Tag: Plantagenet

On a Parking Lot

The British call them car parks, but Americans refer to them as parking lots. The one in question was located in Leicester, England, so perhaps car park is the more appropriate moniker. At an rate, is particular car park held secrets that were only discovered in 2012. Up until that time and since the 1940s, thousands of British cars had parked, leaked oil, and left rubber over the surface of perhaps the most famous car park in the nation.

The thing about history is that we are sitting on the shoulders of the past almost literally. Many cities and towns are built on top of centuries of debris from previous use and events. Such was the case of this particular car park. The County Offices of Leicestershire had purchased the land in the early 1900s and built several buildings on the site and eventually included what became the car park. Of course, Leicester is one of England’s most historic towns, so the odds of something from the city’s past lying beneath the layers of asphalt (tarmac, maybe?) that covered the surface were high.

Archaeology is a funny science. There are places in the world where the archaeologist can slice through the soil like a cake and reveal layers of living having been there for centuries or even millennia. Each layer tells the story of the people and events that happened during that moment in time. And that’s what waited for archaeologists under the Leicestershire County car park. You see, when diggers began to lay bare the layers underneath the surface there, they discovered that the previous use of the site had been a school of some sort. Before that, they found that the place was part of a large garden owned by a wealthy family. The construction during each period was obvious, so tools, bricks, tile, and other detritus from those periods were found. Below those levels, the excavations found walls and foundations of a monastery and church from Tudor times 600 years ago. And it was this level that interested the historians. By the way, it was later discovered that Roman ruins lay even deeper than those of the Tudor period.

The archaeologists began finding graves up against one of the priory walls. Now, of course, the archaeologists suspected that the Tudor church and the graveyard, which the archaeologists knew was called Greyfriars, were there, but you would have never known that if you parked your car in that lot and went to work every day, never known that your vehicle rested over several bodies who were interred hundreds of years ago. But the historians had found a medieval map of Leicester in some archive, and they were able to pin-point approximately where the church and graveyard were. Luckily for them, the council had recently torn down some buildings that allowed them better access to the parking lot. But as the dig continued, it was easy for all to see that the different ages in history had used the site over that time. For example, the very first body found in the graveyard by the diggers had his feet missing–probably because some Victorian construction of the garden in the past 150 years had unknowingly chopped off the feet during that period’s work.

It’s interesting that a place like a church and a graveyard where so much emotion and perhaps even passion poured out at one time had become completely lost to time and the present. And the irony that a car park, that most common and boring symbol of the modern age, would be erected over the site wasn’t lost on many in the archaeology team. But, history is change in many ways. When King Henry VIII destroyed and dismantled almost all the Catholic monasteries and churches during his reformation, places like the Greyfriars were built over or forgotten. And there are thousands of sites such as this across the United Kingdom as the present continues to build literally as well as metaphorically upon the past.

But why this particular car park? What was it about Greyfriars Church and cemetery that mad it so interesting to the scholars? Well, it has to do with that first grave they accidently uncovered on the Tudor level, the one that the Victorian builders hundreds of years later accidently took off the feet. It was obvious that this body was unusual for other reasons as well. First of all, the hands of the body had been tied and were down by the side. The head sat at an odd angle, and there were severe head trauma signs on the skull as well as wounds in other areas of the skeleton. And the spine, the spine of the body showed signs of severe scoliosis and twisting. Later DNA testing proved that this body was the one they sought.

And even though they suspected as much, it was really blind luck that the first body unearthed at the Leicestershire County Council parking lot was the one the archaeologists were looking for–the body of King Richard III of England, killed at the Battle of Bosworth Field in 1485, ending the War of the Roses.

On a Hunting Buddy

My friend Greg back in Tennessee said that the difference between hunting and fishing is that no one thinks you’re odd if you fish alone. The idea is that hunting seems to be a sport enjoyed with friends, companions, and buddies. The shared camaraderie of the hunt goes back centuries to prehistory and continues today. One such couple of hunting buddies in England grew up in vastly different circumstances but became best of friends through hunting.

Tom was born to a middle-class and land-holding family on the outskirts of London when that area was still largely pastoral. Because his father owned land, Tom was able to enjoy some privileges most young men of his social level couldn’t. for example, he was able to spend time on the estate of a local lord, a friend of his father, and a man who taught young Tom the intricacies of hunting. At the estate, he learned about falconry, even, and how to run the dogs and corner game. Tom loved it; the outdoors, the thrill of the chase and the hunt, and the attention to detail of dealing with the falcons appealed to his sense of order. At the age of 20, he was sent to college where he studied theology and eventually found work as a clerk for a large cathedral in England. He proved to be an efficient administrator, and he was recommended by the Church to go to work for the government.

It was in this government position that Tom met Hank, a man who was also in government service, and one who shared Tom’s interest in hunting. The two began to hunt together. Hank wasn’t as careful with the details as Tom was, but he was a smart fellow, and Tom enjoyed his mind and his company. And, after the hunts, the two men would often share a drink and share stories. A bond was formed. The pair of hunting pals soon became inseparable, sometimes even forsaking their governmental responsibilities for the sake of the time they spent in the field and over their drink. Henry was from the upper class, and, as such, had the means to go to hunting lodges across England and take Tom with him. And, so, they hunted and drank, and drank and hunted.

Then, Tom was appointed to another position and left his governmental department. And the nature of his relationship with Hank changed, in part because, in Tom’s new role, he was now in charge of a part of what Hank was doing in government. Instead of a friend, Hank now saw Tom as someone who was trying to control his career rather than simply be his hunting chum and best friend. Hank appealed to Tom and their friendship to not be his overseer and remain his friend. Tom, on the other hand, took his new responsibilities seriously. He tried to tell Hank that it wasn’t personal, that his job required that he perform certain tasks that, even if Hank found them to be intrusive, were still part of his job.

The rift between them grew. Hank was now hunting and hanging out with other people, people he would later say were nowhere near the intellect and wit of his old friend. And, one night, while drinking with these new friends, Hank made the remark that he wished Tom could be removed from his position someway, somehow. Some of the drinking buddies swapped looks. They liked Hank and his money. They liked the drinking and the girls they sometimes had in the parties with them. And they wanted to impress Hank.

So, thinking that the drunken, offhanded remark about removing this man meant something else, several knights of the court of King Henry II entered Canterbury Cathedral on December 29, 1170, and killed Archbishop Thomas Becket.