TWENTY-ONE
Decoding the stones
Within the interiors of Rosslyn Chapel are carved decorations in stone which are inspired by virtually every spiritual influence in existence before and during the period in which the chapel was built: Greek, Babylonian, Egyptian, Hebrew, pagan Norse and Pict. The barrel-vaulted roof is dotted with images of stars, lilies, and roses. There are carvings of the constellations of the Zodiac, dragons, the orb of the sun, and the engrailed cross of the St Clairs. All of this amounts to one vast puzzle, taxing the brains of anyone who so much as casts a glance in their direction. How much more pleasant it is simply to absorb the whole in all its delicate, cluttered beauty without finding any necessity to question its purpose.
When Dorothy Wordsworth visited the chapel with her brother William, the English Romantic poet, in 1803, she observed of the ceiling that the whole of the groundwork upon which the leaves and flowers were delicately wrought was stained by time with the softest colours: ‘Some of those leaves and flowers were tinged perfectly green, and at one part the effect was most exquisite – three or four leaves of a small fern, resembling that which we call Adder’s Tongue, grew round a cluster of them at the top of a pillar, and the natural product and the artificial were so intermingled that, at first, it was not easy to distinguish the living plant from the other.’1 Such was the triumph of nature and art working in perfect harmony. The staining of years of damp and algae, however, was not to be tolerated, especially as the chapel was gradually developing into a popular tourist venue as the word spread. By the time of Queen Victoria’s visit forty years on, the bulk of the damage created by the elements had been rectified to shades of cream and silken white, a matrix for the flashes of vivid colour – amber, azure, scarlet and gold – cast by the sun through stained glass.
To attempt to understand the mind of Prince William St Clair, and those of the craftsmen he employed, would take a lifetime if you choose to look for motives where there are none, beyond simple decoration. After all, there is always the possibility that the illustrations which feature within the chapel might, in the final analysis, amount to nothing more than random choice. The problem is that the later centuries of the second millennium have been gripped with an uncomfortable, often unrewarding, obsession with answers. Were Prince William able to listen to some of the wilder fables that have been concocted around his invention, I am sure that he would be laughing out loud in his mediaeval stockings.
While a great deal of speculation therefore surrounds the hidden meaning of the imagery to be found at Rosslyn, it is often overlooked that they present us with another mystery. As noted in the preceding chapter, these carvings were manufactured at a time when knowledge was exclusive to a small, scholarly elite, one that was for the most part entrenched within the confines of the mother Church. Quite where and how Prince William came by so much information from so many different, and sometimes conflicting, influences is just as baffling as the choice of motifs themselves.
The historical context of the chapel throws up other points of interest too. The interiors of Rosslyn Chapel were created in mediaeval Scotland, a land of bleak fortification and plain stone, although the abbeys of Melrose, Dryburgh, Dundrennan and Glasgow Cathedral do stand out as beacons within this generalisation. Yet this was the same period when the intelligentsia of Renaissance Italy was rallying to the genius of Piero Della Francesca, Giovanni Bellini, and the younger Raffaello Santi. It has to be understood therefore that Scotland was enjoying its own short-lived Renaissance, added to which were these stone carvings of such an unprecedented quality and inventive interpretation that it would be some time before they were matched elsewhere.
Although history lauds its patrons of the arts, its discerning men and women of wealth and prominence, the craftsmen who actually produce the work for them are often overlooked. At Rosslyn Chapel during the late fifteenth century great minds were at work, but unfairly such talents were doomed to remain anonymous. How often have you found yourself complimenting the owners of a stylish home on how clever they have been to create such elegance and style when all that they have done is to approve an architect’s design, choose an interior decorator and write a large cheque? That is why a certain sympathy should be felt for those anonymous masons of Rosslyn Chapel although, unusually for the period, some of them did leave their marks, their personal footprints in the sand. Posterity will never know their names, but what they created, in the words of John Ritchie, whose grandfather was caretaker of the chapel and castle during World War II, is a visual series of writings in stone. ‘Rosslyn was a scriptorium,’ he says. He is convinced that original manuscripts relating to the Bible and on loan from the Church were copied under the watchful eye of Sir Gilbert Hay, who was Prince William’s tutor, and their storylines later perpetuated in stone.
‘There is a great deal to be seen outside to excite wonder and admiration: much that is grotesque and amusing’, wrote the Revd Thompson in 1893, noting the gargoyles over the porch on the north side. Nearby there is a man with pointed ears; another holds a stick between his arms and legs; a figure is shown in pursuit of a fox with a goose. But neither religious fanaticism, nor Scotland’s weather, nor, indeed, the well-meaning conservation schemes of the past century have been kind to the chapel’s exterior stonework. The most remarkable achievement of all is that so much has survived regardless.
To embark upon a study of the carvings within Rosslyn Chapel, however, is to set forth upon a journey through even wilder flights of the imagination. If there is any criticism that can be made, it is that the sheer density of illustration on display is bewildering and detracts from the genius of the detail. But who can tell that this was not intentional? The more quirky motifs appear dangerously sacrilegious for a House of God. Interspersed within the mainstream decoration is a network of insurgency. For example, there are approximately 120 carvings of the Green Man, the most potent Celtic symbol of fertility and rebirth,2 showing man’s progression through the four seasons. Spring is represented by a youth on the east wall; the same face is transformed by maturity into manhood, then into the corpulent features of autumn on the west wall. The sequence culminates with a skull, symbolic of the arrival of winter.
In bold contrast to its pagan symbols are groupings of religious allegories depicting the Seven Acts of Mercy, the Seven Deadly Sins, and the Dance of Death. Whoever chose these storylines for illustration was possessed of a formidable scholarly intellect. Far be it for this humble writer to dismiss the genius of Prince William as the originator, but from the sheer density of ideas apparent within such themes, it seems that he must have had the support of an impressively well-educated and inventive team. Remember again that this was long before the widespread distribution of the printed word or even handwritten manuscript. Besides, the ability to read was restricted to only a minority.
Such handwritten copies of the Scriptures as existed were written in Latin and jealously kept within the confines of the orthodox Church authorities. Printing, it should be understood, was first introduced into Scotland by Bishop Elphinstone in 1507, the first Scottish press being established by Andrew Myllar of Edinburgh. The New Testament was first translated from Latin into English by William Tyndale as late as 1526. Whoever they were, these anonymous artists and stonemasons of Rosslyn Chapel, the knowledge they shared in the absence of written instruction is truly breathtaking.
As one enters the choir from the baptistery the most dazzling feature is the ceiling high above – held up on either side by windows and literally squared off into ten sections – which features cut-out daisies, lilies, flowers, roses and stars. Angels stand guard over the entrance below: one with a sword, another in prayer. Each block of the ceiling design is original, with minimal restoration: one has a moon and a star; another shows a dove with outspread wings; a sun hovers over an outstretched hand. Suspended from a rib projecting downwards, a pair of hands holds the shield of the St Clairs embossed with its engrailed cross. The statue of the Virgin Mary rises above the principal altar at the east end, a Victorian replacement for whatever stood here before the desecration of the Reformation.
Much of the original statuary is thought to have been destroyed by those Protestant wreckers in 1688, but Baron St Clair Bonde is not convinced. ‘Had the statuary been destroyed, then some of the plinths would have been damaged in the process’, he says. ‘This is not the case. All the plinths remain perfectly intact. I also suspect that had the statuary been totally destroyed, then there would be pieces of it discovered lying around somewhere in the neighbourhood.’
The venom of the mob was concentrated on the Catholic idolatry within the chapel, and hence the majority of more obscure carving has survived intact. Whether some statues were spirited away before the mob’s arrival, we will never know, but a more likely possibility is that the more valuable and moveable effigies were secreted away in the vaults. In mediaeval times everything would have been brightly painted in order for the images to stand out, but not so that which remains, the colour having faded over the centuries. In their 21st-century preserved state, virtually everything has been left uncoloured in virginal relief, although there are a few carvings which have been lightly coloured to put them into their original context.
To the right, facing the altar, is a pillar above which there is a lion and a unicorn in combat. Immediately above the unicorn’s head, stretching over to the neighbouring pillar, are figures representing the twelve apostles and four martyrs, all with halos over their heads. On the north aisle stands the Caithness Tomb which displays the Caithness coat-of-arms and the family motto: ‘Commit the Verk to God’. This was erected in memory of the 4th earl, great-grandson of the chapel’s founder. On the pinnacle of the arch which surmounts it is the carving of an artichoke.3 Quite what one should read into that is anyone’s guess.
Upright against the same wall is the burial stone of Sir William St Clair who was killed by the Moors at Teba in Andalucia while seeking to transport the heart of King Robert I to the Holy Land. This event took place over 116 years before the building of the chapel began and the stone was allegedly brought here by General St Clair in 1736, having removed it from the ruins of the earlier church thought to have stood in the vicinity of the village graveyard. What further adds to the intrigue of this slab is that it shows the outline of a Highland sword, and beside it a floriated cross on a long flute. Carved next to the stem is the name Willhm de Sinncler. At the end of the stone are the letters ER, one above the other. Why a Highland sword? Does this connect him with the Templars of Kilmartin, whose burial slabs are remarkably similar? And what do the initials ER stand for? Again, there are more questions than answers.
Everywhere, throughout the chapel, there are numerous angels carrying scrolls: one holds a seal; another wears a skull cap and holds a heart. Nearby, the jaws of a lion are being forcibly held open, possibly a reference to Daniel in the lions’ den. To the left of this is an elephant. Further along the same aisle, an architrave above the pillars features eight figures. Seven have crowns upon their heads. The one in the middle has his hands outstretched above him. One of them clutches a harp. In the Lady Chapel are scenes from the Nativity – the Virgin and Child and the Three Wise Men. More angels are in evidence here, singing and playing musical instruments.
Prince William valued his musicians. As previously mentioned, a pathway leading downhill from the chapel to the castle is still known as the Minstrels Walk. One of the angels holds a set of bagpipes. This provides us with another conundrum since the exact origin of the bagpipes, now so strongly associated with Scotland, has never been determined. Seemingly they arrived with the Celts, but similar instruments existed in the Middle East several centuries before the birth of Christ. By the mid fourteenth century, however, they were commonplace throughout Scotland, so the inspiration behind this figure was probably local. However, a carving of a pig playing the bagpipes can also be seen at Melrose Abbey and, in the early twentieth century, inspired a similar image within the Thistle Chapel in St Giles’ Cathedral in Edinburgh.
Another angel within the Lady Chapel demands special attention. He or she is upside down and roped around the middle. Some say this represents Lucifer, the fallen angel. Close by, another holds a scroll, and there is the moulding of a face, said to have been taken from the death mask of Robert the Bruce. On a ribbed arch there are sixteen figures accompanied by skeletons to symbolise the ‘dance of death’, a popular mediaeval preoccupation to remind us that ‘in the midst of life we are in death’.
As has been previously observed, all kinds of plant life are visible: oak leaves, flowers, fern and kale, and a myriad of roses and sunflowers.
An eccentric inscription, in Lombardic lettering, presumably being the mother tongue of its writer, reads ‘Forte est vinu. Fortior est rex. Fortiores sunt mulieres: sup om vincit veritas’, which translates as ‘Wine is strong. The king is stronger. Women are stronger still: but truth conquers all.’ This quote, originating from 1 Edras (Ezra after the Reformation) in the Old Testament, was used to test the three bodyguards of Darius, King of Persia, around 538 BC. The winner was Zerubbabel, from the line of David. In return for his wisdom, Zerubbabel was told that he could have anything he liked, and he therefore asked that the Jews might return to Jerusalem to rebuild their temple.
What immediacy did such words, the only quotation to feature in the chapel, have for Prince William St Clair? Do not forget that this was a man who in his lifetime had three wives and fathered at least eighteen children. Or might it be, as has been suggested, a coded reference to something infinitely more potent? A message of such profundity that when its meaning is ultimately revealed it will shake mankind?
Niven Sinclair, founder member of the Friends of Rosslyn Chapel, has written astutely on this subject and points out that at right angles to the quotation is a figure thought to represent the sleeping King Darius, and that he is being watched over by two young bodyguards, not three. What has become of the third bodyguard, wonders Sinclair. Did too much wine cause him to fall? Everyone loves a paradox.
From this same point in the south aisle can be seen illustrations of moral rectitude: helping the needy, clothing the naked, looking after the infirm, a man carrying bags of money, presumably to hand out to the poor, somebody feeding the starving, and somebody burying the dead. A line-up of the deadly sins features a Pharisee with puffed-out chest for pride, a man with a pitcher in his mouth for gluttony, a man with an axe and a club for anger, a man surrounded by grapes for envy, someone pulling unenthusiastically at a sack for sloth, and lovers in an embrace for lust. Just to add to the complexity, ‘avarice’, which belongs to the sins on one side, has been transposed with ‘charity’ from the virtues on the other.
An angel holds what must surely be the heart of Robert the Bruce. There is Moses with a horned head. In Exodus 34, verse 29, the face of Moses is described in Hebrew as being ‘radiant’; the Hebrew word for radiant is karan, similar to the Hebrew word for horn, which is karen. The mediaeval idea that Moses was horned came about when the original Hebrew was translated into Latin.
The Ten Commandments are also depicted. A small carving of St Veronica holds a veil upon which is an image of the head of Jesus. This has been associated with the Turin Shroud, a centuries-old linen cloth which bears the image of a crucified man whom millions believe to be that of Jesus of Nazareth himself. The shroud was first mentioned around the year 1360, and nearly lost in a fire in 1532. Today it is kept in the cathedral of St John the Baptist in Turin, but its authenticity has been widely discredited. A parallel legend is that of the veil upon which Jesus wiped his brow. When it was returned to its owner, St Veronica, the Saviour’s features were impregnated upon the cloth. The alleged original can be inspected at St Peter’s in Rome.
Next we find a tribute to the founder’s ancestor, William the Seemly, shown as a knight on horseback carrying a spear. Behind him is a figure holding the Holy Rude. Such images inevitably conjour up links with the Knights Templar who over the centuries have enjoyed more than their fair quota of symbols, many of them absorbed into Freemasonry: the skull and crossbones, two doves in flight, trowels and compasses etc. For anyone to suggest, however, that there is a hidden agenda to be found in the carving of two men mounted on the same horse is not dissimilar to claiming that Templar symbolism is to be found in the 1969 hit song ‘Two Little Boys’ sung by Rolf Harris.
Every carving in Rosslyn Chapel must be regarded as an individual work of art and judged on its own merit. Each and every one of us can find something here either to admire or to tease. Every image is in itself unique, but drowned in the quantity and quality of its companions. Perhaps this explains how a tiny mediaeval Scottish church has so successfully survived the more violent excesses it has witnessed through time: by baffling the intruders with the sheer intensity of its creation and by denying them an absolute understanding of the detail.