Tales from the Cathedral Close

Compton Reeves, Ohio University

Anyone who has spent a modest number of minutes in the company of Professor Charles T. Wood appreciates that we are gathered here today to celebrate with a man who likes a good story. I propose, therefore, for your entertainment to tell you a few (hopefully) good stories that originate in the closes of assorted cathedral churches of the medieval ecclesiastical provinces of Canterbury and York. These tales from the cathedral close are episodes of the humanum est variety or, it might well be said, of the humanum est errare variety. It is likely that the tales I shall tell were not amusing to those involved, but for the observer they have entertainment potential. The operative principle is to keep in mind the gulf that could open between the ideals for behaviour associated with the spiritual calling of the inhabitants of any medieval cathedral close and the actuality of the human behaviour displayed by the clerics we shall meet.

John Macworth, who served as Dean of Lincoln Cathedral from 1412 until 1450, was an assertive man indeed, and he became involved in several quarrels with the cathedral chapter of which he was head.[1] There was a dispute between Macworth and the chapter in 1418 and another in 1421. Yet a third dispute began in 1434, apparently because of Macworth's absence from Lincoln Minster and his general neglect of his duties, and this quarrel was intensified by the energetic presence of William Alnwick, who became bishop of Lincoln in 1436. Bishop Alnwick determined upon a formal visitation of his cathedral church in 1437 with the intention of arbitrating and ending the dispute. Virtually the entire cathedral establishment seems to have denounced Macworth to Bishop Alnwick, while Macworth levelled some charges of his own, including that he was the target of a conspiracy organized by some of the clergy resident in the cathedral close, including the chancellor. The cathedral chancellor, Peter Partriche (d. 1451), alleged that one June day in 1435 in the presence of many pilgrims while he was in his stall in the choir during vespers a band of armed men led by Macworth hauled the chancellor out of his seat by his amice and gave him a beating. Even if Partriche was adding colour to his story, it is hardly edifying to contemplate Lincoln's dean, the holder of an Oxford doctorate in canon law, instigating a physical assault upon the cathedral chancellor, even if Partriche's Oxford doctorate was in the rarified discipline of theology.[2]

The dispute was not simply between the two cathedral dignitaries. Complaints about Macworth included that he used his power to call the cathedral chapter into meeting at inconvenient times for trivial purposes, that he would not allow the chapter to exercise its right to deal in his absence with certain types of business, that he engaged in undignified conversation during processions, and one accuser noted that Macworth moved about the cathedral close 'as if he were a pontiff' with a servant bearing the train of his cope. So undisciplined was life at Lincoln under the deanship of Macworth that the verger was even allowed to have cattle in the churchyard, and Macworth himself had a wall of the cloister torn down so that he could use the stone to build a stable on the site for his personal use.

Bishop Alnwick absorbed a disturbing impression of life in the cathedral close at Lincoln during his week-long visitation of October 1437, during which he and his associate questioned over ninety persons. Some time was allowed for the absorption of the information gathered, and Alnwick returned for a second visitation in January 1438, during which the dean and chapter, which had some internal quarrels of its own and was not united in opposition to the dean, agreed to accept the arbitration of the bishop. Alnwick prepared an award, or laudum, to which it was hoped the dean and chapter would agree, and in June 1439 Alnwick conducted a third visitation to urge the acceptance of the laudum before its formal issuance. As it turned out, the laudum was accepted only with reservations, and the bickerings in the close continued. Meanwhile, it had become clear to Bishop Alnwick that the cathedral statutes were in great need of clarification and codification, and he set about the task of producing a new code of statutes, which came to be known as the Novum Registrum, completed near the end of 1440 after yet another visitation of the cathedral by Alnwick. Bishop Alnwick died at the end of 1449, with his laudum of 1439 still being ignored by Dean Macworth, and his Novum Registrum never did gain official status. The bickerings in the Lincoln close did not ease until Macworth was interred in Tredington church in Worcestershire, of which he had been an often absentee rector since 1437.

It was not just in cathedrals served by chapters of secular canons that clergy appeared who were less than spiritually pristine in their approach towards life. At the cathedral priory of Bath, for instance, Prior Thomas de Clopcote, who died in 1332, petitioned Pope John XXII in an effort to satisfy his desire to outfit himself with the pontifical insignia of mitre, crosier, and ring. [3] The pope gently thwarted the ambition of the prior. The Benedictine community that served Bath Cathedral displayed, like Prior Clopcote, a certain status envy, but in this instance because of the lack of any object in the care of the cathedral community that would serve to bring pilgrims to their church.[4] In the twelfth century Archbishop Theobald of Canterbury was persuaded to grant an indulgence for those who would make a pilgrimage to venerate a particular cross erected within the cathedral church, but no enthusiasm for visiting the cross took root. In the fifteenth century the community attempted to encourage the veneration of a now missing representation of the Trinity, which is thought to have been part of the reredos of the altar in the church which had recently been dedicated to the Trinity. Agnes Baker of Norton St Philip indicated what she thought of the new attraction by saying that it "was a waste of time to offer to the Trinity at Bath," a comment for which she was brought before the consistory court of Bishop Thomas Bekynton, was found guilty, and in 1459 forced publicly to confess her crime and renounce her errors. The circumstantial evidence does suggest that the Benedictine community of Bath was wanting for a tourist attraction.

The violence visited upon Peter Partriche, chancellor of Lincoln, was not a singular episode. The death in 1333 of Reginald Chambernoun, a canon of Exeter Cathedral, set in motion a quest on the part of William Gulden to secure provision to the vacant canonry. Gulden was an angry man who had in 1333 brought an excommunication upon himself by his actions towards a nephew of Bishop John Grandisson of Exeter.[5] Nonetheless, he wanted a canon's stall in Exeter Cathedral for which he obtained a papal provision. Gulden's efforts reached a crescendo on All Saints' Day 1338 when he stormed into Exeter Cathedral supported by an armed crew and, during divine service, confronted in turn each canon present with his demand to be admitted to a canonry. Upon hearing of the episode, Bishop Grandisson added a second excommunication to Gulden's record, which also included an accusation of adultery and hints that he was a heretic. Amazingly, Gulden did briefly become a canon in 1339, probably as a legal twist from his papal provision, but he was never able to settle in as a disturbing presence in the cathedral chapter. The tumult at Exeter on All Saints' Day 1338 calls to mind the violent eruption of the crowd gathered in St Paul's Cathedral in 1377 which threatened mayhem against Bishop William Courtenay of London and broke up the convocation to which the Oxford theologian Dr John Wyclyf had been summoned.[6]

It requires an effort of the mind to accept fully that the religious and intellectual elite who peopled the cathedral closes could on occasion allow their wrath to escape the bonds of civility. They could also be lazy. To use Exeter again as an example, it was a cathedral with a solid reputation for learning.[7] The chancellor of Exeter Cathedral had been required by statute since 1283 to be resident and to lecture regularly in Latin on subjects of theology or canon law to any clergy available to listen, and lecturing and studying stimulated the accumulation of a collection of academic books at the cathedral in addition to the absolutely necessary liturgical books. The number of academic books finally became sufficiently large that in 1388 Bishop Thomas Brantingham mandated that the academic books be separated from the liturgical books, which were kept with the treasures of the cathedral in the exchequer, and that a special room be established for the housing of the academic books for more ready use by the canons and other cathedral clergy. It took the passing of a generation and a bequest from the cathedral chancellor Robert Rygge to bring about the construction of such a room in 1412, but it was ultimately constructed. An inventory of 1506 listed nearly 400 books in the collection.

A more serious kind of laziness than slowness in carrying out building works could result from an inattentiveness to primary purpose. At the cathedral priory of Ely, for example, the tasks requiring the attention of the members of the Benedictine community who served the cathedral church gradually multiplied.[8] By the fourteenth century something like a quarter of the brethren were engaged, at least in part, in business that took them away from participation in the Opus Dei, which was the very purpose of the Benedictine way of life. The habit grew of sending vicars to substitute in choir for absent monks, and those monks who had no obligation which drew them away from choir came to be known as 'cloisterers', which only underscores the potential for the distractions of worldly business to lure monks from their sworn spiritual life. When Bishop James Goldwell of Norwich conducted a visitation of the cathedral priory of Norwich in 1492, one of the things he noted was that the monks were not properly keeping the choir.[9] The retiring Professor Wood might cringe at being alerted of Bishop Goldwell's recording also that the infirm were being badly treated in the poorly managed infirmary. [10]

The very existence of vicars choral in cathedrals served by secular canons meant that canons perpetually made a habit of absenting themselves from their stalls in the cathedral churches to which they were ostensibly bound to give spiritual service. That does not mean that vicars choral were themselves too busy to leave some stories for our entertainment. In fact, vicars choral did not always perform their duties. There was lodged in 1403, for example, a complaint against nearly two dozen vicars choral at York that they were not bothering to celebrate or were too frequently absent, and it was charged that other vicars choral were discordant in their chanting, some were too inaudible, were too slow in responding to the celebrating priest, or were too busy about conversation to contribute to the efforts of those engaged in the service.[11]

William Benesleve was an absolutely incorrigible vicar choral of York.[12] Late in 1461 Benesleve was charged with having had two children with Margaret Shilton, which he at first denied but, when overwhelmed by the evidence against him, conceded that he was the father of the child Margaret had recently borne in his room. Benesleve was suspended from celebrating divine services in York Minster until he could obtain dispensation from the dean and chapter. His behaviour was notorious, and he had to pay a money fine and complete a pilgrimage of penance to Beverley, Ripon, and York. He was further threatened with a fine of 6s. 8d. for each time in future that he might be discovered with a woman in his room in the Bedern, the common dwelling-place of the vicars choral of York Minster.[13] The threat to his purse did not change the vicar choral's behaviour, for in 1466 Benesleve was charged with secretly keeping Joan Taylor in his room. He confessed to the charge, performed penance, and just a few weeks later was charged with again having Joan in his room. Benesleve tried to deflect the charge by saying that it was not Joan, but another woman, and one with whom he had not had carnal relations. An authoritative admonition for his insolence was inflicted upon Benesleve. William Benesleve learned from experience as well as some Dartmouth College undergraduates Professor Wood has known, for towards the end of 1466 Benesleve was again brought up on charges of fornication with Joan Taylor, and also with Alice Middelton and Margaret Newsom, all of whom (separately we should hope) had in recent memory shared his room for the night in the Bedern. He, as expected, denied the charges, especially where Joan Taylor was concerned, since he had so recently promised that he would avoid her company. Then in 1470 Benesleve was charged with engaging in fornication with Margaret Middelton of St Andrewgate in York, perhaps a kinswoman of the aforementioned Alice. To this charge Benesleve confessed, and he did public penance and paid fines totalling 10s. Benesleve at last slips from the record in 1472 after having denied his adultery with Joan, wife of Thomas Wilson, pointmaker.

Another womanizing vicar choral, who reminds us that Benesleve was not unique, was John Everarde, who served Salisbury Cathedral and who was charged on the same day in 1411 for fornication with Joan Kulys and Margaret Frowe, although he purged himself of the second charge. [14] Everarde may have escaped punishment for being associated with Margaret Frowe, for in the year 1411 the dean of Salisbury, John Chandler, heard charges against six different men for fornication with Frowe.[15] [Can we imagine the cry rising from the cathedral close: "I say, fellows, Maggie is here!"?]

The desire for the emotional and physical gratification of sexual relationships could easily shade over into other desires that might not suggest a healthy spiritual life. The liturgy of the church was intended for God, but the men who were involved in the celebration could easily have been caught up in the excitement of venerating precious relics, of touching and using the gold and silver objects, the service books, the banners and crosses, and other items employed in the celebration of divine worship.[16] Consider, too, the emotionally energizing experience of processing through a cathedral church dressed in weighty and visibly costly vestments, as music filled the ears and the smell of incense burning in thuribles wafted to the nose. It could be as much a sensual as a spiritual experience, and it could be an utter immersion in things luxurious. The presence of precious objects could also stimulate covetousness. Richard Wych, bishop of Chichester (1244-53) was canonized in 1262, and St Richard's relics were translated in 1276 to a wonderous gilded and jewelled shrine in a sumptuous ceremony.[17] For someone the presence of the bejewelled casket containing St Richard's relics in Chichester Cathedral was too great a temptation, and in 1280 the jewels were stolen. The subsequent recovery of the jewels was viewed as a miracle, but for someone the material value of the jewels had overshadowed their spiritual purpose. Ecclesiastical wealth could also tempt dignitaries of the church. For instance, when Boniface of Savoy, archbishop of Canterbury, was journeying towards London in 1250 he paused at the cathedral priory of Rochester from which he extorted a procuration of thirty marks, an act the chronicler Matthew Paris judged to have been motivated entirely by greed.[18] A more clandestine ecclesiastical theft was recorded in 1398 at York Minster when a priest named John Mollescrofte was charged before the cathedral chapter with having broken into the Chapel of the Blessed Mary and Holy Angels and with having forced open a chest belonging to Master John of York, from which Mollescrofte stole money and goods totalling some 160 pounds sterling.[19] The details of what happened in this case cannot be known, but Mollescrofte was able to defend himself against the charge and regain his good reputation.

Within the cathedral close goods were not always taken away. More often the requirements of hospitality meant that they were given away.[20] We can even today see surviving venues of comfortable logding and abundant dining in the Vicars' Close at Wells, together with the remnants of the second Bishop's Palace.[21] A more magnificent ruin is the Bishop's Palace within the cathedral close at St Davids.[22] That indulgence in food and drink beyond what was necessary to keep body and soul together could occur in such places may be surmised from the record of a banquet held in the bishop's palace at Wells in 1337 when 268 guests were served on the occasion of royal commissioners visiting the bishop, Ralph of Shrewsbury. The meal required 672 loaves of bread to accompany the main fare of fish: 20 congers, 20 cod and ling, 18 pollock, hake both fresh and salted, haddock, bream, pike, and more. For the flesh eaters there was half a cow, chickens and ducks, and other such. For the avoidance of dry palates there was supplied 86 pipes of wine and 340 pipes of ale.

What, as we draw to the end, are we to make of these random tales from the cathedral close? We know that medievals liked for their tales to be didactic in addition to being entertaining. Professor Wood was not born soon enough to qualify as a medieval, but he has been toiling long enough amongst the medievals to qualify as a retro-medieval, and so he must be rewarded with some teaching from these tales. The lesson is the Seven Deadly Sins. We are confronted by PRIDE in the career of Dean Macworth of Lincoln, and can see ENVY in the story of Prior Clopcote and the Benedictine community at Bath, while the storming of William Gulden into Exeter Cathedral in 1338 or the episode of 1377 in the Lady Chapel at St Paul's display ANGER. SLOTH has greeted us in the slowness in the building of an academic library above the east range of the Exeter cloister and in the slothful spiritual discipline at Ely, Norwich, and York. The seeking after the pleasures of the flesh by William Benesleve at York and John Everarde at Salisbury remind us of LUST, which can merge into luxury in such forms as the sensual enjoyment of ligurgical experiences. The theft of jewels from St Richard's shrine at Chichester, an act of Archbishop Boniface of Canterbury, and the robbing of a chest in a chapel at York Minster are all exemplifications of GREED. Calling to our attention the grand palaces and abundant feasts at cathedrals like Wells and St Davids shows us GLUTTONY. Our lesson is ended. Humanum est errare.