March 2006

Parish History Episode 59 Rector Gillow's Church

The defeat of Queen Marguerite in the Battle of Tewkesbury, in 1471, was the final conclusion of the messy power struggle between the Houses of Lancaster and York. Edward IV now reigned secure on the Throne, the first king of what was to prove the short-lived Yorkist Dynasty. England gained some much-needed stability during the 1470’s, and King Edward hoped that now the country was at peace, England might start to catch up with the developments in art and learning that were appearing in other lands. He gave his patronage to artists and architects, and also to printers. William Caxton imported a printing press and some movable type from Germany in 1476, and, under the King’s warrant, produced the first printed books in English, starting with Malory’s work on King Arthur, an evocation perhaps of a time when Britain was believed to have been ruled by a single powerful king.

Printed books were soon to become widespread, and literature and learning would, during succeeding years, expand throughout the Kingdom. The monarchs of both the Yorkist and the succeeding Tudor dynasties would preside over turbulent and violent times, but the cultural attainments which made up the Renaissance were to flood steadily into England throughout those unstable periods.

The Wars of the Roses had perhaps not greatly affected Houghton-le-Spring. No battle or skirmish is known to have taken place within the parish. But the conflict had been a war of rapid movement, with battles fought along the length of most of England, from London to Bamburgh, and the armies had passed in rapid succession along the Great North Road, in alternate advance and retreat. The artillery and heavy wagons would not stray far from the road, but the infantry and cavalry would spread out far and wide, engaged for the most part in scouting and what they called foraging, but what the peasantry would no doubt see as armed robbery. It is also possible that, if the wind was in the right direction, people in Houghton could have heard the noise of the bombardment of Newcastle’s walls, or of the volleys fired during the First and Second Battles of Hexham.

Thomas Astley had been Rector of Houghton throughout most of the war, but in 1470 the Parish gained a new incumbent, Henry Gillow, who was to serve the village for thirteen years. Rector Gillow’s name appears on the list of rectors displayed on a board at the rear of the church as the seventeenth man to hold that office; but he is the first rector whom we can begin to see as an individual, as more than a mere name. It might be convenient to pause for a while in this narrative, and take stock of the situation in our parish, a century before the time of Bernard Gilpin and of the changes which would come to be known as the Reformation.

So, how might the Church of Saint Michael and All Angels appear to a traveller who happened to arrive in Houghton-le-Spring during the 1470’s? Well, he (we assume that this hypothetical traveller is male) would note that the church was not new, and owed nothing to the new Perpendicular style. It would appear, however, at least in comparison to the parish churches in most neighbouring villages, as a grand and imposing building, a fit place of worship for a wealthy and prosperous community. Some local historians, examining churchwardens’ accounts of the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries, and noting expenditure on such items as flooring and pews, have assumed that these were innovations being introduced to the church for the first time. However, if we recall what we have learned about the church in previous centuries, it would appear that it consisted of considerably more than four walls and a roof. It was a fine cruciform building, with chancel, two transepts, and a nave with side aisles, and with finely-cut pillars upholding a double column of arches which served to separate the nave from the aisles. It was lit by many large windows, of varying ages and styles, the four principal ones, at each point of the cross, being excellent examples of the style of the previous century, divided by intricate tracery, and filled, we may reasonably assume, by glorious stained-glass pictures. It seems highly unlikely that the floor was nothing but bare earth, or that there was no woodwork to complement the art of the stonemason and the glazier.

The traveller, having entered the church, then as now, through a doorway in the South porch, would turn right; and then, as he strolled up the nave, most of the interior would come into view. He would note, as in all but the smallest churches, that there was more than one altar. Stone altars stood in the chancel and in each transept, each accompanied by benches (sedilia) for the ministers serving at the Mass, and a basin (piscina) for liturgical ablutions. If the Reserved (previously consecrated) Sacrament was kept at one of the altars, there might be an aumbry, or wall-cupboard, adjacent, to house it, or, more likely, it would have been contained in a hanging pyx above the altar.

Underneath the traveller’s feet there would be stone flags. These, he would assume, were also the lids of the tombs of the rich and influential. The mass of the peasantry would be buried outside the church building, but in consecrated ground, in the surrounding churchyard. In towns these churchyards served additionally as children’s playgrounds, and even in the countryside it might be safer for children to play among the graves: there might be wolves in the wilder hills, and marauding armies closer to human habitation.

The peasant dead would be interred in the churchyard, in shrouds but without coffins, in unmarked graves. There would be nothing to distinguish them, except for a low mound of earth, in the years immediately after the funeral, a mound which would soon get worn down by the bare feet of children chasing each other across the churchyard. When the grave-diggers reached the end of the churchyard, they began again at the other end, probably disturbing human remains of a century or so previous, as they dug fresh graves.

Those whose families could afford something better would be buried inside the church building. The flagstone which formed the lid of a tomb would bear an inscription, possibly a coat of arms as well. But this flagstone served as a paving stone as well as a tombstone, and in the course of a century or two the inscription would probably be worn almost completely away by the feet of worshippers, and so the rich interred inside the church would eventually be forgotten as fully as the peasants buried outside. The only memorials which survive from the first four centuries of our church are the knights’ effigies in the South transept.

Our hypothetical traveller would have been able to observe the two knights, and, like us, speculate who they were. But he would be more likely to be impressed by the symmetry of the pillars and arches, the glass in the windows, and the fine woodwork which beautified the church.

We know for a fact that there must have been some woodwork in the church at this period, as, when the present rood-screen, separating the chancel from the nave, was installed in 1904, it was noted that there were traces of fittings for one that had existed before the Reformation.

That rood-screen would not have been a solid screen, like the iconostasis in a modern Orthodox church, but it would still have formed a partial barrier, both to sight and to sound, between the people in the nave and the clergy in the chancel, heightening the sense of mystery and exclusion felt by the people during the Sacrifice of the Mass. It would have almost certainly been surmounted by a wood-carving showing Christ on the Cross (in Old English the Rood, hence the term Rood-Screen), with figures of Mary, His mother, and John, the Belovèd Disciple, at either hand.

In the present church, the pulpit we now have dates from 1904, the same year as the roodscreen, and I find it difficult to believe that the original rood-screen was the only piece of woodwork in our church at that time. Floorboards are unlikely, but a painted wooden ceiling is probable. There may have been a reredos behind the High Altar, perhaps behind other altars as well, or it might be that hanging draperies were used. There might also have been a canopy, or baldachin, above the High Altar, and a curtain, or riddel, behind it, as well, of course, as an altarcloth upon it during services, and a frontal, in the colour of the liturgical season, facing the priest.

If there was a lectern (probably, like our present one, in the shape of an eagle), it probably stood, like the High Altar, behind the rood-screen. That might surprise us, but the lessons were read in Latin, and, according to many contemporary accounts, were often jabbered away so quickly and so quietly that even if a scholar were present, he would be unable to make out anything except for a low babble of sound.

A pulpit is probable; and that would be outside the screen, facing the congregation. Parish priests do not then seem to have been in the habit of preaching regularly, but Houghton-le- Spring lay at a crossroads, and visiting preachers would come from time to time. The friars were still active in preaching, but, because of Benedictine hostility towards them, there were not many friars within the Prince-Bishopric. Nevertheless, there were friaries within the chartered towns of Newcastle and Hartlepool, and, being on the main road between them, Houghton must have seen friars from time to time. Houghton was also on the main road between Durham and Wearmouth, and Benedictine monks would also have been a familiar sight here. Both friars and monks would from time to time be invited to preach, as would also the Bishop and the Archdeacon.

The most common preaching, however, was probably given, surprising as it may seem to us, by laymen. These lay preachers were the pardoners, who rode around the country, offering for sale indulgences, that is pardons for sins committed, probably originally issued in Rome, and sometimes selling saints’ relics as well. If given permission to use the church pulpit, the parish expected a cut of the money they took. But many contemporary writers, for instance the poets Chaucer and Langland, seem to have regarded these pardoners much as many of our contemporaries regard some American “teleevangelists”, and if Rector Gillow was of that opinion, the pardoners might have found the pulpit of Houghton church barred to them.

Pulpits imply pews: not only for the comfort of the listeners, but because it is more difficult for a preacher to hold the attention of standing people, who would tend to move around during the sermon, trying to make themselves more comfortable. After the Reformation, the fashion was to crowd the church with as many seats as possible, to allow the whole parish and more to be seated. But it is likely that at this time there would be only two blocks of seating, on either side of a central aisle, while the side aisles would be left free for processions. (At the time this is being published, there are plans to re·order the interior of the church, and by chance it might return to something like the Fifteenth Century layout.)

Such pews as there were might perhaps be merely wooden benches. Many churches at this time had no more than movable benches, but if there were pews, as we understand the term, they would probably have been beautifully carved by skilled carpenters, with perhaps fanciful embellishments on the pew-ends.

There could also possibly have been an organ in the church: but next month’s article will consider in more depth the development of liturgical music.

Finally, there might have been wooden panelling on the walls. Alternatively, there could have been draperies, or even tapestries, hanging there. But it is most likely that the interior walls were plastered, and the plaster covered with murals. These were a very common feature of English parish churches: traces of mediaeval mural paintings survive in about two thousand churches, mostly in Southern England.

In 1547 an order was made that all such wall paintings should be obliterated with whitewash. This order was generally obeyed in the South, and the whitewash often preserved the paintings for later re-discovery. In the North, however, such decrees were sometimes ignored, and the paintings might remain until they had begun to decay, at which time they might have been deliberately destroyed.

The nearest surviving mediaeval murals to Houghton are at St. Lawrence’ Church, Pittington, and at Durham Cathedral, in the Galilee Chapel and in the Dean’s private chapel. Scenes from the life of Christ are to be seen in the Galilee, together with pictures of some saints, while the life of St. Cuthbert is depicted at Pittington; but those murals are probably from well before the Fifteenth Century.

Those on the walls of the Deanery chapel would have been more in the rather morbid taste of late mediaeval times, with scenes of the Last Judgment. If such scenes were depicted on the walls of our church, the congregation, perhaps yawning at early morning Mass, could divert itself by looking at sadistic pictures of little devils tormenting the naked souls of sinners with those torments most appropriate to their prevailing sins.

It no doubt would help a pardoner in selling his indulgences. He would carefully inspect the paintings in a church before commencing the service at which he would preach, so that by pointing to one picture or another he could prove to the people how necessary it was to purchase his wares.

Dick Toy

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