Oh, Lichfield! You quaint little city, you. With your magnificent minareted medieval minster and perfectly picturesque streets, who would have thought that beneath your genteel veneer lies a history so grim and gruesome, it would make even the most hardened horror fan squirm?
Standing in the market square, facing St. Mary’s Church you notice five innocuous-looking plaques on the wall. Reading them you realise that Lichfield isn’t just a pretty face; it’s a city with a sinister past that’s worth exploring, even if it does make your spine tingle a little.
This little marketplace wasn’t just for buying bread, it was where people were burned at the stake for being wrong’uns. Ouch!
So, let us journey through Lichfield’s lamentable legacy one plaque at a time and we’ll explore tales of religious persecution, bare-footed prophets and fiery ends. Lichfield has a dark side and it’s anything but dull.
The Market’s Murky Origins
The market is the heart of any town and Lichfield is no exception.
It all kicked off in 1153 when King Stephen, with a flourish of his royal pen, granted Bishop Walter Durdent the right to hold a market here. It marked a significant moment for Lichfield, establishing a centre for trade that would become the focal point for the town’s social and civic life. Although not completed until 1870, St. Mary’s was planned out by Bishop Clinton in around 1150 . Presumably, there was something of the church already next to the market. Standing there, you can almost picture the scene 900 years ago. Peasants peddling their products, grubby children scampering, chickens clucking.
Over the centuries, the market square evolved and witnessed the ebb and flow of Lichfield’s fortunes. It became intertwined with the town’s administration and economy, reflecting its growing importance in the region. Over the centuries markets have been held in this spot, outlasting plagues, wars and the invention of the dreaded supermarket.
But little did those early marketgoers know that their quaint market square would soon become a stage for some horrific spectacles.
During the medieval period, Lichfield’s market square became a venue for public justice staging gruesome public executions.
As seen elsewhere at the time, these events were hotly anticipated by the folk of Lichfield. As we go on we’ll see it’s not just carrots and cabbages that were served on this hallowed ground but also medieval ‘justice’. A stark reminder of a time when executions were not only served but performed as a public spectacle.
Martyrs of Market Day
Martyrs! A word that sends shivers down the spine. During the reign of Queen Mary, affectionately known as “Bloody Mary” (and not because of her cocktail-mixing skills), the market became a theatre of punishment for those who dared to defy the religious order of the day.
The date? September 1555.
The crime? Heresy!
A term that was as elastic as it was lethal. Thomas Hayward and John Gorway found themselves in a bit of a pickle. Being Protestant in a Catholic country a toasty demise at the stake, right there in the market square, was on the cards. These deaths were deliberate, calculated spectacles designed to terrify and control.
Two years later, Joyce Lewis of Mancetter joined this unenviable club. On December 18, 1557, she too met her fiery end. I can’t help but wonder if the locals continued their shopping while these poor souls went up in flames. “Two pounds of apples and a burning heretic, please!”
It’s hard to imagine the fear, the smoke, the smell. The market, the hub of daily life, became a place where the flames of persecution blazed as brightly as the torches that lit the night. The blood of martyrs mixed with the mud of the market, a gruesome cocktail of faith and fanaticism. These grim reminders of the perils of religious dissent turned the heart of Lichfield’s daily life into a stage in the most horrific ways imaginable.
George Fox: Quaker Rebukes and Barefoot Bravery
Let’s skip ahead to 1651 and meet George Fox, the founder of the Quakers. Not all drama in Lichfield was quite so deadly, but Fox’s experience was certainly frosty, both figuratively and literally. Shortly after his release from Derby prison in the winter of 1651, Fox arrived in Lichfield, probably weary and weather-beaten. He didn’t exactly receive a warm welcome.
Fresh out of prison and apparently immune to frostbite, Fox decided to make a statement. On a chilly market day, he stood barefoot in the square and denounced the city of Lichfield.
Just picture the scene. Shoppers going about their business, perhaps picking up some winter woollens, when suddenly this madman appears, shoeless and shouty. “Woe to the bloody city of Lichfield!” he probably bellowed while confused market-goers wondered if this was some new form of street entertainment.
Why barefoot? Maybe it was a symbol of humility or perhaps to demonstrate his suffering. Maybe because he had simply lost his shoes. Whatever the reason, his rebuke of Lichfield was as cold as the cobbles under his feet. Fox wasn’t a man to mince words. his condemnation of the city was fiery, if not in temperature, then certainly in tone.
And while he didn’t meet the same fate as those burnt at the stake, his presence was a stark reminder that Lichfield was a place where religious dissenters were treated with a mix of suspicion and scorn. Fox’s barefoot broadside might not have involved flames but it certainly added another colourful chapter to Lichfield’s history of religious drama in the marketplace.
Edmund Gennings: The Price of Faith
But if you thought Lichfield’s grisly history ended there, think again. Enter Edmund Gennings. Born in Lichfield in 1567, Gennings was a man whose faith led him down a road of suffering so intense it almost defies belief. Gennings took a different path. He became a Catholic priest. Un Elizabethan England this was about as popular as a pork chop at a vegan convention.
In 1591, poor Edmund found himself in London, where he met a fate that puts modern complaints into stark perspective. Gennings was disembowelled alive and executed for his religious beliefs. Now, I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure being disembowelled alive is not a pleasant experience. It certainly makes air travel seem like a walk in the park. The very thought of it is enough to make you queasy, isn’t it?
But Gennings’ story didn’t end with his gruesome death. In a curious twist of fate, nearly 400 years later in 1970, he was canonized and made a saint. I suppose that’s cold comfort when you’ve had your insides turned into your outsides. In Lichfield, his memory lives on, a haunting reminder of the lengths to which people will go to defend their beliefs, and the equally terrifying lengths to which others will go to stamp those beliefs out.
Edward Wightman: The Last Burn
And finally, the pièce de résistance of Lichfield market’s lurid history.
Edward Wightman, a man whose name should be remembered, if only for the dubious honour of being the last person in England to be burnt at the stake for heresy.
On the 11th of April, 1612, Wightman of Burton-on-Trent achieved this grim accolade, going out in a blaze of glory, right there in Lichfield’s marketplace. Wightman had some rather unconventional religious views, including denying the Trinity and claiming to be the Holy Spirit. I’m all for self-belief, but perhaps he took it just a bit too far. His conviction for heresy, a charge that by this time was becoming increasingly rare, led to his fiery fate in the same market square that had witnessed so much suffering before. It’s strange to think that the same market where you might buy a vegan pie or pud today was once the site of such horror. Wightman’s death marked the end of an era. A final act in the long, dark history of public executions for heresy. His woeful end signalled that England had finally decided that perhaps burning people alive wasn’t the most civilised way to deal with religious disagreements. Wightman’s end serves as the last chapter in Lichfield’s book of fiery persecutions, closing the curtain on an era of religious intolerance in firey fashion.
Conclusion: Lichfield—Where the Past Never Truly Dies
Standing staring at these five plaques it’s hard not to marvel at the human suffering they represent. Lichfield, this picturesque little city, had been a hotbed of religious turmoil and violence for centuries. The brickwork underfoot has witnessed some scenes that nowadays make the stomach sink. Scenes that tell stories of a time when life was cheap and death was often public.
Yet, there’s something oddly admirable about Lichfield’s willingness to confront its gruesome past head-on. These plaques are a warning about the dangers of intolerance and the importance of freedom of belief. They’re a message from history.
Lichfield’s history is far from the picture-perfect image it presents today. But that’s what makes Lichfield so fascinating.
So, next time you’re in Lichfield, take a moment to appreciate these grim little plaques.
And if you happen to see a shoeless man ranting in the market square just nod and smile.