‘Well it’s a, um, well it’s us isn’t it?’ The second figure replied.

The two small figures in question were carved into the face of the corbel protruding from the south end of Dragon Hall. They were always like this. Had always been like this. They were first chiselled into the venerable face of the building when it was constructed as a trading hall by Robert Toppes in the 15th century. They had seen a lot over the years, and what they saw, they argued about. The figure on the left would ask a question of their counterpart on the right and the figure on the right would invariably get frustrated with his craggy companion and raise his hands in frustration. 

Down the way, on the north of the end of the building, lived two more figures on a different corbel. These carvings could not have been more different from their counterparts to the south. Where the southerners were lively with conversation and disagreement, the northerners were peaceful and serene.  

In the time of the hall’s erection there was still magic in the land and Norwich was a place perfectly primed to receive it. The dragon was a symbol of wealth and status for the traders of the city and the magic of the dragon was all pervasive. When the hall was built, and the dragons were carved into the rafters, their enchantment was infused into the spirit of the building. Back in the time of Robert Toppes this magic was a feature of people’s lives and so the conversations of the corbel figures were seen, understood, and joined in with by the citizens of Norwich. 

The figures on the corbels would often engage those passing in the street in conversation. Whilst the figures to the north would softly greet those that passed by the southerners would conduct the same performance they danced with one another; namely the left figure would ask a question of the citizen and the right figure would grow exasperated by their prying and throw up their hands in consternation. 

The differing temperaments of the two corbels represented the alternating sides of Robert Toppes and indeed of the city and climate into which they were forged. For Robert Toppes and much of the world there were two necessary goals to pursue in life. The first was trade and business, questing to make money and raise a family. The other was religious devotion. The quartet of figures on the corbels were a visual manifestation of these differing viewpoints. The northerners maintained a calm and ecclesiastical demeanour whilst the southerners would argue and debate just as the traders in the hall would haggle and harangue. And so over time it became natural to the occupants of the hall to pay deference to the northerners but argue with the southerners. 

After the death of Robert Toppes in 1467 the hall began to lose some of its grandeur. Until that time, it could boast of the fact that it was the only trading hall of its size in Europe owned by one man and not a guild (a consortium of tradespeople with the same pursuits who organize to generalise standards and protect mutual interests). Over the years though this distinction slipped away. It first began to be used as a large dwelling for wealthy families but across the decades was partitioned off into smaller homes. And so, over the years the corbel figures became less and less active. The figures to the north were particularly restful; for them their maker had now been welcomed into the kingdom of God and so they believed that it was their duty to stay still; only stirring themselves every now and then when the bells of nearby St. Julian’s Church would ring, and they could sing hymnals to accompany them. The corbels to the south could not be so easily cowed. 

‘Did you know that this place used to be littered with herring bones?’ The left figure would ask the children of the families that now resided in the hall. They would giggle as the figure on the right would admonish him, ‘Well that’s lovely isn’t it, poison their poor minds with thoughts of a fishy graveyard under their feet!’ Before throwing up their hands in exasperation.

In the 17th century a witch hunting craze took hold in East Anglia, led by the fearsome witchfinder general Matthew Hopkins. These so-called witches were of course nothing of the sort but simply harmless women who were singled out for not adhering to the cultural standards of the time. To ward against attack by these supposed witches, people devised inventive means of protection and so the witch bottle was born. These glass or stoneware jars were filled with all manner of questionable things including fingernails and urine (a substance which was believed to lure a witch from the realm of the supernatural and be captured in the jar). They were designed to protect the people against spells and enchantments and would often be buried as part of a ritual (the bombings of the area during the blitz would eventually lead to their remains being discovered at Rouen Road).  

The corbels to the north roused themselves at this time and cautioned the residents of King Street against the wickedness of witches (the irony of their being born of magic and likely to terrify the very same people entirely lost on them) and encouraged them to buy the witch bottles from travelling cunning folk. Of course, when these superstitious people would move further down the street they would meet the conflicting opinion of the southerners. 

‘What, those things are full of wee?!’ The left figure would ask in obvious disgust. 

‘You have to have an opinion on everything don’t you?’ The right figure would sigh, throwing up their hands in incredulity. 

As the witch hunting craze died down the north corbel figures in solemn voices would still warn the residents of Dragon Hall, ‘Carve witch marks upon the mantle of your fire to protect yourselves against the loathsome scourge of the witch entering your home.’ They could hear the scoffs emanating from the south whenever they offered this advice. Whether down to the warnings of the northerners or simply as a feature of life at the time witch marks were indeed carved into the timbers above entryways, exits and above fireplaces. Some can still be seen to this day.  

As the years rolled by the hall would continue to adapt. In the 18th century the site developed into Old Barge Yard, christened for the Old Barge Inn now housed in the southern corner of the site. The corbel figures mostly kept to themselves. The northerners were weather-beaten and starting to deteriorate whilst the southerners were often frozen into their customary fresco of squabbling. 

Tradesmen and workers of all different kinds inhabited the dwellings at this time, and they didn’t really believe in the magic of the corbels. The trading hall which sat on the upper floor was no longer in use and the dragons had all but disappeared from the rafters, taking flight for other lands. One dragon remained but their existence remained a mystery to those who lived below, and their magic was weak. 

Revellers from the Old Barge Inn could still awaken the southern corbel figures every now and then though. If they were standing around outside the pub having drunken arguments, then the left figure couldn’t resist chiming in – the lack of the dragon’s magic wasn’t enough to stop them. Their partner would throw up their hands in despair whenever this happened. 

The northerners were well pleased when in the 1930’s the lower levels of the hall were separated into three dwellings; a butchers at their end; the pub standing still to the south and most importantly a rectory in the middle. They wished of course that the rectory had been built beneath their corbel, but they were content to sleep now anyway, having little magic left to them. It was their belief however that from time to time the Parson would walk by and offer them a wink as acknowledgement for their spiritual protection of the hall for all these years. 

As we see the corbels now their figures remain frozen in time. Yet on occasion they will arise once more. The discovery of the single dragon flying the rafters of the hall has brought some magic back to the building and so, if you are walking by some nights, you might catch the northern figures singing songs of devotion, or you might hear southerners arguing over the meaning of a corbel. If you do, you can stop, and you can tell them that a corbel is a piece of masonry that offers support to the structure above it. And then they can move on to argue about something else.

Author’s note

For my pieces for the Story Maker’s Dragon Hall project, I used the springboard of folklore. I am very interested in local and national folklore, and I thought that could offer a different perspective on the project than others might pursue.

The inspiration for ‘A Tale of Two Corbels’ came from the mention of the corbels in the existing website guides and the red book by the Dragon Hall Heritage Volunteers. I discovered the opposing nature of the figures on each corbel, how one set were fighting and the other peaceful, and I thought that this could be a fun dynamic to explore. It seemed an especially rich seam as there was no knowledge of how they came to be, allowing me the space the craft a narrative around them whilst affording me the ability to weave in the true history of the hall. The project really came into focus for me though after a creative writing workshop with writer Daisy Henwood. She emphasised how the telling of history can be extremely effective through a fun and comedic lens. With this in mind I delved into working on the story and tried to create something that fit within these parameters.

As detailed the research for each piece came from the existing documents about Dragon Hall and its history which were endlessly fascinating. I also used research completed by the Norfolk Folklore Society with regards to the history of witch remedies in Norwich.

Stepping into Dragon Hall is made possible by Arts Council England, National Lottery Heritage Fund, Norwich Freemen’s Charity and Wolfson Foundation.