Beneath the Surface: Norwich Cathedral’s Hidden Frescos
Medieval walls *can* speak, if you know how to listen…
TW: Grisly alert. Some of the discussion of saints in this article touches on details of torture and execution which you might want to avoid if squeamish.
‘If only these walls could speak!’…
How often when meandering in wonder through a medieval building, have we wished that it could give up its secrets to us in plain speech? Knowingly walking in the footsteps of people hundreds of years in the past can be an evocative experience for visitors. Through the simple act of occupying the same physical spaces our ancestors once did, we tap into our shared humanity, reaching out for one another across the ages. They suddenly feel rather close and familiar.
On the other hand, a medieval cathedral’s monumental architecture, the finery of divinely-inspired ecclesiastical ritual, and the strangeness of the painted figures that adorn the walls, can serve as an alienating reminder of how much a building’s artistic character is informed by the function it performs in wider society. Can these sacred images fully ‘make sense’ to us in the 21st century if our daily life is no longer defined by religious practice? When the society that informed the construction of a given building moves on, how can we hope to appreciate those artistic and architectural achievements in the same way that medieval worshippers might have done?
I had all of this on my mind last week while visiting Norwich Cathedral for a special look at some thirteenth-century wall paintings in the treasury chamber. Often overlooked in favour of the jazzy stash of church silver contained within the treasury’s glass cases, these frescos represent a rare survival of pre-Reformation1 décor and offer us a unique window into the mind of the monastic community that worshipped in the cathedral complex.
Much like the illuminations of a medieval manuscript, fresco-painting not only served as a devotional act for the artist who created it, but also catered to the spiritual needs of those many medieval people who were illiterate. For these people access to divine teachings was absorbed aurally through church services and visually through the contemplation of holy images. Responding to this need to communicate with the illiterate, medieval imagery developed a consistent visual language that we refer to as iconography. Simply put, most Biblical figures were represented using this language throughout western Europe with such a symbolic uniformity, that by picking out key details in a scene, we can have a pretty good go at defining who is who and what is happening whether the image is supported by text or not.
So, with that in mind, come with me to the Norwich Cathedral treasury to see what we can make out from the images left behind by the thirteenth-century artists and ask what these survivals might tell us about how the monks of Norwich wanted to define their community.
The Apostles
Let’s take a look at the first of the four ceiling panels.
The ceiling panels appear to be the work of a single artist, and art historians estimate that they were produced sometime between 1250 and 1270. Out of the four, this image, depicting three men, is the most complete and well-preserved. As such, it’s a good opportunity for us to put a little of our understanding of medieval iconography into practice.
The figure on the left carries an unusual ‘X’ shaped cross which identifies him as St. Andrew. You may recognise this cross, or the ‘saltire’, as the white bit on the Scottish flag.2 For the medieval beholder, however, the cross would have immediately brought to mind the story of Andrew’s martyrdom. Persecuted by the Romans as one of Jesus’ main homeboys, Andrew was eventually executed by crucifixion at Patras. Reportedly, he requested the use of an ‘X’ shaped cross specifically, deeming himself unworthy of being executed in exactly the same manner as Christ himself.
In the middle holding a key and a cross-shaped staff is St. Peter. His staff, reminiscent of the kind historically used by medieval Popes, marks him out as a Church official. Together, these two immediately recognisable symbols communicate his status in Christian belief as both the keeper of the gates of Heaven and as the first Bishop of Rome, or… Pope, if you will.
On the right, much like poor Andrew on the left, we have a figure who is identifiable due to the fact that he is depicted carrying the instrument that did for him. This firebrand troublemaker is St. Paul.
Having made a nuisance of himself spreading the word of Christ throughout the first-century Roman Empire, Paul was arrested in the aftermath of the Great Fire of Rome which Emperor Nero was keen to blame on Christians. After his capture, receiving a ‘mercy’ due to him as a Roman citizen, Paul was finally beheaded with a sword rather than being put through the grisly spectacle of being crucified. It’s not an exact science, but 9 times out of 10 a saintly looking male figure carrying a sword like this will be a St. Paul.
What does this selection-box of Apostles tell us?
This particular panel seems to be a celebration of what we could loosely describe as the ‘founding fathers’ of the Catholic Church and, by extension, the pillars of a medieval religious life. Andrew, as the first disciple of Jesus, might be said to represent an initial act of unquestioning faith. Peter’s role as the first Bishop of Rome establishes the line of Popes and thus represents the formal structure of the Church. Finally, Paul, a missionary who before his conversion had spent the first half of his life persecuting Christians, could be seen to point toward God’s capacity for forgiveness and the responsibility the medieval Church felt to spread their Christian faith.
The Martyrs
Now, first thing’s first, this panel has not done as well out of centuries of being covered over as the first one. Despite the damage, however, there are still clues as to who these figures might be - some visible to the naked eye, others not so much.
Focusing on the figure on the left, we can just about make out the shape of a crown in the halo. Though I personally cannot make it out, close-up analysis of the image has also revealed that this same figure appears to be handing an arrow to his mate in the middle. The combination of these two symbols would immediately mark out this man to a medieval audience as a local superstar saint, King Edmund the Martyr.
Like many historical characters that lived within the so-called Dark Ages,3 the documentary evidence for King Edmund’s real life is patchy. We can assume he was the king of an East Anglian kingdom of sorts and we know for a fact that he died in 869 AD a few years after the initial invasion of the Great Heathen Army in 865.4 Medieval retellings of King Edmund’s life differ as to whether he died in battle fighting the vikings, or whether he was captured and executed after refusing to denounce his Christian faith. This famous latter story included a martyrdom that involved being tied to a tree and pumped full of (you guessed it) … arrows, before being beheaded in the woods.5
Continuing the theme of home-grown heroes, you might be able to make out a bishop’s headdress (or mitre) on the man in the middle. This is thought to be a depiction of shit-stirrer-in-chief St. Thomas Becket who served as Lord Chancellor of the realm (1155-1162) and then as Archbishop of Canterbury from 1162 until his death in 1170. After arguing repeatedly and vociferously with King Henry II of England over the rights and privileges of the Church, famously a few of Henry’s knights took matters into their own hands and assassinated the Archbishop, splashing his brains unceremoniously all over Canterbury Cathedral. Whether their boss was aware of this plan has never been conclusively decided, but either way, murdering bishops in holy buildings was highly frowned upon in the medieval period and it caused Henry a lot of strife. The shocking circumstances of Becket’s murder expedited his canonisation6 and a booming cult of St. Thomas in England was the result.
Casting our historical nets further back in time, the figure on the right is thought to be St. Lawrence. Our assumption here is based principally on costuming and the faint trace above his head of Latin text that might be ‘Laurentius’. Lawrence was one of the seven deacons of Rome under Pope Sixtus II who were martyred in 258 AD during the persecutions of Emperor Valerian.
Having annoyed a prefect of Rome by withholding the treasures of the Church from the emperor, Lawrence was placed on a great gridiron and roasted. A later story developed that after having suffered this grisly torture for a while, Lawrence exclaimed, “I'm well done on this side. Turn me over!” For this admirable deployment of humour in the face of adversity, St. Lawrence is known nowadays the patron saint of home cooks, professional chefs, and, best of all, comedians.
How do we interpret this unlikely trio?
The obvious thing that unites these three men on the panel is that they all suffered some form of martyrdom. In fact, more specifically, all of them could be said to have died defending the Christian Church from the ravages of greed: the greed of the Scandinavian raiders, the greed of the English king, and the greed of the corrupt pagan Roman emperors. Aside from being a powerful statement about the independence and endurance of the Church itself, I think it is perhaps significant that the artist chose to include two figures from English medieval history alongside a more ancient, Roman saint. By linking the three, it is possible that the artist wished to imply that the English had proudly inherited the Roman Christian passion for the legal defence of the Church and its resources.
The Female Representation
Here come the girls. Specifically, St. Margaret of Antioch, Mary the Mother of God, and St. Catherine of Alexandria.
Beginning with the most obviously identifiable character, Mary is depicted in the middle of the three, wearing blue (which identifies her with heaven) and holding a baby Jesus. People have had different theories as to the significance of the red object she is holding in her other hand, but the consensus is (whether it be a fruit or a piece of red coral) that the red colour forebodes Christ’s death on the cross.
The lady on the left is St. Margaret of Antioch and I would urge you to buckle up here because her life story contains one or two details which you might find hard to believe.
Born the daughter of a pagan priest in modern-day Türkiye, Margaret was nursed by a Christian woman and converted to the faith as a youngster. After being disowned by her pagan family, she headed into the countryside with her Christian foster-mother to keep sheep. The cross-shaped staff she is holding in the fresco is often used to indicate both her Christianity and her day-job as a shepherdess. Margaret lived happily in the fields until a pagan governor, Olybrius, asked to marry her on the condition she renounce her faith. Upon her refusal, she was arrested, tortured and … *wait for it* … swallowed by Satan who appeared in the form of a dragon.
Notice the twisted little dragon-ish type fellow at her feet in the image? That is the literal devil.
Fortunately for Margaret, the crucifix she was carrying irritated the diabolical dragon’s insides and he hurled her back up unharmed. Unfortunately, this was bad news for the governor who then arranged for her to be decapitated instead, probably using an eastern blade similar to that which she is holding in her right hand in this depiction.
St. Catherine, on a similarly un-cheery note, was a princess, scholar and martyr who made her name converting many people to Christianity and for refusing to marry the Roman Emperor Maxentius.
If you hadn't gathered by now, refusing to marry powerful Romans and consecrating your virginity to Jesus Christ was a dangerous business in the late antique period. In this case the furious emperor demanded that Catherine be ‘broken on the wheel’. This was a dreadful way to go that involved having a large wheel rolled over you until all your bones were broken.
Incidentally, this story of martyrdom is also where we get our name for the charming little ‘Catherine Wheels’ we enjoy on Bonfire Night. You’ll never look at them the same now…
Miraculously, on first contact with Catherine’s saintly body, the wheel shattered into bits. Maxentius, ever the tenacious psychopath, ordered her to be beheaded instead. In a final earthly miracle it is said that milk rather than blood flowed from her neck as she was executed, symbolising her gentleness and piety.
Female saints who had a rough time of it were often used in religious images to communicate the value of a Christian acceptance of suffering - an attribute the Church pushed heavily in the turbulent and violent Middle Ages. Mary, though free of the grisly fate that Margaret and Catherine suffered, symbolises this same concept through her acceptance of her own role in God’s providential plan and her parallel acceptance of the fact that her beloved son’s destiny was to die for humanity’s sins.
Father Christmas, Is That You?
Finally, to the last three enigmatic figures. Here we have St. Martin of Tours, St. Nicholas (a.k.a. Santa Claus), and the wonderfully obscure St. Richard of Chichester.
At first glance, these seem like a truly odd bunch of saints to throw together, but upon consideration of their various legends, I think it is possible to argue that this panel represents something like the spirit of Christian generosity.
Old Saint Nick is identifiable as the patron saint of children by the child he is carrying on his back. This long association with children dates back to some of the earliest attested stories from his life. In one of the most famous ones he is said to have rescued three girls from being forced into prostitution by dropping a sack of gold coins through the window of their house each night for three nights so that their impoverished father could pay a dowry for each of them to be married.
Richard of Chichester was a peculiarly ‘modern’ saint for the artist to choose. He only died in 1253 after all! However, he was a known ascetic, meaning that he shunned worldly wealth in favour of helping the poor and developed habits to stay humble like wearing a scratchy hair shirt and never eating using silver plates and expensive dinnerware.7 Since studying at Oxford as a young priest, contemporary accounts suggest that Richard was also a vegetarian, keeping a simple diet throughout his life and refusing to eat any meat.
As for St. Martin, a native of Panonia in modern-day Hungary during the late Roman Empire, he famously cut his cloak in half to help clothe a scantily clad beggar. He later encountered a vision of Christ wearing his half-a-cloak in a dream and awoke to find his own cloak miraculously fully restored. As the patron saint of wool-workers, we can theorise that St. Martin might have held a particular appeal for the monks of Norwich in a booming city renowned for its cloth trade.
How’s that for a loose thematic link between an Englishman, a Greek and a Hungarian?
In summary, by attempting to ‘read’ the images on these ancient walls, we don’t only experience the the slightly geeky thrill of code-breaking a centuries-old artistic creation, but receive a deeply personal insight into what these images might have once meant to the community they represented.
For the cathedral community of Norwich, these meticulously planned scenes encapsulated the pillars of what it was to be both a good Christian and a valuable member of medieval society: unwavering religious faith, defence of the Church and its privileges, a stoic Christian acceptance of suffering, and the spirit of interpersonal kindness. I find it moving to imagine the young novices of the monastic community being reminded of these desirable attributes every time they entered the chamber to tend to the valuable reliquaries housed in this sacred space, finding inspiration and solace in the loving portrayals of those who had led a life of piety before them.
The centuries have faded their pigments, obscured their faces, and dulled their brilliance - but these figures have lost none of their allure.
And I think that’s pretty cool.
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Note: Norwich Cathedral runs tons of tours for those who are interested! Catch a free guided tour (Monday-Saturday every hour between 10am and 3pm) if you’re in town. For more specialist tours, visit the Cathedral website HERE and keep an eye out for what’s coming up. Huge thank you to David, my brilliant guide on the day of this visit, who has been accumulating his extraordinary knowledge of the cathedral building for a massive 30 years!
The Reformation is the name given to England’s transition from Catholicism to Protestantism under King Henry VIII in the 1530s. You know, the big guy who fell out with the pope because he wanted to marry his side-chick? This process changed the face of worship throughout the country and many medieval works of art in church buildings were destroyed or covered over at this time. As a lover of medieval art, it still irks me.
St. Andrew is the patron saint of Scotland. The St. Andrew’s cross on the Scottish national flag is a recognition of this connection.
I cannot emphasise enough how much most medievalists detest the term ‘The Dark Ages’. There are times when the label can be useful, but it categorically should not mean to imply that the people living at this time were somehow more chaotic, ‘uncultured’ or stupid than those who came later. To be clear, this name for the early medieval period is most often used these days to indicate that (especially in the British Isles) there is less extant documentary evidence from this period than most historians would like. That being said, archaeological evidence from this time can often help support the fragmentary written record when necessary.
Anyway, the main takeaway is that you can use ‘The Dark Ages’ if you want, as long as you’re not being nasty, and as long as you accept that the term was made up by the Italian humanist, Petrarch, in the 14th century to imply that everyone who came before him and his bunch of scholarly Renaissance mates was a bit of a bozo.
The Great Heathen Army was an enormous force of Scandinavian raiders who wreaked havoc throughout the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms over the course of a few years. Viewers of the TV show Vikings and players of Assassin’s Creed Valhalla will know that participants in this army supposedly included sons of the legendary Ragnar Lothbrok.
This story gets weirder and involves 1) wolves and 2) chatty detached heads playing the role of a Google SatNav. We haven’t got time for this here, but do let me know in the comments if you’d like some more on St. Edmund in the future.
Canonisation is the process by which a person is made a saint.
RIP Richard of Chichester, you would have hated Le Creuset.