The Cross-Bones Graveyard: London’s Red-Light Graveyard and the Place of Southwark’s Outcast Dead
London, a city steeped in history and mystery, has its share of well-known landmarks—the gleaming towers of the City, the majestic Buckingham Palace, and the famous West End theatres. Yet, hidden away from the bustling streets and modern attractions is a darker, almost forgotten chapter in the city’s history. Nestled within the vibrant South Bank, an area now synonymous with cultural regeneration and affluence, lies a small, rusted iron gate adorned with ribbons, feathers, and tokens. Behind that gate rests the Cross Bones Graveyard, a solemn reminder of a time when Southwark was not the glittering hub of art and commerce it is today, but London’s first red-light district—a place for the city’s outcasts.
Southwark: London’s First Red-Light District
To understand the significance of Cross Bones Graveyard, one must first take a step back into the past, to the Southwark of the Middle Ages. Located just south of the River Thames, this area was once marshland, a damp and undesirable place on the fringes of London proper. Yet, by virtue of its location, Southwark became a hub for those seeking entertainment and, often, illicit pleasures. Theatres, taverns, bear-baiting pits, and brothels flourished in this district—“amusements” that drew both locals and travelers alike. Southwark’s notoriety began as far back as Roman times when soldiers stationed in the area would frequent its taverns and brothels. This trend continued unabated for centuries, even through the Viking era and the Crusades.
As London Bridge was established in the 12th century, connecting the southern bank of the Thames to the bustling city, Southwark became even more important as a center for commerce—and vice. Its red-light district became infamous, a place where visitors could indulge their desires, free from the restrictions and laws of the City of London, which ended at the river’s edge. Southwark, outside the city’s jurisdiction, allowed the flourishing of activities frowned upon by London’s more respectable citizens.
The Winchester Geese and the Bishop’s Rule
By the 12th century, Southwark had come under the control of one of the most powerful religious figures in England: the Bishop of Winchester. This arrangement may seem strange today, as the church is often perceived as a moral authority. Yet, in medieval England, the bishop wielded both religious and secular power. Among his many privileges was the right to license and tax Southwark’s brothels and prostitutes. The women who worked there were derisively called the “Winchester Geese,” perhaps because of their habit of baring their white breasts to attract customers.
To be “bitten by a Winchester Goose” was to suffer a sexually transmitted disease, and prostitution in Southwark was fraught with such risks. Gonorrhea, syphilis, and other venereal diseases spread rampantly through the stews—the name given to Southwark’s brothels. These establishments, sometimes as few as five, sometimes as many as 18, depending on the year, became an indelible part of Southwark’s identity.
The crown’s repeated attempts to control prostitution in Southwark were a testament to the area’s enduring notoriety. King Henry II attempted to regulate the stews through the “Ordinances Touching the Government of the Stewholders in Southwark,” a set of 39 rules implemented in 1161. These ordinances required the prostitutes to be registered, barred nuns and married women from joining their ranks, and placed various restrictions on their activities. Curiously, these regulations also sought to ensure the prostitutes’ autonomy, preventing them from being coerced into staying in the brothels and prohibiting them from taking their own lovers.
Despite these attempts at regulation, Southwark’s red-light district persisted. The Bishop of Winchester continued to profit from the women who worked under his jurisdiction. Yet, for all the power the Bishop wielded over the lives of these women, one thing remained beyond his control: their deaths. According to Christian doctrine, prostitutes were not allowed to be buried in consecrated ground. The church denied them proper burial rites, and so, their bodies were laid to rest in a place far from the parish church—a plot of land that would later be known as Cross Bones Graveyard.
Cross Bones: The Graveyard of the Outcasts
The origins of Cross Bones Graveyard can be traced back to the Tudor period when Southwark’s red-light district was in full swing. Historian John Stow wrote in 1598 that “single women,” a euphemism for prostitutes, were forbidden the rites of the church so long as they continued their sinful lives. As a result, they were excluded from Christian burial and interred in a plot known as the “Single Woman’s churchyard.”
Located far from the parish church, Cross Bones Graveyard became the final resting place for Southwark’s outcasts. It was a place for the poor, the diseased, and the unloved—those who lived their lives on the fringes of society. As Southwark evolved, so too did the use of Cross Bones. By the Victorian era, Southwark had become one of London’s most notorious slums, plagued by crime, poverty, and disease. Cross Bones was repurposed as a pauper’s graveyard, serving the parish of St. Saviour’s.
The conditions in Cross Bones were as miserable as those who were buried there. In 1833, William Taylor, an antiquarian, wrote about the cemetery: “There is an unconsecrated burial ground known as the Cross Bones at the corner of Redcross Street, formerly called the Single Woman’s burial ground, which is said to have been used for this purpose.” As the decades passed, Cross Bones became increasingly overcrowded. Bodies were buried just two feet beneath the surface, and the stench of decomposition permeated the air. Residents complained that the cemetery was a public health hazard, particularly during the cholera epidemic that ravaged London. Although it was later discovered that contaminated water was the true cause of the outbreak, at the time, many believed the foul-smelling graves were to blame.
By 1853, Cross Bones had become so overcrowded that the cemetery was officially closed. An 1832 letter from parish authorities described the situation in grim detail: “The ground is so very full of coffins that it is necessary to bury within two feet of the surface, and the effluviem is so very offensive that we fear the consequences may be very injurious to the surrounding neighbourhood.”
The Forgotten Dead and the Resurrection of Cross Bones
For many years after its closure, Cross Bones was largely forgotten, left to decay as Southwark transformed around it. The cemetery was briefly used as a fairground, but complaints from locals about the noise and disruption led to its abandonment. By the 20th century, the graveyard had faded into obscurity, overshadowed by Southwark’s ongoing redevelopment.
That all changed in the 1990s when the London Underground embarked on a project to extend the Jubilee Line. The plan required the construction of an electricity substation on the site of Cross Bones Graveyard. Before the project could proceed, however, archeologists from the Museum of London were called in to investigate. They knew that the site contained an old burial ground, but the scale of what they found was shocking. Over the course of six weeks, archeologists excavated 148 skeletons from the top layers of the soil—an estimated one percent of the total number of bodies buried there.
The skeletons told a tragic story of suffering and hardship. More than half of the remains belonged to children, a reflection of the high rates of infant mortality in 19th-century London. Many of the bones bore the scars of diseases such as rickets, scurvy, and syphilis. These were the bodies of the poor and the forgotten, buried in cheap coffins, their lives marked by illness and poverty.
The discovery of these remains reignited public interest in Cross Bones. Local historian Patricia Dark described the cemetery as “a place where you can go and celebrate the people nobody remembers.” For many, Cross Bones became a symbol of the marginalised and the overlooked, a place where the dead could be honoured and remembered.
The Southwark Mysteries and the Modern Revival of Cross Bones
The revival of interest in Cross Bones was not solely driven by archeological discoveries. In 1996, local poet and playwright John Constable claimed to have been visited by the spirit of a medieval prostitute he called “The Goose.” According to Constable, the Goose began dictating poems to him, the first of which would later form the basis of his work The Southwark Mysteries. The verse Constable wrote down that night in 1996 reads:
For tonight in Hell
They are tolling the bell
For the Whore that lay at the Tabard,
And well we know
How the carrion crow
Doth feast in our Cross Bones Graveyard.
Constable’s work breathed new life into the cemetery. In 1998, the first Halloween ritual at Cross Bones was performed, drawing attention to the site and its forgotten dead. For 13 years, until 2010, a community of people gathered annually to honour the memory of those buried in Cross Bones. They built altars, performed parts of The Southwark Mysteries, and carried out candle-lit processions to the cemetery gates.
Today, these rituals continue on a smaller scale, with monthly vigils taking place at the site. Cross Bones has become a place of remembrance for many, not just for those connected to Southwark’s historical past but for those looking to remember their own dead. Constable and his supporters, known as the Friends of Cross
Bones, have worked to transform the neglected graveyard into a wild garden, a sanctuary where visitors can reflect on the lives of those who were buried there.
The Future of Cross Bones Graveyard
As Southwark continues to evolve, the future of Cross Bones remains uncertain. In recent years, there have been plans to redevelop the site, raising concerns among the community that the graveyard could be lost forever. However, thanks to the efforts of Constable and the Friends of Cross Bones, there is hope that the site will be preserved. Transport for London, which now owns the land, has granted Constable and his volunteers access to the site, and Southwark Council has pledged £100,000 to create a permanent garden of remembrance at the cemetery.
For those who gather at Cross Bones, the site represents more than just a historical curiosity—it is a place where the dead are honoured, where the forgotten are remembered. As Southwark continues to change, the graveyard stands as a reminder of the area’s darker past, a past that is often overlooked amidst the shiny new office towers and bustling tourist attractions.
Yet, as Patricia Dark notes, Cross Bones is not just a place for the dead. It is also a place for the living, a place where people can come together to celebrate their shared humanity. In a city as vast and impersonal as London can sometimes feel, Cross Bones offers a space for reflection, connection, and healing.
The graveyard that once housed the bodies of Southwark’s outcasts now serves as a testament to the resilience of the human spirit, a place where the wounds of history are slowly being healed, one vigil at a time.
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