This morning, instead of taking the towpath of the River Rance to Lehon, I leave through one of Dinan’s hulking city gates - to a brief echo of motors from the machicoulis and murder holes above – bounce downhill over cobbles and battle the morning traffic. It is not far though, and soon I am in the calm of a quiet section of Lehon.
If the young Lawrence passes over Lehon Castle in just a few lines - I nod in silent salute as I ride by - he breaks out with effusion when it comes to the abbey, and about one effigy in particular in the church. He writes almost a whole page:
“Lehon Abbey (more properly a Priory) is splendid: the Church is fine, but too much restored: the effigies in it were very interesting. One was to a female, Tiphaine de Guesclin, daughter of the famous Constable, who was so named after her mother. The effigy lay on the North Side of Presbytery, and was most remarkable…”
As I arrive I happily acknowledge that the abbey is splendid: it is all hefty, ancient stone, though somehow familiar, or at least not as self-consciously grand as many medieval religious centres. It stands next to the local Mairie, the town hall, and there are box hedges, flowers cascading over stone walls, even a small rose garden. I find my way down into a courtyard, lock up my bicycle and make my way into the cloister, where the sunny and soporific tempo of the tiny village turns to deep silence. Perfect for contemplation.
The Abbey St Magloire is certainly ancient: it was established next to a ford on a bend in the Rance River in the sixth century, apparently by six monks from Wales; they came as custodians of the relics of St Magloire. Their buildings were destroyed by the Normans a few centuries later, but the abbey was redeveloped in the Middle Ages by the Lords of Lehon. The buildings have elements of both romanesque and gothic. I enter through a pointed arch, into the cloister with its run of romanesque curves: the main door to the abbey church is framed in rounded arches.
Inside the church, the silence deepens a notch further, squeezed by the interior cool. The acoustics in the place are outrageous. The thump of a misplaced foot against a pew reverberates like the roll of a distant cannon – and results in a disapproving look from the one other visitor. I spot a bell which instructs: ‘Press for Music’. Hah, I could do it just to taunt them; but actually the silence is better. God forbid I should sneeze: the noise would ricochet off the high stained glass and splinter on every faceted stone surface, firing back and forth for 30 seconds (I should admit to an unfeasibly loud sneeze, as my family like to remind me: I merely retort that the prodigious power of my lungs, which may be bequeathed to them in their genes, might be a good thing, but they have none of it).
Now, about Tiphaine…
“…She died in 1417 the widow of Jean V de Beaumanoir. She was dressed in a jupon, which buttoned down the front with 22 circular buttons; the button-holes were yet quite clear, slightly puckered around her waist, which was exceedingly small, and tightly drawn… The front of the jupon terminated in a tassel with a large bow.”
I walk to the rear of the nave in the hope of finding her: there are at least 10 effigies lining the walls... But all is not lost; there is more… I move from the gloom to a spot where light can penetrate enough for me to read:
“… She wore genouilleres, with square plates beneath them, jambs and sollerets, of three large and heavy laminated plates. She also had rowel spurs, and her feet rested on an eagle expansed bearing a shield (billets or) on the front, held in its beak. The eagle was very faithfully and clearly drawn, and the claws drawn very true to nature.”
You might want to remember that this is a young man writing, not yet 18… in a letter to his mother. It was typical of him, incredibly well informed and confident, on a subject he had been studying for years, but perhaps you can also see why she might have felt a little disappointed at the lack of personal detail.
As for me, with even all of this, I can’t seem to locate her. Quite a few of the effigies have names, but not Tiphaine. I find her husband…
“…assassinated in 1385. He is chiefly remarkable for two gigantic curls, each supported by a sturdy angel. He has a beard, and wears a jupon gorget pauldrons, brassarts, coutes, and a large sword. His feet of six lames were resting on a lion.”
It’s true, though it is a rather mournful looking lion.
And he’s not finished yet… other effigies were:
“Two almost identical figures of Lords of Lehon (14th cent.) were interesting as having slipped off their gauntles, & coifs de mailles, just as Septvans whom they greatly resemble. … They wore surcoats, and demi-jambs. Raoulin wears a Tabard, quarterly. Two ladies of about 1440 complete this wonderful series, and one of these effigies to a lady was the most perfect example of artistic merit that I have seen in effigies. … Her face was perfect, and her dress most beautifully arranged.”
Yet still no Tiphaine. Frustrating. I head outside to see if anyone might help me. I have made a few friends like this. The French do remember Lawrence of Arabia, partly as a perfidious Englishman destructive to their national interests and fancifully, in some cases, as a spy, but they admire him nonetheless for his feats of endurance (well, they saw the film too). Often local historians are happy to help. Not in the Mairie, however. As I stumble through unaccustomed French words – while many armorial terms derive from French and translate freely, other ideas such as effigy and ‘tomb decoration’ are more than I can manage at the moment. Eyes glaze over; they are functionaries to the core.
“Perhaps… it has been removed to a house in Dinan…”, said a man, turning away. “Go to the local library, Msieu…”
But I can’t just leave like that. I return to the abbey church for one last try – and walk right up to her. And all becomes clear… (I think): the buttons, the waist, her head on a cushion…
“…her hair, confined by a narrow fillet alone, flowed in two curls one outside each ear, while the rest was cut short and parted regularly down the centre.”
I stand for a while, marvelling at this stone memorial, which has lain here for 700 years, and more than a century since the young Lawrence himself marvelled at her. Sadly, though, it is no longer true that:
“Her face was perfect, without any mutilation, and exhibited the calm repose and angelic purity which the medieval sculptor knew so well to blend, with a certain martial simplicity and haughtiness… …its combination of female dress and armour, is so far as I know unique.”
Instead she has been disfigured (assuming got the right effigy, that is). Some vandal has scratched her chin with a small beard. (See the photo at the top of this journal entry.)
