Alan Sharp - A Grim Almanac of York

Although the authors name is the one that appears on the cover of a book, in reality, writing a book is always a collaborative experience. I would like to give my thanks to everyone who has helped me along the way, in whatever capacity.

In particular, I would like to thank the staff of the York Explore Library, where I spent long hours finding the accounts that appear within this book. They are ever helpful and patient, and without the wonderful resources they provide, this book would not have been possible. Also, the staff at the York Museums Trust, York Minster and the Minster Library, and the Jorvik Group.

Thanks also to the individuals who have helped either with information or with sourcing illustrations. These include Karen Adams, John Cooper (University of York), Darren Flinders, Allan Harris, and others who have given a word of advice here and there. All uncredited images are property of The History Press.

Finally, on a personal note I would like to thank my family and friends for putting up with me; the guides who have worked with me at White Rose York Tours during this period and who have helped make that company a success which, in turn, has helped me to learn so much more about this fantastic city; Laura over there in the States, who will always sit patiently on the end of a phone and allow me to vent about anything thats on my mind; Matilda Richards at The History Press for giving me the chance to write this book; and anyone else I may have forgotten that helped me along the way.

York skyline overlooking St Marys church and the minster. (Authors collection)

St Marys Abbey, York. ( Allan Harris)

York. The capital of the North.

From its foundation in AD 71, York has always been at the heart of the United Kingdom. The Romans built the first defensive camp here, and made it the administrative centre of their northernmost province. The Anglo-Saxon kings of Northumbria made it their capital, and the Vikings ruled over vast swathes of English soil from within its defences. William the Conqueror came here, capturing the city to consolidate his power in the North, and Henry III lived within its walls and turned it into a veritable stronghold.

York was the northern staging post of the Plantagenet kings as they attempted to win Scotland and bring it into the realm. The bloodiest fighting of the Wars of the Roses raged in the countryside just beyond the walls, while the heads of noblemen stared lifelessly from spikes atop the city gates. Henry VIII came here during the Reformation and changed the city irrevocably. And its besieging and eventual capitulation was one of the major turning points of the English Civil War.

And while the vast canvas of history was painted large across the city, smaller stories were told quietly in the background. At the Knavesmire and in the grounds of York Castle, the hangman plied his trade dispatching murderers, rapists and common thieves as well as the highwaymen who terrorised the roads north from London. Famous criminals like Dick Turpin and William Swift Nick Nevison found themselves dangling from the York gallows tree, alongside men whose names have been forgotten to history, although their crimes were no less heinous.

And then there were those less deserving of their fate: Catholic priests and recusants whose only crime was to worship their God in their own way and not the way that kings and queens had chosen for them; noblemen who had chosen the wrong side in some petty squabble between the great families, where had things taken a different turn they might have been hailed as heroes instead of having their heads separated from their bodies.

Come with me, down past the Knavesmire, to the Micklegate Bar, where the young King Edward IV rode into the city in glory having secured the throne for himself and for the House of York. It was along this way that St William rode also, on his triumphant return to the city, not yet a saint but about to meet the destiny that would raise him up to that hallowed position. Here, in this affluent quarter of the city, they would have passed the houses of the good and great, the rich merchants and businessmen, as they rode down to the Ouse Bridge, then the only crossing of the river other than by ferry.

So on to the bridge itself, standing in this spot since the time of the Vikings, although the Romans had built their own river crossing not 300 yards distant. This bridge, the lifeline holding the two sides of the city together, was once covered in buildings, including a prison and Englands first public convenience built in one of the arches in 1367. And now we come to Coney Street, the name dating from the time of the Anglo-Saxon occupation, from the word Cyning, meaning king. Turn left here and the road leads to St Marys Abbey, where a devout Benedictine order observed its worship. Turn right and its the castle, looking down over the city from its high motte. Peace and devotion one way, war and bloodshed the other; almost a metaphor for the city itself.

But continue on, and now were in Pavement, where proclamations are heard and traitors lose their heads. Here is the hustle and bustle of the market, where hardworking farmers and merchants try to earn an honest crust from the fruits of their labours, while cutpurses and vagabonds try to relieve them of the same. On the left here is the Shambles, the dingy street of butchers shops, where the rich warm smells of blood and freshly cut muscle and sinew mingle with the sweat of the brows of porters and slaughtermen. And that leads us to Petergate, a street whose most famous son dreamed of regicide, and earned an ignominious traitors death and an infamy, the legacy of which continues to this day.

And finally, emerging from this street we find ourselves at Windy Corner, here in the shadow of the towers of the minster church, where local legend says that the wind and the devil came to cause mischief: Satan made the wind promise to wait for him outside while he went in to cause terror, but never returned, so the wind is still there.

This huge cathedral, the largest such Gothic structure in Northern Europe, towers over the town, dominating the skyline with its 200ft central tower, its huge imposing walls and vast swathes of medieval stained glass. It stands on a spot where a church has stood to the glory of God since the first humble wooden building, erected by St Paulinus in AD 627, and before that the Great Hall of the Roman camp, where five emperors broke bread with the soldiers of their empire. Demolished and rebuilt, damaged by weather and wind and burned to the ground several times, the current structure dates back to 1220, and within its walls have walked kings and commoners, heroes and villains, saints and sinners. Through it all, it has remained the beating heart of the city.

So take a walk through this city, through this capital of the North. Marvel at its riches and its splendours; meet the people, learn their names; youll get a hearty Yorkshire welcome here. Just dont go too far into those dark corners, or you maybe surprised by what you discover lurking there.

Alan Sharp, 2015