A wandering saint in London: St Catroe and the great fire of c. 945

London is a city full of people on the move: immigrants, tourists, students and commuters enter and leave the city every day. Many people assume that in the middle ages, things were much more static. In fact, medieval London was a hub for travellers.

Today I want to look at the life of one wandering miracle worker who passed through late Anglo-Saxon London: St Catroe.

The young Catroe:

Catroe was from an aristocratic family in Scotland: one of those for whom the destiny of every member is mapped out for them, before they were even born.

This was very literally true for poor little Catroe: on the day of his conception, an angel appeared to his parents to tell them: ‘God has commanded that you shall conceive, and bear a son, Catroe by name, a future light of the church’, (Life of Catroe, p. 432). When his parents came to pick a nanny for the young child, Catroe’s mother was guided by a vision that a hawk landed on the lady’s shoulder, (Life, p. 432-3).

When his parents were deciding how best to educate young Catroe, a cousin named Bean of Iona burst into the room and declared that God had spoken to him and told him that the boy must become a priest. Catroe’s parents were a bit put out: their only son was ‘the staff of his parents’ age’, they said, the one who would support them as they got old. But immediately afterwards, they conceived a brother for Catroe despite their great age, (Life, p. 433-4). God had spoken. Catroe was going to holy orders.

The remains of the monastery of Iona, home to Bean of Iona. Commons licence, Ray Jones: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Abbey_on_the_Isle_of_Iona_-_geograph.org.uk_-_1459438.jpg

Many saints’ lives include heavenly signs and prophecies which point the holy man on to the right path. Most saints accept them gladly. Catroe though was a different sort of boy. He had a rebellious streak. He resented the way that Bean was moulding his life and telling him what he could be.

One day, news came to Catroe that his old nanny and her husband had been seized by Vikings. Catroe ran away from the monastery and armed himself. He pulled together a fleet of boats and pursued vengeance.

A Viking fleet, from a twelfth century manuscript. Public domain: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Wikinger.jpg

But Bean tracked the vengeful warrior down and told him: this isn’t God’s will. Catroe wouldn’t listen. Bean produced a copy of the gospels and opened it at a random verse: it read ‘If anyone take from thee what is thine, seek in not again’. The decision belonged to God, not Catroe, (Life, pp. 435-6).

Wandering mind, wandering spirit:

Catroe stayed with the church and worked hard. He was a natural prodigy:

‘all that poet has sung or orator spoken, all that philosopher has imagined, he learned; nothing escaped him. He exhausted everything that has been discovered by any one through number, measure and weight, through touch and hearing; lastly, the hidden movements and courses of the stars he described with compasses more learnedly than Eginus, than whom I doubt if any is more distinguished in the hierarchy of the sky’
Life of Catroe, p. 437).

Catroe established himself as a teacher of teachers: a sort of proto-professor, long before universities existed. His mind wandered far, but his body remained rooted firmly in place.

Armagh Cathedral: Catroe undertook much of his education at Armagh. Commons licence: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Armagh_Cathedral_(Church_of_Ireland).jpg

One night, whilst Catroe was praying, a voice spoke to him: ‘Depart from your land and from your kindred, and from your father’s house, and come into the land which I shall show you’, (Life, p. 438-9). Catroe immediately began to prepare for a pilgrimage.

Unfortunately, half of Scotland was set on stopping him. A mighty throng of people came forward and caught him at the monastery of St Brigit. It was led by Constantine, King of Alba (d. 952), who begged Catroe to stay for the good of the nation. It also included ‘a crowd of nobles and peasants’, who begged him not to leave. Catroe tried to reassure them: ‘I shall not forsake you since, wherever I am I shall keep you in my remembrance’. This wasn’t enough for them. They picked up the holy relics of the church and demanded that he yield to them. But Catroe could not be convinced.

The *Book of Kells*, which is thought to have been produced at Iona. Iona is one of the places where Catroe would have been educated, and may have taught. Public domain: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:KellsFol032vChristEnthroned.jpg

The crowd still had one more trick up their sleeves. From the back of the church emerged Catroe’s own parents. They were not happy that he was leaving. ‘If we cannot prevail with prayers, we shall restrain you with imprisonment and iron chains!’ his father cried.

‘This is in your power’, Catroe replied, ‘but so long as I am in chains, I will by no means drink or eat’.

Constantine II, king of Alba; a portrait of an obviously much later date. Public domain: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Constantine_II_of_Scotland.jpg

Finally, the abbot of the monastery stepped forwards to mediate. Catroe would go but he would take some of the people with him. The king and the nobles would provide him with all that he could need: gold, silver, horses and men. Finally, Catroe could leave!

Catroe in London:

Catroe and his retinue headed south, to London. London must have come as a shock to a man raised in rural Scotland: it would have been far larger and more intimidating than any settlement he had ever seen before.

He stopped over in London with a man called Ecgfrith: the story is rather vague about who he was, beyond that he was powerful and had a hall large enough to host Catroe and his men.

A reconstruction of an Anglo-Saxon interior. A workshop from the West Stow Anglo-Saxon village. Commons licence by Midnightblueowl, https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:West_Stow_workshop_interior.jpg

During the night, Catroe would have been awoken by shouts and yells, and by the distant sound of roaring and of collapsing wood. The greatest of all of the urban hazzards had struck: a fire! Our storyteller says:

‘By carelessness, that city was set on fire, and the larger part of it was already consumed; triumphant flame was licking what remained. Then God chose to declare what merit Catroe had in him. He was asked by the old man to rescue by prayer those who were perishing.
Trusting in the Lord, Catroe ran between the fire and the remnants of the city. Turning to the Lord, he said: “Lord, everything that exists obeys you. Bid then the terrors of the raging flames to cease!”.
This he said, briefly, and he raised his hand and commanded the flames to die down. Then one might see the flame bent back as by the force of the wind and, gradually subsiding, die out. Thus, the city was delivered, to the joy of all’.
Life of Catroe, p. 441-2).

An Anglo-Saxon house on fire: detail from the Bayeux tapestry. Public domain, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:BayeuxTapestryScene47.jpg

Catroe the wanderer:

Catroe had performed his first true miracle! His fame spread and he was quickly brought to meet the king and the archbishop of Canterbury. They lent him all of the assistance that they he asked for and Catroe was soon ready to set sail.

But at the coast, something strange happened. Catroe loaded all of his men and horses and goods onto ships and set out to sea. But the winds turned against them and drove them back to shore. The heavens were cursing the mission!

‘All were disturbed, but Catroe was attacked by grief’, his biographer tells us (Life, p. 442). He set about fasting until he collapsed, exhausted. As he lay weakly on the couch a voice spoke to him: ‘All those that are with you shall not be able to cross the see, lest they prevent you in God’s way that you have entered. Persuade therefore your men to return; and then, after crossing the see, you shall rejoicing be reach the father shore’, (Life, p. 443).

An image of a ship caught in a storm. Here, St Claudius intervenes and saves the sailors. https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Book_of_Hours_of_Simon_de_Varie_-_KB_74_G37a_-_folio_010v.jpg

Catroe was a noble at birth: always surrounded by others, always with a retinue. He always had a powerful relative, telling him what his destiny was. But on that day, he dismissed his men. He stood alone on the beach and looked out at the wider world. He set sail on a voyage into the unknown. And he was alone.

Postscript:

Catroe would go on to travel across Europe. He would become a wandering monk and a miracle worker. Eventually he would settle at Metz in modern day Germany where he became abbot and teacher until his death in 971. At Metz he made a very significant impression on one of his pupils, Reimann, who would later go on to write a biography of his old teacher.

It is thanks to this biography that we know anything at all about Catroe’s adventures. Saints’ lives are an odd genre: the Life of Catroe is a mixture of convincingly realistic social and psychological detail, with some very odd visions and magical happenings.

Gorze Abbey, near Metz: one of the monastries at which Catroe served as a monk. Public domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Eglise_de_Gorze.JPG

Even amongst the medieval weirdness, I think there are some things that can speak through the ages. Many modern migrants would recognise Cathoe’s story of wanderlust. They can recognise both the pain of leaving behind their old life, and the promise that comes from striking out on your own. They can recognise his determination to make his name on his own, and on his own terms.

Catroe was only briefly in London, but I think his story can still speak to many Londoners today.

For further reading:

Alan Macquarrie, ‘Catroe’, Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, https://ezproxy-prd.bodleian.ox.ac.uk:4563/10.1093/ref:odnb/4312 (2004).

‘Life of St Catroe’, ed. and tr. A.O. Anderson, Early Sources of Scottish History, A.D. 500 to 1286, pp. 431-443 https://archive.org/details/cu31924028144313/page/n589

The Guildhall Giants, Gog and Magog

Enter the London guildhall today and look up. You will notice two very odd looking and rather unusual interlopers from a former time. These are two figures made of papier mâché, proportioned like dwarves but the size of giants. One is named Gog and the other is named Magog, and they are the mascots of London. They have historically been wheeled out to take part in public events such as the Lord Mayor’s show. But who are they and how did they come to be here?

Gog and Magog, the Guildhall, London — I think that this is Magog, but I’m not quite sure. From Snapshooter 46

Attentive readers of this blog may perhaps have had a flashback at their name. Previously I blogged about the medieval legend of Brutus of Troy. In it, Brutus led a band of warriors who fought with Gogmagog, king of the giants. They slew the fearsome Gogmagog, and took possession of Britain. This Brutus to found London.

It’s pretty clear that Gogmagog is related to Gog and Magog. Gogmagog belonged to Geoffrey of Monmouth and his Latin chronicles, written and read by churchmen. Gog and Magog are something a bit different: popular folklore that belong to the people of London.

By investigating Gog and Magog, maybe we can get a bit closer to the people of medieval and Tudor London. We can understand what they knew of the ‘official’ history of London – what they kept, what they added and what they changed.

Gog and Magog probably represent two different strands of street theatre: one linked to the Mayor, the other to the King. Both go back to the 1400s.

The Mayor’s Giant

In the 1400s, the biggest party day of the year was midsummer. This was the day of the ‘Great Watch’. Originally it was a parade in which London mustered its military forces. But during the 1400s it came to be an all-round celebration with massive pageants and street theatre, much like the Lord Mayor’s Show is today.

Bruts fights the giants of Albion. From British Library, Harley 1808. Public domain.

Every year at the head of the pageant, there was at least one giant. The Venetian ambassador in 1521 wrote home about the ‘very tall canvas giant, armed with bows, arrows, sword and buckler, so constructed that he turned about from side to side, looking in every direction’.

The exact set up of the giant changed year on year. Some years there was only one, who walked at the head of the Mayor’s pageant. Other years there were three groups of giants, one for the mayor, and one each for the two sheriffs. In some years there were male and female giants together, or figurines representing giant children.

A nineteenth century image of the Guildhall Gogmagog. Public domain

The focus on Giant families probably means that these were meant to represent Albina and her race of ancient giants, who were supposedly the first inhabitants of Britain.

The Great Watch became increasingly unruly. Henry VIII had been a fan of it early in his reign and even dressed up as a commoner so that he could go and join the crowd. However, by the 1530s he began to see it as an unruly threat, a time of disorder and chaos. Great Watches became less and less frequent, and after the 1540s they never happened again.

The King’s Giant

In 1432 London held a massive parade for the young King, Henry V. As Henry crossed London bridge, he encountered a massive figurine of a giant, named Champion. As the poet laureate John Lydgate wrote at the time:

Entering the bridge of this noble city,
there was a pillar raised like a tower,
And thereupon stood a sturdy [Giant, named] Champion
Of look and cheer stern, like a lion.
His sword up reared, proudly with menace,
And in defence of the King’s state royal,
The giant would abide each adventure,
And all assaults that are martial,
For the king’s sake he proudly would endure.
In token whereof the Giant had an inscription
On either side declaring his intent
Which said thus, by good advisement:
“All those that be enemies of the king,
I shall them clothe with confusion,
and make him mighty by virtuous living,
His mortal foes to oppress and bear down,
And him to increase as Christ’s champion,
All mischiefs from him to abridge!”
John Lydgate, Triumphal Entry of Henry VI, 1432. See here.

Champion the giant represented London. The massive power of the city and its military might would always be used as a champion for the king.

A French example of a royal entry, from 1450s. Public domain.

Londoners liked the figure of champion, who first appeared in the great Triumphal entry of 1413. They kept messing with the format: in 1415 in the celebrations for the battle of Agincourt, Champion had a wife and a message that he would ‘teach the French some courtesy!’. In 1421 he had a hinging mechanism that allowed him to bow to the queen. However, by the mid-1400s, Champion the giant seems to have gone out of fashion and wasn’t much used in royal pageants any more.

Old London bridge. The giant pageants mostly would have occured on the south gate. Public domain.

The death of Henry VIII left England an uncertain and fearful place. His son, Edward was still a child. The next in line were the Catholic Mary and her younger sister Elizabeth. Civil war and religious war beckoned. In this disordered atmosphere, some looked backwards for answers. And Londoners rediscovered Champion.

For the coronations of Edward VI, Mary and Elizabeth, giants made a comeback. London was to be represented by two giant figurines again. But this time they were given different names: Gogmagog and Corineus. At Mary’s coronation, the two figures acted out their battle in a reference to London’s founding myth.

Gog and Magog, the modern giants

Ever Queen Mary’s coronation, London has always kept two figurines of giants in the Guildhall. They’ve been rebuilt a couple of times and their names have changed a bit, but there has been some basic continuity.

A nineteenth century image of Gog/Corineus, Public domain

Londoners stopped using them for Royal coronations. However, in the late 1500s, they invented a new festivity: the Lord Mayor’s show. This came to be every bit as big and exciting as the Great Watch had previously been. The two figures that they made for Mary’s Coronation appear to have been wheeled out most years for the past 500 or so to join the celebrations. Over time they have become a part of the city’s folklore. The name ‘Gogmagog’ has split in half and the two figures are now known as Gog and Magog.

Enterprising Londoners added to the Folklore. By 1728, Elkanah Settle’s New History of the Trojan Wars and Troy’s Destruction added a new layer of myths. The Guildhall was now said to be the remains of Brutus’s ancient palace. Brutus had led two giants, Gog and Magog, in chains into London after his victory. He set them as porters at his door, and the effigies remained in the guildhall forever as tokens of the victory of man over giant.

The Giant surveys his domain in the Guildhall. From the Guildhall website.

Of course, they’ve been rebuilt a few times since then. They were rebuilt once in the early eighteenth century, and another time after they were burned by German bombs in the blitz.

All Hallows by the Tower: a window on Anglo-Saxon London

In September 1666, the Great Fire devastated London. In a desperate scramble, the authorities at the Tower of London set about destroying buildings to create a fire block between the city and the Tower of London.

Diarist and man about town Samuel Pepys ran from the flames towards the tower. He stopped off at the church of All Hallows by the Tower, and climbed its steeple. From it, he watched the world burn. He wrote in his diary:

“So I made myself ready presently, and walked to the Tower, and there got up upon one of the high places, Sir J. Robinson’s little son going up with me; and there I did see the houses at that end of the bridge all on fire, and an infinite great fire on this and the other side the end of the bridge; which, among other people, did trouble me for poor little Michell and our Sarah on the bridge.”
Samuel Pepys Diary, September 1666: see here.

Most of the medieval and early modern city passed away on a single day. But the actions of the men at the tower meant that a little pocket of the medieval and early modern city survived in the very east corner of the London.

Today I want to look at All Hallows by the Tower, one of London’s great survivors. Today this little church is a time capsule for two thousand years of London’s history.

Above: All Hallows by the Tower in 1955. The tower, built in 1658, is the same one that Pepys would have climbed. Commons license

The earliest architecture on the site can be found in the basement, where a Roman pavement peeks through the floor. It is thought to be the floor from a second century house.

The roman pavement. Taken from trip advisor, see here

The church was built on top of this Roman layer. Its origins can be dated as far back as 675, when it was founded by the nun and saint, Ethelburgh (Aethelburh) of Barking. On this blog we have met Ethelburgh and her brother Erkenwald bishop of London in other posts.

It was long thought that there were no traces left of this early Anglo-Saxon church. However, in 1940 the church was hit by a falling German bomb. Amid the tumbling masonry some fascinating discoveries were made. Within the walls was hiding an old Anglo-Saxon arch.

Above: The Anglo-Saxon arch of All Hallows by the tower. Taken from the parish website, here.

We can’t date this arch precisely, but one interesting feature is that the top of the arch is made up mostly from recycled Roman bricks and tiles – this probably suggests that it was put up at a time when Roman ruins were still visible and accessible. It probably argues for an early date.

A little later in the Anglo-Saxon period, a crypt was built. This is now the under-croft chapel. There are still some Anglo-Saxon burials here.

The Undercroft chapel. Taken from the parish website, here.

Several other Anglo-Saxon and medieval artifacts can be seen in the church’s museum, including an Anglo-Saxon stone cross with an inscription that states that it was made by Thelvar.

The church also has numerous medieval and Tudor tombs. Perhaps the most remarkable survival is this Tate panel, a late fifteenth century Flemish altarpiece

The Tate alterpiece, from the Parish website, here

All Hallows by the Tower is a building with so many layers of history buried within it. People sometimes think that all of Old London passed away with the great fire. In All Hallows by the tower we can get a little window onto Anglo-Saxon and medieval London.

The main aisle of All Hallows by the Tower. Commons licence.

If you liked this blog post then why not check out the virtual tour of All Hallows by the Tower on the parish website; or maybe listen to this podcast by London Undone.

Chronicle of London

I’ve set up Chronicles of London to blog about Medieval and early modern London. For my research I work on 1400-1550 so expect to see that period well represented. I also want to expand my comfort zone so will range backwards and forwards from 600 to the Great Fire of 1666. I’m especially interested in history, literature and learning.

On this blog I want to try to explore the reality of life in the pre-modern city.

Another particular interest will be the Literature of London. Historians sometimes act as though the Tudors invented the idea of writing about cities. I want to show that there was a long and fascinating tradition of writing about London. I will retell, and where appropriate translate, some of the best literature of London.

I will also do series on Myths and Legends. This will cover what Londoners thought about their own past. It will cover their parades, statues, law books, chronicles, literatur and any other ways that Londoners used to talk about the history of London.