Craig Huddart the Principal Archaeologist (Northeast England & Scotland Lead) for Orion Heritage Archaeology is no stranger to the Bamburgh Research Project, he was a fiomer student and remains in touch with us.
He has added a new string to his bow as an interviewer and you can check out his new podcast episode below We even get a a mention – well more than one.
You thought we forgot about you, didn’t you? Oh no, we were waiting for spooky season to kick into high gear before we dropped our last post on the history of witchcraft in our part of the world. You can read Part I on magic and witches in some of the ancient empires of Mediterranean here, or check out our post on medieval magic in Part II here. The following, a holiday long-read that may require a cuppa, is our final installment that brings us up to the time period of our Witch’s Cottage.
By the 16th century, western Europe’s relationship with religion and magic was already changing again. The witchcraft persecutions stand out in this period for several reasons, and the idea of a witchcraft “scare” or “craze” on a large scale is a solidly early modern phenomenon in the regions discussed. This period includes multiple competing assertions of orthodoxy and heresy, heralding the two simultaneous Reformations, that of the Protestants (various sects finding their footing) and that of the Catholics (consisting of both introspection and insistent counter-narratives). Perhaps unexpectedly, the Protestant and Catholic ideas about the diabolic were nearly identical. Religious affiliation did not determine the ferocity of trials, as the denominations could be equally feverish or lenient from one locale to the next. Further, communication was undergoing its own revolution with the spread of printing technologies and the associated rise in literacy. So much material was written and published in pamphlet form, originally as part of the larger religious discourse, but then later as scandalous, embellished reports of witchcraft in use. There was a disconnect between our two types of primary sources: the furious treatises in response to the sensational stories, which argued against what was most hated and feared, and the actual court records that show the more frequent, and usually more mundane, accusations.
Our main secondary resources for the following two sections are from a fascinating edited volume, the Cambridge History of Magic and Witchcraft in the West, which spans over 2000 years of magic in Europe. Three chapters by contributors paint a complex but discernible picture of the evolution of the late medieval period into what we call the “Early Modern” through the lens of magic and witchcraft. For our purposes, we are talking about the 16th through 18th centuries. (Please don’t ask about the Renaissance as a chronological period, because our team has strong but conflicting feelings on That, and this is decidedly not the blog post to unpack it.)
The accusations we find during this period overlap with some of the root anxieties found during the Greek and Roman periods with respect to power, socioeconomics, and gender and sexuality. People are living in close quarters, with long-term relationships that may span generations; animosity may burn slowly in these communities, and accusations may be a release for those tensions. Malcolm Gaskill, in “Witchcraft and Evidence in Early Modern England” (2008), refers to these relationships as “micropolitics.” Hunting episodes are often highly localized, reflecting this web of intersecting angst. The very first trials seem to arise along contact zones in the Alps in Switzerland, France, and Italy, where societies, languages, and political systems abut one another.
A common theme that allowed the witch trials to become a phenomenon is how certain types of women fit (or don’t fit) into their communities. We can see this in the essays of Catherine Rider, David J. Collins, and Michael Bailey featured in the anthology named above.
Common vs Learned
Rider’s contribution to the anthology focuses on common magic, here referring to what the peasantry, tradespeople, and merchant classes would employ to protect their families and livelihoods. Charms and amulet use for healing were not being phased out as quickly as medical and church authorities may have hope. But at first, defensive magic was considered less disruptive to the social order. The main preoccupation of those in power was with evidence of harm done by witchcraft. Across multiple primary sources and secondary scholarly sources, we can see a recurring theme in neighbourly relationships turning hostile. Rising poverty across Europe creates a massive increase in households and individuals that cannot support themselves in the evolving economies: they get left behind. They can turn only to their church and their neighbours for so long. When neighbourly hospitality runs out, those receiving charity may feel abandoned and angry; should something unfortunate befall the formerly generous, those providing aid may believe that their kindness has been repaid with witchcraft. Many of the individuals that sought support were women without affiliation to a man or household: the unmarried, the widowed, and sex workers; foreign women also bore an Otherness that made them dangerous to the local social order. Women are especially associated with harmful love magic, which makes men fear for their own influence in families and communities or that their own bad behaviour may be revealed. During the early modern period, women are disproportionately put on trial for harm done supposedly via witchcraft all over Europe; notable exceptions include Iceland, Normandy, Finland, Estonia, and Russia. There absolutely were men accused of witchcraft, such as priests whose association with ritual and religion.
Rider also addresses the difficulty jobs like ours here at the BRP! She stresses the importance of using material culture to better understand common magic, and how difficult it is to prove a connection between the artefact and its desired function. Apotropaic marks (which are meant to ward off evil) known as “witch marks” range from symbols to abbreviations, and they are found in the architectural features of homes of those who feared magical attack. Every once in a while you may come upon a news story about shoes found in early modern walls or bottles dug up under floorboards. These too were thought to have protective properties. Witch bottles were buried in the home with bits and bobs, and even hair and urine. So far 147 have been found in England, including this one just confirmed by further tests recently. These objects are signs of defensive magic; objects of active, offensive magic are even more nebulous in the archaeological record. We can only hope to add to the growing corpus of witchcraft material culture as we excavate our own Witch’s Cottage!
Collins’ examination of “learned magic” defines practices that required access to books and equipment to master, as well as previous education in words, maths, and technology. One required a link to a monastery, university, or royal courts to have the texts and accoutrements, and these positions to privilege were open almost entirely to men. The learned agents try to legitimise some practices by grounding them in natural philosophy. Instead of witchcraft, these men’s expertise was considered natural magic, a field of study we see developing during the high medieval period which believed the natural world had hidden forces one could discern and manipulate. Subjects covered ranged from alchemy to astrology to divination by various means, which become the basis of what we would call the natural sciences today. Alchemy experimentation gives us chemistry, astrology gives us astrology, divination practices straddle biology and physics. The early modern period sees these fields once relegated to magic being adapted and folded into university curricula.
Bailey’s chapter brings us into the realm of diabolism—the assertion of association with the Devil and his demons. Demonology as a field begins in the 14th century, and we see a massive shift from individual acts to a fear of organised cults. Witchcraft is believed to truly be communal. Initially, those in power targeted “learned magic” such as male necromancers, because it was the more pressing threat to existing order and power dynamics, but eventually they extended their persecutions to include the common traditions. Fifteenth-century authors like Johannes Nider and Heinrich Kramer were preoccupied with gender, but they were originally the outliers. From the 15th through 18th centuries, there are hundreds of thousands of accusations, tens of thousands of trials, and about 50,000 executions, not including vigilante killings or death via torture or jail. Three of every four trial targets were women, again related to the fear of the harm women could theoretically inflict with respect to their traits and roles in the household (fertility, sexuality, food preparation). The idea of the diabolical woman takes a page from the ideas in Greco-Roman antiquity, this time with stronger explicit misogyny. Women were considered weak in all aspects, from the physical to the intellectual, and thus easily susceptible. Yet even with all of this, England is painted as being …how shall I put this…relatively chill compared to the Continent, but there was little consistency on the Continent itself!
Trials in Britain
While the scale of executions was substantially smaller in the British Isles as compared to parts of the Continent, every life was an entire universe snuffed out by the confluence of numerous socioeconomic and spiritual anxieties. Our location near the Border might suggest that the region too suffered from extreme measures, because these fluid borderland spaces on the Continent saw early persecutions. We actually find a difference in the intensity and timing of witch trials on either side of the Border, even with Scottish witch-hunters having been active in Northumberland.
Legislation of witchcraft as a criminal undertaking under common law rather than purely church law begins as early as 1533 (under Henry VIII), but there is some pushback as the early acts are repealed and reworked, until 1563. The Act Against Conjurations, Enchantments, and Witchcrafts (under Elizabeth I) allows for imprisonment except in the most harmful of cases, which earned the death penalty. James I (James VI of Scotland) passed his own Act Against Conjuration, Witchcraft and Dealing with Evil and Wicked Spirits in 1604. Two remarkable trends emerge with these acts: first, the earliest applications of the original laws did not produce convictions about 75% of the time (Gaskill, 2008); second, executions actually went down with the passage of the second major act.
Scepticism regarding diabolism was healthy during the rise of witch trials in Europe, beginning as early as the 14th century. In England, the scepticism was less about the existence of witchcraft and more about the legal processes. Legal minds such as Reginald Scot, William Perkins, and Richard Bernard became the main drivers of jurisprudence discourse that argued for more tempered approaches; the former questioned the reality of diabolic magic got his book banned for his troubles, while the latter two believed witchcraft was indeed an actual threat (and thus should be investigated thoroughly and punished if the evidence is strong). They and their philosophical adjacents believed that some claims of witchcraft could actually be debunked by reviewing the symptoms of witchcraft as physical, mental, or emotional distress. Some other common concerns shared by these legal philosophers were in respect to the competence of those involved in the trial: instead of highly educated and experienced judicial reps (like those found in Continental courts following inquisition practices rooted in Roman law), English common law necessitated regular folks were witnesses, convincing regular folks who served as jurors. The regular folks involved in accusations didn’t have the diabolical as their “primary concern” but rather all the other anxiety and baggage of their home communities. It is mid-level courts (with educated but locally-sourced officers) that were usually harshest on applying diabolical frameworks and associations, while the highly-experienced judicial officers were concerned with evidence and proof. Eventually, more stable bureaucratic structures and the evolving opinions of those regular jurors did aid in the decline of trials over time.
Some of the most well-known trials in England include that of the Pendle and Salmesbury Witches (Lancashire, 1612), Leicester Witches (Leicestershire, 1616), and the Belvoir Witches (Lincolnshire, 1621). The trials in Leicester in 1616 resulted in nine hanged based on the testimony of a 12-year-old boy; what makes them particularly notable is that James himself investigated further and scolded the officials for their rush to convict. A few botched and frenzied trials actually led to a culture of more circumspect trials, as well as a noticeable decline in executions for witchcraft until the Civil War (1642-1651).
It was during the Civil War that the most famed of trials took place in Essex, East Anglia, from 1645-1647. In 1645, self-proclaimed “witch-finders” like Matthew Hopkins and John Stearne were summed to Tendring Hundred to handle accusations. Of 34 accused, 29 had cases pursued, and 28 were executed (Gaskill, 2008). Further cases throughout East Anglia resulted in 1 in 3 of those questioned were hanged; interrogation often included what we and 17th century folks would have considered torture which was banned but clearly Hopkins and Stearne were unbothered. All this evidence cost a pretty penny for the localities that relied on such “experts” to acquire. Both men tried to stick to regions friendly to their business model, but mercifully faced a decline in authority and paycheques.
Newcastle Witch Trials
In our neck of the woods, the most well-documented trials are that of the 15 accused witches of Newcastle, thanks to writings by Ralph Gardiner. Gardiner’s published tract wasn’t about witchcraft or magic at all, as he was active to protest and disrupt the coal monopoly in the Puritan-held area of Newcastle; his text can we read via transcription here. In 1649 and 1650, Newcastle officials sent for a Scottish witch-finder (who before his own execution admitted to putting over 220 women to death). Aside from just looking at a women and “knowing” she was a witch, witch-finders like this unnamed fraud would literally prick people at various places on their skin with a needle to see if they could feel pain or produce blood in those spots. These pricking tests were based in the belief that witches’ marks (not to be confused with the witch marks discussed above) were an automatic indicator of a pact with the Devil. Any unusual skin blemishes were supposedly teats upon which animal familiars could suckle. Thirty individuals were subject to these tests, and at least 15 of them were put to death. They were buried at Saint Andrew’s in town, unusually in consecrated ground. Here are their names (according to Gardiner): Matthew Bulmer, Elizabeth Anderson, Jane Hunter, Mary Pots, Alice Hume, Elianor Rogerson, Margaret Muffet, Margaret Maddison, Elizabeth Brown, Margaret Brown, Jane Copeland, Ann Watson, Elianor Henderson, Elizabeth Dobson, and Katherine Coultor.
Scotland passed their own Witchcraft Act in the same year as England, 1563, which was harsher than that of their southern neighbour. This brief act was authored and argued in the context of Mary, Queen of Scots, a Catholic, trying to preside over a mostly Protestant convention of governmental officers who themselves were trying to create a bureaucratic system to accompany their religious beliefs, and that tension cannot be minimised. Witchcraft was punishable by death on the first offence, along with just meeting with a witch for the purpose of plotting a magical act. It was reaffirmed, along with some new capital crimes in 1649.The most common recorded execution methods involved strangling and then incineration of the body, but that only accounts for a fraction of the estimated number of executions which conservatively hovers around 2500, 85% of whom were women.
Numerous trials took place throughout Scotland, with the largest proportion in the Lothians. We do have evidence of trials as far south as the Borders and as far north as Orkney. The memorial in Kirkwall on Mainland Orkney to those executed simply says “They wur cheust folk,” meaning they were just regular people. There’s an interesting database through the University of Edinburgh of the witch trials in Scotland accessible here.
North Berwick witch trials
The 1590-1592 trials in North Berwick are Scotland’s earliest big witch frenzy, although several other major periods of hunting are attested in the country. It all began with a Danish ship having to seek shelter from unseasonably rough storms en route to Scotland with King James VI’s new bride who he finally met taking shelter in Norway; the Danish monarchy pursued charges on several women known at court claiming they stirred up the storms with witchcraft. James was intrigued by the success of those persecutions and allowed paranoia regarding attempts real and imagined on his life to spin the people of East Lothian into absolute fury in the process. At least 70 people were accused, and nearly all were likely subjected to torture to extract confessions and implicate others. Many were burned.
The repeal of the various previous Witchcraft Acts came under the united crown in 1735, when witchcraft accusations themselves became punishable by a year in prison. The last witch in England was hanged in 1716. The last witch in Scotland was burned alive in 1727.
It’s easy to get caught up in the excitement of spooky season, as witches have long played a large role in popular culture this time of year. Please don’t forget that every life extinguished in the hunt for witches was a whole universe stolen from society due to insecurity from the household to the national level. We share these stories on behalf of all of those wronged by the various witchcraft persecutions. Happy Halloween, friends!
Collins, S. J., D. (Ed.). (2015). The Cambridge History of Magic and Witchcraft in the West: From Antiquity to the Present. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
This Director’s 2021 Round-up Report will split into two posts. This blog post is a round-up of previous work undertaken in the excavation area and sets out what our aims were for the 2021 season. The second post will look at how the actual excavation results matched up to what we expected and will look forward to next season and its new goals.
The 2021 Excavation Area: what we know
The focus for the 2021 dig season was St Oswald’s Gate and the area of outworks below it. Regular readers of the blog will be quite aware that St Oswald’s Gate is known to have been the original entrance to the castle – with the current gate taking over the role of principal entrance at some point in the 12th century. We do not have an actual description of the construction of the Great Gate in the records that survive but there is fabric of this date in the vault of the Constables Tower that forms part of the complex entrance behind the Great Gate. So we can date the new entry arrangement within a few decades at least.
We do have at least one, much earlier, record describing St Oswald’s Gate as the entrance, dating from from AD 774 that states – Bamburgh as ‘having one hollowed entrance ascending in a wonderful manner by steps’ – a clear reference to St Oswald’s Gate as we see it today. As we have radiocarbon evidence for the fortress being occupied since the 9th century BC, its reasonable to think this was the entrance to the site for 2000 years! So I am sure you can understand why investigating this area of the site is important to our understanding of the fortress and its long history.
One of the reasons that the gate remained in this area for so long, apart from being at a lower lying part of the bedrock and so more practical for access to the castle rock, is that it was able to service a small port that lay to the immediate north of the castle. It is logical then that this entrance and its access routes, and how they were used, goes back a very long time and is much older than the outworks that stand in partial ruins to this day. Nevertheless study of the various phases of the structures that do survive, and how they were likely used, will help us understand how the topography may have dictated long standing routes much older than the standing structures themselves.
The current phase of investigation is the second undertaken by us beyond St Oswald’s Gate (see images below). The first was way back in 2002 but was not continued as resources were needed elsewhere. It did though show us that the area was important and needed further work, so its good to be able to concentrate on this area now. The original work identified the phases of the St Oswald’s Gate main structure that we can match to the historical records. This included two phases of medieval build to the gate as well as identifying traces of timber elements of the structure known from records. The two phases should be 12th century and a 13th century widening and update to the structure. We also know of timber elements that were sent to Bamburgh from a castle at Nafferton that was for form a breteche – a defensive structure that juts out over agate to allow nasty things to be dropped on anyone attempting to force their way in.
There are a number of standing ruined walls outside of the gate forming outworks beyond the gate, sited we are sure, to control access to the gate itself and also how people would be able to move in the area. The structures that we see represent many phases of build, the earliest thought to be 11th to 12th century in date, extends south-west from the castle rock and is narrow in width and has a narrow tall archway passing through it that led towards the port area. Underlining the importance of the port if it was needed. This multiphase wall was then cut through by a newer medieval wall with a Postern gate that clearly led to the village. It is tempting to see this construction phase as responding to the creation of a new port in Budle Bay around the middle of the 13th century and we must assume that this means the little port goes out of use at this time. Perhaps a reason for rebuilding and realigning the outworks.
The Tower of St Elmund’s Well
One structure we were not able to identify in 2002 was the Tower at Elmund’s Well, known from documentary records to have been in the outworks and, rather obviously from the description, to have contained or guarded a well. We have records of the tower being repaired in AD 1250 so we know it was in place by then and if needing repair had likely been built some time before. This record mentions both the repair of the tower and the repair of the ‘barbican before St Oswald’s Gate’, which explains at least some of the phasing in the outworks that we see and perhaps records the remodelling that we see with the new wall and Postern construction.
To guide us in finding and investigating the tower and well we have two plans that show the outworks in some detail. The earliest of these is from 1803 and is the only plan we have that shows the location of the well. The building, including what remained of the tower, is shown as L-shaped and entered by steps from the south-west and these steps led down to the well room at the west end. The second plan was compiled by Cadwallader Bates (an Antiquarian) for the 1st Lord Armstrong in 1895 and shows some alterations to the entrance but seems to confirm the general shape and arrangements.
The 2021 excavation was intended to help us interpret the build sequence and understand these alterations and also tell us if the plans are accurate. We were also very keen to be able to define the medieval elements from the post-medieval cottage and perhaps identify how early the tower was constructed.
We will go over how many of these questions we have answered this season and what remains to be done next year in our next blog post. For sneak peak, you can always look at our earlier blog posts…..
Dig season 2021 is officially in the books! It was a short but valuable season for us to get our bearings on a few parts of the complicated outworks of Bamburgh Castle. Look out for a full-season round-up from Director Graeme Young.
Trench 5a was extended numerous times to try and find any remaining bit of medieval wall in front of the Victorian steps. Aside from the constant stream of little bits of iron that we recorded as small finds, this trench has remained mostly mysterious. The Victorian refacing on the wall coming in from the right may hide an earlier core, possibly medieval. The view of the wall that theoretically should have run right through our trench suggests that the wall was purposefully truncated and given the Victorian reface treatment.
Trench 5b involved work in several areas and sondages that we finally linked up over the week. The double wall, that is, the postmedieval wall that runs perpendicular to the massive ivy-covered wall with large medieval masonry on which it sits, has been cleared up to the rubble pile where we expect the well to be.
The Room was cleared out further, producing multiple steps and an entranceway. It appears that the Room was remodeled to include a doorway against a wall that blocks off what we believed to have once been further liveable space. The view below is looking at that blocking or retaining wall. We have four steps, a landing, and a right turn down two further steps. This staircase layout does not match the 19th-century plans, and did lead to some head-scratching because there are clues to at least two more doorways further down into the room.
From another angle, you can see the massive vertical stone by the top four steps (right of photo) with a piece of timber bolted into it. The timber is moveable, but fastened well to the stone. In the foreground (left protruding from wall), you can see the original iron bolt that we first caught sight of in week 1 through a crevice in the rubble.
This part of the Room was photographed before carefully dismantling the vertical rubble face to create a gradual slope that would prevent off-season collapse.
And now, what you’ve all been waiting for: Did we find the well yet?
Removing the rubble that stood over where we expect to find the well was the final task for Trench 5b this season. Here are some images of the progress, as it really was a LOT of material our team moved.
We still hadn’t reached a floor surface like we had in the Room, whose rubble fill connects with this area. This is a lovely corner, but alas, like every corner so far we have uncovered, it’s just not quite square. To quote Graeme, “There is not a single right angle to be found!”
So we leave you with this: if there is a well under there, we will find it…next year.
A beloved king based at Bamburgh mourns his former wife and searches for a new wife to rule beside him and help raise his two children, Childe Wynd and Margaret. He eventually marries an evil witch who appears as a beautiful woman. His son goes off on adventures in the Frankish realm on the Continent, while the princess is left to face the ire of her stepmother. The witch is incandescently jealous of the attention Margaret receives from the other nobles, so she places a curse only breakable by the prince, assuming he will never return, on the young maiden. Margaret is turned into a hideous dragon, and she escapes the castle and hides in a nearby cave until hunger forces her to pick off local farmer’s livestock. Her brother returns after hearing of the terror in his father’s kingdom, evading witches and warriors sent by his stepmother en route. He plans to slay the dragon, but it speaks to him in his sister’s voice, begging for three kisses to undo the curse. He obliges and Margaret is transformed back to her human form. The witch is turned into a toad to spend eternity. The princess, prince, and king likely live happily ever after.
The story was published in 1778 by William Hutchinson in the form of a ballad in a collection of folk songs, based on a version presented by Reverend Robert Lambe of an English village near Berwick. Lambe insisted it was from a 13th-century Latin manuscript of a local bard named Duncan Frasier. It was retold in several publications in the early 19th century and expanded into a prose account nearly a century later. You can read the full ballad here starting on page 156.
While this bit of folklore often describes the princess as a Saxon (“in Ida’s time”), there’s a bit of confusion about the actual composition of the story versus the transmission and textual appearance. First, the kingdom of Bernicia, and then Northumbria, were actually Anglian, which would have an effect on the dialect and possibly the names of places and characters. That’s a nitpicky thing, but it has to be said (see the dialect differences in this old post regarding a riddle in the West Saxon dialect which is often taught in university and the Northumbrian dialect which would have been the dominant version in our area). The romantic and chivalrous tropes of the story gave us a later medieval vibe, but the names of our characters might possibly give us some insight into the dating of the story as well. It’s not uncommon to see a kernel of a story going back as far as the Iron Age being transmitted nearly a thousand years before being written down, and we do see this in Irish mythological cycles and Arthurian literature.
“Behoc” seems to have no extant sources nor any standardised accent notation beyond possible Celtic roots; we tried to chase down possible Germanic origins to match the supposed time period, but that took us down an absolutely ridiculous path that gave us the meaning “being a marshmallow” so we abandoned that thread rather quickly. It may have come from Bethóc which is found in Gaelic sources, including one that refers to a Scottish prioress living as late as the 13th century. The spelling is a roughly phonetic version of how the name would have been pronounced in Irish or Scottish Gaelic. Variants include Beathag, Bethag, Beathog, and Behag and come from the word for “life.” The “-óc” suffix is from Old Irish (in use 7th-10th centuries), while “-ag” is from Scottish Gaelic, both as a diminutive meaning “little.”
The name “Childe Wynd” seems to be a Middle English spelling, where the first part of the name is a later medieval word (from the Old English term for the son of a nobleman) and refers to a particular low-level rank of a male in their pursuit knighthood. Wynd is a Northern English/Scottish dialectical word for a side street, but here could also be a variant of the word wind.
The name of the princess, Margaret, only becomes common in English after the 11th century, likely Conquest-related since it comes from Marguerite.
The main locales in the story are Bamburgh, with which you all are now rather familiar, and Spindlestone Heugh. A heugh is a crag of cliff in Northern English and Scottish for those of you like our American staff that have never encountered that word except in the regional toponyms (place-name words). The Spindlestone itself is a bit of dolerite, the same type of rock that was injected into the sandstone here at the castle and along Hadrian’s Wall as the Whin Sill, standing conspicuously; this where the prince tethered his horse before encountering his sister-turned-dragon. The site is about 8 minutes by car from the village as seen via the route below.
A hamlet just a minute down the road known as Waren Mill also has dragon-y roots. A waren is a dragon’s lair, with the linguistic root that implies a place where one keeps watch; it seems to be distantly related to the words warden and guardian (which have their own interesting history that may be a subject for a future blog if we find ourselves with Anglo-Norman material). In addition, just beside Waren Mill is Budle Bay, which is mentioned explicitly in the song.
“Laidly” (variant: “laidley”) is a Scottish and Northern English word for “loathsome” or “ugly.” It comes from the same root as the French laid, the Latin word laitus which itself can be traced to a Proto-Indo-European word (the theoretical language from which most of the European languages descend) for “unpleasant.”
“Worm” as we use it today refers to annelids like the earthworm or parasites like roundworms and flatworms. Less common but present in the southeastern UK, we have the slow worm, a legless lizard that is actually rather adorable but gets mistaken for snakes fairly regularly. In folk tales, it could mean [sea] serpent, legless dragon-like creature, or wingless dragon; multiple legends which may be allegorical in the northeast of England (Northumberland and Durham) and the Scottish Borders tell of great dragons haranguing the locals. This usage was often written as wyrm having been borrowed in both forms at different times, but we tend to associate it with Old and Middle English. It comes from the Proto-Indo-European reconstructed wrmis, giving us the Latin vermis (root of “vermin”) and all the cognates found in modern Germanic languages.
The Toad Herself
Since the day we arrived on site, we have been telling students and young visitors to help us search for the witch-turned-toad, #ToadWatch2021. We can now announce that she hasn’t only been spotted, but she briefly sat with us for a while near Trench 5a! Presenting, Behoc:
We kind of love her. Truly a high-quality toad, as toads go. Has she had enough time to think about her crime? We don’t know how to turn her back in any case, but #ToadWatch2021 is officially over, in success.
This is Part II of a series on witchcraft, where we look at medieval attitudes toward magic and witchcraft. Part I explained why we are in a witchy mood this season and gave a very brief overview of the Classical influences on western Europe when it came to magic, gender, and power.
The Late Antique world was changing rapidly, but the arbitrary separation of religion and magic by those in power was still a prevalent tool to control communities. Early Christianity was a minor religion that had not yet been fully defined or codified, particularly with respect to its boundaries with Judaism. The New Testament does include the Magi, eastern wise men given the power of prophecy in the Nativity story, and other New Testament books, Gnostic gospel, and apocrypha (stories that are not officially or widely recognized throughout Christendom), tell stories of a convert named Simon Magus that sought power and fame through magical works. These stories rely on recognisable forms of the Greek mageia discussed briefly in our previous witchcraft post. During this period, Christian authorities associate the Roman pantheon, and other gods found throughout the Empire, with fallen angels or demons. We can see the early seeds of orthodoxy, but these are blurry and malleable lines between what is accepted and what is heresy. There’s this incredible shift where Christianity that started on the fringes of society rises to dominance, becoming writ large on empire for centuries, but the conversion period hits different regions over those centuries at different times.
Scholar Karen Jolly and her comrades have produced a thought-provoking volume on the medieval period in the series Athlone History of Witchcraft and Magic in Europe (2002). They describe three main phases of medieval attitude shifts: conversion period, 12th-century scholasticism, and 14th-century upheaval.
Phase I: Conversion Period(s)
The conversion period, although staggered through time, is a period of syncretism (the merging of multiple cultures or religion into something not quite clearly one of the components). There’s strong influence of the Classical (Greek and Roman, in particular), the Christian, and the “pagan” roughly Iron Age systems that have survived in western and central Europe in the development and form of medieval magic. These systems include the Celtic, Germanic, Scandinavian, and even Slavic traditions. In Scandinavia especially, conversion comes centuries after, say, Ireland and Britain, with a long period of coexistence that allows us in our time to read contemporary documentation of magic traditions that may be analogous to earlier northern Germanic practice. The conversion of peoples in Britain may have started as early as the 5th century, but Saint Augustine (of Rome, later Canterbury) is credited along with the Frankish Queen Bertha, wife of Aethelberht of Kent, for bringing Roman Christianity to the English. (Up here amongst the Northumbrians, Celtic Christianity was the converting force due to our beloved Saint Aidan).
Documents that talk about magic and witchcraft in the early parts of this period in Europe fall into both negative and positive approaches. The former are the condemnations which often juxtapose the power of prayerful words and saintly miracles against incantations and demonic illusions perpetrated by fraudsters. Saint Augustine (of Hippo) wrote numerous condemnations in the 4th-5th centuries as did Isidore of Seville in the 6th-7th centuries; these denunciations get repeated during the medieval period forming a basis for some of the most heinous persecutions in the early modern period. The latter includes saints’ lives (hagiography), medical texts, and guides to appropriate rituals for clerics and laity, including penitential texts that describe how to atone for minor and major sins. These texts in Britain and Ireland especially in regard to magic and witchcraft made their way to the Continent, and in return the laws of Charlemagne and his dynasty were imported, and their vocabulary translated into Old English. Bald’s Leechbook, a book of medical texts in Old English written down in the 10th century, contains several charms that require ritualistic behavior and/or herbal concoction. Where does the line between magic and medicine lie?
Phase II: 12thC Scholasticism
The second phase evolves in the intellectual revolution beginning in the 12th century; the rise of towns and cities create changing socio-economic structures and division of labour, and old and new ideas are shared across Europe. Classical texts are rediscovered and reinterpreted, such as Aristotle’s discourse on science. Contemporary Arab and Jewish thinkers are being incorporated into the emerging philosophical approach of scholasticism, yet, at the same time, those scholars are portrayed as “The Other,” worthy of fear and persecution. All sorts of questions on the nature of things, including nature itself, the worlds of faith and reason, and the supernatural are asked and debated during this period of scholasticism. Many scholars theorise a natural magic or white magic that examines and manipulates phenomena of the natural world, giving rise to what today we consider sciences like botany, chemistry, and astronomy. The occult was not immediately negative, not instantly demonic, but rather the harnessing of hidden knowledge of nature. This further develops into the opposing forces of white and black magic, and high and low magic, which seeks to differentiate process and intent when passing judgement on magical pursuits. These frameworks push the focus of authorities like the Church away from writing off magic as simplistic paganism due to ignorance, and into the realm of purposeful heresy. The Church takes its growing role as an arbiter of knowledge seriously, but reserves handling cases of magic and witchcraft on a local or mid-level scale, rather than with the full force of the institution. Punishment was limited to excommunication or exile rather than death. Pastoral care, by way of warnings against witchcraft and magic and the introduction of confession as preventive and restitutive measures respectively, became a duty of the religious class.
Phase III: 14thC-16thC
The final phase aligns with the political upheaval across western and central Europe in the 14th and 15th century. This is when the millennia-old assertion of magic as at all times demonic (asserted by Saint Augustine) becomes truly entrenched. The increase in literacy and the earliest days of printing create new channels for communication, as ritual and folk medicinal texts become more widely available. Some have noted that the prevalence of anti-magic treatises may have actually led to more popular interest and the transmission of stories of magic. But now magic is active allegiance with the devil, a conspiracy of organised groups to endanger souls (and the authority of the Church). What were once dismissed as illusions is now mortal (and eternal) peril. Political scandals during the period were riddled with accusations of magic, witchcraft, and poisoning in royal courts and papal circles. The early inquisitor Bernard Gui publishes a guide in 1323 for the investigation and prosecution of those who dare to threaten the order of things with magic. In 1487, the Malleus Maleficarum (literally “Hammer of Women who Commit Crimes of Magic”) goes straight at the diabolical roots, targeting witches and urging further social persecution and legal prosecution; its provocative and violent approach to the subject matter was even debated at its publication. This movement is not universal, but we see higher tiers of authority picking up these cases, sending ripples upward and downward through the ranks of society.
One such case occurred just across the Irish Sea in 1324 when Alice Kyteler, a well-off heiress to a merchant family’s fortune, was accused of witchcraft. Clearly the intersection of her status in the community, her gender, and her degree of independence all could have been perceived as a threat to rivals and local authorities. Her trial included a number of firsts such as the accusation of an organised conspiracy to commit heresy, which sadly led to the torture and burning of her servant Petronilla later that year. In addition, she is the first documented reference to a woman having sexual intercourse with a demon to gain her power. Women, regardless of their influence, were still disempowered when accused; they were unable to be independent perpetrators but were easily-seduced victims of the devil and his demons. Secular laws and well-timed escapes to England kept Kyteler out of the flames, but various Continental authorities in the Church and secular roles were inspired to pursue charges of heresy for witchcraft.
The fervor died down in the early 16th century…but not for long.
Jolly, K., Raudvere, C., & Peters, E. (2002). The Athlone history of witchcraft and magic in Europe: Volume 3: the Middle Ages. Bloomsbury Publishing.
The footprint of the tower has been partially emptied of rubble. We’ve got masonry extending beyond our present level, down to what must have been ground-level at least in the 18th century when the Witch’s Cottage was built into the tower. The lower phases of the walls we’ve posted images of so far are sandstone, with rounded and slightly eroded faces, while the top and likely post-medieval courses have more angular grey blocks.
The new face of wall that we have exposed is part of the initial L-shape masonry that we revealed at the very beginning of the season.
This morning, one step emerged from the rubble. We have chosen not to continue downward for now, because there is so much rubble and soil still to remove, and we are applying stricter-than-required rules for remaining at a safe depth within standing masonry. The Room is certainly deeper than the level at which we have stopped now, but how much deeper is unknown. Finding the floor level will be a project for next year.
Previously, we mentioned the rediscovery of plans from the 19th century, of the outworks. This excerpt of a map from 1803 shows us the steps down from Saint Oswald’s Gate to the postern and other outworks which are not pictured but would still have been standing.
Our step appeared exactly where the stairs should have been, which gave us hope that the location of the well would also be where we expect it to be. As we cleared it further, however, it seems to either be a remnant of former stairs now removed or simply a threshold for a second doorway.
We will be clearing the break in the masonry and rubble to the left which seems to correspond with the main doorway into the 18th-century cottage structure.
Hi, I’m Margot, your Finds Assistant from France! I have an MA in Business and Languages and after 7 years working for internet startups in Berlin I decided to go back to university to pursue my lifelong interest in archaeology – I’m now an undergraduate student at the University of York. This is my first season in Bamburgh and I very much enjoy being one of the finds nerds on site!
At nearly every site in use by the British in the late 16th century or after, from here to Ireland to the east coast of the United States, there is one artefact type that is often found in quantity: clay pipe fragments. The material is often English white clay, usually still white or beige after recovery and a quick wash, but local production material and use could lead to variation. They are almost never found intact, but rather as separate stems or bowls. Both fragments however can help us get a rough date on the artefact and perhaps even a range for the surrounding assemblage.
Just as an aside, (you know we love digressions on this blog), the prevalence of pipe fragments on colonial sites in Virginia has actually confirmed historical documents and proved wrong architectural conservators’ assertions in a heated series of arguments witnessed by one of our staff members. A certain structure was being surveyed by an interdisciplinary team of experts to prepare for excavation, conservation, and restoration at living history museum. The archaeologists and historians posited the structure had a porch during the mid-18th century, based on trial trenches for the former and primary sources for the latter. The primary sources referred to one of the more colorful residents sitting on the porch smoking and shouting hellos to other townsfolk as they passed by. The architects swore up and down that the building phases all went against the stylistic conventions for porches for the period. Finally, a trench that spanned the front façade of the building was opened, and, when it reached the expected depth of the 18th-century street level, the perfect outline of a porch and its supports was visible almost entirely due to ash deposits and pipe fragments.
If you are lucky enough to find a fragment with a maker’s mark, that could be a first major clue to production site and time range. On other sites, members of our staff have been able to literally in the field search local pipe maker mark databases and get a date based on the style of the mark. (This database from a governmental heritage organisation based in Canada was the key to unlocking a particularly plain maker’s mark from Bristol in 1668 at a dig along the Welsh border.)
There is also a noticeable evolution of the bowls from the beginning of English production in the 1580s through the 19th century. Adrian Oswald mapped the changes in bowls to create a seriation of stylistic and functional elements from rims of the bowl to the heels and spurs for setting the pipe down upright.
In the mid-20th century, a technique for dating the pipe stems was devised by JC Harrington who looked at a huge collection of colonial and early republic stems from excavations at Jamestown and Williamsburg in Virginia, USA. He measured the diameter of the bore-hole using standard imperial drill bits with increments of 64ths of an inch and found a relationship between size and date of production. In the decades since, multiple archaeologists and mathematicians teamed up to develop increasingly more precise formulae. The graph is giving us statistical information in that there is variation in bore-hole size for each of the date range, where the longer bar is the higher number at a specific diameter which is the mode of the sample (the increment with the highest prevalence in the entire set). The best use of this technique would involve a large sample size in a secure context, and even its inventor noted the inadequacies of his model. In general, however, the earlier stems, produced just before the turn of the 16th century, have wider bores. Over time, the bores are narrower perhaps as a function of the longer stems that came into fashion.
Both bowl and stem methods of dating should be used if the assemblage of pipe fragments allows, and these results should be cross-referenced with seriation models for pottery, architecture, and other dateable finds and features.
Unfortunately, the two pipe stem fragments we found so far this summer were in the topsoil and thus unstratified. They were clearly in a very disturbed layer and cannot give us precise chronological information, and one would never base an entire thesis on the presence of one or two pipe stem data points, but they are useful for teaching. We broke out the old drill bits and determined that both are most likely from 1720-1750!
After finding over a dozen iron objects in Trench 5a, but still no medieval wall, we extended northward. This topsoil was a treasure trove of 19th and 20th-century rubbish, which may sound pretty foul, but can be quite enjoyable from a research perspective because there are lots of great resources for antique and vintage material culture from collectors and enthusiasts. Check out our recent post on the rubber bottle stoppers!
Trench 5b was very busy this week. We uncovered another corner of what we believe to be Elmund’s Tower, but there is still a fairly messy mortar spread, protected by the thick foliage, to deal with.
The footprint of the tower has a post-medieval structure that sits on top of the western return of the wall that juts out into the middle of the tower footprint. We can follow that wall down via ‘The Void’ (an area under excavation where we are removing the rubble and silt/sand that currently fills the tower interior), which we extended in three directions, because the medieval wall on the sea-ward side is our tower footprint.
In the mock-up below, the green is masonry we have exposed, the blue is what we expect to find under the soil and windblown sand yet to be removed. The red square is the area cleared of the interior fill, while the yellow is rubble.
After getting our hands on two 19th-century plans, from the beginning and end of the century, we now believe the well is under the rubble (the yellow area). It is our intention to continue to remove the rubble interior fill, focusing on the area to the right of the red square in the drawing below, to reveal as much of the room below as possible.
The medieval wall under the post-medieval wall that runs from the modern wooden gate erected by the castle, looks like it connected to the large, extant, ivy-covered masonry still visible today. Our students planned this 9 metre stretch of post-medieval wall and what remains of the wider medieval masonry upon which it sits (see photo above).
We cleaned and sorted many kilograms of 2020 material and began to examine the finds from the first week of this season. The most tedious things to clean were the many winkles shells, which are small edible sea snails.
In addition, former staff member Kennedy dropped in to provide a masterclass on archaeological illustration! She pulled some of our recent finds from the archive which the students were able to handle up close to practice capturing the important details and working to scale.