It is the Year of Our Lord 1645. For three years, a brutal war has torn England apart. In the twilight of the eve of Long Friday, Rector William Horner surveyed his desk, tidying away the remnants of his work in preparation for marking the end of holy week. In as much as anything could or should be marked at this troubling time.
Rumblings of descent amidst his home county of Kent kept him awake with worry. The parish he surveyed sat at the halfway point between two staunchly opposing forces in the war: London, a stronghold for the Parliamentarians and home to Cromwell’s new Puritan militia, and Dover and the Weald, where the garrisons of Royalists still dominated and were once again growing in number. He had seen things that had horrified him. It had not been two years since short of two thousand Parliamentary troops had marched upon Tonbridge, Sevenoaks and Faversham to quell a rumoured insurrection, cutting down all those who lay in their path; men, women, the very old and the very young, rich and poor. He and his curates had taken to keeping the church and its surrounding buildings fortified as a precaution but had opened their doors to those fleeing, tending to the injured and providing shelter for those who could not return home. He had seen many more killed by cruelty and violence than he had ever cared to and he wanted to see no more.
Then there was the significant work that lay heavy upon him thanks to the changes made during the previous months in an attempt to unify England under the new way of things. The books of common prayer were taken and burned by administrators of Parliament and he and his curates were instructed to study the new Directory for Public Worship, following its clear guidance on conducting the congregation to the letter going forward. Although a handful of his peers in surrounding parishes had refused or contested the order, a series of executions soon brought others into line. The execution of the Archbishop of Canterbury three months ago for his opposition to some aspects of Puritan worship, which Parliament considered treason, haunted the Kentish people, fuelled their anger but made the rector himself more pliable. He was eager to please the Ordination of Ministers, both for the good of his parish as much as keeping his head.
However, this was a tricky balancing act. He was acutely aware of his position as a pillar of the local community, much of whom despised the new order of things and continued to worship as they always had done. Although those above him reassured him that there would soon be peace in the land, he did not believe a word of it. He knew that his parishioners kept arsenals in their cellars, concealed rebels and wanted men, plotted and planned to take up arms once again to restore things to how they were before.
Easter had once been a period of feasting and coming together. The rector recalled the times when the larger houses in the parish of Biddenden opened their doors to their serfs and tenants, as well as the poor and destitute on the Long Friday, handing out cheese, bread, wine and ale. The Directory for Public Worship, however, put a stop to that; the Puritans did not look upon the marking of holy days as anything more than a chance to pray longer and pay more penance for their sins. Feasting and making merry had no place in the new order of things. This of course did not prevent such things happening behind closed doors, but the rector did not approve. His desire to appease his new masters outweighed his veneration of the traditions of the local area. And that was how his petition to the Long Parliament had begun.
The Bread and Cheese Lands, as they were known locally, sat adjacent to the church, and had been gifted by a wealthy family as annual dole to the poor of Biddenden. This had been observed by the rector’s predecessors for many hundreds of years. It is written in the parish accounts from two score years ago that lay up on the rector’s desk that on Easter Sunday “our parson giveth unto the parishioners bread, cheese, cakes and divers barrels of beer, brought in there and drawn to the deserving poor”. Other public records he had come upon stated that the Archdeacon of Canterbury had sought to put a stop to the tradition some time ago and reclaim the lands as glebe. His account, upon observing the festivities, was that the poor — too ill-educated and irresponsible to handle such volumes of libations and luxuries — created disorder and unruliness that could not be restrained, with the churchwardens using their staffs to attempt to pacify the mob. Although the tradition continued to be observed regardless, the rector spied an opportunity in the changing of the tide in England. In the hours in which he was not attending to the administrative needs of the parish, he dedicated time and effort completing a petition to reclaim the land for the church. He studied the pages of the Directory, looking for ways in which he could construct his argument and ingratiate himself with the Committee for Plundered Ministers and their subsidiaries. Bishop Hacket, a member of the committee and a staunch supporter of the more fanatical zealotry in the Puritan order, with a particular hatred of what he saw as unchristian practices, had looked kindly upon the rector’s petition and had written to him at length with advice to make the legal move successful. His key argument had built upon not only the findings of the previous Archdeacon, but further accused the proponents of the Bread and Cheese Lands as heretics.
The wealthy persons who had gifted the lands, local lore stated, were a pair of sisters by the name of Chulkhurst, known colloquially as the Biddenden Maids. The sisters, twins, were born in 1100 to the family but had been born with an abnormality; the two children together had but one body from the breast to the navel, two girls joined by skin. Despite their condition, the pair lived thirty-four years and dedicated their lives to serving the poor of the parish. At the expiration that year, one of them was taken ill and in a short time died. The surviving one was advised to be separated from the body of her deceased sister by dissection, but she absolutely refused the separation by saying these words; “As we came together we will also go together”. In the space of about six hours after her sister’s death, she was taken ill and died also. Upon their deaths, they bequeathed the land — stretching twenty acres more or less — to the charitable fund which bears their name. It was then the aforementioned Easter tradition began.
Infants born with such an appearance was a clear sign of moral rot and heresy, the rector argued. These women, unnatural and unmarried, leading the poor and unfortunate to partake of alcohol, making merry and seducing them to a life of sin, could even be a sign of witchcraft. “The attendees” the petition noted “are fed a kind of biscuit known as a Biddenden Cake, which stamped upon is a depiction of the Chulkhurst sisters — idolatry and a mockery of our Lord’s holy communion. Older heretical beliefs that the common, ill-educated folk of this land choose to believe state the coming of such an ungodly creation be a sign of foreboding, a sign of a coming evil. Therefore I am in no doubt in my mind that this is a communion of devil worship, willing the spirits of hell to come to earth. It must be stamped out so it does not spread.” The Bishop had agreed with the rector’s approach and the papers were submitted to the Committee, with a Parliamentary administrator collecting the papers that very afternoon on the eve of Long Friday. He was satisfied with the work he had done and looked forward to having the lands returned to the parish. He would now spend the rest of the evening familiarising himself once again with the Directory’s instruction on leading the congregation during the holy period and practicing his sermons for the coming days.
The Long Friday sermons were not well received. His parishioners did not seem to revel in the long and drawn out teachings, and longed for the pomp of the old world. Some did not turn up at all; he suspected attending their own private ceremonies conducted by those who had been cast out and were in hiding. He felt deflated but resolute; regardless of their preferences, the law was the law and he was on the right side of it.
As the last of the attendees departed All Saints church and the curates completed their tasks, the rector was left alone. Despite being in the month of April, there was still a chill in the air, exacerbated by the recent removal of the stained glass windows and the hanging tapestries which provided much needed insulation from the cold. There were no longer any adornments on the altar and his vestments had become plainer. No music had been played. The nave, with its grand Saxon wooden beams, was bare and barren. He collected his things from the lectern and intended to make his way to the presbytery to spend the rest of his day in quiet prayer and contemplation, as the Directory instructed. Once at the lectern, he turned to face the congregation seating and observed a figure at the back of the nave.
“Pardon me sir, I did not see you,” the rector said. “May I be of some assistance?”
There was no reply.
He began again. “Services shall resume on Sunday with communion…” but the figure had vanished. A trick of the light perhaps, he reasoned with himself.
Once in the presbytery, he lit a candle, knelt and began to pray. He tried to focus on the sacrifice of the Lord, the suffering of Jesus Christ on the cross, give thanks and pray for those less fortunate. But he couldn’t. His mind was filled with horrifying visions: the deaths he had witnessed, the weeping pussing wounds of the victims of the war, rotting corpses in the fields, headless and burned traitors animated and parading as if still alive, murdered children, ruined dead women, the poor starving, a dead beheaded king, the Lord Jesus Christ his side pierced with a spear, rotting on the cross as if his carcass had been abandoned for months. To the back of each vision stood a figure he could not make out clearly, looming and ominous. He recognised it but couldn’t place it and the sheer terror of his visions clouded his thinking. It was almost as if, amongst his terrors, it was pursuing him. He opened his eyes, sweating and trembling with fear. It was dark. The candle had burnt out. Clearly some time had passed. And stood a few feet before him was the figure again, shrouded in darkness, with what appeared to be two heads. The figure reached out as if to grab him. He screamed and in his hurry to escape, he stumbled, slipped on the damp flagstones and fell.
The following morning, the rector was discovered by one of the younger curates, his head gashed from the fall. The curate noticed he was visibly distressed and rambling. He could not speak clearly nor focus, his eyes fixed to the back of the room as if addressing someone who appeared to not be there.
Whether it was madness that took the Rector or some illness, the archdiocese could not or would not officially conclude. Regardless, the petition failed thanks to the scandal and the Committee for Plundered Ministers had him replaced.
— — — —
The practice of feeding the poor from the annual dole of the Bread and Cheese Lands and eating Biddenden cakes at Easter to give thanks for the sisters’ generosity continued in the town and is still practiced to this day. Several attempts have been made over the centuries for the Church of England to reclaim the land, each of which have been unsuccessful.