By Victoria Draper (Norfolk Record Office) 2 January 2018
Marriage licences were often favoured by families of high social class since they allowed the couple privacy, ability to choose their parish of marriage and were faster to arrange than banns. The marriage licence could also be a status symbol in itself, showing that the couple could afford to purchase it and although the cost of a licence was not exceptionally high, many people could not afford one. As a result, the names of several prominent Norfolk families are included in the bonds.
One bond relates to the marriage of Philip Meadows Martineau (1872-1829) to Ann Dorothy Clarke in 1811. The Martineau family were of Huguenot descent and Philip Meadows was a prominent member of the local French community. He was a distinguished surgeon specialising in lithotomy, the surgical method for removing kidney, bladder and gallbladder stones which were common medical complaints in Norfolk. Martineau was a surgeon at the Norfolk and Norwich Hospital and also served as a hospital governor.
Engraving of Bracondale Hall on the Martineau family estate. NRO, MC 2295/1
The Martineau family were Unitarians and Philip Meadows Martineau attended the Octagon Chapel in Norwich. Following Hardwicke’s Marriage Act, 1753 (which attempted to curb secret and irregular marriages) Nonconformists had to marry in an Anglican church. There were exemptions for Jews and Quakers but Catholics and other protestant Nonconformists, including Unitarians, were not exempt until later. Sadly, the marriage licence bond does not tell us which church Philip and Ann Dorothy married in, which is quite common.
Martineau owned a large estate at Bracondale (the Norfolk Record Office and County Hall now occupy part of the site) and this marriage licence bond is dated around the time that he also purchased the adjacent property of Carrow Abbey.
Marriage licence bond of Philip Meadows Martineau and Ann Dorothy Clarke, 1811. NRO, ANW 24/86/9
Another bond relates to the marriage of Ann Margaret Coke of Holkham, aged 15 years, to Thomas Anson in 1794. Ann Margaret, born at Holkham Hall, became a painter and may have been taught by Thomas Gainsborough in Norfolk and London. Her husband, Thomas Anson, was a wealthy politician and heir to the Shugborough estate in Staffordshire. Since Ann Margaret was only fifteen at the time of her wedding, her father Thomas William Coke, the first Earl of Leicester, made a sworn oath of consent to her marriage which is noted on the marriage licence bond.
Marriage licence bond of Ann Margaret Coke and Thomas Anson, 1794. NRO, ANW 24/69/33
A.M.W. Stirling recounts in his two volume work, Coke of Norfolk and his Friends, that Ann looked very young at her wedding:
‘At the wedding breakfast she looked such a child that Dean Anson said mischievously to her: “Ann, if you will run round the table, I will give you a sovereign!” Scarcely had the words left his lips, then away went the delighted bride and, racing round the table, triumphantly claimed her reward.’
Stirling also notes that Thomas Anson, concerned about his wife’s young age, insisted that Ann sat at cards with the dowagers when attending dances which unfortunately gave her a taste for gambling!
Marriage licence bonds were not the preserve of the gentry and even those of more modest social status such as tenant farmers, trades people and military occupations are well represented in them. This particularly became the case as the cost of marriage licences fell relative to wages. For some couples they may even have been an aspirational choice to emulate the higher social classes and add some sparkle to their wedding day!
Obtaining a marriage licence bond was no guarantee of social standing and character. One bond relates to the marriage of James Blomfield Rush (who later became the notorious Stanfield Hall murderer) to Susannah Soames (named in the bond as Susan Soame) in May 1828. Rush, a tenant farmer who had got himself into debt, murdered estate owner Isaac Jermy and his son at Stanfield Hall on 28 November 1848. After a dramatic legal trial, Rush was hanged at Norwich Castle on 21 April 1849. A crowd of over 12,000 people gathered to witness the event and the Eastern County Railway Company even ran a special train from London to Norwich for the execution.
Lithograph of James Blomfield Rush by Sharpe, 1849. NRO, MC 63/1
Rush was no stranger to trouble. In 1835, despite being married to Susannah Soames, a woman, named either Dank or Dack, brought an action against him for breach of promise of marriage. She claimed that she had been forced into the workhouse after Rush made her pregnant. When the case came to court at the Norfolk Assizes in the summer of 1839, the court convicted Rush and ordered him to pay costs of over £26.
As the chill of these dismal days begins to bite and you settle in front of a roaring fire, apparently safe from harm, it’s the perfect time for a terrifying tale or two.
Possibly the most famous story about telling stories in all of English literature begins on Lake Geneva, Switzerland, in June 1816. During a historically wet, cold and gloomy summer – 1816 would become known, in fact, as “The Year Without a Summer” – two of the leading poets of the age, Lord Byron and Percy Shelley, were vacationing near each other, Shelley with his then-future wife Mary and her stepsister Claire Clairmont (who was, in fact, pregnant with Byron’s child at the time), and Byron with his friend and physician John Polidori (who would go on to write what is now often referred to as the world’s first vampire novel).
There were no excursions in the woods or on the lake, no romps through fields. The days were cold and dreary and spent indoors, and Byron, inspired by a volume of ghost stories he had received from a friend, decided that each of his companions should write a ghost story. Polidori struggled with one about an old woman who peeks through keyholes on unspeakable acts. There is no record of Claire Clairmont even trying. Percy Shelley was never really one for narrative and he, too, quickly gave up the ghost, so to speak. Byron came up with a partial tale about a vampire that would eventually serve as the basis for Polidori’s novel.
Only Mary Shelley succeeded, with a tale that began: “It was on a dreary night of November…” When the story later became the novel Frankenstein, the author changed the story’s opening to “December 11th, 17–.” Clearly, in spite of the inspiration coming in summer, the frigid weather had a dramatic effect on her, transporting her and her tale to the depths of winter. And so the novel begins in the Arctic, with “stiff gales” and “floating sheets of ice”, and ends with Frankenstein’s monster, doomed to a slow death, receding into the distance on an ice floe. Frankenstein is, in essence, a winter’s tale.
The notion that cold, snowy days are the best for stories designed to frighten and appal us goes back at least to the early 17th century. In Shakespeare’s The Winter’s Tale, written in 1611, Mamillius says: “A sad tale’s best for winter. I have one / of sprites and goblins.” But it was in the Victorian era that telling ghost stories became an indispensable custom of the Christmas season – indeed, the genre’s popularity had been dwindling somewhat until writers such as Wilkie Collins and Elizabeth Gaskell breathed new life into it. Families relished the chance to gather around the hearth on Christmas Eve to try to scare one another half to death with tales of mysterious, menacing apparitions or, in one story by MR James, a master of the genre, a “vengeful ghost boy… with fearfully long nails”. The practice even finds its way into Christmas songs. A verse in “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year” mentions “scary ghost stories” right alongside singing to neighbours and hanging mistletoe as the very substance of the season.
One of the most familiar examples of the Christmas ghost story is Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol, which he wrote in 1843 as a way of cashing in on the renewed demand for the form. The novel amounts to an acknowledgement of the ghost story’s seasonal ubiquity. It’s not just a ghost story that one could tell at Christmas, but – with Scrooge sitting in his armchair as his life’s story is unfurled before him – it is a story about ghost stories at Christmas, a kind of meta-Christmas ghost story, if you will.
The Turn of the Screw, the US Anglophile Henry James’s own take on the Christmas tale, published in 1898, operates in much the same fashion, structured as it is to position its readers by the Yuletide hearth listening to tales of horror. It begins: “The story had held us, round the fire, sufficiently breathless, but except the obvious remark that it was gruesome, as on Christmas Eve in an old house a strange tale should essentially be, I remember no comment uttered till somebody happened to note it as the only case he had met in which such a visitation had fallen on a child.” If the last words of that sentence don’t cause your hair to stand on end, you’re probably simply not susceptible to ghost stories
The tale, which relates a series of strange events that befall a young governess, centres on the supposed – and that word is key – possession of a boy by the spirit of a hostile figure named Peter Quint. To begin with a recounting of the telling of the story around a fire on Christmas Eve would, James decided, be the most effective context for the story’s macabre twists and turns, part of a framework designed to make the whole somehow more believable, more unsettlingly so – to ensure that the chill sinks deep down into the reader’s bones.
Maybe the impulse to thrill each other with these tales of the grisly and supernatural is spurred by Halloween; as the leaves die off and fall to the ground before disappearing, we observe a holiday that features witches, ghosts and demons – a veritable festival of the dead. That sets the mood and liberates the spirits which accompany us through the following months as the days get colder, and Jack Frost stretches his fingers across the window pane. Winter is tantalisingly terrifying, and it’s undoubtedly to do with its nearness to death – for, in the days before antibiotics, these were the months that would claim the most lives.
The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe
We relish the sense that our warm, happy homes, with their firmly closed doors and crackling fires, can keep death’s frigid hand from our throats. So the writing that truly haunts us is almost always set in cold, barren landscapes. Consider this from Edgar Allan Poe’s narrative poem “The Raven”, the tale of a lover’s death and the agonising chant of an avian visitor, who tells the narrator, over and over, that his departed love will appear to him “nevermore”: “Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December / And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.” Or this, from Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s long poem “Christabel”, ostensibly about a ghostly visitor and replete with unnerving omens, which served as an influence for Poe’s eerie tales: “The night is chill; the forest bare / Is it the wind that moaneth bleak?” The list goes on.
One of my favourite winter tales is the short story “Silent Snow, Secret Snow” by Conrad Aiken, published in 1934. It is about a boy who lapses into a state of schizophrenia, a condition which – due to new and deeper scientific investigations in the early 20th century – captured the public imagination with stories of hallucinatory voices and “unnatural” behaviour. The dream world into which Aiken’s protagonist slips becomes – silently, slowly, inch by inch – engulfed in bright white. The most terrifying aspect of the story is how quietly it proceeds, how the snow seems literally to settle in the reader’s mind, exerting a chilling, mesmerising pressure much like that experienced by the boy himself: “The hiss was now becoming a roar – the whole world was a vast moving screen of snow – but even now it said peace, it said remoteness, it said cold, it said sleep.”
And we’re all familiar with the story told in The Shining – whether in Stephen King’s original novel or Stanley Kubrick’s film adaptation – with the vast blanketed spaces surrounding the Overlook Hotel, and their eerie, transforming solitude. As Jack Torrance loses his grip on reality, the mood darkens and the tension increases in line with the dropping temperature and the rapidly layering snow. The result is perhaps the world’s most celebrated case of “cabin fever”.
Even a story that isn’t intended to be scary, such as James Joyce’s “The Dead”, from 1914’s Dubliners, distils haunting effects from its winterscape. The final scene is the telling of a story, narrated by the main character’s wife, about her first love, a man named Michael Furey, who died for her love by standing outside her window in a snowstorm and contracting pneumonia. The main character, Gabriel Conroy, listens to the melancholy story, in which his wife reveals that she never truly loved him, while he stands at a window himself and watches the snowflakes “falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead”. So apt is Joyce’s tale for this time of year that, until 28 December, the Sam Wanamaker Playhouse at Shakespeare’s Globe in London is staging a candlelit reading of the short story as part of its Winter’s Tale season, with Joyce’s words, read by the actor Aidan Gillen, set to an unsettling piano score played by Feargal Murray. This is the second year in a row that the Wanamaker has hosted an adaptation of the tale; it’s becoming something of a tradition.
How many other scenes have we read in which characters observe the snow through a window? Time and again, writers have called on wintry images to evoke feelings of dread, emptiness, loss, and isolation. But the trope can also be used to reverse effect – to emphasise the warmth of the fire and the comforts of the home, as in this passage from the French writer Jean Giono’s Joy of Man’s Desiring, published in 1936: “The fire roared. The water boiled. The shutter creaked. The pane cracked in its putty with the cold… There was a beautiful morning over the earth. The sun was daring to venture into the sky… The enlightenment was coming from the warmth, the fire, the frost, the wall, the window pane, the table, the door rattling in the north wind…”
Winter’s ability to capture our imagination is at its strongest precisely when we are the farthest removed from its more harmful aspects. Take this passage from Eowyn Ivey’s 2011 story The Snow Child, set in a frozen Alaskan landscape in the early 1900s: “Through the window, the night air appeared dense, each snowflake slowed in its long, tumbling fall through the black. It was the kind of snow that brought children running out their doors, made them turn their faces skyward, and spin in circles with their arms outstretched.” The jovial imagery belies its melancholy context, for Ivey’s novel is about an elderly man and wife who are unable to conceive a child and who live with their grief in a hostile landscape – often brutally so. In a rare moment of levity and togetherness they construct a little girl out of snow. The next morning, they find that she has become real – as if by magic. The story, which combines one of nature’s most deep-seated anxieties about fertility, or its lack, with a primitive distrust of intruders and that which cannot be rationalised, is based on an old Russian folk tale; Ivey’s retelling demonstrates how enduring the appeal is of these icy tales, for writers and readers alike.
In some ways, the stories by which we love to be unsettled are also a form of preparation – often for the very worst. Curled up in a favourite armchair, we still ourselves against the things we know can harm us. When the weather outside turns gloomy or threatening, we can crank up the heating and lighten the burden of our thoughts by turning to fantastic tales designed to mask the things that scare us most.
That summer of 1816, during which Mary Shelley and the others invented ghost stories, would turn out to be the party’s final carefree season. The travellers returned to England to find that Mary’s half-sister had committed suicide; Percy Shelley’s first wife, pregnant with his child, drowned herself a few months later. Shelley’s son from his first marriage died of a fever in 1818. In the next few years, Percy and Mary Shelley would have two children, neither of whom would reach their second birthday. Percy Shelley and Lord Byron themselves would both die within the next 10 years. Sometimes, the frightening stories we tell each other are not nearly as horrifying as the events that real life holds in store for us. In this sense, the effect is twofold: the tales transport us from our everyday anxieties at the same time as they enable us to confront them, however obliquely; they are a means to exorcise our demons by acknowledging them – in a homely environment.
But the secret lure of these tales – of the horrifying creatures we call into being, the ghosts that stalk us, and the demons that we discover at work within our own minds – is that, while the stories themselves are fictions, the underlying dangers they conjure up, and the thrill that we feel in confronting them, are in the end quite real. Think of that on a winter’s night!
“On the morning of the 20th November, 1848, the City of Norwich was aroused from its usual state of general calmness and tranquillity by a rumour that terrific deeds of blood had been committed in the vicinity; and many were the shapes which the tale of horror took in travelling from mouth to mouth. But, however distorted, it was unfortunately true”……………
The Background to the Tragedy:
James Blomfield Rush
James Blomfield Rush was a farmer with inflated pretensions of being a country squire, but he held a very long record of suspect dealings and financial problems. He always seemed to be trying to crawl through legal loopholes to dispose of his debts and badly arranged financial commitments. He also fell foul of suits brought against him for seduction and bastardy – by more than one woman. He met his match in Isaac Jermy though – formerly Preston if you remember! He was the Recorder of Norwich and a member of the Norwich Union Board who knew the law, finance and was not backward in using both to his advantage.
Cartoon of Shooting
The mortgage for Rush’s Potash Farm was due to be settled on the 30th November 1848, but Rush had no way of paying it. Two evenings prior to this deadline Rush, disguised with a mask, wig and whiskers, walked the short distance from his farm to Stanfield Hall and hid in the bushes until Isaac Jermy Snr. stepped out after dinner for his spot air and possibly a smoke. Rush immediately came forward and shot him at point blank range before striding into the Hall where he shot dead Isaac’s son; a further round hit Mrs Sophia Jermy’s upper arm, while a second wounded Eliza Chestney in the groin and thigh as they attempted to flee. The murderer then went out through a side door. After medical examination by a doctor it was thought that Eliza had suffered a compound fracture of her bone. The wound to Mrs Jermy’s arm resulted in an amputation. Despite wearing a disguise, the size and gait of Rush was recognised by the staff of Stanfield Hall and he was quickly arrested the following morning after police had surrounded Potash Farm.
The Trial of James Blomfield Rush:
The circumstances surrounding the murders at Stanfield hall and the subsequent trial of the accused, James Blomfield Rush was an occasion which had all the hallmarks of a classical Victorian melodrama. The story had a large country mansion as the backdrop and plenty of blood; a villain who was cast perfectly with the right physical appearance of hard looks, bad behaviour, brusque manners, dubious morals and sinister scheming. If that was not enough then it had a riveting plot, all wrapped in a readymade story. This was the answer to a writer’s dream. No wonder the lurid details of the murders helped sell millions of copies of local and national newspapers, their column pages and supplements given over to the case. Queen Victoria was rumoured to have taken an interest, along with the great Victorian author, Charles Dickens who visited the scene and recorded his impression that the Hall “had a murderous look that seemed to invite such a crime”.
Outside Norwich Assize’s Court
Everything was exposed at Rush’s trial which opened on Thursday morning, 29 March 1849 at the Norfolk Assizes before Judge Baron Rolfe. Every available seat was taken and no one was allowed to enter without a ticket of admission. On the opening of the doors, shortly after 8 0’Clock, there was a rush for the seats and the Court was quickly filled “in every part by gentlemen and ladies of the highest respectability, including several noblemen” Precisely at 9 o’clock, Judge Baron Rolf entered, there was an immediate solemn silence and the prisoner James Blomfierld Rush was called. Every eye was directed towards the Box when Rush entered, dressed in black and, apparently, in good health. He was informed of the indictment charging him with the murders of Isaac Jermy, Esq and his son, to which he pleaded NOT GUILTY!
Inside the Courtroom
Rush had previously turned down offers of a legal representation, opting, quite arrogantly, to conduct his own defence which, because of his own incompetence, belligerence and blatant intimidation of the prosecution witnesses, was to simply hastened his downfall. he was to present his defence over fourteen hours of rambling without making any impression in his favour. His address was full of repetitions and the witnesses that he called, one way or another, damned him; he also damned himself, not least when he was to ask one witness, a Maria Blanchflower who had passed within feet of him on the night, “Did you pass me quickly”! – a very unfortunate slip of tongue in open court and was to do his defence no good..
But that was to come later for the Prosecution were the first to present its case, calling on several witnesses, the first of which set the tone for Rush’s ultimate conviction. Thomas Jermy aged 67, then a gardening labourer living in south London was simply asked: “Can you write?” and he answered even more briefly “No Sir”. From his reply it was obvious that he could not have signed the Notes, dropped by Rush at the time of the murders, allegedly claiming the Stanfield Hall Estate by Larner and Jermy:
Forged Note
It was established that Rush was behind this deception with the intention of casting suspision for the murders on to Larner and Jermy, who could not possibly have committed them since at the time of the crime both were in London.
Other witnesses followed, including the injured victim Eliza Chestney and the principal witness, Emily Sandford. Both of whom were to be cross examined by Rush, again with a mixture of charm, religious fervour, rudeness and intimidation. Finally, his Lordship, in the most patient of manners simply requested the Jury to give the words of the accused “the degree of weight they deserved”. Then, having been told to consider their verdict, the Jury retired. After barely 6 minutes, they returned to deliver the verdict – GUILTY!
The Judge then put on the black cap and to a profoundly silent Court he sentence Rush to death, his penultimate words being:
“It remains only that I pronounce the awful sentence of the law upon you; and it is, that you be taken back to the place from which you came, and from thence to the place of execution and that you be there hanged by the neck until you are dead, and that after death your body be buried within the precincts of the gaol and may the Almighty have mercy on your soul”
Finally adding a few exceptionally severe words:
“It is a matter of perfect indifference to society at large what your conduct maybe during the few days remaining to you”, being as you are “an object of unmitigated abhorrence to everyone”
The Rope!
Rush remained still for a brief moment after the Judge had finished, but when the gaoler touched to remove him Rush smiled in a slightly demonic manner and uttered what sounded like a few joking words. His escort, whilst not responding to the prisoner, took great precautions to see that there was no communication between him and anyone in the Court as they left. The Judge then retired and the Court was quickly cleared.
For the several days between the trial and the time of execution, Rush was confined to his cell still imagining that he could persuade those around him that he was innocent. Several members of the clergy attempted to bring him to his senses and to see the awful and unhappy position he was in, but with no success. One person expressed the hope that Rush would at least realise the old aphorism that the man who begins by deceiving others often ends by deceiving himself; but Rush continued to adopt airs and graces and offer phrases of a deeply religious man, but no one was fooled.
The Execution:
On the morning of his execution, Rush asked for some hot water to wash himself and a clean shirt in which to be buried. The solemnest of his cell as he passed his final hours was in stark contrast to the hive of activity already in evidence outside in the streets of Norwich where thousands of pedestrians were beginning to gather, mingling with the trades people that were there to sell their wares. One reporter observed:
“ If such be the usual state of the city on an ordinary market day, one may form some slight conception of what was likely to take place when, in addition to the attraction of the Market, there was to be witnessed the execution of so atrocious a criminal as James Blomfield Rush” – and then on observing the mass of people assembling said “the Cry was, still they come!”
The universal theme of conversation since early that morning was noisily about Rush and the Stanfield Murders. Then from about 10 o’clock the sounds of the bustle and hum of preparation for business ceased, to be replaced by anxious expectation of everyone, whether selling or buying. Perhaps more offensive to some was the conduct of a handful of ‘ballad-mongers’ who continuously bawled out doggerel rhymes of the person to be hanged later while a large black flag floated over the entrance to the Castle and a large section of those nearest gazed upon the gibbet perched over the bridge spanning the dry moat and from which Rush would hang.
William Calcraft (Executioner)
Between 11 and 12 o’clock the bell of St Peters Mancroft tolled the death knell for the criminal; at some moment within this hour Rush was escorted from his cell to the turnkey’s ‘receiving-room’ to be pinioned; there he met with William Calcraft, executioner, of whom he asked Mr Penson, the Governor “Is this the man that is to do the business?” The affirmative reply pre-empted Calcraft’s task of pinioning Rush who, at that moment, shrugged his shoulders saying “ This don’t go easy” then “not too tight”.
Just after 12 noon with the preliminaries completed, a procession formed and made its way to the scaffold with the Chaplain leading. The distance between the Castle door and the gallows was about sixty yards, along which the Chaplain read aloud.
“ I am the resurrection ……………… blessed be the name of the Lord”.
Rush, on the other hand, presented an assumed dejected pose of someone who had ‘avenged a great injury’ and was satisfied with what he had done. He then raised his pinioned hands to his face and violently trembled before removing his hands from his face and, turning his eyes to heaven, assumed the attitude of prayer. When both he and the Chaplain had finished the ritual, Rush beckoned to the Governor of the Castle to his side and the following brief conversation took place:
Rush: “Mr Penson, I have a last request to make to you; it is, that the bolt be withdrawn while the Chaplain is reading the Benediction – “The Grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Ghost be with us all evermore”.
Mr Penson: “I will immediately communicate your wish to the Chaplain and I have no doubt it will be attended to”.
However, the Governor was economical with the truth for the general impression of the officials there in the ‘receiving room’ was that they feared that Rush intended to carry out ‘some vain and fruitless feat’, as indicated by both his behaviour overnight, during the early hours and, particularly, his last request for the drop to happened when certain words of the Chaplains were spoken. Mr Penson, fearing that something was afoot, intended to give Calcraft the signal in advance of any chosen words – and whilst it was not his intention, the moment chosen by Penson would come as quite a shock to Rush! – if indeed he ever had plans for a final grand performance in front of the authorities and public.
The Bridge at Norwich Castle on which the scaffold was erected and from where James Blomfield Rush hung.
Rush, accompanied by the officials and the executioner ascended the gallows which had been erected over the bridge that spanned the Castle’s dry moat. An observer’s comment was that the structure was “a clumsy and inconvenient structure, as badly arranged and as unsightly in appearance as anyone could conceive. It seemed to be the work of a most unskilful designer”. Rush, for his part, looked ghastly pale as if conscience or fear had at last done its work. For a few moments he looked at the huge crowd then, seemingly recollecting that it had been arranged that he should suffer death with his back to the people, he turned around. One eye witness recorded:
“The poor creature looked for an instant on the vast mass of spectators, whose earnest gaze was upon him and on every movement he made, and then turned himself round and face the castle – his back being towards the populace.”
Rush then shook hands with the Governor just before William Calcraft, the hangman, placed him under the beam on which he was to hang and then began placing the noose around his neck. Even at this moment Rush could not resist being theatrical, saying to Calcraft:
“For God’s sake, give me rope enough. Don’t be in a hurry; take your time” Then, moving his head about, Rush added,”! Put the knot a little higher up – don’t hurry”.
This done, the white hood was drawn over Rush’s head and the Chaplain proceeded with the prayers. It was at this point that the Governor’s intentions became clear; his signal to Calcraft triggered. Before the Chaplain arrived at the words “The Grace of our Lord ………………..etc the Executioner had withdrawn the bolt, the platform had fallen and Rush was at the bottom of his one-way descent; a descent that was with such force that his body had shaken the whole gallows and the snap of the rope under extreme tension had been audible to everyone. Rush’s body remained perfectly still for about two minutes before there was a short convulsive struggle – then all was completely over. Rush’s death was greeted with loud applause then, at one o’clock he was cut down, removed to the prison on a wheeled litter and during the afternoon, his head was shaved and a cast was taken for phrenological study. Later, the remains of James Blomfield Rush was buried, as decreed by the Judge, in the precincts of Norwich Prison; the timing was 8 o’clock in the evening in a deep grave next to the remains of Yarman who was executed some three years earlier for the Yarmouth murders.
James Blomfield Rush headstone at Norwich Castle Prison
Footnote:
In the end Rush’s wax image was ‘taken from life’ at Norwich by Madame Tussauds and placed on display in her Chamber of Horrors in London for over 120 years.
The Executioner, William Calcraft, lodged in Hay Hill.
Emily Sandford emigrated to Australia – paid for by public subscription – and married a German merchant two years later and moved, with her husband, to Berlin.
Stanfield Hall was finally sold out of the Jermy family in 1920.
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Following their introduction into the British Isles by the Normans, rabbits were farmed in manmade warrens call “Coneygarths”, whose so-called “pillow mounds” encouraged the species to burrow and facilitate their capture. The construction of pillow mounds represents a remarkable long-lived form of animal husbandry, which in some places remained in use until the early 20th century. The vast majority of known pillow mounds are thought to be post-medieval and consequently the landscapes of extant rabbit warrens are a reflection of post-medieval warrening experience rather than that preceeded it.
Further, although former warrens are geographically widespread across England and Wales, their remains are more prevalent in western upland areas because the growth of arable practices in Eastern England during post-medieval period removed many of that regions former warrens. Despite this, chancery records reveals numerous references to rabbits and rabbit warrens in Eastern England compared to elsewhere. They also imply that the warrens in Eastern England were able to produce a surplus of rabbits that suported an export trade and supplied the Royal Court at Westminister, something that warrens in the remainder of England were less able to do.
The rabbit was rare in medieval England and much sought after for both its meat and its fur by landlord and poacher alike. Today the rabbit is regarded as prolific, destructive and of little value but this modern reputation belies historical experience where or much of its history the rabbit was a rare and highly prized commodity. The animal, believed to be indigenous during a previous interglacial period, was considered extinct until deliberately (re)introduced via France in the 11th and 12th centuries. Its value lay both in its meat and fur and, as someone noted in the 17th century:
‘no host could be deemed a good housekeeper that hath not plenty of these at all times to furnish his table’.
The rabbit’s fur was used as clothing as well as on clothing and, although neither the most fashionable nor valuable, rabbit fur became very popular in the 13th century. Yet in the beginning when first introduced, the rabbit found the English climate inhospitable and needed careful rearing and cosseting inside specially created warrens such as ‘pillow mounds’. For the next five centuries the vast majority of England’s rabbit population lived protected within these confines, and it was not until the 18th century that it successfully broke out and colonised a much wider area and through numbers devalued its worth.
Back in the 17th century the rabbit was still regarded as an important cash crop. In the Middle Ages rabbit warrens represented almost the sole source of supply for rabbits and their scarcity made them a valuable and fiercely guarded commodity. Indeed, the collapse of the grain market in the later 14th and 15th centuries encouraged some landlords to develop their warrens as an alternative source of income, to the extent that rabbiting can be classed as an unlikely but successful late medieval growth industry.
I
Throughout the Middle Ages the right to hunt and kill any beast or game was a special privilege granted by the king, so that all hunting was carefully controlled and restricted. Hunting in the extensive royal forests was the privilege of the king alone, but outside these areas the Crown was prepared to sell exclusive hunting rights by means of a charter of free-warren. In effect, the recipient of this charter was granted the sole right to kill the beasts of warren, which basically consisted of the pheasant, partridge, hare and rabbit, within a specified area. Hence the right to keep and kill rabbits was the exclusive privilege of the owner of free-warren and it was therefore illegal for anybody else to attempt to do so. Free-warren was consequently a valuable privilege, jealously guarded by its owner.
Whereas the modern rabbit has developed a resilience to the damp British climate, its medieval predecessor felt this aversion more keenly so areas of dry and sandy soil were chosen; also, gradients were preferred so as to facilitated both drainage and the dispersal of burrowed soil. Significantly the largest concentration of warrens in East Anglia was in Breckland, a region of undulating heathland, low rainfall and deep, porous sands, in other words an ideal habitat for the rabbit.
Rabbit Warreners
Most warrens in East Anglia had been founded by the late 13th century, many by church landlords. The Bishoprics of Ely created warrens at Brandon and Freckenham respectively; Bury St Edmunds Abbey did likewise at Mildenhall and so did West Acre Priory at Wicken and Custhorpe in Norfolk. The Prior and Convent of Ely were granted free-warren in Lakenheath. It is believed that the rabbit was a particularly favoured delicacy of the Abbot of St Edmunds who had a warren created at his country retreat in Elmswell and at Long Melford, whilst both West Acre and West Dereham Priories also established their own warrens nearby. Various lay landlords were also prominent in this new experiment, notably at Methwold, Thetford, Tunstead and Gimingham. It is difficult to ascertain the exact area of these early warrens, although the largest swept down the western edge of Breckland from Thetford through Wangford to Eriswell. By the end of the Middle Ages such warrens had probably grown to occupy the 1000 acres plus they were to reach at their zeniths.
Medieval Rabbit Warren
The distinctive clustering of warrens indicates that the rabbit did not colonize a wide geographical area and even in central parts of East Anglia it remained a rare beast. This might surprise a modern reader familiar with the animal’s ubiquity and sex drive, but the medieval rabbit was fragile and uncomfortable in its new, cold environment and under constant threat from predators and harsh winter conditions. Consequently, low fertility and high mortality rates restricted natural increase, even within the relative safety of the warren. This placed severe restrictions on long distance migrations, although undoubtedly some fledgling warrens were spawned in the vicinity of the early warrens, and these were then exploited by eager landlords.
The exploitation of warrens was a highly skilled business and most warreners were full-time manorial officials, paying them handsome wages but often stipulating their exact duties and reserving the right of dismissal if their work was unsatisfactory. Besides financial remuneration, most warreners enjoyed other perks such as extra pasture rights and flee accommodation within the warren lodge. The pressures of their work were largely seasonal and peaked with cullings in the autumn when the rabbit’s fur was thickest. Extra help was often required in this busy period, as at Lakenheath in I384 when seven men were hired for twenty weeks.
The most common method of trapping was with ferrets and nets, the ferrets being released into specific burrows to drive the rabbits above ground and into nets tended by trappers. Most warreners reared their own ferrets, although sometimes a ferreter was hired at considerable expense. For much of the year, however, the warrener worked alone to guard his rabbits against hunger and predators and even to seek ways to encourage breeding. Surprisingly perhaps, the early rabbits were reluctant burrowers, which prompted some warreners to construct artificial burrows or ‘pillow mounds’. Over time, rabbits got the message!
Rabbit Pillow Mound
Pillow mounds were designed to provide dry, well-ventilated burrows in which the rabbit could breed comfortably; the very existence of these ‘aids’ just emphasize both the animal’s unease in the damp climate and the need to mother the animal carefully. Warreners needed to take positive steps to curtail rabbit’s high mortality rates, particularly with any shortage of winter food, although on the heathlands gorse provided a cheap and convenient source. Other than that, oats were regularly fed to rabbits. Warreners also waged a perpetual war against the rabbit’s natural predators and poachers. The fox, stoat, weasel, wildcat and polecat stalked with ruthless efficiency, so that Brandon, Lakenheath and Kennett warrens were set with numerous traps and snares ‘for nocturnal predators’.
Warren Lodges:
The real threat from both predators and poachers eventually resulted in the construction of a wooden watchtower at Lakenheath warren in I365 and a stone lodge in Methwold by I413, followed by Thetford. These lodges were features of medieval Breckland and the one at Thetford still stands. Most date from the late 14th century and reflected the threat posed by poachers and the determination of landlords to protect increasingly valuable assets. These remarkable buildings also absorbed much of the capital invested in warrens for they were expensive to build and maintain. Brandon lodge was completed in the I380’s and stood at two storeys high and was protected by slit windows and flint walls three feet thick. At Elmswell in the early 16th century, the warren lessee was allowed over one-sixth the value of the lease each year to spend on upkeep. Rabbit rearing was otherwise a relatively inexpensive business, with the major expenditure on labour.
Output from most warrens remained low until the later 14th century. Cullings varied wildly from year to year, but seldom exceeded a couple of hundred. The sale price of the rabbit reflected its scarcity and for a century after its introduction to East Anglia it cost at least 3d each, which was equivalent to the wage of almost two days’ unskilled labour. Rabbits proved most acceptable gifts to friends, favourites and eminents and the Prior of Ely sent sixty to Edward III in I345.
Prior to the Black Death of 1348-9, rabbit production was a distinctly low output concern geared primarily towards household consumption. It presented some commercial opportunities in the luxury goods market, but its mass marketing potential was restricted by its high price and the low incomes of most Englishmen. The early warrens often represented a net financial loss in many years, emphasizing that rabbits were essentially an indulgence enjoyed only by the very wealthy. However, the drastic reduction in the human population after the mid-14th century Black Death heralded a remarkable change in fortunes for commercial rabbiting. This was brought about by rapid gains in living standards and the purchasing power for many people. This increased purchasing power induced changes in taste and fashion and opened up a new market for goods previously considered as nonessential. Hence in the late 14th century there was considerable growth in output of goods with relatively high value, such as woollen cloth, cutlery, leather goods, pewter and wine.
Old Map of Thetford Rabbit Warren Area
Commercial rabbit rearing benefited from the changing economic conditions in a number of ways. First, the labour costs of rabbit keeping were low compared to grain farming and this enhanced its attractiveness to landlords in a period of rising wages. Furthermore, cullings could be sharply increased without a big rise in labour inputs, so that unit costs in rabbit production fell appreciably in the 14th century. Secondly, the demand for meat rose, and although there are no grounds for supposing that the rabbit suddenly became the meat of the masses, it certainly descended the social scale. Lastly, demand for better clothing increased and chroniclers commented on the rising standard of dress amongst the masses. Being a low-value fur, rabbit was most likely to benefit from any expansion in the mass clothing market. The common grey rabbit was most numerous in East Anglian warrens and was used for warmth rather than for display. On the other hand, Methwold, Wretham and some coastal warrens specialised in the rarer silver- grey and black rabbits. These were much more fashionable as an adornment on clothing and, apparently, Henry VII possessed night attire tailored with black rabbit fur which bore a close resemblance to the more expensive ermine and was much in demand as an imitation. By mid-century the rabbit had replaced the Russian squirrel as the basic fur of north-west Europe, and the growth of exports from London points to England’s role as a major supplier. London was not the only port to benefit, for at Blakeney in the 16th century rabbit skins were the fourth-largest export commodity. The Low Countries remained an important market, but Norfolk ports also sent furs to Danzig and the Baltic.
The rabbit trade between East Anglia and London also remained prosperous for some considerable time. Methwold warren was a regular supplier to the London market and a London merchant was fined for importing East Anglian rabbits during the close season imposed by the Poulters. Throughout the Middle Ages this Guild had fixed the price of rabbits on the London market and in the 15th century one would fetch between 3d and 4d. Even after the relatively high costs of transport and labour, the net profit on one trip was still considerable.
III
The rabbit undoubtedly made a significant impact upon those areas to which it was introduced. East Anglian soils display a wide variety of type and composition, from fertile clays to thin, acidic sands, and in the Middle Ages these sands presented a formidable obstacle to cultivation. Rabbits were valuable precisely because they provided an opportunity to make productive use of the poorest soils, and indeed some warrens were founded on soils described as fit only for rabbits. Furthermore, as areas of poor soil were most likely to suffer the brunt of the declining grain market in the later Middle Ages, then rabbiting offered a welcome source of alternative income in a difficult period. The industry presented a range of employment opportunities, not all of them legal, and as output increased so did the occupational spin-offs. The position of warrener was itself financially rewarding, whilst helping with the trapping or guarding of rabbits could provide a useful source of supplementary income at the very least.
The preparation of furs was a skilled and specialized task, and towns and villages near the warren areas harboured a number of skinners and barkers dependent on the local rabbit and sheep trades. They were prominent in medieval Thetford and Bury St Edmunds. The rabbit industry also encouraged other specialists in the clothing trades, such as listers and glove-makers . It is also probable that the fur was sometimes shorn from the skin and then felted, again for use in clothing. Of course, the amount of specialist craftwork generated by the rabbit industry locally should not be overstated, for the largest warrens tended to send their produce directly to London, and so some of the benefit accrued to London skinners and poulters. However, this trade, though largely seasonal, did then provide much needed stimulus to the boatmen and carriers of the region. As the mass of the peasantry was legally excluded from taking the rabbit, any benefit to them from the growth of the industry would appear negligible. However, it is suspected that many peasants living in the vicinity of warrens secured a reasonable supply of rabbits illegally, either for domestic consumption or for distribution through the black market. The incidence of poaching increases rapidly from the mid-fourteenth century, reflecting both the growth in rabbits and of poaching itself.
Poaching:
The attraction of poaching was its simplicity and its profitability. Most warrens were situated on vast and isolated tracts of heathland, some distance from the nearest village and were therefore exposed and palpably difficult to protect. In addition, the rabbit prefers to leave its burrow and graze nocturnally, thus presenting poachers with excellent cover from the protective gaze of warren officials and with easier pickings on the ground. With no necessity to drive the colony from its burrows, they merely surrounded the unsuspecting animals with dogs. The stout warren lodges provided a base for the warreners’ operations against the poachers and welcome protection in case of danger, but they fought a losing battle.
Poacher
Many of the peasants who lived in the rabbit-producing regions must have poached at some stage during their lives and most of the reported cases involved one-off offenders. However, the countless references to the use of nets, ferrets and dogs largely indicated planned operations within the rabbit-warren itself, and often the perpetrators of these deeds are common or habitual poachers. It is also apparent that no-one was beyond reproach, judging by the number of petty clerics involved in poaching. In 1435 the parson of Cressingham was fined for poaching at Swaffham and Augustinian canons from Blythburgh Priory were regular unwanted visitors to Westwood warren. In 1425 one of their number, Thomas Sherman, was described in the court roll as ‘a poaching canon’. ”
Most of these regular poachers reared their own ferrets and dogs, and made their own nets. Greyhounds were popular, and were certainly favoured by the Blythburgh canons. However, rough heathland terrain proved demanding and other poachers preferred the more hardy lurcher, a cross between the greyhound and the collie. Court officials kept a watchful eye over these men, and John Brette of Flempton (Surf) was fined because ‘he kept a certain dog in order to kill the lord’s rabbits’. Some poachers, such as Geoffrey Sewale of Walberswick, preferred to set traps in the warrens but for many, ferreting remained the most popular. Indeed, they were in such demand on the Suffolk Sandlings in the 15th century that one Blythburgh canon ran a profitable business in leasing his well-trained ferrets to other poachers, presumably for a suitable fee.
By the later Middle Ages poaching had become a sufficiently serious and lucrative business for poachers to organize themselves into gangs. These were not merely some haphazard extension of individual operations, but represented a deliberate and carefully planned pooling of knowledge and resources. Their activities were characterized by efficiency and ruthlessness and they entered warrens heavily armed and equipped with a comprehensive range of poaching accessories. Their success undoubtedly prompted manorial officials to try and catch them with incriminating evidence even before they entered the warrens. The homes of an East Suffolk gang were scrutinized by court officials from Walberswick, who allegedly found four men keeping lurchers ‘in their tenements’, one man keeping ferrets and a net in his house’, and another with a supply of ‘haypenne’ nets. A Thetford gang of the 1440s, equally well equipped but more elusive, was reportedly operating in Downham warren attired with ‘soldiers tunics, steel helmets, bows and arrows’, whilst others were armed ‘with cudgels and staffs’. In September I444 this formidable bunch attacked and wounded three members of a rival gang from Elveden and without licence abducted and unjustly imprisoned them in the town of Thetford’.
Many of these Breckland gangs were comprised of skilled craftsmen, notably bakers, weavers, fishermen, and hostelers, and with their wide range of contacts hostelers may have been particularly important in co-ordinating activities. It is also possible that some warreners played a double game, for their expertise and local knowledge would have been invaluable. A Robert Fisher, a warrener living in Thetford, certainly poached in nearby Downham warren in 1446. With or without inside help, most poaching gangs included a number of men drafted from outside the locality. Court rolls always listed those culprits known to them, but often complained that these were joined by many other unknown men’. Such anonymity reduced the courts’ chances of breaking up gangs, and provided the gangs themselves with a wider range of dispersal points for their illicit gains.
It is possible that the rise in poaching was motivated by a sense of social grievance as much as by economic necessity. Resistance to the feudal order was endemic in late medieval East Anglia and court rolls repeatedly record refusals to perform manorial offices, labour services and the like. Occasionally this flared into violent protest, and most commentators have noted the vehemence of the I381 revolt in the region. The criminal activities of the poaching gangs were primarily directed against the ‘privilege of feudal order’ and so might have been championed and condoned by other peasants.
The rabbit was undoubtedly a very tangible embodiment of feudal privilege and status and therefore an ideal medium for social protest. The Smithfield rebels of I38I explicitly demanded that all men should have the right to take game and to hunt hares in the field. The physical damage caused by maurauding rabbits was certainly a source of friction and was amongst the grievances cited in Kett’s Rebellion in Norfolk in 1549. Unfortunately, conclusive proof that poaching was a major form of social protest is elusive. Its increase in the later 14th century certainly corresponded with a rise in social tensions, but also with a rise in the demand for the rabbit. Indeed, there was little sense of camaraderie or social unity between those Thetford and Elveden gangs in the I440s.
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It does not take too much imagination to create a 15th or 16th century scene where the condemned are seen walking from their place of imprisonment in Norwich Castle or the City’s Guildhall jail, through the streets and past the Cathedral towards Bishopsbridge and the place of execution beyond. Unquestionably, the route taken would be thronged with the inquisitive, those who were sympathetic, others who were downright hostile and some who were simply curious but with no feelings one way or the other. The parade of unfortunates would eventually preceed over the ancient Bridge and into a chalk pit on the other side of the river Wensum. There the faggots would be piled high and ready; the Church would hand over the condemned to the secular authorities who, in turn, would set about burning them ‘at the stake’ for nothing other than for their religious beliefs. The name for these unfortunates were ‘Lollards’.
Just Who Were The Lollards?
We cannot understand who the Lollards were without first looking at who John Wycliffe was. John Wycliffe was born sometime in the 1320’s and died in 1384; an English Christian theologian who became popular for translating the Bible into vernacular (common) English in 1382. During this time, the Bible was usually only available in Latin, the language used by the Church and the Upper Classes. Many regular men and women were therefore not able to read the Bible for themselves. Wycliffe want to change that and he did so by translating the Latin Bible (the Vulgate) into the people’s common language. As professor of theology at Oxford University, Wycliffe also challenged the Catholic Church on numerous points of doctrine. He felt that the Church was too institutionalised and had become corrupt. He promoted a personal type of Christianity – one that emphasised piety, humility and simplicity. He died of natual causes in 1384. After he had been dead for about 40 years, the Church declared him a heretic and his body dug up and burned.
John Wycliffe preaching to Lollards
They were part of a movement that existed from the mid-14th century and up to the English Reformation, inspired, if not led, by John Wycliffe, a Roman Catholic theologian who was dismissed from the University of Oxford in 1381 for criticism of the Roman Catholic Church. The Lollards’ demands, in line with Wycliffe’s thinking, were primarily for the reform of Western Christianity and in this they had much in common with the Protestants who would follow more than a century later. Amongst the many beliefs held by the Lollards, was that the Catholic Church’s practices of baptism and confession were unnecessary for salvation. They also considered that praying to saints and honouring their images was a form of idolatry. Oaths, fasting, and prayers for the dead were thought to have no scriptural basis and they had a poor opinion of the trappings of the Catholic church, including holy bread, holy water, bells, organs, and church buildings.
John Wycliffe’s remains were later dug up and thrown into the river Swift – its source at Lugershall.
Definition of the ‘Lollard’ Label
According to the Oxford English Dictionary, the name Lollard is most likely derived from Middle Dutch lollaerd (“mumbler, mutterer”) and from the verb lollen (“to mutter, mumble”). It appears to be a derisive expression applied to those without an academic background, educated (if at all) only in English, who were known to follow the teachings of John Wycliffe in particular; they were certainly considerably energised by his translation of the Bible into the English language. By the mid-15th century, “lollard” had come to mean a heretic in general. The lesser known use of the more neutral term “Wycliffite” was generally applied to those of similar opinions, but having an academic background.
Lollard Influence – and the Consequences!
Although the Lollard’s influence spread to Lincolnshire to the north and to both the midlands and Wales to the west, the greatest concentration was in the south and East Anglia with Norfolk as an influential hub. These were the heartlands of the large agricultural Estates within which were the bulk of the restlest peasantry – the working classes of the future industrialised England. They, inherently, voiced grievances and complained, not only about religious issues but life in general. It was therefore a short step for them to be labelled troublemakers by the authorities. By the late 14th Century, the unrestful peasants became embroilled in the Peasants Revolt, led by Wat Tyler (1381), As a result, Lollardism became associated with tradesmen, peasants, public disorder, licence and excess; these were excuses subsequently used to suppress the movement. Notebly, King Henry IV was persuaded by the Church to pass the 1401 Statute “De Heretics Comburendo” (The Necessity of Burning Heretics). This Act did not, specifically, ban the Lollards, but (a) probibited the translating or owning heretical versions of the Bible and (b) authorised death by burning for all heretics.
Lollardy Influence: Blue = Districts affected byLollardy before the death of Richard III. Red = Districts to which Lollardy spread in the 15th Century.
By 1395, the Lollards had their own ministers and were winning popular support but were to be subjected to extreme measures of persecution. Throughout England they, increasingly, were hunted down, imprisoned, tortured and frequently burnt at the stake as heretics. Clearly, the religious and secular authorities were strongly opposed to the them and a primary early opponent was Thomas Arundel, Archbishop of Canterbury. He was ably assisted by none other than Henry le Despenser of Norwich of whom the Chronicler, Thomas Walsingham praised for his zeal! In 1410, John Badby, a layman and craftsman who refused to renounce his Lollardy was burnt at the stake; he was the first layman to suffer capital punishment in England for the crime of heresy. John Foxes Acts and Monuments, popularly known as Foxes Martyrs, tells many of their stories although with a strong anti-Catholic bias. Thus we also learn of William White, a priest from Kent who moved to Ludham to preach dissent, along with fellow Lollard’s Hugh Pye and John Waddon. White was executed in September, 1428; how bravely he met his fate is not known but it was reported that some people emptied the contents of their chamber pots over him as he walked along Bishopsgate.
Persecution of heretics tailed away after that, until 1531 when the Reformation began disturbing things once more with the burnings of Cecily Ormes and Elizabeth Cooper, artisans wives, who’s utterances virtually condemned themselves to death. Then there was Thomas Bilney, a Norfolk man born near Dereham; he was a Cambridge academic and, like White before him, was convinced the Church had to be reformed. Arrested, and taken before Cardinal Wolsey, he recanted his beliefs; but, characteristic of some who recanted when initially faced with execution, he returned to preaching heresy in the streets and fields. Bishop Nix of Norwich had him rearrested and this time there was no mercy. Like all other heretics Bilney was typically tried and convicted by the Church but given to the agents of the State for execution.
Thomas Bilney being walked to the Stake at Lollards Pit, Norwich
On the morning of his execution, Bilney was unwavering from his fate. A crowd had gathered in the streets of Norwich as he walked resolutely to the fire. Some thought that the weak and frail man would probably recant again. But as the fagots were piled around him, Bilney raised himself to his full height and said in a firm voice, “Good people, I am come hither to die.” After reciting Psalm 143, he took off his outer garments and was bound to the stake. As the torch was applied to the wood, Bilney did not flinch. The flames burned high around his face, but a strong wind blew them away. Bilney stood firm as the pile was ignited a second and then a third time. The third time, the fire burned in full strength. Whatever pain the noble martyr felt was bearable, for Bilney held his head high as the flames rose in full intensity around him. He cried out one brief phrase in Latin, “Jesu, credo.” – “Jesus, I believe.” With that dying prayer of faith, Bilney sunk downward into the fire, and the flames consumed all that was mortal.
Illustration depicting the burning of Thomas Bilney at Lollards Pit. Norwich.
It is said that this memorial, erected by the Protestant Alliance, is to be found by the door of the Surrey Chapel, on the corner of Botolph Street and St Crispin’s in Norwich. This Plaque was replaced by the one (in the Footnote below) which was erected on the Riverside gardens by Bishops Bridge which is a short distance away from the supposed site of the Lollard’s pit.
Thereafter, there was a respite for about forty-five years (1440 – 1485) as a consequence of the ‘War of the Roses’, but thereafter the attacks on the them entered another bloody phase. As for the reign of Henry VII (1485 – 1509), it had hardly got going before burnings began again in London, Canterbury and at the Pit at Norwich. Despite these renewed pressures, the Lollard movement struggled on into the 16th Century but were still being burnt at the stake during the reign of Henry VIII (1509 – 1547). In 1519, seven people were burnt in Coventry and within the next few years there were six burnt in Kent and five in the Eastern Counties, including Norwich. The stern measures employed by both the Church and State effectively drove the Lollards underground.
The climax to burning at the stake came during the reign of Mary (1553-58). Up to 50 people died during this time, under the religious conservative Bishop Hopton. In 1557 pewterers wife Elizabeth Cooper and Simon Miller, of Kings Lynn, were executed. Cooper had interrupted a service at St Andrews to retract her earlier recantation of Protestantism. As the two went to Lollards Pit, Cecily Ormes, wife of a weaver from St Lawrences parish, declared her support for them. She would “pledge on the same cup that they drank on”, she shouted. The civil authorities, often loath to arrest heretics, had no choice; Ormes spent a year in prison sticking to her guns before being executed in September, 1558, shortly before the death of Queen Mary when the burnings ended.
Note: There used to be a local rumour that had Sir Thomas Erpingham listed as a Lollard, for which his ‘penance’ was to build the Erpingham gate, entrance to the Cathedral precinct in Norwich!
Erpingham Gate, Norwich
Why did Norwich choose the Pit site?
What was to become known as the ‘Lollard’s Pit’ had long been associated with the Church being, as it was at the time, held by the Bishop of Norwich. For generations Norwich’s citizens had used the area, along with the then vast expanse of Mousehold Heath beyond. It was somewhat of an industrial site with early chalk workings dug out there to provide foundations for the nearby Cathedral; hence the creation of a Pit in the first place. Also, its position was, conveniently, just outside the city walls and therefore a good place to dispose of those who had been cast out by the Church. Today all traces of that particular chalk pit where Lollard supporters were burned is long gone; the site is near to or occupied by the Lollards Pit public house and car park on Norwich’s busy Riverside Road.
The aftermath.
For many years after the exercutions ended the area surrounding Lollards Pit was shunned by local people, many of whom feared evil connotations. Later it became a tannery, where wherrymen used to load and unload cargo, also it was a convenient place to dump the City’s rubbish and later it was used as a camp for gipsies. In modern times, as the area became more developed, local children would play there, unbothered by the ghosts of the past.
The Lollards Pit Public House, Norwich. Opposite Bishopsbridge over which convicted ‘heretics’ walked to be burned at the ‘Pit’.
Today the Lollards Pit (formerly the Bridge House) pub has a blue plaque fixed to its wall marking the site of the infamous pit. Inevitably, it is now sometimes claimed that eerie ghostly screams may be heard in the pub late at night. Claims also refer to terrified witnesses having seen ghostly black figures in the pub’s corridor and on one occasion, a shocking apparition of a woman engulfed in flames was claimed to have been seen before she quickly vanished into thin air; this suggests that spirits are not confined to the bottles on the other side of the bar!
One final point: On the other side of Riverside Road, on the riverbank, is another commemorative plaque which hails the executed as martyrs, naming up to a dozen who died so horribly in Lollards Pit centuries ago.
FOOTNOTE:
No one is absolutely sure where the Lollard’s Pit was situated; Some argue it was under the site of the old Gasometer on Gas Hill, some say it lies beneath the back bar of the ‘Lollards Pit’ Public House, others put the case for it being below the site once occupied by Godfrey’s Store – or even underneath Chalk Hill House on Rosary Road. All close to one another.
Interestingly, With regard to Thomas Bilney; he did not consider himself to be a Protestant. “He was to the last perfectly orthodox on the power of the Pope, the sacrifice of the Mass, the doctrine of transubstantiation and the authority of the church.” Thomas Bilney did however preach, just as the Lollards did, against Saint and Relic veneration, disapproved of the practice of pilgrimage and did not believe in the mediation of the Saints. He may also have rejected the teachings of Martin Luther. So why did the ‘Protestant’ Alliance sponser the above memorial?
THE END
NOTICE: ‘Norfolk Tales, Myths & More!’ is a ‘non-commercial’ Site seeking only to be informative and educational on topics broadly related to the history and heritage of the County of Norfolk in the U.K. In pursuing this aim, we endeavour, where necessary, to obtain permissions to use another owner’s material. However, for various reasons, (i.e. identification of, and means of communicating with such owners), contact can sometimes be difficult or impossible to established. NTM&M never attempts to claim ownership of such material; ensuring at all times that any known and appropriate ‘credits’ and ‘links’ back to our sources are always given in our articles. No violation of any copyright or trademark material is intentional.
It will be 171 years, this November, since the Stanfield Hall murders were committed by James Blomfield Rush and to which so much interest was directed once his arrest was made, the trial called and the sentenced carried out on Saturday,21 April 1849. Over the years since, much has been written, with many accounts recycled by those who have been interested in Norfolk history. What follows is for those who are unfamiliar with the story and those who, in the past, may have undertaken a tour of Norwich Castle but who failed to take any notice of the Tour Guide!
James Blomfield Rush
Introduction.
Stanfield Hall is a large and ancient mansion situated near Wymondham and about 10 miles south-west of Norwich in the county of Norfolk. The Hall and Estate was held by Earl Warren in the 11th Century and by 1249 the Prior of Wymondham who had his house and chapel there. In the 14th Century Stanfield Hall came to the Bigods, then to the Appleyards in the 15th Century and to the Flowerdews in the 16th Century. The Hall later came into the hands of the Jermys who, by way of two separate branches of the family, also owned, for a time at least, Gunton Hall, near Aylsham and Bayfield Hall, near Holt in the same County. It was the Bayfield Jermys who provided the route to the murders of 1848 by way of the ‘known’ last in their line – a William Jermy. It was his association in 1751 with a ‘wiley’ lawyer by the name of Issac Preston who saw to it that the Stanfield Hall Estate passed from the Jermys to the Prestons family once the Jermy line was extinct. By 1791 the Estate was firmly in the hands of the Prestons – a long line of long established gentry with their main seat at Beeston St Lawrence north-east of Norwich, near Wroxham.
Further Background leading up to the Murders
Let us recap. and elaborate on the above statement by just going back to just around the year of 1735 and with one member – William Jermy. He married Elizabeth Richardson, the sole heiress to the Stanfield Hall Estate; she died in 1750, leaving William a childless but wealthy widower. He was the last and only surviving male of his (Bayfield) branch of the Jermy family and whilst not having any children nor surviving siblings, he did have two or three first cousins, of whom one would have been expected to be heir to his considerable estate. However, it seems that not only was William a notoriously feckless man by nature he was also not a well man when his wife died in 1750 and it was at this point when a Isaac Preston (1711-1768) came on to the scene; a lawyer by profession and Sub-Steward of Yarmouth.
Issac Preston not only managed to ‘befriend’ William but also managed to take on all his legal affairs as family solicitor. Not only that, but within about twelve months, certainly by 1752 Issac even managed to persuade William to marry his sister Frances (nee Preston); however, soon after the wedding William passed away. In his Will, unsurprisingly drafted by Isaac, William gave Frances a life interest in his Estate but thereafter, with no more Jermys apparently alive, the Estate would be allowed to pass to certain named members of their Preston family. There was, however, a most significant proviso to this in the Will – that in the event that none of these named Prestons outlived William’s sister, nor had male issue themselves, then the Estate would go to ‘the male person with the name Jermy nearest related in blood to me (William) and to his heirs forever‘. This caveate effectively denied inheritance to William’s first cousins or their heirs. On the evidence, it could justifiably be said that the Will was not only suspect but that Issac, through his legal ‘manouvers’ had precipitated a chain of events which would end in the murder of two of his descendents at Stanfield Hall, near Wymondham, on 28th November 1848.
Whilst William’s ‘proviso’ was seen as a very remote possibility, it nevertheless worried Issac Preston. He could not, even as a lawyer, remove what must have been William’s explicit wish; but he could, and did, remove two possible claimants first by tracing them and then buying both out for what turned out to be a ‘paltry sum’ of £20, thus securing the inheritance in favour of his own ‘Preston’ descendants. Doubtless, neither of these two ‘casualties’ had any idea of what they were signing away!
As events turned out, the two named Prestons in the Will died before Frances, leaving no offspring. When she died in 1791 with no heirs it was left for a ‘Jacob’ of a more distant Preston branch to step forward to claim the Estate for himself. His evidence was supported by the Affidavits signed by the two relatives of William Jermy and disposed of by Issac Preston which proved that they had sold over their interests. Since there was nobody to object, Jacob’s claim was accepted and Stanfield Hall went to the Preston family. The legality of all this was to be disputed two generations later by two members of the Jermy family who claimed to be the rightful owners of the Estate (see below). Jacob Preston died in 1796.
The Rev. George Preston – and Beyond! (Take note of the names in Bold!)
The Rev George Preston succeeded his brother Jacob in 1796 and moved into Stanfield Hall, along with his wife and 12 year old son Isaac Preston, he set about re-building much of the Hall. It was also around this time that he and his wife also had one further son, whom they christened ‘William Jermy Preston’, apparently giving a token gesture to the requirement in the Will of his older ancester – the said William Jermy (above):
“anyone inheriting his estate must bear the name Jermy, assume the Jermy Arms and Crest and never sell his library of old books”.
It seems that George Preston only complied with part of William’s stipulation for the maintenance of the Jermy name; neither he nor his eldest son IsaacPreston altered their names to Jermy. Further to this, when the re-building work was completed, George had his own ‘Preston’ arms placed over the front door. – not the Jermy arms. As for William’s stipulation that no one should sell his library of books – well, more of that later!
George Preston and his family went on to live at Stanfield Hall for an untroubled 40 years and it was in the early days of this period that a James Blomfield Rush came into the story as George Preston’s Bailiff. Both men had strong personalities but, surprisingly perhaps, they got on well together – at least on the face of it! Curiously perhaps George Preston met Rush’s asperation to run his own farms by granting him three leases at favourable rents. This and their overall willingness to work amiably together also poises the question of whether Rush ‘had something on George’; perhaps he knew something of George’s family antecedents and the circumstances in which the Prestons came to occupy Stanfield Hall? The harmony, if that is what it was, might also suggest that there was a degree of nervousness on George’s part that someone else outside the Prestons had knowledge of its history. Certainly something or other was to fuel future conflicts between Rush and the Preston family. Whatever the facts, the relationship that both seemed to enjoy and which both made use of would changed for the worst after George Preston died in 1837.
Issac Preston Snr
George’s 50 year old son, now Isaac Preston Snr, barrister, chief judge of Norwich and equally strong minded as his father, took over Stanfield Hall in 1837 and moved in, together with his son Isaac Preston Jnr and his daughter. From that point onwards, a more abrasive relationship existed between Issac Preston Snr. and James Blomfield Rush, coupled with the continuing family nervousness regarding the William Jermy’s Will (see above!). This was no more evident than when Issac Snr, maybe just to be on the safe side, had inserted the name Jermy into both his and his son’s full name to comply with that Will. The two Prestons were now to be known as IsaacJermyPreston Snr. and Issac Jermy Preston Jnr. the former controlling an Estate which consisted of the large moated Hall along with its extensive grounds, a home farm as well as many other farms and cottages spread over 20 parishes. He was, without question, very well-off but this did not prevent him from rescinding the leases previously negotiated between James Blomfield Rush and George his father and granting new leases at a higher rent. This, unquestionably, created ill feeling between the two men.
Then, in the June of 1838, Isaac Preston Snr decided to re-furbish Stanfield Hall and auction off his father’s old furniture, etc to pay for the work – including the old books that had belonged to William Jermy some 140 years back! On the day of the auction and during the afternoon, two unknown men from London appeared upstairs and looked over the books then asked to speak to Isaac Preston Snr; their names were John Larner and his ‘legal adviser’ a Daniel Wingfield. This meeting between Isaac Preston and John Larner would, in time, turn out to have dire consequences.Larner’s opening words took Issac Preston Snr. completely by surprise; for he had:
“Come to take possession of his family’s property” – that is, Stanfield Hall and all its estate – he being “the true heir-at-law”!
Issac had never heard of John Larner. It was, after all, almost 50 years since Frances had died and 140 years since William Jermy had done the same – his Will having long since remained a dormant artefact. Nevertheless, Larner quickly informed him that the Will had expressly forbade the sale of William Jermy’s library, as well as requiring any who inherited the Estate to bear the Jermy arms and to change their name to Jermy; neither of which the Preston’s had done at the appropriate time. Larner seemed so well versed with William Jermy’s Will and its contents that Issac needed to bluff his way out of their presence to allow him to regroup his thoughts and plan some sort of action to counter this unexpected threat. Being a trained lawyer, Issac quickly told the two uninvited visitors to leave his premises immediately and to pursue any such claim through the Courts in the more usual way. Both John Larner and Daniel Wingfield refused so Issac had the police escort them off the property.
That done Isaac, who was sufficiently impressed and worried with Larner’s claim and knowledge of the Will, immediately halted the auction of the books and, within a very short time afterwards also replaced the ‘Preston’ arms over the door with those of ‘Jermy’. He then applied to have his family’s surname legally changed from Preston to Jermy and this was announced in the official London Gazette in August that year – 1838. Henceforth, he would be known as Isaac Jermy, Esq and his son as Isaac JermyJermy, Gent; thus explaining the form in which their names were to appear in the newspapers after the murders – still some 10 years into the future.
There remained but one more anomally to be resolved and that was the possibility that, if challenged again, Issac may not be able to prove his legal right to Stanfield Hall. In order to counter this, he devised a plan to gain an official legal title to the Estate in his new name. However, this would entail making an arrangement with Rush whereby Issac would sell Stanfield Hall to Rush for £1000 and then buy it back for the same amount, thus giving Issac a legal Bill of Purchase and proving his legal ownership of the Hall. In return, Issac would offer to loan Rush the money to buy Potash Farm, despite the fact
Potash Farm 1849
that Rush had upsurped him with its purchase! Isaac had wished to buy Potash Farm for himself but when he sent Rush to buy it for him with orders to bid up to £3500 (based on a valuation from Rush), Rush put in his own bid of £3750 and secured the property – much to Issac’s annoyance. However, preventing any future claims for the Stanfield Estate and keeping Rush on board with his plan was more important to Issac; to this end he managed to persuade Rush to fall in with his scheme, knowing that Rush had no money to complete the purchase of Potash Farm; neither was he able to handle money or his affairs very well. Issac’s ploy worked for Rush agreed to buy and re-sell the Hall, to accept Issac’s £5000 loan and its repayment, with interest, ten years hence on the 30 November 1848. Issac then bought the Hall back again within the year and secured a Bill of Purchase. All quite neat but all rather suspect!
The Siege of Stanfield Hall – 1838
During the brief period when James Blomfield Rush owned StanfieldHall John Larner, who couldn’t afford to go to law on his claim for it, decided to proceed more aggressively by occupying the Hall despite the fact that Rush had installed some new tenants there. On the 24 Sept 1838, Larner and his friends evicted them and occupied the Hall for several hours before the Militia were called out to removed them and take them to the prison in Norwich Castle. There they were charged with riotous tumult and assembly and bound over to appear at the Spring Assizes in March 1839 where they received the lesser suspended sentence for simple riot of 3 months hard labour on the understanding that they would make no further claims on the estate – something that Isaac Preston Snr was, no doubt, relieved about. Threatened with transportation to the colonies if they disobeyed the sentence, John Larner and his legal advisor friend, Daniel Wingfield, returned to London and were to keep a low profile thereafter. By 1840, Isaac and his family had moved back into the Hall and for most of the next 10 years continued to live at Stanfield Hall without further concern about John Larner. However, James Blomfield Rush was another matter!
Rush was still the Preston’s bailiff but, increasingly, was becoming more of a problem. He had made certain agreements with Isaac Jermy Snr. concerning land that he promised to farm efficiently but reneged on this, resulting in Isaac eventually taking him to court in 1847. By July 1848, Rush had been made bankrupt; moreover, repayment of his loan for Potash Farm was due shortly and he had little or no money. Rush became desperate; then he remembered the claim made by John Larner some 10 years before and arranged to meet him in London where he was also introduced to his cousin, a Thomas Jermy! This was a name which at least pointed towards some basis for John Larner’s claim for Stanfield Hall back in 1838; the fact that Larner’s mother and Thomas Jermy’s father were brother and sister – and were both born with the surname Jermy. Rush attempted a clumsy plot wherein John Larner and Thomas Jermy, with their known sense of injustice over losing the Estate, as they saw it, would be suspected of the murder that he was planning.
Rush promised that he could put both men in possession of ‘their’ property; however, he first had to hire a literate secretary which turned out to be an Emily Sanford from London; who, without her clear knowledge of what Rush was up to, drew up a number of what turned out to be forged documents, allegedly designed to switch ownership of the Stanfield properties to John Larner and Thomas Jermy. But these forgeries were simply a device to convince both of them that they had to return to Norfolk at least once so that they would be seen seeking their property again. This was crucial to Rush’s plot to implicate both Larner and Jermy, both of whom did travel to Norfolk in early November 1848. Rush then forged a number of handwritten Notes, allegedly signed by the cousin Thomas Jermy, which he was not to see.
The Murders!
Inside Stanfield Hall
On the evening of November 28th 1848, just two days before the due date when Issac’s loan to Rush of £5000, plus interest, had to be repaid, Isaac and his family, including the younger Isaac and his wife, were having dinner at the Hall. It was Isaac Senior’s known habit after dinner to step out onto the porch for a little evening air. Being November, it was rather dark on the porch so that he did not notice what appeared to be a strangely dressed person hiding in the shadows there. Suddenly, two shots rang out and Isaac Snr. fell to the ground, mortally wounded. The others in the party rushed out of the dining room and into the hall to be greeted by the same disguised person who had entered the house and shot the father. The intruder shot three more times, killing Isaac Jnr and wounding his mother and a servant and then ran off into the night but not before dropping two hand-written notes on to the Hall floor and also in the garden. One of the other servants later said that he thought he recognised the profile of the murderer in the odd costume, with a false beard and wig, as that of James Blomfield Rush, the family’s bailiff, but it was difficult to be certain. The police eventually arrived from Norwich, listened to the servant’s and other accounts of what had happened, and also examined the Notes which were found in the Hall and in the grounds outside, supposingly dropped by the murderer. They all read:
However, the police decided to arrest Rush the next morning and charge him with the murders for his record and reputation was now not good. He had a history of increasingly arguing with Issac Jermy and reneged on loans and agreements with him. What other reason did the police need!
This double murder was, of course, reported in both the local and national press, some papers running two or three editions on the story each day which covered new elements as and when they were revealed. Readers did not however read about the murders of the two Isaac Prestons, Snr and Jnr, but those of Isaac Jermy, Esq, and of his son Isaac Jermy Jermy, Gent. Rush was immediately placed in prison where he pleaded his innocence and tried to make out that some mystery man had approached him a few days before and that it was him who must have done the evil deed.
The Trial
James Blomfield Rush’s Trial began on 29 Mar 1849 and took 6 days. An early witness called was the above Thomas Jermy aged 67, then a gardening labourer living in south London. He was simply asked: “Can you write?” and he answered even more briefly was “No Sir”. From his reply it was obvious that he could not have signed the Notes allegedly claiming the Stanfield Hall Estate.
However, the major prosecution witness was the same Emily Sanford who had, unwitingly, aided Rush draw up forged documents and later moved in with him as his mistress earlier that autumn; Rush’s own wife, like his parents, having all previously died in suspicious circumstances, with Rush gaining financially in each case. She spoke of his movements the night of the murders and also about the various documents he had her write out and countersign, etc. in London. Rush tried to defend himself, rather than employ a lawyer, and proceeded to give a long rambling speech full of irrelevancies as he cross-examined all the witnesses. This fooled no one and he was eventually found guilty of ‘wilful murder’ after the jury had been out for barely 10 minutes. He was sentenced to be “hanged by the neck until dead” at Norwich Castle and to be buried within its precincts’. The judges remarks were exceptionally severe – saying to him:
“It is a matter of perfect indifference to society at large what your conduct maybe during the few days remaining to you”, being as you are an object of unmitigated abhorrence to everyone”.
James Blomfield Rush was hanged two weeks later, on the 21 April 1849 and a wax death mask was displayed in Madam Tussaud’s for many years after.
Footnote: Because Isaac Jermy Snr died moments before his son, the Stanfield Estate passed briefly to the Isaac Jermy Jnr. and then, on his death, to his infant daughter. The remaining family soon moved out of Stanfield Hall, wanting never to reside there again. When the daughter was of age, she married into another Norfolk landowning family – the Gwyns and her husband thus inherited the estate. Interestingly, all subsequent Gwyns included the name Jermy in their son’s names – still fearing claims maybe? They were of course quite unrelated to the ancient Jermy family. The Estate was gradually sold off and the Hall was later owned by a local farmer and then by a retired doctor. It was then purchased by a local business man. So, as we’ve now seen, Stanfield Hall was once the notorious focal point of a tragic ‘ménage a trois’ – between Isaac Jermy Jermy, nee Preston Snr, John Larner and James Blomfield Rush – arising out of William Jermy’s controversial Will, and the earlier lawyer, Isaac Preston’s scheming predelictions.
John Larner and Thomas Jermy both died later in the 19th Century without making any further claims. But John Larner’s grandsons did seek publicity in national newspapers on two occasions in the 1920s about the alleged fraud. But no proof was ever forthcoming from the Oxfordshire family concerning their alleged descent from the last, or one of the last of the Jermys – John Jermy, the illiterate day-labourer of Gt Yarmouth, allegedly bought off for a mere £20 by Isaac Preston, William Jermy’s family solicitor.
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Only Mary Shelley succeeded, with a tale that began: “It was on a dreary night of November…” When the story later became the novel Frankenstein, the author changed the story’s opening to “December 11th, 17–.” Clearly, in spite of the inspiration coming in summer, the frigid weather had a dramatic effect on her, transporting her and her tale to the depths of winter. And so the novel begins in the Arctic, with “stiff gales” and “floating sheets of ice”, and ends with Frankenstein’s monster, doomed to a slow death, receding into the distance on an ice floe. Frankenstein is, in essence, a winter’s tale.
We cannot understand who the Lollards were without first looking at who John Wycliffe was. John Wycliffe was born sometime in the 1320’s and died in 1384; an English Christian theologian who became popular for translating the Bible into vernacular (common) English in 1382. During this time, the Bible was usually only available in Latin, the language used by the Church and the Upper Classes. Many regular men and women were therefore not able to read the Bible for themselves. Wycliffe want to change that and he did so by translating the Latin Bible (the Vulgate) into the people’s common language. As professor of theology at Oxford University, Wycliffe also challenged the Catholic Church on numerous points of doctrine. He felt that the Church was too institutionalised and had become corrupt. He promoted a personal type of Christianity – one that emphasised piety, humility and simplicity. He died of natual causes in 1384. After he had been dead for about 40 years, the Church declared him a heretic and his body dug up and burned.
Persecution of heretics tailed away after that, until 1531 when the Reformation began disturbing things once more with the burnings of Cecily Ormes and Elizabeth Cooper, artisans wives, who’s utterances virtually condemned themselves to death. Then there was Thomas Bilney, a Norfolk man born near Dereham; he was a Cambridge academic and, like White before him, was convinced the Church had to be reformed. Arrested, and taken before Cardinal Wolsey, he recanted his beliefs; but, characteristic of some who recanted when initially faced with execution, he returned to preaching heresy in the streets and fields. Bishop Nix of Norwich had him rearrested and this time there was no mercy. Like all other heretics Bilney was typically tried and convicted by the Church but given to the agents of the State for execution.
The climax to burning at the stake came during the reign of Mary (1553-58). Up to 50 people died during this time, under the religious conservative Bishop Hopton. In 1557 pewterers wife Elizabeth Cooper and Simon Miller, of Kings Lynn, were executed. Cooper had interrupted a service at St Andrews to retract her earlier recantation of Protestantism. As the two went to Lollards Pit, Cecily Ormes, wife of a weaver from St Lawrences parish, declared her support for them. She would “pledge on the same cup that they drank on”, she shouted. The civil authorities, often loath to arrest heretics, had no choice; Ormes spent a year in prison sticking to her guns before being executed in September, 1558, shortly before the death of Queen Mary when the burnings ended.
Norfolk Tales, Myths & More! 