the recreating can be laborious, but I’m always glad to do the most I can to make lost places, lost people, lost times seem immediate and real, giving a kind of life to what is otherwise altogether gone.

At Historic Coventry, if you go to the bottom of this page, there is an aerial photograph of St. Michael’s as it was in the late 1800s. Click on the picture to see an identical photo the day after the German raid in 1940.

– Margaret

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