 Laurence Olivier's interpretation of Richard III is interesting, to say the least. Having recently watched it for the first time, I was struck by the oddness of some of the creative choices involved in this movie. To be sure, many points of the film are excellent (John Gielgud packs some fine acting into his role as Clarence, despite that role being drastically diminished), yet there are other spots which just left me... a wee bit baffled. (Why all the screeching?) But this is Olivier. Like him or not, the man is one of the pillars of modern Shakespeare interpretation, and as such he deserves his due for his seminal performances of the Bard's works. His films would serve as inspiration for the actors and directors of later decades. Oliver made an unmistakable contribution to the transition of Shakespeare performances into the modern era, not merely because he was one of the first big creators of Shakespeare movies, but specifically because of the way he created them. His acting style wavers somewhere between stage and screen, sometimes apparently bellowing his lines for the benefit of those in the balcony, sometimes speaking heart-to-heart with the camera. He is comfortable cutting the original script to a more cinema-friendly length and using long traveling shots or other cinematic devices as needed, but still preserves some of the look and feel of a stage play with the use of confined interior sets and "outdoor scenes" with rather obvious painted backdrops.  In Richard III, Olivier is not too deeply concerned with portraying the historical Richard; he sees it as his job to embody Richard as Shakespeare wrote him. The opening titles go so far as to offer this very disclaimer, stating that Shakespeare's tale differs somewhat from the historical facts of Richard's reign, but that as an English cultural legend, it deserves preservation. Shakespeare's image of Richard may well have been influenced by the fact that the reigning monarch at the time was Elizabeth Tudor - a direct descendant of Henry Tudor, who (as is portrayed in the play and film) wrested the crown from Richard at the Battle of Bosworth in 1485. A positive or neutral portrayal of the Tudors' ancestral enemy would possibly have landed him on the wrong side of good Queen Bess. However, historians are now rather doubtful as to whether or not Richard murdered his brother or young nephews to "catch the English Crown," and there is simply not enough evidence that he was quite the coldblooded monster Shakespeare painted him as (at least not to the same degree). But that's an article in itself!   Historical fact notwithstanding, Olivier sets about embodying the legend with a vengeance. His Richard is a physically twisted monster, complete with long nose, sinister grin, and ugly black bob-wig. His clothing is mostly reds and blacks, hinting at bloodlust, deceit, and sundry other pleasant qualities. He speaks honeyed words to his victims, and moments later confides directly to the camera the plots he has laid for their bloody demise. He coldly orders the murder of his nephews with no hint of compunction or remorse. Even at his last, his cry of "A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!" is not a plea for escape, but for a tool with which to take out his enemy before he himself is slain. His death scene (spoilers, by the way!) is a fit of desperate stabs at empty air as he twitches on the ground, covered in blood, still trying to kill even as he dies.  It may well have been an image from Shakespeare's imagination, but the image also likely had resonance in the time of Olivier's film. The character of Hitler still loomed large in the minds of many in the 1950's, and Olivier deliberately imitated him. The screeching crescendo of Richard's voice in one of his rages could well have come straight from a Hitler speech. Olivier stated in a later interview that he also sought to make him an almost cartoonish villain, even partly basing the characterization off Walt Disney's Big Bad Wolf, as well as incorporating a caricature of a tyrannical director under whom he had "suffered greatly." This director was in fact the real source of Richard's hooked nose - neither the near- contemporary portraits (that Olivier would almost definitely have seen) or modern 3D facial reconstructions of the real Richard's skull show him with this feature.   The real Richard is thought to have suffered from scoliosis, which, while definitely a cause of back pain and spinal distortion, would not necessarily have seen one labelled as a hunchback, even in medieval times. Even while aiming to follow Shakespeare's vision, Olivier seems to have kept this fact in mind, keeping the "hunchback" posture to a minimum and concealing his frame within various padded doublets and armor. Even his "halt," or limp, alluded to in the original script, is subtle. (It is also said to have been entirely genuine at some point during the film - the result of a stunt archer shooting an arrow at a concealed armor plate on Olivier's horse during the battle scene, only to wind up hitting Olivier's leg instead).  The music is one of the best parts of the film. William Walton's royal fanfares blast across the movie, including his "Crown Imperial," a piece played at the coronations George VI, Elizabeth II, and most recently, Charles III. The setting of the film is largely contained in a studio, with lofty building facades concealing most of the painted backdrops in the majority of scenes. Despite this level of artificiality, the finer details of the sets are clearly intended to be accurate to the period - the washed-out earth tones of later medieval-setting films have yet to make their appearance, and panels, shutters and walls are frequently seen bedecked with vibrant, living color, either in the form of paint or tapestry. If one looks closely during some scenes, one can spot the heraldry of various royalty of decades past (Henry V, Edward the Black Prince, etc.) decorating the palace interior. This detail can even be used to make hidden references to other historical events (and, of course, other Shakespeare plays!); in one scene, a young king-to-be mulls over his intentions to invade France once more, while looking up at the arms of Henry V!   The costumes likewise reflect the colorful pageantry of the late middle ages. While not yet an expert by any means in 15th century fashion, I can comfortably say that the garb worn in this movie at least gets the general look right. Quilted doublets, bicocket ("Robin Hood") hats, and tight leggings appear on men, with the occasional instance of 'chaperon' headdresses made from rearranged liripipe hoods.   The armor and weaponry was a sight to behold. Not only is the armor largely correct to the period, but the designers were obviously aware of finer details often overlooked by others; we see Richard with his upper breastplate off, and beneath is shown an arming jacket, reinforced with patches of mail at the joints and armpits, where a careful stab might go through a chink in the armor above it. The sallet, a style of helmet prevalent during this century and designed to cover the neck and upper face (when visored), appears on multiple soldiers in the final battle. Richard himself briefly wears a bevor, a piece of armor riveted to the top of the breastplate to protect the wearer's neck, chin and mouth. While this would often have been worn in conjunction with the sallet, thus completing the facial protection, the filmmakers seem to have been aware that there were exceptions, and have given Richard an open-faced helmet with better visibility (and better room for the actor's face to be seen). Short padded gambesons appear as well, sometimes worn with only a helmet and no other armor, as was common for soldiers of lower income. Halberds, pikes, longbows, daggers, and swords are all carried throughout the film. There's little to fault with any of them, except perhaps the swords; in a century when many blades were getting a bit bigger generally, the film seems to have gone with the usual Shakespearean rapier blade proportions, perhaps to cut costs or make it easier on the actors wielding them. Richard still manages to use one of these slender weapons to viciously incapacitate a halberdier who threatens him, and later cuts through a dozen soldiers or so in the battle scene.(He had sought to have a battleaxe provided, which was reportedly Richard's favorite weapon, but apparently no one told the film's armorer that the battleaxe was not supposed to resemble a "toy tomahawk," and a disappointed Olivier was forced to stick to the sword for the battle scene.  The battle of Bosworth scene was filmed in Spain against a rather parched background of brown grass and shrubs, not at all resembling the (likely) green fields and forest landscape of the real battle. Relatively little actual fighting is shown; Olivier, by his own admission, was not an epic battle director. The armies clash briefly, with some half-hearted exchange of blows and arrow-volleys, and then the camera skips back to the main characters. Henry Tudor is depicted flying a dragon banner almost identical to the modern national flag of Wales; this was in fact a banner he designed and carried. There is very little notion of tactics or maneuvers, beyond the arrangement of the armies' battle lines; the armies charge and clash, and eventually we see that Richard has been betrayed as a large contingent of Richard's army switches sides, embracing the men they had just been fighting, and the Tudors receive reinforcements in the form of charging knights. Richard goes into a rage at this, leading a very small cluster of mounted knights into the battle, and after hacking his way through the field in an ill-fated attempt to find and slaughter Henry Tudor, he has his horse shot out from under him, his remaining allies picked off by archers and knifemen, and is himself surrounded by forty or so soldiers and promptly cut to ribbons, bringing the battle to a close. (There is some evidence for this brutal demise - the skeletal remains of Richard III, famously found under a car park in Leicester, were found to show some signs of being repeatedly slashed and stabbed by many blades). After his expiration, Richard's crown is found under a thorn bush, as tradition has long held it was, and is presented to Henry Tudor, who then leads his victorious army off with the carcass of Richard in tow, flung over the back of a horse.  Ineffective battle theatrics aside, "Richard III" is fraught with attention to historical detail - detail which Olivier himself displayed an imperishable thirst for. When actor (and heraldry hobbyist) Douglas Wilmer pointed out one day that some of the heraldry on set was incorrect, Olivier immediately sought to correct the issue and eagerly pumped Wilmer for more information as though he were, in Wilmer's words, "drilling for oil."
From battleaxes to heraldry to armor, this film, whatever its faults, displays a thirst for visual historical accuracy not often seen in others of its own time... or since. And Olivier deserves credit for keeping a straight face in that wig.
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The Mad Poet's Henry V!2/25/2023 So... I started a YouTube channel, possibly with the intent of creating a platform from which to promote my books and blog, and possibly also "for fun and profit." Well, at least the fun is guaranteed. The content will largely consist of short dramatic period/fantasy films, Shakespearean scenes, and educational historic videos. Possibly music here and there, if I figure out how to do that. Anyway, I've posted a short film already, and have also begun work on a somewhat titanic project involving a near-complete dramatization of William Shakespeare's "Henry V" on screen, with myself depicting every character. It may be campy and weird at first, but my hopes are that I'll improve to being uncanny. Portraying the battle of Agincourt with myself playing both armies will be a bit of challenge to do well, so improvements are a bit imperative. Given schedule constraints, there will likely be sizeable gaps between installments in the series (editing takes forever), so I may be making quicker, non-cinematic videos in the interim. We'll see how far it gets! In the meantime, here's the teaser for the first video. Enjoy, like, comment and subscribe! Be back with an actual article before long. Until then, I your humble patience pray, gently to hear, kindly to judge my play.
 Happy New Year!
Life has been slightly hectic lately... what with switching jobs, starting a degree, and doing a bit of filming for a *ahem* special project (stay tuned, this will be HUGE, probably)... I haven't had much time to work on a proper article. But then again, I have an entire supply of material to fall back on, so why not post some of it? The following is a short story I wrote last year based on the (possibly almost entirely) true events of the battle of Clontarf in 1015. The Irish clans united under the legendary King Brian Boru stood against an alliance of rebel Irish and Danish/Icelandic Viking invaders... and a battle for a free Ireland ensued. The title of story is kind of a huge spoiler, but I couldn't resist. My main sources for this were the Irish and Icelandic accounts of the invasion, contained in the splendid anthology Wars of the Irish Kings by David Willis McCollough (an outstanding writer, not to be confused with the late David McCollough of John Adams fame). Old Norse excerpts were obtained through the ancient tomes of Google. Hope you enjoy! The Death of Brian It was a day such as the land of Erinn had never seen. The clouds roiled like the smoke of a cauldron. Flesh-devouring birds spread dark wings in the sky, screaming their eagerness for a feast. Below, the feast was being laid, with blood-soaked earth for a table and broken shields for trenchers. Latean stood by the king, watching the old man as he knelt in prayer, pouring a river of supplication onto the sheepskin floor of the royal tent. “Pater noster, qui est in caelis,” King Brian whispered. “Sanctificetur nomen tuum.” A war-horn brayed up from the valley where the battle still raged. Its cry echoed in the stone crevasses of every hill, breeding a multitude of upraised voices. From time to time came the ring of steel on steel, and the shout of hard-striving men. Brian Boru spoke aloud. “Latean, go and view the battle, and tell me how our warriors fare. I must pray.” Latean bowed and left the tent at once, taking only his short sword and a staff. A cold wind lashed the king’s banner, spreading out the sigil of a sword lofted before a burning sun. There was a time when the king’s own sword might have parted the clouds that frowned over Erin, but it was too late now. The encampment was deserted by every warrior save the decrepit Brian. Latean, as he himself knew well, was no warrior. Passing beyond the line of trees, Latean came to the crest of the hill from which the valley could be seen. The battle raged below, the raven banners of the foe winging like pale ghosts over the fray. He had seen those banners for the first time two days ago, when the enemy had come. An army of Gael-Gaedhil they were, Danes out of Dublin backed by a host of Orkney-men, Icelanders, and the folk of Mealmordha, King Brian's old rival. They came to seize both land and pelf, came to steal Brian's crown away. Brian brought a host of Dalcassians and Munster-men to meet them on the fields of Clontarf, to punish Mealmordha’s treason and drive the foreigners back into the sea. The armies were pretty evenly matched in numbers, Latean reflected as he watched the turmoil of flying steel. In equipage, however, the difference was clear, for the Danes and their allies had with them shirts of mail and steel helms, and the Irish had only flowing white tunics, with one helm among twenty of them. The Danes released a storm of arrows, which the Irish answered with javelins. Broad-lipped Dane axes met the toothlike Lachlann axes blade to blade, spewing sparks like a forge. King Brian had sent his best into that fight since he himself could not take part. Wolf the Quarrelsome, the king's giant brother, laid waste down there among the Danes with his axe. Still more wonderful were the deeds of Murcadh, who was both champion and trueborn son to the king; it was said he was the last man in Ireland with equal dexterity in both hands, for, despising the shield, he fought with two swords instead. Latean thought he could see him, standing as a white rock amid a dark tide, scattering foes with his whirling blades. The foreigners had a champion or two among them as well. There had been talk of a strange fiend out of Iceland named Brodir, a worker of black arts with streaming black hair. Like an Irishman, he was said to never wear armor, for his craft protected him from arrow and blade. Even the Danes feared him. Beyond, a thin arm of the sea curled inwards, gray and rippling. The ships of the foreigners rode at anchor there, their prows carved with the heads of snarling dragons, their sails like a forest of bloody rags, all white and scarlet. And above, the sky was black with grief, as it had been on that dark Friday a thousand years ago, when the Christ had been crucified. And as it had been then, the air was now filled with the screams of destroying demons and the beannsidhe, the banshees of hell. The shadows of every crevice were haunted by the mountain hags and madmen of the caves, all cackling with glee as they compared the strength of the two forces. Or so the priests had said this morning, before scuttling off to pray at the far edge of the camp. Latean thought he could hear voices on the wind, but was unable to make out the words. Nor could he make out which way the battle went. The fight was a churning morass of flailing weapons and flying flesh; the lines had long since collided, and the banners clashed neck-to-neck. Locks of severed hair, both black and blonde, floated like chaff on the wind. Men were falling, dying. Latean knew what death was. He had seen it in the wide eyes of a cow, bleeding out behind a slaughterhouse. He had heard it in the choking gasps of a thief as he swung from a tree. He had seen it in the face of his father, carried home from a battle with the clansmen of Mealmordha, an arrow in his side. Death was a slow, quiet terror. He had no wish to view it any closer than this. All below was chaos, and the sight of it shook him. He returned to camp. King Brian did not look up when Latean entered the tent. “…Et misericordia tua subsequetur me omnibus diebus vitae meae; et ut inhabitem in domo Domini, in longitudinem dierum.” The king’s calfskin psalter lay on the floor before him, the wrinkled pages bathed in warm candlelight. Brian lovingly caressed the parchment with his fingertips as he ended his prayer. “What news of the battle, friend Latean?” “Neither very good nor bad, your Grace. The lines are clashed, and cannot be distinguished. If a legion of axe-men were cutting down Tomar Forest, they could hardly raise a greater din.” The words sounded strange in his own mouth. He had heard battles described thus by the bards, and it somehow seemed the best way now. “But Lord Murcadh’s banner still stands,” he added, almost as an afterthought. Brian’s gaze fell, but he smiled. “It is well,” he said. “As long as that banner stands, it shall go well with the men of Erin.” Latean stood by as the king prayed once more. Brian’s quiet voice never wavered; a great peace had settled upon him. Latean envied the old man. At the edge of an uncertain battle, alone with a monarch, he felt only a growing fear. After another hour the king ceased his prayer once more. “Latean, go and see now if you can tell how the battle lies.” Brian said another paternoster, his withered palms clasped in fervor. Thoughts of his former battles came to him, memories of blades and arrows in the air, of death averted, of victory achieved. Beyond the open book was his royal sword, gleaming like an untouchable relic. His arms were too feeble to wield it as stoutly as he once had. Even as his mouth uttered the holy words, his mind made its own prayer: You’ve saved me many times, O Lord. Please save us now. Latean returned. “Well?” Latean eyed the floor. “The battle still rages. It is more confused than before. Every man I could see was covered in the grime of war.” He looked up, meeting the old king’s gaze. “A father would not know his own son.” “Murcadh – he still fights?” “Most valiantly, my king. His banner still waves.” King Brian nodded. “As long as that standard holds, it shall go well with the men of Erinn," he said again. Latean knelt beside the king, readjusting the silken cushion beneath him. “I fear what may come of this day, your Majesty.” Brian shook his head. “Ours is to trust, not to fear.” “With respect, my king, why do you pray so fervently, if you trust in victory?” The king shrugged. “To show the Lord that I trust, I suppose." So saying, he returned to his prayers. Latean crouched in the corner, his face buried in his hands. He did not know how long it had been since the battle began; his sense of time was muddied by a sense of coming doom. He thought of his mother and sisters in the royal city, waiting with the other serving-folk of the king’s palace to hear of the battle’s outcome. It made him sick to think of their long-awaited answer coming in the form of Danish arrows. Latean had no stomach for fighting, but a steel-tongued death in battle seemed no worse now than the slow torture of suspense. He wished he could be brave, or at least as serene as the king. Once more the king sent him forth. Latean went, and gazed out upon a twisted sea of struggling bodies. Murcadh, the king’s son, still fought, it seemed, though Latean could catch no true glimpse of him: his banner had passed far into the center of the battle, wagging and flapping like the arm of a drowning man. Latean could not tell how the others fared, but the prince’s men were being hemmed in, overwhelmed, slaughtered. After a time their flag wavered, then fell. Latean’s heart fell with it. He returned. The king, for the first time that day, halted in the middle of a prayer. “What news?” “Murcadh is dead. His banner is fallen.” Brian stared. “My son – dead?” “I fear so, your Majesty.” The king covered his mouth with his hand and turned away. It was some time before he spoke again. When he did, he spoke as a man broken. “The flower of Ireland fell today,” he said. “Never again will there be such a champion. Or such a son.” He prayed again, beginning once more with the Paternoster, but the words came slower this time. Latean crossed himself and watched the clouds beyond the tent flap. “Pater noster… qui in caelis…” Dark tears soiled the page of the psalter. “Sanctificetur… nomen tuum… adveniat regnum tuum…” A shout came up from the field, a shout of thousands giving voice as one. The king lifted his head and opened his eyes. “Thy will be done.” King Brian turned to Latean and nodded. Latean pushed aside the tent flap and ran to see the cause of the commotion. The battle had changed. From his hilltop, Latean saw the crowd breaking up, scattering in all directions. The main body were headed for the water. The limp sails of the Danish ships were now falling and billowing as men loosed them. The white tide of the Dalcassians came driving forward, javelins flying like hornets. The Danes were fleeing! Horns rang across the valley. Men were coming this way. Latean gave them one look and raced back into the cover of the trees. He burst in upon the king, all panting and shouts. “The foreigners are broken! They are put to flight! Even now the Dalcassians are driving them back to their warships.” The king, still on his knees, pressed his hands before him and lifted his gaze heavenward. “Blessed be Jesu,” he breathed. “We may not wish to tarry, my king,” Latean added hastily. “It is not safe yet. Not all the foreigners have fled to the sea.” Brian frowned. “Where are they?” A scream from outside came in answer. One of the monks shouted “Mercy! Mercy!” From the sound he made afterwards, it seemed he had received none. Latean turned and caught a flash of dark steel at the mouth of the tent. He fumbled at the little brass cross at his neck, drawing it to his lips in a desperate farewell kiss as he backed away. “They are here, my King,” he said, his voice scarce louder than a sick man’s whisper. The tent flap was opened. “Pass me my sword, lad,” the king commanded calmly. Latean gave it to him with shaking hands. Terror was racing from gut to gorge, filling his mouth with a bitter bile. His own sword still hung at his side, but when he drew it, his trembling fingers slipped, and he dropped it. The foreigners entered, and more stood in the open space behind, peering in, all stocky and gleaming in their mail shirts and steel helms. Yet the one in the lead wore neither armor nor helmet, but only a blue tunic stained nearly purple with blood. His oily black locks trailed to his thighs, and he wore them tucked through his belt before him. This hair, and the filthy two-edged axe in his hand made him unmistakable: Brodir of Iceland. “Gothi?” asked Brodir. He stared at Brian as if unsure what to make of this old man on his knees holding a sheathed sword. “Nei,” countered one of the men behind him. “Nei gothi. Thessi eir konungrrinn.” This seemed to satisfy the black-haired man. His face twisted into the snarl of a bear. He raised the axe over the old man’s head. Brian Boru, High King of Ireland, drew his sword for the last time. The axe fell. The sword swiped. In one moment, something stirred in Latean. The sight of the old man, on his knees but somehow still standing tall in defiance, awoke in him a nameless urge. He no longer feared steel or blood or darkness or death. Time slowed to a crawl. He saw the blades carving the air. He saw himself lurching forward, his mind consumed by one thought: Protect the King. He passed between the axe and the King, and never knew fear again. A Christmas Poem12/16/2022  A couple of years ago, I heard a Christmas sermon discussing a theory about Christ's nativity that has stuck in my mind to this day... to the point that I had to write a poem about it. If you'd like to just read the poem, you can find it in the "Poems" page. If you'd like some background on it, keep reading! Briefly put, the idea is that a certain stone tower stood outside of Bethlehem at a site called Migdal Eder, meaning "Shepherd's Field." This place is the site of the death of Lot's wife in the Old Testament book of Genesis; in later centuries, it would serve as pastureland for the shepherds of Bethlehem. A select group of shepherds would care for the flock from which the sacred lambs for sacrifice were born, and the birthing would take place inside an old watchtower, called the Tower of the Flock. Interestingly, the biblical book of Micah mentions a Tower of the Flock as the site of a great king's birth, by a woman who would come out of a city (strangely familiar to anyone who knows the Nativity Story!) - Micah 4:8. Other support for the claim can be found in the fact that the shepherds in the fields are not recorded as needing any directions from the angels as to where the Messiah was; if they were the shepherds of the Tower, then this would have been the first place to look. It is also known that the sacred lambs were wrapped in swaddling clothes before being sent up to Bethlehem for sacrifice - these would likely have been in ready supply if Mary gave birth in the tower where these lambs were born. The symbolism and significance of Christ being born in the literal place of a sacrificial lamb is quite remarkable of true, but it should be remembered that this theory is still just a theory. The biblical account of the Nativity does not record a tower being involved, and there are some who question the exact site of the Tower. Feel free to research it and drop your thoughts and conclusions in the comments below! And now for the poem:  The Tower of the Flock
It stands not far from Bethlehem, The town of David's birth. It reaches up to heaven From atop a mound of earth. A lonely spire of piled stones, Where shepherds rendezvous, Out of the night wind's freezing moan, A solemn task they do. 'Tis here where shepherds bring the ewes And sacred lambs are born. The purest ones the shepherds choose For sacrifice at morn. The helpless bleating creatures then Are wrapped in swaddling bands, And sent up to Jerusalem, To die by priestly hands. Upon a quiet winter's night, When shepherds were afield, The streets were void of life and light; The local inn was sealed. Two strangers came, a man and wife, And sought a place to stay. But though the winds cut like a knife, Each house turned them away. Yet one man said, "If you don't mind A house of frozen rock, Go north of town, and you will find, The Tower of the Flock." The husband then did ask him if there was a midwife here, For his wife was great with child and her time was drawing near. The townsman said "Go seek ye she Who births the temple lambs." He pointed out her house to them; They swiftly to it ran. They knocked, and she did open up, And with this skillful crone, They fled up to the fields, to the ancient spire of stone. Inside they found a manger, Amid a mound of straw, And through a lofty window, A single star they saw. That star was seen by shepherds As they huddled by their fires; Yet in a flash across the skies There came an angel choir; Who shouted news of holy birth, A king of David's stock, And sent the shepherds racing To the Tower of the Flock. Inside they found a manger, and within, A fresh-born babe; They knelt, as to an altar, And gladsome worship gave. In truth, 'twas not surprising, For one more Lamb was born. He was swaddled, cleansed and suckled, And before long, he was shorn. He went up to Jerusalem, Where, by popular demand, This Lamb was swiftly sentenced To be slain by priestly hands. But this Lamb was far purer than all those who came before, And now, in old Jerusalem, The lambs must die no more. Merry Christmas! - The Mad Poet LEGENDS OF THE DRAGON11/17/2022  It’s an oft-repeated story; monsters of epic proportions sweeping over the mountains on shadowy wings, belching fire and destruction. Seen as creatures of darkness and danger, sages of hidden wisdom, steeds of powerful warlords, or the very embodiment of all evil, dragons have played an important role in the folklore and literature of mankind since the dawn of recorded history. Today, the dragons seem to have been relegated to the realm of fiction, where they scorch the landscape of many a book, game, film and TV show. The modern treatment of the appearance of these creatures in old stories has been largely dismissive. While there is certainly room for skepticism in many cases, the multiple similarities of tales told by totally unrelated cultures the world over might suggest that dragons are perhaps a bit more than fantasy. This article, and those to come, will deal with the multitude of dragon legends throughout history, where they fit in historical and modern thought, and why they so persistently haunt the human memory. THE BEGINNING  People have written about dragons nearly as long as they have written about themselves. The first dragon legends we find appear in the millennia old tales of ancient Sumeria. In these myths, Tiamat is the goddess who functions both as a chaotic sea-dragon and a benevolent mother-creator supposed to have given birth to many Sumerian deities. According to the epic of Enuma Elish, her husband, the god Apsu, fears that his offspring will overthrow him and so battles against them, only to be killed. Tiamat is said to have taken her dragon form to avenge her husband’s murder, only to be slain by Marduk the storm god, who uses her body to build the earth. Interestingly, Tiamat is reported to have also been the mother of all dragons, which are said to have poison in their veins instead of blood. Another Sumerian dragon tale speaks of Ninurta, the god-hero of the Sumerian poem Lugal-e, who fought and defeated the seven-headed dragon Ushum, hanging its lifeless body on the crossbeam of his chariot as a trophy after the battle.  In Sumerian and Babylonian mythology, the dragon Mushussu is depicted as a scaly beast who serves the deity Marduk, having claws like an eagle, feathered wings, limbs like a lion, serpentine neck and tail, a forked tongue, and a pair of horns surmounted by a crest on its head. It may be worth noting that this description, minus the wings, is vaguely similar to that of traditional Chinese dragons. It should also be noticed that the Mesopotamian concept of the dragon is somewhat of a mosaic in nature; while it has the reptilian neck and tail, other parts of it are compared to various creatures. In some cases, the word 'dragon' is just one of a particular creature's many names, alongside 'serpent,' 'lion' or 'eagle.' The dragon Usumgallu is referred to as a "lion-dragon demon," and along with Musmahhu and Mushussu is known as a "Great Horned Serpent." While it is possible that these ancients saw a real creature and cobbled together a description based on components of more familiar animals in order to make sense of it, the composite nature of these 'dragons' does leave open the possibility that they are nothing more than fancy based quite directly on more mundane animals. Other mythical composites, such as the griffin, mermaid, centaur and basilisk all serve as examples of the tendency to patch together new animals out of existing ones.
For those who want something closer to the scaly fire-breathing horrors out of a medieval hero's quest, the search must be directed elsewhere. And that's exactly where we're going. Stay tuned, but beware - HERE THERE BE DRAGONS.  Well, it’s finally time to talk about the next flag in my breakdown of the Union Jack! Last time, we delved into the murky origins behind the St. George’s Cross, the famous red-and-white banner that has long been associated with England. For this month’s article, we’ll be moving up to Scotland and taking a peek at the equally famous St. Andrew’s Cross.  The origins of this flag are likewise befogged by legends. As for the St. Andrew connection, a fourth-century cleric named Regulus is said to have been shipwrecked on the coast of Scotland while carrying the venerated remains of the Apostle Andrew, whereupon he set up a church to house the relics, forever linking Scotland with the name of the saint. Another story claims that St. Wilfrid brought the venerable bones to Scotland in the 7th century. Ancient Christian tradition holds that St. Andrew was martyred on an X-shaped cross; just such a cross is said to have appeared in the form of two white arms of cloud crossing in the blue sky over a battlefield in 9th century Scotland. Angus, King of the Scottish Picts, was badly outmatched by the Anglo-Saxon armies arrayed against him at Athelstanford in 832, but St. Andrew appeared to him in a dream the night before, promising victory. That morning, Angus saw the cross of St. Andrew unfold in the sky, and took heart. As one would expect, the battle was won. Angus would go on to adopt the white cross on blue as his standard. In the language of blazonry, a diagonal cross is called a saltire. The term possibly stems from the Medieval Latin saltatorium, meaning “stirrups.” (This is thought to refer to the idea that the two deltoid shapes made by each half of the cross resemble stirrups).  Aside from Angus and his cloud-banner, the use of the white saltire on blue as a military symbol for Scotland dates to 1385, when, the Scottish Parliament decreed that the Scottish and French soldiers fighting in the war against the English should “have a sign before and behind, namely a white St. Andrew’s Cross.” The phrase “before and behind” likely refers to a tabard or surcoat, the popular heraldic overgarments worn on top of armor as an identifying mark with the sigil displayed on the back and front (as seen above).  One hundred years prior to this, the Guardians of Scotland, a group of noblemen supporting Scottish independence and headed by none other than William Wallace, used the figure of St. Andrew being crucified on the saltire cross on their official seal (above).  In 1388, James, Earl of Douglas raised a pennon with the St. Andrew’s Cross at the hoist (similar to the way in which English pennons displayed the St. George’s flag, as seen in the previous article in this series). Other Scottish nobles would follow suit, adding the saltire to their personal battle flags in a show of Scottish unity. By the end of the 15th century, the craft guilds of Edinburgh would be using the saltire in their own banners.  Finally, in, 1507, the massive carrack Great Michael, constructed as a flagship for Scottish king James IV, hoisted three blue-and-white saltire flags at its masts, linking the flag not only with the kingdom of Scotland, but the King himself. These flags would increase in popularity over the next century, being flown by Scottish merchant ships as well. This last development would in turn spark the controversy from which came the first Union Jack. Union In 1603, King James VI of Scotland found himself in an interesting predicament; his cousin, Queen Elizabeth I of England, had died, leaving him as the next in line for the English throne. As a result of this, he now became James I of England, and the two kingdoms were merged into the kingdom of Britain. This union would soon cause some disagreement among sailors as to how they should display their flags. In many cases, both flags would be flown on a single masthead or halyard. Many Scottish ships chose to hoist the St. Andrew’s cross on top, which drew some criticism from their English counterparts, who argued that they were primarily subjects of the English crown, and should therefore fly the English cross in the place of honor. When the argument was brought before King James, he temporarily settled it by decreeing that each nationality should hoist their own flag above the other's. This temporary solution was later improved upon with the development of the Union Flag in 1606.  On April 12th of that year, King James decreed that a new flag would be flown to represent the union of the two kingdoms - a combination of the two crosses, a red cross overlaid on the white saltire with a blue field. Though a variety of designs incorporating both crosses were proposed (including one that simply had both placed vertically side-by-side), the final design was chosen for its easy recognizability. While originally known as the Union Flag, the term Union Jack came into use when referring to the flag being flown as a ship's jack, or ensign. In 1634 James' son, King Charles I, would decree that only government ships could fly this flag, perhaps to the frustration of the merchant sailors whose earlier controversy contributed to its creation in the first place.  Around this time, the red ensign came into use, depicting St. George's cross set in the canton of a solid red flag; this was flown by various private entities, including the Puritan founders of the Massachusetts colony. Flags with the St. George's Cross in the canton appeared in military units throughout the 17th century, albeit with different color fields.  By the 18th century, royal infantry regiments carried two flags - the Union Flag, called the King's Colors, and the regimental flag, which consisted of the Union Flag in the canton with a background typically matching the color of the facings on the soldier's uniforms, often white, red, green, blue, yellow, or pink, along with a regimental insignia.    The practice of putting the Jack in the canton of a flag would become the norm for many British provinces (and later members of the commonwealth), as seen in the historic flags of countries like Canada, Australia, New Zealand and the U.S. In the early phases of the American Revolution, the colonists used flags such as the Grand Union Flag (below, top) or the Taunton Flag (below, bottom) to display their sense of identity as Englishmen, despite their recent falling-out with the King. Interestingly, a flag identical to the Grand Union Flag would also be used across the globe by the East India Company.   The Union Flag itself would fly unchanged over royal armies, forts, ships and territories across the world.
Until 1801. Stay tuned for Part 3 - St. Patrick's Cross! How did pirates REALLY talk?9/12/2022  Well, it’s almost that time of year again – when magazines, restaurants, local tv/radio stations, and of course social media remind us to break out the salty talk for International Talk Like a Pirate Day. From its humble origins as a running joke during a racquetball game between two friends, this holiday has spread across the seven seas, and the gab of thousands has waxed piratical on September 19th for 20 years, filling their speech with such phrases as “Avast!” “Shiver me timbers!” “Ahoy, matey!” and the indispensable “ARRRRRRR!” Amid the storm of nautical nattering, the curiosity of some may be aroused as to just how pirates really did talk. The truth is, as usual, a bit complicated. Pirates, even those of the swashbuckling Golden Age, came from all nationalities, including not just English, but French, Spanish, Dutch, African, German, Indian, Portuguese, Chinese, and Native American backgrounds. A single pirate ship might have a dozen accents and languages being spoken aboard. But suppose we make it simpler. Since the majority of those talking like pirates on September 19th will be doing so in some form of English, let's focus on what an English pirate of the 17th and 18th centuries might have talked like. So while you're donning your pirate garb for the festivities, shove a few of these handy pointers under your belt alongside your pistols.  First, to make a few clarifications: The speech we consider to be “pirate talk” these days was largely invented in the 20th century - or rather, this was when this kind of speech became associated almost exclusively with pirates. Its conception is traditionally attributed to the English actor Robert Newton, whose performance as Long John Silver in Disney’s first-ever live-action film adaptation of Treasure Island (above) conspicuously features this accent. Newton squints and snarls his way throughout the film, growling out his lines and punctuating his sentences with “Arrrr!”, even closing a prayer in one scene with “Arrrmen.” Some have pointed to this fact to entirely dismiss the modern ‘pirate accent’ completely as a product of Hollywood invention, but it turns out Newton might have been on to something. Newton’s accent was actually based on the dialect of his native Dorsetshire, the southwest region of England which neighbored the port of Bristol, and which in the 18th century was home to thousands of sailors, possibly including Blackbeard and Henry Avery (so perhaps it’s appropriate that Newton re-used the accent when portraying Blackbeard himself in the very creatively-named film Blackbeard the Pirate). While this does mean that the regional accent was plausible for a pirate to have, it’s important to remember that the various English accents have changed drastically since 1720. That said, some features of the pronunciation, such as the hard ‘r’ sound, are thought to have been present in English speakers of 16th, 17th and 18th centuries, and most especially among lower class laborers after the “Great Vowel Shift” during these years had begun to separate the more ‘refined’ accents from the rest. Was “Arrr?” ever used as its own word? Surprisingly, some English from Dorsetshire and Cornwall used this word to mean yes - possibly as an alternate pronunciation of "Aye." So while not all English-speaking pirates said this, it is likely that a fairly large number of them did - along with farmers and craftspeople from this particular region. Of course, the actual accent at the time is a bit more complicated than the mere pronunciation of the letter 'r', but it may have somewhat resembled that of 17th century Puritans, whose accents have been brought to life by the interpreters at Plimoth-Pautuxet: Visiting Plimoth Plantation - YouTube Other English accents exist, of course, not least of which was the London accent: 17th century London Accent According to Robert Robinson. Obviously, other regions of Britain spawned pirates, most notably Scotland and Wales; the most successful European pirate, Bartholomew Roberts, and his mentor, Howell Davis, were both Welshmen. If you'd like to imitate a Welsh pirate... please do so and record how it goes!  References to plank walking are a favorite among those trying to talk like pirates, but the only recorded instance of it was practiced by a gang of mutineers who used this method to execute their most hated officers. Pirates, as far as we know, never used it. But don't despair - new records of 18th-century piracy are still being found and/or translated, so maybe evidence will turn up someday! All the typical nautical talk, like “Ahoy,” “Avast,” “Shiver me timbers,” “Batten down the hatches,” "Bilge rats," etc., are all fairly well-supported phrases that pirates, being sailors, likely did use at some point. “Avast” seems to have come from the Dutch “houd vast,” which meant “hold fast.” This term was used as a command by sea captains and officers to make crewmembers pause an activity (e.g., “Avast hauling!”) This was distinct from “Belay!” which was meant to stop an activity completely; it typically referred to the practice of “belaying” a line (rope) on a ship's rigging by winding it around a wooden belaying pin, though the word could also be used to cancel an instruction or decision, as in “Belay that order!” The words "ahoy" and "yoho" seem to have similar meanings, along the same lines as "hey," or "ho," or "hi," though of course, "ahoy" was mainly used as a greeting when sighting land or calling to another ship from a long distance. "Shiver my timbers" referred to the vibration of the ship's planking in rough weather, and was a common exclamation in the 19th century world, long after the Golden Age was over, though the phrase may have been uttered in some form earlier. If you’d like to use “Port and Starboard” for “left and right,” and you’re trying to make your talk as close as possible to the period, it might be helpful to remember that “port” replaced “larboard” in the middle of the 18th century, around 30 years after most of the major English-speaking pirates had been stamped out. Pirates of Blackbeard’s day would have said “starboard and larboard.”  One doesn’t have to search very long to find plenty of cursory guides to pirate talk, though most of these sadly just use general nautical language. However, thanks to eyewitness reports and newspaper records of the time, we do have plenty of great words and phrases straight from the pirates’ mouths, many of which go way beyond the stereotypes in terms of utter coolness. These include, but are by no means limited to: “Pistol-proof” – common term among pirates and privateers to refer to one who is experienced and is tested in battle; such an individual would be a likely candidate for captain. “Spotted dog” – one of the few not-profane insults hurled at a sea-captain by pirates off the coast of Africa in the 1720’s. “Ye are a pack of hen-hearted numbskulls!” – attributed to Captain “Black Sam” Bellamy, berating a merchant captain for not quitting his boring job to join the pirates. One of the best insults used by a real pirate.  "Go on the account" -to take up piracy. Joining a pirate crew often meant one would be listed on "the account," making them eligible for a share in the plunder.  "Hoist up the ancient," - the main flag, or ensign, of a ship, was called the "ancient" prior to the 18th century, when the term "ensign" began to be adopted. This flag would have been flown at the stern of the ship, and would have been a variation of the national flag, or in the case of a pirate ship, might have been one of the various black (or red, or white) flags we all know and love.  "Neck the bottle" - the practice of opening a bottle by cutting the neck off with a cutlass. As piratey as it gets. “Set a-sun-drying” – Hanged. Pirates were typically left swinging in iron gibbet cages at prominent points along the coast where passing sailors could see them and take warning; this was the fate of several famous pirate captains, including Stede Bonnet and Captain Kidd. Many pirates were known to vow that they would rather shoot themselves to escape capture, rather than be taken and “set a-sun-drying, as Kidd.”  “Captain’s Daughter” – a common sailor’s term for a cat-o-nine-tails, the infamous cord-whip used in flogging at sea. The line “Put ‘im in the bed with the captain’s daughter” from the popular sea shanty “Drunken Sailor” is actually referring to a punishment – being lashed across the back. This term is related to the term “Gunner’s Daughter,” commonly used in the Royal Navy to refer to the same punishment (though it came from the fact that the condemned sailor was made to lean across a cannon barrel while the flogging took place, sometimes so that their mouths pressed up against a small “lip” of steel on its rim, which led to the expression “kissing the gunner’s daughter.”  Careen – this is one nautical term that could be said to be almost unique to pirates. Careening was the practice of sailing a ship into a deserted cove, running it onto the beach, emptying the hull, and propping it up on one side so the underside could be cleaned of barnacles and timber-eating Teredo worms using fire or scraping tools. Pirates would usually be unable to enter a law-abiding port city to have their ships cleaned, and so they were forced to undergo repairs away from civilization. Crimp- to trick someone into joining a ship’s crew. A favorite practice among both pirates and the British navy. The ‘trick’ usually involved getting a sailor drunk before making him sign up, or promising him impossible rewards should he join up. If that failed, a savage beating usually did the trick.  Dance the hempen jig – get hanged. The last kicks of a choking pirate were said to resemble a frenzied jig, and the rope of the noose was typically made of hemp fiber, hence the expression. Interesting how many of these expressions have to do with getting flogged or hanged…  Letter of Marque – not quite a pirate term, though pirates were familiar with these and often pretended to have them. A letter of marque was a government-issued privateering license. The English dispensed these quite generously, which led many pirate captains to draw up fake letters in case they were caught or questioned (“Sir, do you have a license for that booty?”). When the United States Constitution was drawn up, one of the first powers the new Congress gave itself was the right to issue Letters of Marque – probably with fond memories of how these state-sanctioned pirates had helped them already in beating the British navy.   Overhaul – To overtake a ship in a chase. Best-case scenario for a pirate… unless they accidentally overhauled a heavily-armed warship. Langrage - a collection of broken glass, scrap metals, nails and shrapnel tied together or stuffed into a casing or bottle and fired from a cannon. Langrage was used like buckshot, sending a spray of unpleasantness into the ranks of the intended victims to take out as many as possible with the least waste of powder. Pirates who were short on ammo were known to use this.  Salmagundi - This rather nondescript dish was a big favorite with pirates! Though today considered a salad of various vegetables and meats, this English concoction began as a stew. The ingredients? Anything the pirates could find, including rum, wine, pineapples, berries, biscuits, salt beef, fish, corn, beans, spices and pork. There is one instance of pirates throwing an entire pig into the stew for some added bristly flavor. Captain Bartholomew Roberts is said to have loved salmagundi, even eating it for breakfast the morning he was killed. These are just a few phrases and words to throw in with all the classic avasts and shiver me timbers! I wanted to find some that are a little more directly related to real-life pirates, rather than just general nautical terms (pirates obviously used those, but they're pretty easy to find elsewhere). Below are a few suggested resources for further reading.
So until next time, LOOSE THE HEADS'LS AND BEAR AWAY! TALK LIKE A PIRATE THE ENTIRE DAY! For further reading: A General History of the Robberies and Murders of the Most Notorious Pyrates: This book is considered the first big resource for all things pirate. The Pirate King.com: An ancient treasure trove of piratical info, founded by Rob Ossian, the Pirate King! Here's a list of nautical terminology: Terminology - Home (thepirateking.com) Time-life's The Seafarers: The Pirates. A lot of cool info and records of actual pirate conversations. The Republic of Pirates, by Colin Woodard. This book is flat-out awesome and I should definitely do a review of it. Under the Black Flag, by David Cordingly. This book is considered authoritative by many. And if you're interested in learning about early and pre- Golden Age pirates like Henry Morgan, as well as a few tidbits about Errol Flynn and the early days of the pirate film genre, this is the book for you. Blairsville Scottish Festival, 20228/29/2022  The Blairsville Scottish Festival is one of the largest events of its kind in the U.S., boasting a gathering of over 39 clans and an attendance of thousands. The festival holds multiple athletic events throughout the weekend, including hammer throwing, tug-o-wars, log throwing, caber tossing and sheaf tossing. Reenactors portraying the Jacobite rebellion hold musketry demonstrations, bagpipe bands play on the green, and over thirty vendors sell their wares; these are just a few of the attractions offered! I had the pleasure of visiting the festival back in June. The first event itself was a somewhat unusual spectacle in the North Georgia mountains: the massed bands of the North Georgia Pipes and Drums, the Atholl Highlanders Pipes and Drums, the John Mohr Macintosh Pipes and Drums, the Alhambra Highlanders Pipes and Drums, and the Appalachians Saint Andrews Pipes and Drums paraded onto the sprawling park green followed by representatives of each of the clans attending the festival. After the opening prayer and singing of the national anthems (both American and British!) the MC officially declared the festivities underway. The path cutting through the park grounds was lined with tents, each one dedicated to a clan and featuring displays of their history and distinctions – the content of one of these displays could probably form its own article! A few notable clans included Clan Campbell (famous for their involvement in the Jacobite Wars, their possession of various castles, and the invention of Campbell Soup), Clan MacLeod (lairds of the Isle of Skye, known for pronouncing their name "mick-loud" instead of "mick-lee-odd") and Clan Bell (a member of whom actually created Taco Bell). I was also able to talk to a representative of Clan Gunn, who informed me that his clan had its origins in Scandinavian settlers in the northwestern Orkney Islands - hence why his clan's tent was bedecked with Viking weapons, armor and the decorative prow of a longship!  Clan Gunn's display on their Viking history The festival was resplendent with clan symbolism. From kilts to banners to heraldry, every clan brought its emblem, and both hosts and visitors could be seen in kilts and arasaids. Some carried their tartans on flagpoles, while others simply sported polo shirts with the clan crest – and sometimes sold a few! The clan ambassadors were all extremely open to conversation. If you ever visit a Scottish festival, be sure and have a chat with a few of them. They love answering questions to fill visitors in on their clan’s history and are often quite willing to invite interested newcomers to attend clan meetings… or even join the clans!  Clan Murray with their banner  Two ways to display tartans One clan rep for the Campbells extended perhaps the broadest invitation possible: “No matter where you come from, if you feel an affinity for a certain culture, that’s a good sign that you could have ancestral origins in it.” The Clan Gunn representative was also able to extend an open invitation and back it up with historical precedent: “Large clans would accept individuals or smaller families into their ranks. If you could farm or fight, they’d take you, you could live on their land and enjoy their protection and your family became a ‘sept’ of the clan. They didn’t care who you were.”  A furry clan member braves heatstroke to display their Scottish pride  The Jacobites return to restore Prince Charlie The event itself was open to a broad variety of merchants and entertainers. A blacksmith shop was dealing in wrought iron pans, decorations and tools. Multiple Celtic stores had tents filled with Scottish memorabilia such as the usual t-shirts or water bottles, while others sold dirks, sporrans, yards of tartan, shot glasses, bagpipes and books. One craftsman's booth sold traditional archery gear, mostly consisting of Cherokee flatbows and longbows. I was able to talk to the owner of the booth, and he showed me his most prized piece - a six-foot English yew bow tipped with cow's horn, in the authentic style of the medieval weapon. This bow was (of course) not for sale, but he was able to sell me a nicely stained hickory longbow. Sheepdog demonstrations took place at the height of the festival. The dogs on display, mostly border collies bred in Britain, astonished the crowd by driving half a dozen sheep through a series of extremely tight maneuvers, while a somewhat more light-hearted show was put on by the dog who herded a flock of ducks through an obstacle course of bridges and tunnels. A falconry demonstration was also to be seen, though we didn't arrive in time for it. Other Scottish animals displayed included Scottish rams and Humphrey, the popular Highland Cow. One of the central tents served as a music venue where the Celtic band Ye Jacobites By Name gave a live performance of Scottish and Irish folk tunes on mandolin, guitar, pennywhistle, and pipes. Several other musical artists played or sang at sites throughout the festival grounds, enhancing the atmosphere even more. Another main attraction the festival offers is, of course, the food. A number of Scottish and British catering groups are on hand, providing visitors a taste of Irn Bru, the most popular Scottish soda, Scotch eggs (a dish of contested origins, but often said to be Scottish) and haggis. I passed on the Scotch eggs in favor of a haggis and a meat pie, washing it down with an Irn Bru, and am happy to report that haggis is actually rather good. The oats and seasoning involved can prevent one from dwelling too much on the fact that the dish is in fact a sheep's guts - or least they did that for me. Irn Bru is fairly good as well, likely to remind an American of a regular cream soda, though others have compared the taste to cotton candy. The festival typically lasts two days on a June weekend, and is held in Meeks Park in Blairsville, GA, just off I-575. Visitors can expect parking to fill up quickly, so if you do come, you might want to come early! Georgia summers being what they are, hydration will also likely be important throughout the day. The actual festival grounds are a fair distance from the parking lot, so expect to do some walking. Scottish festivals are an increasingly common occurrence across the U.S., especially in areas like the east coast, which was originally settled by Scottish immigrants. For those who love history, costumes or just a fun day out, this is definitely the kind of event worth exploring! You'll find some additional photos below.  The Jacobite encampment   A blunderbuss  The Falconer and his... falcon.  Typical 18th-century Highland Weapons: Brown Bess Musket, Murdoch Pistol, Sgian Dubh (small dagger), Dirk (long dagger) and basket-hilt broadsword (originally a favorite with Highland regiments of the British army)  Sheepdog at work  A traditional targe shield (yes, this is where the word 'target' comes from). The ship in the center is a lymphad, a common symbol in Scottish heraldry.  Humphrey the Highland Cow  Clan Gunn's tent (note longship)  Pontefract Castle: Key of the North8/5/2022  O Pomfret, Pomfret! O thou bloody prison! Fatal and ominous to noble peers! Within the guilty closure of thy walls Richard the Second here was hack’d to death. - Shakespeare’s Richard III, III.iii.9. Britain is covered in castles. The Normans threw up dozens of them as they claimed the entire island for themselves, each new fortress working as a weapon to maintain control of the territory. To the north, however, one particular castle would stand out among the rest. Its dark history earned it a reputation as the most feared castle in England. Standing on a colossal bed of rock, the castle boasted a labyrinth of pit-strewn passages running through the dungeons thirty-five feet below its foundation. Today, the names of despairing prisoners are still visible where they were scratched into its walls; among its host of victims are multiple members of English royal families.  The Dungeons of Pontefract Built in 1070 by William the Conqueror, Pontefract Castle was erected at a site which held both strategic and symbolic importance. It was positioned to guard the northern realm against reaving Scots from over the border, as well as any surviving Saxon resistance fighters. The castle was also placed over an ancient Saxon burial site, perhaps in a deliberate gesture of Norman contempt. Thus brooding on top of a graveyard, the castle has witnessed more than its fair share of historical murders and atrocities, not to mention hosting a handful of spectacular sieges in later years.  Wooden Castle (not Pontefract) Interestingly, the castle began as a wooden fortress, recorded in the Domesday Book census as “Ilbert’s Castle.” It was overseen by Ilbert de Lacy, to whom King William entrusted the lands surrounding. Wooden castles had dotted the landscape of Europe for many years prior, but this one was built just as castle-builders were beginning to look to rock-quarries instead of forests for their materials.  Reconstruction of Pontefract at its height Over time, de Lacy’s descendants would convert the castle into a proper stone fortress, adding a bulky, multilobed keep and several towers along its walls. As the castle grew, several unique defense mechanisms appeared. A curtain wall extended down the hillside approaches, seeking to slow advancing enemies by forcing them to go around it to get at the gates, all while being pelted with arrows, slingstones, javelins, hot sand, rocks, excrement, cannonballs, and bullets (depending on when they were attacking, of course!) A rare Spanish-style detached tower, called the Piper Tower, stood at a distance from the walls, connected to the castle only by a bridge; its purpose was to increase the defenders’ ability to give flanking fire, showering the attackers with various unpleasantness from the side or rear as they tried to attack the main castle walls. The keep itself was a cluster of four round turrets designed to funnel attackers into its outer angles where they would be more vulnerable to fire from above (a little bit like the five-pointed “star forts” of later centuries). For all its preparedness, Pontefract didn’t undergo any sieges until quite late in its history (perhaps because of how well-prepared it was!) Much of the violence it witnessed during the Middle Ages was of a quite different nature. After the Battle of Boroughbridge in 1322, Thomas, the insurgent Earl of Lancaster who had been defeated in his attempt to claim the throne in the early Wars of the Roses, was beheaded outside the walls on the order of King Edward II. His death made him a martyr, and his tomb at Pontefract Priory became a shrine and a popular destination for pilgrimage for years afterward. When the castle was ceded to the famous John of Gaunt, son of Edward III, he put in many improvements to its facilities and defenses, making it his personal residence. His son, Henry Bolingbroke, was banished by King Richard II for opposing him, but Henry gathered an army and returned to take back the castle (which the king had now seized). Richard was in Ireland, with little ability to resist Bolingbroke’s attack… and before long Bolingbroke had taken not only his castle, but the entire kingdom. (Henry Bolingbroke would become Henry IV). Henry was in no mood to forgive Richard. The former king was first imprisoned in the Tower of London, and then, in 1399, was thrown in the dungeons of Pontefract, the very castle he had seized from Henry. He died a few months later; one chronicler suggests he was hacked to pieces, and thus inspired a line in Shakespeare’s Henry IV, but most others agree that he was starved to death by his captors (or possibly starved himself). It is after this incident that the castle began racking up a significant body count.  In the summer of 1483, Richard III had two nobles, Richard Grey and Anthony Rivers, beheaded outside the walls of Pontefract for standing in his path to the throne. When Henry VIII established the Anglican church, a north English Catholic coalition marched on the south in an uprising known as the Pilgrimage of Grace. The guardian of Pontefract at the time, one Thomas Darcy, was so frightened by (and sympathetic to) the mass of protesters that he surrendered the castle to them – an act he would later regret. The uprising was crushed, and Darcy faced the axe.  Execution of Catherine Howard Another Henry VIII-related death tied with the castle occurred after Queen Catherine Howard was accused of having an affair with a courtier while staying at Pontefract. She was rather speedily packed off to the chopping block, without a trial. The castle enjoyed less gruesome royal encounters when Mary, Queen of Scots, and James I each stayed there while on their travels across the realm.  The last chapter of Pontefract’s history began with the English Civil War. Initially held by the forces of King Charles I, the castle was besieged three times. The first time, in 1644, the attacking force of English Parliamentarians and Scottish Covenanters was driven off by the King’s reinforcements – but not after they had partially undermined the walls with siege tunnels and bombarded the castle with around 1,400 cannonballs, destroying the Piper Tower by shooting it 78 times and leaving balls embedded which would remain lodged in the walls until 2016.  Two of the seven recovered cannonballs The second siege began the next year. The Parliamentarians threw up entrenchments around the castle in an attempt to cut off any escape from within, but the Royalists managed to sneak out from time to time nonetheless, stealing cattle and swiping apples. Eventually however, the Parliamentarian commander tightened his security, and at last the Royalist defenders were at the point of having to bribe men to go out and retrieve spent bullets. The siege ended when the garrison surrendered after hearing that Royalist forces had been defeated at Naseby. Unfortunately for Cromwell’s Parliamentarians, however, another Royalist army managed to sneak into the castle and take it over once more - reportedly by posing as bed-changers bringing in fresh mattresses!  Reenactors busily portraying an infantry clash at Pontefract At last, in 1648, Oliver Cromwell arrived to lay the final siege of Pontefract Castle. Not long after, King Charles was brought to trial and executed, leaving the Royalists with little hope of support. They surrendered; the commander was executed for treason, the garrison was imprisoned in the dungeon for months before being released, and the castle itself, on the request of the war-weary people of York, was completely demolished.  Pontefract today exists only as a ruin. Some remnants of the original 11th-century walls and towers still survive, but in other places only the traces of the foundations are visible. A few surviving passages to the storerooms and dungeons can still be found, and on the tunnel walls modern visitors can make out names scratched in the stones – those of the prisoners of the most feared castle in England.  Names of prisoners, dated to English Civil War
 It struck pride and hope into the hearts of men and women defending a bomb-shattered London. Its presence kindled resentment and rebellion in the hearts of nations across the globe. It has waved on every continent, and it still resides quite comfortably in the canton (flag-speak for upper left corner) of many other flags today, a link binding them to an ancient crown. The fact that the flag of a nation is closely tied to its identity is well demonstrated by the history of the flag of the United Kingdom, commonly known as the Union Jack. It is easily recognizable even at a distance, with its three crosses laid on top of each other in a simple but effective display of unity. Each of these crosses has its own story. It’s widely known that each cross stands for one of three British realms. The red vertical-horizontal cross, known as St. George’s Cross, is for England. The second cross, that of St. Andrew, is composed of white diagonal bars and is the ancient symbol of Scotland. The third and final cross, of diagonal red bars, is lesser known, but the fact that it is considered the cross of St. Patrick leaves little doubt about which country it represents. St George’s Cross  This cross actually predates its use as an English flag. In fact, its first appearance was among the medieval city-states of northern Italy. The Republic of Genoa has used the red cross on white as its symbol since the 10th century. (Italy itself would later use a color-inverted version of this, a white cross on a red field, as a national symbol). A red cross on white was also used by the Knights Templar, albeit with some variations.  The Cross of Genoa The question of how the English came to use it is a bit muddied by legend. Some claim that King Richard I (The Lionheart) paid the Doge of Genoa a yearly fee for the right to bear the cross while on crusade in the late 12th century. The connection between the cross and St. George, the legend holds, stems from the fact that Richard had a personal devotion to the dragon-slaying warrior saint. One potential problem with this crusade legend is that it is commonly recorded that English crusaders at this time typically wore white crosses, while the French wore red; it is unlikely that Richard would adopt the cross of England's rivals. It is known that the red cross flag was often carried alongside a banner depicting St. George and his dragon when the Genoese went to war; the practice has been traced back to the early 13th century. The legend of King Richard’s deal with the Doge is however, partly corroborated (or perhaps just continued) by the Mayor of Genoa, who wrote a letter to the current Queen of England half-jokingly inquiring why the fee for Genoa’s cross had not been paid since 1771! (He was polite about it though, saying a donation to charity would be enough to settle the matter). What is documented with more certainty is that English crusaders were using badges with the red cross by the 1270’s. These typically would have been cloth patches sewn into the shoulders, sleeves or breasts of the soldier’s cloaks, tunics or padded gambesons; among knights, they would have appeared on decorated epaulets.  Crusader with St. George's Cross Throughout the 14th century, artwork pops up across Europe depicting St. George wearing the cross on his shield and surcoat.  After the final failure of the Crusades, the symbol became less associated with “taking the cross.” In 1348, King Edward III created the honorary Order of the Garter, with the cross of St. George as its official badge. It was time for England to appropriate the symbol, not as a Crusading badge, but as a royal battle flag. From then on, it appeared as an official royal standard of the Kings of England, carried alongside the royal arms of the lions and lilies. In 1356, English soldiers went into battle at Poitiers shouting “St. George! St. George!" English nobles also would include the cross at the fronts of their own standards as a display of their allegiance and a declaration of their identity as lords of England.  English Battle Standard (House of York) Things would change in 1606, when the throne of England would be straddled by a Scotchman.
Stay tuned for Part 2 - St. Andrew's Cross! AuthorA.J. Hartel: History Lover, Medieval Enthusiast, Amateur Poet, Folk Musician, and Duct Tape Connoisseur Archives
May 2023
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