Poor Little Kenelm

Come with me if  you will, to the pretty Cotswold town of Winchcombe. But this is not an ordinary journey, far from it. Today we are going back to the abbey that thrived there in the ninth century and was, if legend can be believed, the scene of a hideous murder and the most spectacular divine punishment.

Kenelm's Well, where his funeral cortege is
said to have rested

The abbess was the daughter of a king, and as well as being in charge of Winchcombe Abbey, where the royal family archive was housed, she also presided over two further abbeys in Kent. She could not possibly have overseen all of these abbeys in person, for these were vast, lucrative estates and whilst she must have had an astute head for business, she must also have had deputies. On that basis, we must also assume she was literate, at least able to read, for she would not wish to conduct business nor her affairs generally if she had to trust someone else to read documents for her.

Statue of Cwoenthryth's father,
King Cenwulf, at Winchcombe

But according to some chroniclers, this privileged life was not enough for our Cwoenthryth (for that was her name). She was envious that when her father died, in 821, the crown of the midlands kingdom of Mercia had passed not to her, but to her little brother, who goes by various names, but we shall call him Kenelm.

Perhaps we should call him Poor Little Kenelm, because this child was no match for his scheming elder sister. She paid a henchman (in some  versions of the story, it is her lover) to take him out to the woods, kill him, and bury the body.

Well, if that were the end of the story, we probably never would have heard about it. And of course, it wasn’t, and we have. Because a dove (said by some to be carrying the soul of the dead boy) flew to Rome and dropped a message upon the altar of St Peter’s, saying where the body could be found.

The boy’s body was brought back to Winchcombe for burial. Cwoenthryth, reading from a psalter, heard the commotion and saw the funeral procession. Fearing discovery, she began to recite a psalm backwards as a spell, whereupon her eyeballs fell out. Again, according to some versions of the tale, she and her lover died soon afterwards. The 12th-century chronicler, William of Malmesbury, said that in his day the blood spatters on the psalter were still visible. 

Stones from the Anglo-Saxon Winchcombe Abbey,
now at nearby Sudeley Castle

Another horrendous murder from the ‘Dark Ages’ that barely warrants a mention?

Actually, no. When I set out to write my new book, Murder in Anglo-Saxon England, I was aware of this, and many other similar stories. Throughout the writing process, I had to constantly fact-check, because in so many cases, including this one, the earlier, sometimes even contemporary sources, differ widely from the later, largely Anglo-Norman sources. It also seemed to be the case that the later sources, all clerics, were overly keen to blame women for murder wherever they could.

So, in true crime-detective style, now that we’ve listened to what can only be described as hearsay, and not from reliable witnesses, let’s examine the facts.

Firstly, Anglo-Saxon women enjoyed more freedoms than many of their later medieval counterparts, but our Cwoenthryth would never have expected to inherit and rule Mercia. One woman did, in the tenth century (Æthelflæd, Lady of the Mercians) but she was an exception.

Secondly, there is no evidence that Kenelm, if he even existed, was a small boy when he died. Rather we have charter evidence – contemporary evidence – that a man by that name, if indeed he was definitely the son of the king, was still alive and witnessing charters in 821. We have a letter, allegedly from the pope, naming Kenelm and giving his age in 798 as 12. Therefore if this man was indeed the king’s son, he was still alive in 821 and perhaps thereafter, and would have been 35 at the youngest when he died.

Not one even vaguely contemporary source claims that Kenelm was murdered, much less that it was on the orders of his sister.

Why then, might she have been accused? 

As I mentioned, not only was she abbess and essentially owner of Winchcombe, but she was also in charge of two abbeys in Kent, Minster-in-Thanet and Reculver. She found herself in dispute with the archdiocese of Canterbury over these latter two, and was forced to give up all rights.

Minster-in-Thanet, showing the original Anglo-Saxon
brickwork. Photo kind permission of the sisters.

Could this be why the legend grew up; monks writing about a powerful abbess who had locked horns with the Church at Canterbury? As historian Matt Lewis has pointed out, Church attitudes to women changed markedly in the 12th century and on a more general note, the Anglo-Norman Chroniclers had very little reason to say anything positive about pre-1066 England.

Researching this and many other murder stories for the book, I found time and again that the descriptions of the reported murders were much more pedestrian in the more contemporary sources than in the later versions of the tales.

Historical research always involves a fair of amount of metaphorical digging. But it’s the first time I’ve really thought about it as detective work. But when it comes to murder, you really do have to look not just only at the circumstances, but the reliability of the witnesses. I don’t believe much of the later versions of Cwoenthryth’s tale, but they do make for fascinating reading!

Murder in Anglo-Saxon England: Justice, Wergild, Revenge is published by Amberley Books. Available online and in book shops.

Universal Link: https://mybook.to/MIASE

Amberley Books: https://www.amberley-books.com/murder-in-anglosaxon-england.html

[photos by and copyright of the author unless otherwise stated]

Blood Eagle - Myth, or Fact?

It’s probably one of the more famous incidents in Anglo-Saxon history: An invading Viking king is killed by being thrown into a pit of snakes, and in revenge, his son kills his murderer by employing the method of torture and execution known as the Blood Eagle.

We are told by the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle that in 867 Northumbria was ruled by Ælle, but we don’t know his origins, and that he was killed when Vikings attacked York. This seems very straightforward and would appear not to warrant inclusion in a book about murder stories.

But legend takes over the story, with the appearance of Ragnar Lothbrok (Hairy Breeches). We only hear about him from the Icelandic sagas, but it does appear that his named sons, at least, were real historical figures.

According to the legend, Ragnar fell foul of Ælle while he was ravaging Northumbria and was flung into a pit full of snakes where he was bitten and died. He swore his sons would wreak vengeance and so, it was said, they did.

Ivar the Boneless, Ragnar’s son, is alleged to have ordered the killing of his father’s murderer by employing the Blood Eagle. In later descriptions this savage method of execution involved cutting the shape of an eagle with outstretched wings into the victim’s back before cutting the ribs open from the spine. The bones and skin were pulled out until they resembled the shape of wings. The victim, still alive at this point, would have salt rubbed into his wounds. Then, his lungs were pulled out and spread over the ‘wings’ to create an image of a ‘fluttering’ as the victim finally died. Most of these details come to us from the nineteenth century.

As with so many stories in my new book, there is a huge discrepancy between the earlier or contemporary sources and the later ones, even those from the twelfth or thirteenth centuries. From a much nearer source, we have an eleventh-century poem which, depending on how it’s translated, suggests that Ivar ‘only’ had Ælle’s back cut with a sword, or that the cut represented an eagle.

We should also consider the death of Ragnar which supposedly ignited the incident and must assume that the pit was full of adders, the only snake native to England. Even so, an adder’s bite is rarely fatal. We also cannot verify the existence of Ragnar, though the sagas make much of his life – and death – perhaps as a way of introducing the deeds of such men as Ivar the Boneless. Certainly, the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle makes it clear that there was a straightforward battle, and does not mention the snake pit or the blood eagle.

This grisly legend is in many ways typical of the stories in the book:

In later versions of a tale, an abbess is accused of having her infant brother savagely murdered and punished divinely when her eyeballs fell out, while contemporary sources suggest that even if he existed at all, her brother was almost certainly an adult when he died, and no murder is recorded.

 The wife of King Offa of Mercia is said by later chroniclers to have arranged the killing of a visiting king, whereas the earlier source merely states that Offa had the king beheaded. Most tellingly and convincingly, we also have surviving letters from a contemporary of that queen, who wrote to her son urging him to learn compassion from her, and also wrung his hands at the murderous goings on in his own land (Northumbria) where regicides were frequent. He does not mention that the queen has been involved in murder. There are however, many murder stories in the book which can be corroborated, and among the most chilling of all are the ones which appear to have been either sanctioned by kings, or at the very least condoned by them. And yet there were written laws in place from as early as the seventh century, so this was not literally a lawless society, but one where the rich and powerful felt they were above such laws. Being in the wrong political faction could prove fatal.

There was much to untangle, and much detective work required, to see if the bones of truth could be found underneath the flesh of legend and rumour. And along the way, I noticed that some deaths, not recorded as murder, were decidedly suspicious and timely. How about a king benefiting from the early deaths of two half-brothers and a brother-in-law? Or the timely deaths of two kings in the tenth century, each of whom had agreed to a power-sharing arrangement, only to conveniently die a short time later?

Many of the stories have elements of hearsay, and unreliable witnesses. Where I’ve made accusations of my own, of course I can’t call up any witnesses and because the deaths are not recorded as murder, I can’t prove anything. But, just as we all love a good murder story, we all have our opinions about whodunnit…

Murder in Anglo-Saxon England: Justice, Wergild, Revenge is available in book shops and online: HERE

[Images: 

Blood Eagle: detail from Stora Hammars I, Sweden, showing a man lying on his belly with another man using a weapon on his back.

King Æthelberht of East Anglia, killed by King Offa, Canterbury Cathedral. (SAForrest, Creative Commons 2.0) ]

(This article originally appeared on the publisher's website)

Monthly Blog Post - August

August in Old English was Weod-mōnaþ (Plant month). Bede, writing in the eighth century, said it was so called because this is the month when weeds grow the most. Did he mean weeds as we understand them though, or plants generally? 1st August is also Lammas Day (Old English hlaf-mas, "loaf-mass").

The plant for the month of August is generally said to be either the gladiolus or the poppy. I prefer poppy, not only because it my favourite flower, but because of the simplicity of the Old English word, an example of a direct connection between our language today and that of the Anglo-Saxons: poppig. That g at the end is pronounced more like a y, so in essence it's the exact same word. 

A poppy from my garden

It seems a bit incongruous, but I've not just got flowers and plants on my mind at the moment, but murder too! In February of this year, my new book, Murder in Anglo-Saxon England, was published, and there are three notable dates from the month of August.

The first I want to mention is August 5, when Gruffudd of Wales was killed in 1063. Gruffudd was ruler at one time of all of Wales, but made many enemies in the process. His great ally was Ælfgar of Mercia, whom he'd helped out when he was forced into exile by Harold Godwineson and his brothers. Gruffudd married Ælfgar's daughter, Ealdgyth (read about her in my short story HERE) but when Ælfgar died his teenage son Edwin took over Mercia, and Gruffudd was suddenly isolated and vulnerable. His royal palace at Rhuddlan was attacked by forces loyal to Harold Godwineson and, though he managed to escape, he was eventually killed and his head sent to Harold. This was probably at the connivance of his Welsh enemies, but it seems the old saying that 'the enemy of my enemy is my friend' probably sealed Gruffudd's fate. Harold went on to marry Ealdgyth, though how she felt about this was not recorded.

Last month I wrote a little bit about Æthelwold Moll, king of Northumbria, who appears to have gained his kingdom after being involved in a spot of unlawful killing in 759. The history of Northumbria in the eighth century is one of brutal coups, bloody killings and constant threats to the king. In 761 Æthelwold Moll reportedly fought a rival, the atheling Oswine, and killed him on August 6 in the Eildon Hills near the modern-day Scottish border. Moll was himself later deposed and I imagine that even as king he must have felt the need always to sleep with one eye open.

August 20 marks the feast day of another Oswine, also a Northumbrian, who was killed on the orders of King Oswiu. King Oswiu was a duplicitous character but in this instance, although he did manage to secure the permanent removal of his rival, he didn't quite get off scot free (almost literally - for 'scot free' comes from the Old English, scot, a form of tax). Read about how he was punished in my blog post HERE

There's no lingering doubt that Oswine was murdered, but the last on the list of August deaths is a bit more conjectural.

On August 2 924 a young man named Ælfweard was buried. None of the sources suggests foul play, but I have my suspicions, because this young man was the son of Edward the Elder, who himself was the son of Alfred the Great. Edward had some fourteen children by three wives, although many said that the first marriage wasn't legal, and consequently his eldest son, Athelstan, wasn't considered by everyone to be legitimate. He'd been brought up in Mercia and when his father Edward died, Athelstan was voted king in Mercia, while Wessex went to his half-brother Ælfweard. Sources vary, but either Ælfweard survived a mere sixteen days after Edward's death, or reigned for four weeks, but either way, his rule was cut short. All we know is that he died at Oxford, very close to the Wessex/Mercian border. Had he been on his way to visit his half-brother Athelstan, and was he intercepted and removed from the political scene? Athelstan became king of Wessex, but it was also suggested that he played a part in the death of another half-brother, Edwin. Hmm...

You can of course read more about these deaths and my analysis of the stories in my new book Murder in Anglo-Saxon England. 

I've done a whole year of monthly blog posts now - I started them in September 2024 - and I hope you've enjoyed them. Perhaps I'll come up with a new theme for future posts, or maybe they'll be unconnected except for the fact that they will, of course, all concern some aspect or other of Anglo-Saxon history...

Monthly Blog Post - July (and a bit more murder...)

 It's July already and in the northern hemisphere that means that Summer is usually well into its stride, we've passed the Summer Solstice and the nights are drawing in.

July in old English was Æftera Līþa, "After Midsummer", "Second Summer", so yes, it always feels to me like Summer is more than halfway through.

This year (2025), July begins on a Tuesday, which the Anglo-Saxons called Tiwes daeg, named for the pagan god Tiw, a war god. 

The birth month flower for July is delphinium, commonly known as larkspur. Despite the simplicity of this name it is not, in fact, derived from Old English, but probably dates from the 1500s. This plant was in fact known in Anglo-Saxon England as fugeles wýse, or fugeles wíse.

If you're lucky, you can still find poppies (my favourite flower) blooming in July, and they do have an Old English name: poppig. And given that the 'g' is more of a 'y' sound, if you were to travel back to Anglo-Saxon England and point to these flowers and name them, you'd be understood.

July is often a busy time for me, and this year is no exception. On Tuesday 22nd, I'll be back at Tamworth in Staffordshire to present another talk, this time about Murder in Mercia. The setting is the stunning St Editha's Church, the talk begins at 7.30pm, and tickets are £10 on the door.

St Editha's (my photo, taken from Tamworth Castle)

July seems to have been a quiet month for murder, generally, in Anglo-Saxon England, but we do have one notable occurrence...

For this we need to travel up to the troubled kingdom of Northumbria where, in the eighth century, the regnal list is more a litany of regicides, murder victims, or both, with the 'crown' sitting on so many heads that had it been a real item the metal would never have had chance to cool. 

A King Ceolwulf, who'd been briefly deposed and forcibly tonsured*, had abdicated in favour of his cousin, Eadberht.

Almost immediately Eadberht needed to set about neutralising threats from the remnants of the previous reigning families. In 740 the son of a previous king was killed. It seems likely that he had been fomenting rebellion against Eadberht.

In 750, Eadberht faced an unsuccessful challenge from another son of a previous king, who sought sanctuary at the monastery on Lindisfarne and was dragged out by Eadberht’s soldiers. Eadberht also imprisoned the bishop of Lindisfarne. Other than these episodes his reign seems to have been internally peaceful and he was actively engaged in hostilities with other kingdoms.  

In 758 Eadberht abdicated in favour of his son, Oswulf. 

But this rare peaceful passing of the crown from father to son did not bring stability. Northumbrian politics became complicated and murky now, and Oswulf was killed by his own household. According to one source, in the course of one year Oswulf held, lost and forfeited the kingdom and he was ‘wickedly killed’ by his household near Methel Wongton on 24 July 759. 

We have no further details about this killing but it is easy to build a case against one person: the man who then became king and who appears to have been the first of a new dynasty. His name was Æthelwold Moll, and it is probable that he was the same nobleman, Moll, to whom Eadberht had given three monasteries and thus, we can assume, was a member of the king’s inner circle. So it's really not a huge leap to conclude that Æthelwold Moll was a member of the household who murdered Oswulf. 

Silver Sceat of Æthelwold Moll, struck 759-765
Image Accreditation

Æthelwold Moll was himself driven into exile after ruling for only six years. His reign had witnessed the hard winter of 763–4, when ‘deep snow hardened into ice... trees and shrubs for the most part perished’.

And with that reminder of how harsh winter can be, let's enjoy the second half of summer!

If you want to read more about this bloody period of Northumbrian history, all the details are in my new book, Murder in Anglo-Saxon England.

*A common practice, it denoted that the 'victim' was now a religious man and therefore could no longer claim the throne.

Monthly Blog Post: June (and a bit of murder...)

 June already! In Old English this month was called Ærra Līþa "Before Midsummer", or sometimes Brāh-mānod "First Summer".

June is quite the month - it's a time for haymaking, harvesting early crops such as barley and, especially in Anglo-Saxon times, enjoying fresh dairy produce. Of course the summer solstice happens in June too.

Historically June is a month when big events happened: the sealing of the Magna Carta (15th June, 1215) and of course, more recently, the D-Day landings (4th June, 1944). 

But this month, there are two standout stories from the Anglo-Saxon era. They both tie in nicely with my new book, and the first apparently occurred on 1st of this month. So let's talk murder... child murder at that!

The Anglo-Saxon Crypt at Repton - my photo

We start with a royal power struggle in Mercia in the ninth century, and on the face of it, it's the story of a spoiled brat of a 'prince' *, Wigstan, who objected to his mother's remarriage. It seems as though Wigstan's mother had been married to a former king of Mercia, and her suitor was the son of his successor. On the face of it, it looks as though Wigstan, being of that age, was resentful that his mother was choosing to marry again. Things took a nasty turn though when he was murdered. Quite an extreme reaction, you'd have thought.

However, there's more to this than meets the eye (isn't there always?) because whilst it's not entirely clear whether Wigstan's father was ever king - though it does seem likely - there is no doubt that his paternal grandfather was. And here's where it gets complicated, because his maternal grandfather had also been a king of Mercia, which means that Wigstan had very blue blood indeed.

Mercian politics at this time was dominated by the power struggles between various branches of the royal family. It's a list of confusingly similar names and easiest described as a rivalry between kings whose names began with B, C, or W. For simplicity - it's explored at much more length in my new book - let's just say here that one of Wigstan's grandfathers was a C king, the other a W king, and the king who was trying to marry his son off to Wigstan's mother was from the rival B branch.

With this borne in mind, it starts to look as though the B king, having seen off his rival and was now sitting pretty on the throne, wanted to marry his son to the widow of a previous king, to bolster his credentials and strengthen any resulting dynasty. It looks as if Wigstan was just a bit too much of a threat to those plans, and it may be that he never objected at all to the wedding, but was sidelined - permanently - anyway.

This story is representative of so many of the murders in the book. It has a young victim, bloody coups, and many legends attached to it. There's also something less common about it, for it is possible to visit the crypt where Wigstan's bones were laid to rest, near his grandfather's. Underneath St Wystan's church in Repton, Derbyshire, the Angl0-Saxon crypt still exists. It's thought that this is where another Mercian king, Æthelbald, also murdered, was laid to rest. The Repton Stone, thought to represent this king, can be viewed in Derby Museum.

The Repton Stone - my photo

Do visit if you get the opportunity. You can get a 'three-for-one', because next door to the church in the grounds of the vicarage is where archaeological teams have been excavating a Viking burial ground. At the museum in Derby you'll also see the sarcophagus of St Alkmund, another alleged murder victim!

The next story from June is the death of King Harthacnut on 8th June 1042. It was not recorded as murder, but the description of his death does suggest that it might have been poison. 

Harthacnut came to the throne after the death of his half-brother, Harold Harefoot. They were both sons of King Cnut and after their father died an unedifying struggle for control ensued, largely spearheaded by their mothers, Queen Emma and Ælfgifu of Northampton respectively. Harthacnut’s inability to get back to England after his father’s death was a major deciding factor in Harold's election as king.

Harold only reigned in total for around five years, and Harthacnut only two. The family had a disposition for dying young, it would seem. Or did they?

We have a description of Harthacnut’s death: 

He was attending a wedding and, ‘He was standing at his drink and he suddenly fell to the ground with fearful convulsions, and those who were near caught him, and he spoke no words afterwards.’ It does look suspiciously like death by poison. Who would have wanted him dead?

One chronicle said that Harthacnut did nothing worthy of a king, and had Harold’s body dug up and thrown into a fen. 

In the year before his death he’d sent tax collectors to ravage Worcestershire and gather eye-wateringly high amounts of tribute, and two of these collectors were killed by the people of Worcester. Harthacnut was clearly making enemies. And matters weren’t helped when he then sent a large force to burn the city and ‘lay waste the whole province.’

None of the chronicles records foul play, and it’s probably unlikely that any citizens of Worcester made their way into the wedding, but could any erstwhile supporters of Harold Harefoot have got close enough to put poison in the king’s drink? 

Both these stories, and many more, are explored in my new book, Murder in Anglo-Saxon England: Justice, Wergild, Revenge.

*this term was not used at the time

Monthly Blog Post: May, and Edgar's Coronation

The year is flying by, and I can hardly believe we're already in May.

In Old English, this month was known as Þrimilce-mōnaþ "Month of Three Milkings", because of the plentiful production of milk by the animals at this time of year. In this period, animals were 'dry' over winter, not milked all year round. This produced a glut in summer months, and so any cheeses made over the summer were soft, and any surplus then smoked for the autumn/winter. (There would still be a 'hunger gap' in the early spring, when preserved supplies ran out before the new crops etc were ready.)

We usually have two bank holidays in May, one at the beginning and one at the end. The first one is a fairly modern thing, but Whitsun is not. The late Spring Bank Holiday was still known as 'Whit Monday' until the 1970s.

Whitsun appears to be a contraction of 'White Sunday', a reference to the white garments worn by those baptised on that day.

In the year 973, it was an important time for another reason...

One of my favourites from this period is King Edgar, about whom I've written many times, in fiction and nonfiction. He had quite the reputation as a philanderer, which may or may not have been deserved.

King Edgar as depicted on the frontispiece of
the New Minster Charter, mentioned below

He came to the throne in 957, possibly as a boy of only 14. His father, Edmund I, had been assassinated when Edgar and his brother were infants, and was succeeded by their uncle. When he died, the kingship past to Edgar's elder brother, Eadwig. Described by most chroniclers* as a foolish boy, Eadwig gave away vast tracts of land in order to bolster support, but Edgar's foster-father, the powerful Athelstan 'Half-king' of East Anglia, helped to secure Northumbrian and Mercian support for Edgar, and for a while the kingdom was split, with Eadwig still in control of Wessex, and minting coins, and Edgar controlling the midlands and the north, and issuing charters as 'king of the Mercians'.

It wasn't a tenable situation, and in 959, aged only around 19, Eadwig died** and Edgar became king of a united England.

His epithet is Edgar the Peaceable, and it's true that there were no 'Viking' raids during his reign. He also facilitated the Benedictine Reform, spear-headed by archbishops Dunstan and Oswald and Bishop Æthelwold. The coinage was reformed during his reign, too.

The Monastic Reform was not to everyone's liking, and in its wake there was a bit of a free-for-all regarding Church land, and in fact after Edgar's untimely death in 975 the political situation descended into chaos, with land disputes, fighting, and an unedifying argument over the succession, which was resolved when his eldest son, Edward, was killed, leaving the way open for his youngest son Æthelred, to succeed. His epithet was rather less prestigous than his father's: 'unræd' (ill-counselled). 

Æthelred's mother was Edgar's last wife. It is said that he had three wives, but there is little evidence that the first, Æthelflæd Eneda, existed. Tradition has it that his second wife, Wulfthryth, was a consecrated nun who was tricked into marriage by Edgar. This story is an amalgam of several reports by later chroniclers, and it is likely that she had not taken her vows. She seems to have been the mother of the hapless Edward (epithet: the Martyr) and Edith, later St Edith of Wilton.

His last, and I think second, wife, was Ælfthryth, who had previously been married to his foster-brother, son of Athelstan Half-king. Again, stories abound: this first husband tricked Edgar into thinking she was not attractive, and married her himself; Edgar had him murdered; she duped Edgar into marrying her... Again, all probably untrue. She was also implicated by some sources in the killing of her stepson Edward, and was at various times accused of witchcraft and another murder.***

Edgar, as mentioned above, became full king in 959, but did not have a coronation ceremony until that Whit Sunday in 973. Many historians, myself included, believe that he might have been crowned earlier, and that this ceremony had added meaning. It took place in Bath, on the border of Mercia and Wessex, perhaps to signify his dominion over both erstwhile kingdoms, and happened when he was 30, the canonical age for a bishop. There was certainly an element of show. We are told that after this ceremony in Bath, Edgar went to Chester and was rowed along the River Dee and paid homage by several other kings, who now were deemed to be sub-kings. It was, by the looks of it, a show of Imperial Power, and again, the siting of the ceremony, the old Roman city of Bath, adds weight to this notion.

The really significant thing, though, is that Ælfthryth was consecrated queen alongside him. This was the first known instance of a queen consort being crowned.**** In an important document, a charter confirming the privileges of the New Minster in Winchester, it is clear that the eldest son of this union was given precedence over Edgar's son by Wulfthryth, Edward. Sadly for Queen Ælfthryth this did not stop his being elected king when Edgar died, at a comparatively young age in 975, just two years after the coronation. And she is always likely to be remembered as the wicked stepmother who ordered his killing, as shown in this image, where she welcomes her stepson to her house at Corfe, while her henchman prepares to kill him.

*One chronicler, Æthelweard, wrote of Eadwig in glowing terms, but was probably related to him and therefore biased.

** For an in-depth look at Eadwig's ill-fated reign and the political importance of his short-lived marriage, see my article here: https://t.co/uTmElKcyPR

***If you'd like to read more about Ælfthryth, please do check out my latest book, Murder in Anglo-Saxon England, which lays out all the accusations made against her, and challenges almost all of them! It also looks at the convenient, and timely for some, death of Eadwig, and challenges what is usually thought about the assassination of Edmund, father of these two young boys.

**** You can read more about Ælfthryth's life in general in my book Women of Power in Anglo-Saxon England.

I've also written a novel about Edgar's leading nobleman: Alvar the Kingmaker

Of which the Historical Novel Society said:

'Alvar is closely associated with both kings. Young, but mature and trusty, he helps protect, support and guide them and soon regards himself as a kingmaker. The novel develops his character along with the narrative. He does not have an easy ride. In love and respect he has to bide his time.

The conflicts between different factions and rival individuals surrounding Alvar’s life are convincing. They keep the drama flowing, and the women in the novel are nicely drawn, fulfilling the lifestyle expected of females at that time yet showing their individual personalities. They also have key parts in the action; Kata, for instance, the love of Alvar’s life, is depicted as quiet yet emotionally strong and open-minded.'

Well, I did say I'd written an awful lot about Edgar's reign! Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy May, with all its wonderful blossoms. (Blossom is another lovely Old English word!)

Monthly Blog Post - April

 And just like that, we're into April already. 2025 has gone really quickly. Let's dive in with some facts about this month:

April was known in Old English as Easter-mōnaþ which is perhaps not surprising. Bede, the Northumbrian monk, said  that Easter Month was so named because it was the month of the goddess Ēostre. There's a lot of debate about this last point, and whether Bede invented this pagan goddess. Arguments rage, too, about the rabbits, hares and eggs and what they symbolise.

Ostara (1884) by Johannes Gehrts

There was also, back in the seventh century, a great deal of debate about when to celebrate Easter, something which I illustrated in my novels about the lives of King Penda of Mercia and his family, Cometh the Hour and The Sins of the Father.

In the first, a young Kentish bride travels north to her husband's kingdom of Northumbria, there to find that while she, having been brought up in the 'Roman' faith, was still observing Lent, her husband, brought up in the 'Celtic' tradition of Christianity, had already observed Easter and was feasting.

In the second book, the king and queen are at odds, for many reasons, one being her patronage of the troublesome Bishop, later Saint, Wilfrid. King and queen (or at least, her representative) were on opposing sides at the Synod of Whitby in 664 where, amongst other things, an agreement was finally reached on the dating of Easter.

I had cause to mention this event in my new (nonfiction) book, Murder in Anglo-Saxon England, too, since that king, Oswiu, was also at odds with one of his sons, another friend of Wilfrid's. That son disappeared from the records after the synod. Was Oswiu to blame? He certainly had form, having earlier in his reign ordered the murder of a rival king, who just happened to be a second cousin of his wife's. Read more about that HERE. I'm amazed they remained married as long as they did!

Wilfrid himself, definitely a 'turbulent' priest, died in April, on 24th in 709. He'd presented himself to the queen, Eanflæd, when he was just fourteen, asking for her sponsorship. Bede brings us this story in his Ecclesiastical History, and it's an example of proof that queens ran their own separate households at this time. Wilfrid had a habit of annoying people and could be considered haughty - he famously decided that there was none fit in England to consecrate him when he became a bishop, and went off to Gaul to find someone suitably qualified.

He also caused uproar when King Oswiu's son, who succeeded him, married Æthelthryth of East Anglia. She'd been married before, and apparently was still a virgin and wished to remain so, and in this endeavour she was encouraged by Wilfrid who thus made himself unpopular with yet another king. There are various versions of her escape from her husband, and you can read about her HERE. (Image is my photo of a painting at Hexham, taken and published with kind permission of the rector of Hexham Abbey.)

She became abbess of Ely, and the modern version of her name is Audrey. It is from her that we get the word 'Tawdry', or rather from the inferior quality of the souvenirs that were sold to pilgrims.

Wilfrid's death on that April day was, according to the Old English Martyology, quite the spectacle. The house in which he was born was seen burning by the neighbours who rushed to put out the flames, but when they got nearer, there were no flames at all. When Wilfrid gave up the ghost a noise was heard like the sound of large birds and a host of angels took him to heaven. I rather suspect that Wilfrid would have had no qualms in arguing with God when he got there!

The 7th-century crypt at Ripon, built on the orders
Of Wilfrid. Author's own photo

Another Anglo-Saxon character who's not noted for his sense of humour (with good reason, given his stomach ailment and the waves of Danes wanting to take over his kingdom) was Alfred the Great. And yet it seems that we have him to thank for the notion of Easter being an official holiday. 

Search on the internet and you'll find that "Taking a break for Easter actually dates back to 877 when Alfred the Great decreed that the fortnight on either side of Easter Sunday should be a national holiday. This lasted until the thirteenth century when the first week was dropped. Instead, a further two days, known as ‘hocktide’ were tagged to the end of the holiday."

Now, hocktide is certainly a 'thing', referring to the Monday and Tuesday in the second week after Easter. And in Alfred's laws we find this: "To all free people let these following days be granted as holidays but not to slaves and servile workers, twelve days at Christmas (Gehol)... and seven days before Easter and seven after." *

Alfred's statue - Pixabay chrisjmit

And there is an episode in Alfred's life connected to Easter. We are told by Asser, a monk commissioned to write Alfred's biography, and by the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle that after his hall at Chippenham was attacked by Vikings on or just after 12th Night, Alfred led his followers to Athelney, arriving there at Easter 878. It has been noted** that this might be symbolism, with Alfred rising victorious just as Christ had done that first Easter Day and the sources do not specify that it was Easter Sunday, with one saying 'after' Easter and one 'around' Easter.

Still, as we know, and despite the ruling at Whitby, Easter is still very much a movable feast! However (and if) you celebrate, Happy Easter!

* Griffiths: An Introduction to Early English Law. See also English Historical Documents Vol I, ed. Dorothy Whitelock 

**https://thepostgradchronicles.org/