It’s Halloween, or ‘All Halliow’s Eve’, stolen from the pagans! You might think it’s all jack-o’-lanterns, witches, and restless spirits, but long before pumpkins and trick-or-treaters, medieval storytellers were already spinning tales of the restless dead. One of the most chilling comes from Walter Map, a 12th-century courtier, wit, and author of De Nugis Curialium (Courtiers’ Trifles).

Did you know, Walter Map is a character in Rachel Elwiss Joyce’s second novel in the ‘Nicola de la Haye Series’?

Map’s collection of gossip, marvels, and supernatural tales contains one of England’s earliest written accounts of a revenant — a corpse that would not rest quietly in its grave.

In the ancient Celtic world, Samhain marked the moment when the year tipped into darkness. Bonfires blazed on hilltops, not as mere celebration but as protection—flames to cleanse, to guard livestock, and to guide wandering souls.

When Christianity spread, the bonfire’s symbolism endured. The Church kindled its own light—candles of vigil—burning in churchyards and windows on the eve of All Hallows’ Day, turning pagan flame into prayer.

As the last leaves fall and nights lengthen, the medieval calendar turns toward Allhallowtide—three days devoted to saints, souls, and the turning of the year.
The word comes from hallow (Old English hālga, “holy person”) and tīd (“time” or “season”).
For Christians of the Middle Ages, it was a sacred hinge between worlds: a time to honour the saints in heaven, pray for souls in Purgatory, and remember the dead on earth.

But these days did not arise from nowhere. Long before church bells rang, the Celts gathered at Samhain—literally “summer’s end.” The festival marked the boundary between the light and dark halves of the year, when harvest was over and the veil between living and dead grew thin.

For years, the quarrel between Henry II and Thomas Becket raged. Becket fled to France in 1164, finding refuge with King Louis VII—the same Louis who still burned with resentment against Henry II for marrying Eleanor of Aquitaine. The dispute became as much about politics as faith: two monarchs using one archbishop as a pawn.

In 1170, Henry and Becket made a fragile peace. The archbishop returned to England to cheers from the faithful. But within weeks, their conflict flared again when Becket excommunicated bishops loyal to the crown.

It was then, in a moment of fury, that Henry uttered the words chroniclers would never forget—perhaps not verbatim, but in essence:

“Will no one rid me of this turbulent priest?”

Four knights took him at his word.