Monthly Post: October

October: Winterfyllēð "Winter full moon", according to Bede "because winter began on the first full moon of that month [of October]." As one who doesn't especially like winter and can barely tolerate autumn, I prefer not to think of October as the beginning of winter! But already we can see how so many Old English words survive unchanged to this day; there's no need to translate 'winter'. 

When is the full moon this month? It will be on October 17 and will be called the Hunter's Moon. The Hunter's Moon is apparently so-named because it's an ideal time to hunt animals. It's also the first full moon after the Harvest Moon which this year occurred on September 18th. 

Search for images for the month of October in medieval times and you'll find lots which feature wild boar. There's one which I can't share here due to copyright issues, but it has been described thus: 

"A man on foot, with a spear, follows a group of pigs into a wood followed by a second man, also afoot and equipped with a spear, who is blowing a horn and leading dogs. The scene is usually described as 'feeding hogs' but the spears, dogs and horn suggest a more sinister explanation (from the pigs' point of view)." *

Pigs or boar were not the only animal hunted, and we know that deer were, too. Deor, the Old English word, could mean any wild animal, but we have heortas ('hart') and we know that both roe and red deer were hunted.

The nobility would also 'hawk' and here there is a nice word distinction, for it was hawking rather than falconry. Goshawk is an Old English word (goshafoc) and so is Sparrowhawk (spearhafoc) and the latter always makes me smile as it was the nickname of a metal-working monk, who pulled off quite a heist. You can read more about Sparrowhawk HERE 

This year 1st October is a Tuesday: Tiwes daeg (Anglo Saxon Tiw, war god, related to Greek god Zeus), so Tiw's day, and if we remember that often the 'g' is a soft, 'y' sound, it's easy to see how we arrived at our modern 'Tuesday'.

Of course, October 1066 was rather a catastrophic month for the English, when the third major battle of that year took place and Harold Godwineson's luck ran out. It was an event of seismic proportions, drawing a line across English history (many books on that subject don't even mention anything before 1066) and changing the culture and landscape of England. But, as has been pointed out, but for a moment, it could have been a battle that no one really talked about. Had Harold not been killed that day, it would have joined the long list of fights that didn't really change anything and who know how the monarchy would have looked. Well, early on I can tell you that, since Harold was married to a Mercian, there'd have been Mercian blood in the next monarch's veins!

It is such a huge moment in history that a few years ago nine of us got together and wrote a volume of short 'What Ifs'. My contribution was to focus on that Mercian bride and her family, and think about a different fate for her brothers at the battle of Fulford.

You can read all the stories here: 1066 Turned Upside Down

3rd October is, according to the Old English Martyrology, the feast of the Two Hewalds. These were English missionaries who went to preach in Frisia, and were murdered. The details - rather grisly - are in my forthcoming book, Murder in Anglo-Saxon England which is now available for preorder.

October also sees the Feast Days of Saints Æthelburh, abbess of Barking, and Cedd, who also gets a couple of mentions in my new book.

And finally let's not forget that the clocks go back this month in the UK. Many will bemoan the darker evenings but I say if we're going to stop changing the clocks, let's stay on GMT all year round. Remaining on BST over the winter would see parts of the north often not getting light until noon. And a GMT summer would still see us enjoying daylight until around 9pm. And no more losing an hour's sleep in the spring. And let's face it, the Anglo-Saxons wouldn't have messed around moving their sun dials back and forwards...

*The World Before Domesday, Ann Williams

Monthly Post: September

September ushers in the Autumn (or Hærfest, which is very succinct and descriptive, like so much of Old English). The changing of the seasons excites some, depresses others - I must admit, I'm not a fan - and one of the first things that happens in the new school year is the Harvest Festival.

In Anglo-Saxon times, August was Weod-mōnaþ, literally weed month but really perhaps simply "Plant month" (after all, a weed even in modern times is only a plant growing in the 'wrong' place). Bede, the eighth-century monk who gives us so much of our information for this period, said it was the time when weeds grow most abundantly. But this is the time when the flowers tend to bloom, the crops grow and by the end of August/the beginning of September, the harvest is usually in full swing.

In the UK this year it hasn't been the best of summers, with the weather doing unusual things. There's an entry in the Annals of Fulda, composed in East Frankia in the ninth century which records equally unpredictable weather. In Mainz, the sky appeared red for a number of nights and then two clouds, one from the north and one from the south and east fought what was described as a great battle. The land was shaken by two earthquakes and a number of people who were gathering in the harvest were found dead, having died of heat stroke. The chronicle also reports that there were several drownings in the River Rhine.

At this time of year, the hedgerows change and round here it looks set to be a bumper year for blackberries (Old English blackberry = brǣmelberġe. You can see instantly why our alternative word for these is 'bramble'. Imagine that final 'g' as soft, so a 'y' sound, and you get 'brambleberry')

You might find that the teasel (Old English tæsel or wulfescamb) is still in flower, but on the lane by my house, they've finished flowering. This was a photo taken in the last week of August:

Anyone who is familiar with my book, To Be A Queen  about Æthelflæd, Lady of the Mercians, will know that in the novel, her family nickname is Teasel, because as a child she used to sit and comb her uncle's beard. That uncle was called Wulf, so 'Wulf's comb' was an apt name.

If you're lucky, you might also spot a weasel (weosule) or a field vole. I can't find an Old English word for vole, but the Anglo-Saxons must have known these creatures, surely? Let me know in the comments if you know differently.

September was known in Anglo-Saxon times as Hālig-mōnaþ "Holy Month" but an alternative is Hærfestmōnað - which is very recognisable as "Harvest Month". Bede described this a month of sacredness. Of course there are many Harvest traditions to this day, a way of celebrating and giving thanks for the abundance. In Anglo-Saxon times, the harvest was crucial to see folk through the winter months. One crop that would have been harvested then, as now, to be stored away was the humble æppel, which I'm sure needs no translating!  (Here's some from my small tree a few years ago)

Another Old English word associated with September is em-niht which means "equal-night", so the equinox. One of the reasons I mentioned at the top that this time of year depresses some people is that of course, in the Northern Hemisphere, it signals that the nights are drawing in.

September for me has always heralded the start of a new year - the school association is strong, especially as I taught for a number of years. It's going to be a busy time for me, writing/reading-wise.

Firstly, I've been honoured to be part of the judging panel for the prestigious Historical Writers' Association Nonfiction Crown Award, and we meet early in September to decide the longlist for this year's competition. 

Midway through the month, on the 14th, I'll be back in Tamworth talking about King Offa's 'Wicked' Wife and Daughter (tickets available here) 

At the very end of August I returned the edits, along with the index, for my forthcoming book Murder in Anglo-Saxon England, which will be published in February 2025 but can be pre-ordered HERE and of course on the Amazon sites.

This year, September begins on a Sunday, which in Old English was Sunnenday which again, needs no translation, I'm sure!

Old English is in many ways a completely different language from modern English, but also comfortingly similar at times, an enduring link between us and the Anglo-Saxons.

Lady Godiva - did she, or didn't she?

One of the most famous (or should that be notorious?) Anglo-Saxon women is Lady Godiva or, to give her her Old English name, Godgifu. And the thing she’s famous - or notorious - for is her naked horseback ride through Coventry.

But who was she, and did she really? And what did she have to do with my contribution for the anthology of 'What If' stories,  1066 Turned Upside Down?

First, that horse ride. The story goes that Leofric (her husband) founded the monastery at Coventry on the advice of his wife. He endowed the foundation with so much land, woods and ornaments that ‘there was not found in all England a monastery with such an abundance of gold and silver, gems and costly garments.’ Godgifu was keen to free the town of Coventry from such a financial burden, and yet when she spoke to her husband about it, he challenged her to ‘Mount your horse, and ride naked, before all the people, through the market of the town, from one end to the other, and on your return you shall have your request.’ Whereupon, she ‘loosed her hair and let down her tresses, which covered the whole of her body like a veil, she rode through the market-place, without being seen, except her fair legs, and having completed the journey, returned with gladness to her astonished husband’, who then freed the town from the aforesaid service, and confirmed what he had done by a charter. 

Except…the only source we have for the story is Roger of Wendover, a monk writing in the thirteenth century. Other sources suggest that the founding of Coventry was a joint enterprise (and none mentions the horse ride). A chronicle ascribed to a monk at Worcester, which is only just over forty miles from Coventry, written before 1118, stated that Leofric and Godgifu were jointly responsible: ‘[Leofric] was buried with all pomp at Coventry; which monastery, among the other good deeds of his life, he and his wife … had founded.’ 

It has been suggested that the documents recording Leofric founding Coventry were later forgeries and it might in fact have been Godgifu’s own lands which were used. (We know that she was a wealthy woman; possibly originally from northwest Mercia, she held lands in Leicestershire, Warwickshire, Staffordshire and Shropshire.)

Edmund Blair Leighton's painting showing Godiva
making her decision to take that ride

Along with the lack of corroboration for the story, the political situation at the time casts further doubt. Leofric of Mercia was a leading political figure. In the eleventh century, the old Anglo-Saxon kingdoms had become ealdordoms, or earldoms. Godgifu married into the leading Mercian family; her husband inherited his earldom from his father and passed it onto his son. In fact four generations of the family became earls of Mercia, the only family to achieve such a feat in this period. Leofric was described as pious, and being ‘but a moderate drinker’ and prayed in secret when his drunken companions were asleep. He was in power for over twenty years ‘without violence or aggression’. He was heavily involved in the succession crisis created by the death of Cnut, when two contenders vied for the throne. One, Harold Harefoot, was Cnut’s son by Ælfgifu of Northampton, and the other, Harthacnut, was his son by Emma of Normandy. 

At this time there were three leading earls, and Leofric was one of them. This particular game of thrones was very much directed by the two royal mothers, Ælfgifu and Emma, and was heavily reported. Had another high-ranking woman, wife of a leading and rather staid nobleman, done a public striptease, I think it would have been commented upon. One of the more contemporary records for this period, the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, is quite detailed by this stage, giving over pages and pages to each year, as opposed to one sentence summaries for earlier centuries, but it doesn’t mention the horse ride. 

11th-century depiction of Queen Emma

Much of Leofric’s political career, and that of his son and grandsons, was tied up with the fortunes of Earl Godwine, and his son, Harold (he of the alleged 1066 arrow in the eye).

Leofric’s politics differed from that of Godwine, but all differences remained relatively civil. Not so when it came to these men’s sons.

In 1051, Godwine’s earldom stretched from Kent to Cornwall. He was father-in-law to the king of England, and his son Harold was earl of Essex, East Anglia, Cambridgeshire and Huntingdonshire. And this, strange as it may seem, is the start of the events that led to Godgifu playing a part in my story. Following an incident in that year, Godwine and his family were temporarily banished and Harold’s earldom of East Anglia was given to Ælfgar, son of Leofric and Godiva. But by 1052 the Godwines were back, which meant that Ælfgar was displaced from East Anglia. He regained the area briefly, but in 1055 he himself was outlawed, possibly on trumped-up charges. He launched a fightback, with the help of Gruffudd, king of the Welsh and, long story short, got East Anglia back. When Leofric died, Ælfgar succeeded him in Mercia, but the following year he was banished again, returning once more with the help of Gruffudd and around this time his daughter Ealdgyth was married to Gruffudd. Just a year or so after Ælfgar died, Gruffudd, crucially, was killed when Harold Godwinson and his brother Tostig launched an attack on North Wales. 

Had Ælfgar lived, it is unlikely that he would have supported Harold Godwinson’s election to the throne. He, far more than his father, had reason to resent the Godwines. He had been banished twice, and both times Harold had been involved. His son Edwin took over from him in Mercia, and another son, Morcar, became earl of Northumbria after Harold’s brother Tostig was disgraced. At some point in 1066, Harold married their sister, Ealdgyth. How she felt about being married to the man responsible for killing her first husband, we don’t know.

And this is the set up for my story in 1066: A mighty Mercian family pledged by allegiance and marriage ties to King Harold, but ever-present is the doughty grandmother, who has every reason to hate Harold Godwinson and his family. The brief was also to add a twist to the tale, so I looked at this rivalry between the two families, and I ran with it...

Little more is known of Godgifu. There was a later rumour that Hereward the Wake was her son, but there’s absolutely no evidence to support this. We don’t know when she was married, but as Leofric became an earl in 1023, it’s possible that they were married as early as 1010, and that she might have been born around 990. If she died even shortly after 1066 then she might have been well into her seventies, having lived through the reigns of Æthelred the ‘Unready’, Swein Forkbeard and Cnut, Harold Harefoot and Harthacnut, Edward the Confessor and Harold Godwinson, and lived to see William of Normandy crowned king of England. 

Pious, rich - in her own right as well as through her marriage - and an old lady to be reckoned with. But riding naked through the streets? I don’t think so. (But read the story, because she remembers it differently…)

Buy 1066 Turned Upside Down to read my fictional take, or read more about the real Lady Godiva in my nonfiction books:

Mercia: The Rise and Fall of a Kingdom

Women of Power in Anglo-Saxon England

[A version of this article originally appeared on Helen Hollick's blog]

Anglo-Saxon Women who left their Husbands

When were women legally allowed to petition for divorce? Perhaps one might guess at the late nineteenth or even early twentieth century?

In fact, the laws of King Æthelberht of Kent (c. 589-616) state that ‘if [a maiden married with proper payment of bride-gift] wishes to go away with the children, she is to have half the goods.’ I must admit, though, this is a little vague and hard to interpret.

However, even up to the eleventh century, women couldn’t be forced to marry a man whom they disliked, and widows could not be forced into remarriage. Women were not necessarily trapped in wedlock.

There are certainly a number of high-profile cases where women decided that married life was not for them. True, their (eventual) destinations were abbeys. But ‘Get thee to a nunnery’? No, it was more a case of ‘I’m off’. They weren’t banished, they chose to go. And in rather spectacular style, too...

Let’s meet some of them.

Cuthburh

Wimborne Minster [image credit]

Cuthburh was a West Saxon princess, a sister of King Ine of Wessex. She was instrumental in founding the first West Saxon monasteries. The Anglo-Norman chronicler William of Malmesbury recorded that she ‘was given in marriage to Aldfrith, king of the Northumbrians, but the contract being soon after dissolved, she led a life dedicated to God.’ William’s notes echo the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle which tells us that Cuthburh founded a monastery at Wimborne, and that she had been married to Aldfrith but that they separated ‘during their lifetime’. Clearly then, it was acceptable for a marriage to end and although the result was the religious life for Cuthburh, we don’t know if that’s the reason why the marriage was dissolved. It was, remember, ‘soon after’ dissolved, so maybe the couple took an instant dislike to each other?

In the next case, the yearning for the religious life probably was the driving force behind the divorce, but the route to that life was rather more dramatic.

Domneva (Sometimes Domne Eafe, or Eormenburg)

Saxon remains of Minster Abbey - photo by kind permission of the sisters

Domneva, daughter of a king of Kent, married Merewalh, who might have been the son, or son-in-law, of Penda of Mercia. The marriage lasted for a little over a decade before Domneva left Mercia and returned to Kent. The circumstances under which she left are recorded in a text known as the Mildrith Legend and the story concerns the murder of Domneva’s brothers by their cousin, Ecgberht, or rather by a servant of his, Thunor. Whether he ordered the killings, or was merely guilty of failing to stop his servant from committing murder, King Ecgberht was deemed liable. A wergild (man price) was owed in compensation, and Ecgberht paid this wergild to Domneva in the form of land on Thanet for her to found a monastery.

According to the Mildrith Legend, Domneva requested that she have as much land on Thanet as her tame hind could run around. As the hind ran, it was followed by the king and the court, but Thunor attempted to stop the animal and was swallowed by the earth. When the hind had finished running, Domneva was able to claim forty-eight hides of land, compensation had been duly paid, and Thunor got his comeuppance. As we’ve seen, seventh-century traditions allowed for royal couples to separate in pursuit of the religious life and Domneva would have been free to leave Merewalh even without her brothers being murdered. Were their deaths really the catalyst, and is the story true? If it is, it shows a shrewd woman who was wily enough to ensure the maximum grant of land for her religious foundation.

Perhaps the most fascinating story, though, is that of our next lady.

St Æthelthryth

Æthelthryth [image info]

Æthelthryth was the daughter of King Anna of East Anglia and in fact she was married twice, the first time to a man named Tondberht who was a high-ranking member of an elusive tribe known as the South Gyrwe. That first marriage lasted only a few years and she was apparently still a virgin when Tondberht died. Given what we know of her later life and the fact that, according to one source, she resisted for some time before agreeing to her first marriage, it is perhaps surprising that she agreed to the second, but it’s interesting to note that this indicates a certain amount of choice in the matter of marriage. She had retired to Ely Abbey and been a widow for five years before her marriage to Ecgfrith of Northumbria.

Ecgfrith was young, perhaps around 15, when he married Æthelthryth in 660. Æthelthryth was older than Ecgfrith by some margin, perhaps as much as a decade. Bede records that Æthelthryth refused to consummate her marriage and was encouraged in this by St. Wilfrid. In around 672, Æthelthryth became a nun, and apparently received her holy veil from Wilfrid.

Bede relates a simple tale, that ‘at length and with difficulty’ Æthelthryth gained her husband’s permission to enter a monastery, staying first with the abbess at Coldingham and then becoming abbess of Ely.

But what of her initial escape from the clutches of her husband? There is another version of her story. The Liber Eliensis, (the history of Ely Abbey) relates how Ecgfrith, having initially agreed to the divorce, then tried to remove her forcibly from the convent. The abbess of Coldingham advised Æthelthryth that her only option was to escape. The king set off in pursuit, but Æthelthryth and her two lady companions climbed to the top of a steep hill where divine intervention caused the water levels to rise. The king could not get near, and eventually returned to York.

In reality, it’s likely that Ecgfrith would have been glad to be rid of an older wife who refused to give him children. Nevertheless, whichever version one chooses to believe, note that even in the more dramatic version, Ecgfrith had initially agreed to the divorce. Æthelthryth clearly had a lot of say over her marital status.

(Incidentally, it is from her that we get the word ‘tawdry’ from her modernised name, Audrey. A fair held in Ely on her feast day became popular and items which had apparently touched her shrine were of low quality, hence ‘tawdry’.)

It must be remembered that life as an abbess was no punishment. Many of the abbeys were double houses, where monks and nuns lived, and it was not an isolated life. Abbesses ruled rich estates and were highly influential politically. They just didn’t always retire quietly!

You can read more about all of these women in my book Women of Power in Anglo-Saxon England 

And Æthelthryth and Domneva feature in my novel, The Sins of the Father, the second in a two-volume series about Penda of Mercia and his family, and their enmity with the Northumbrians. It can be read as a standalone book.

Edith of Polesworth, Nun and Wife? Maybe...

With the study of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, the writings of Bede, the Welsh and Irish annals, and the later Anglo-Norman Chroniclers (many of whom had direct access to earlier documents), it is relatively easy to piece together the history of the kings of Anglo-Saxon England. 

But what of the women? Can we find anything? If we look at the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle we will find that from the entries in 672 until the arrival of Emma of Normandy in 1002, there are only a dozen or so women mentioned by name. Often we have an entry such as this one for 926: “Athelstan gave [Sihtric] his sister in marriage.”

Athelstan presenting a book to St Cuthbert - it's the oldest surviving portrait of an Anglo-Saxon King

Hmm. She was Athelstan's sister, and Athelstan was a king, so she was royal. Doesn’t she warrant a name-check? Who was she?

Athelstan’s father, Edward the Elder, had three wives by whom he had at least fourteen children. To discover the identity of the sister married to Sihtric, it’s probably easier to start at the end and work backwards. 

Eadgifu, third wife of Edward the Elder

Edward had married his third wife, Eadgifu, by at least 920, because we know that their firstborn, a son, was born in 921. Eadgifu had another son by Edward, and two daughters, called Eadburh and Eadgifu. Eadburh became a nun at Winchester and the Anglo-Norman chronicler, William of Malmesbury, tells us that when she was just 3 years old her father, wishing to ascertain whether she would choose the religious life, laid out a chalice and the Gospels, and some bangles and necklaces. When little Eadburh was brought in by her nurse, she was told that she could choose what she wanted, whereupon she immediately crawled towards the Gospels and chalice. She joined the community of Nunnaminster at Winchester founded by her grandmother Ealhswith, wife of Alfred the Great. Of Eadgifu, Eadburh’s sister, less is known. But given that Edward died in 924, she must have been born no later than nine months after that, and no earlier than 920, which makes her rather too young to be the bride of Sihtric in 926.

We don’t know if Edward was a widower in 920 when he married Eadgifu, but we do know that his previous wife, Ælfflæd, bore him six daughters. Two – Eadflæd and Æthelhild – took the religious life, while the other four made prestigious marriages. Eadgifu (yes, it seems he had two daughters of the same name!) married Charles the Simple, king of the Franks, while Eadhild married a Frankish duke, Hugh the Great. The remaining two, Eadgyth and Ælfgifu, were, apparently, both sent to Germany so that the future emperor, Otto, could choose one of them as his bride. 

Seal of Otto 'the Great'

Otto married Eadgyth – it was, apparently, ‘love at first sight’ – and Ælfgifu married another prince, whose identity is the subject of some debate but nowhere is it suggested that he was Sihtric.  It seems unlikely that the entry in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle refers to any of Athelstan’s half-sisters and, indeed, William of Malmesbury claimed that the bride was a full sister of Athelstan’s.

Athelstan’s mother, Edward’s first wife, Ecgwynn, barely emerges from the shadows and is not mentioned by any of the contemporary sources. Some said she was a concubine, while others said she was a wife. Sometimes she was described as high-born and sometimes as being of lowly birth. But, either way, her status was important.

When Edward died, Athelstan ruled Mercia while his eldest half-brother, Ælfweard, succeeded  in Wessex, dying a mere 16 days later. The statue of Edward’s sister, Æthelflæd, Lady of the Mercians, outside Tamworth Castle famously shows her with her arm round a small boy, her nephew Athelstan, who was, apparently, brought up by her in the Mercian court. There is no contemporary evidence for this; the assertion comes to us from William of Malmesbury. But why would Athelstan have been brought up in Mercia? 

Æthelflæd

Athelstan’s subsequent rule over Wessex was not universally approved. After Edward’s death, the opposition there claimed that Athelstan was an illegitimate son of a woman of low birth. There are hints that Athelstan’s half-brother, Edwin, was also part of this opposition and was exiled by Athelstan, put to sea in a boat from which he then plunged to a watery death. Added to the fact that Ælfweard had been designated king in Wessex initially, while Athelstan was given Mercia, it is hard to conclude anything other than that Athelstan’s mother, Ecgwynn was, regardless of her class, no more than a concubine and not a wife. 

However, William of Malmesbury also tells us that Athelstan had been adored by his grandfather, Alfred the Great, and that when he was a young boy he had been given by Alfred a ‘scarlet cloak, a belt studded with diamonds, and a Saxon sword with a golden scabbard’. William also said that Alfred ‘made him a knight’ which is anachronistic, since technically no such rank existed in pre-Conquest times, but if it signifies some sort of investiture, it would suggest that his royal status was somehow acknowledged by Alfred.

Is it possible that, for whatever reason, Ecgwynn was put aside when Edward married his second wife, and that she and her children returned to Mercia, possibly the land of her birth?

I say ‘children’ because we are told that aside from Athelstan, Ecgwynn also bore Edward a daughter, although her identity is far from clear. 

There is a saint, Edith of Polesworth, who was said by some to be the daughter of Edward the Elder, although not all sources agree. Indeed we cannot be sure that, even if Edith of Polesworth was a daughter of Edward’s, she was also the daughter of Ecgwynn and, in any case, how could this religious lady have been married to Sihtric?

Polesworth Abbey Gatehouse - Author's own photo

Yet the Anglo-Norman chronicler, Roger of Wendover, named her as Edith, the sister whom Athelstan married to Sihtric, the Norse king of the Northumbrians. He went on to relate that after Sihtric’s death (only a year after the wedding), and having preserved her virginity, Edith retired to the monastery at Polesworth, which was in Mercia. She was venerated as a saint and if she was, indeed, Athelstan’s full sister then her return to Mercia, rather than Wessex, might make sense on two counts: that she, like her brother, was brought up at the Mercian court and that their mother, Ecgwynn, might have been Mercian herself.

Not all historians agree about Edith of Polesworth’s identity (some even suggesting that she was, in fact, Eadgyth, daughter of Edward by his second wife, Ælfflæd, who married Otto), but these stories do on the whole draw us back to Mercia time and again. Polesworth, incidentally, is in modern-day Warwickshire, in the heart of what was Mercia. 

Having accounted for all the other known daughters of Edward it does seem, on balance, that the sister whom Athelstan married to Sihtric could well have been Edith of Polesworth, daughter of Ecgwynn. And the story serves to show how much information we can glean, if we take the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle as a starting point and do a bit of detective work.

[all images are in the public domain unless otherwise stated. Photo by and copyright of the author]

If you'd like to read more about these Anglo-Saxon characters, their stories are in my nonfiction books, Mercia: The Rise and Fall of a Kingdom and Women of Power in Anglo-Saxon England, and Edith and Sihtric also get a mention in my forthcoming book, Murder in Anglo-Saxon England: Justice, Wergild, Revenge, out in Feb 2025 

You can also read about Æthelflæd, Athelstan, and Edward and his wives in my novel about Æthelflæd: To Be A Queen

King Eadwig's Short and Ill-Fated Reign*

Some Anglo-Saxon kings are famous, for either being successful (Alfred the Great, Athelstan) or unsuccessful (Æthelred the Unready). Some have faded into obscurity or are remembered for only one thing. A case in point is King Eadwig, sandwiched on the regnal list between his uncle, Eadred, during whose reign 'Viking' York came under English control, and his brother, Edgar, remembered for keeping his kingdom united, reforming the coinage, and enabling the leading Churchmen of the age to instigate the Benedictine Monastic Reform. Even had he not been sandwiched between these two, Eadwig's reign was not successful, nor did he achieve anything much during his extremely short tenure, losing his kingdom within two years of becoming king, and having his marriage annulled a year later. He is chiefly remembered only for the scandalous story of his coronation. So what happened? 

Although England was technically a united country when Eadwig acceded in 955, old national identities were still strong. ‘Viking’ Northumbria, with its power base at York, had only ended the year before, and Mercia had rebelled against Wessex authority as recently as 924. A north/south divide was still keenly felt.

Fourteenth-Century image of Eadwig [Public Domain image: attribution link]

Eadwig came to the throne when his uncle died childless but he himself was only around 15 when he succeeded. His father, Edmund, was killed when he was a small boy, so his uncle, Eadred, became king and he and his infant brother Edgar were brought up in - separate - foster homes.

This last point is significant because, while we do not know precisely who was responsible for Eadwig’s upbringing, we know that his younger brother grew up in the household of the ealdorman of East Anglia (also part of the ‘Danelaw’), a man who had served three previous kings and was so rich and powerful his epithet was ‘Half-king’. 

Eadwig’s reign started badly. There are many versions of the tale but they all concur that the louche young man absented himself from his coronation feast and was found cavorting in bed with a noblewoman and her daughter. The fact that this daughter was actually his wife and queen consort mattered little to the outraged churchmen. An argument ensued, and the abbot who had found him, Dunstan of Glastonbury, one of the leading lights of the Benedictine Monastic Reform movement, was banished. There was another aspect to this dispute, however, one which appears to involve Dunstan’s retention of some royal treasure, and Eadwig’s despoiling his grandmother, Eadgifu (the wife of one king and the mother of two more), of her property. The stage was set.

‘Mortimer’ illustration (Drawing by Samuel Wale, entitled "The Insolent Behaviour of Dunstan to King Edwy on the Day of his Coronation Feast." in Thomas Mortimer's New History of England. 3 vols: vol. 1. 1764-6.)

Only one chronicler had anything good to say about Eadwig and, tellingly, he was related to Eadwig’s young wife. We cannot know about the personalities of those at court but the extraordinary number of extant charters show the young king granting away vast tracts of land which looks like an attempt to win support from the nobility. Eadwig’s wife was descended from royalty herself, a branch of the family which had rebelled in 902, sparking a battle in which Eadgifu’s father had been killed. The old guard might have seen this marriage as a potential threat. It was declared that the couple was too closely related and in 958 the marriage was annulled. But things had gone awry for Eadwig before then.

In 957, Edgar, the younger brother, became king of the Mercians. It is likely that Edgar was at this stage only around fourteen years of age, his brother about seventeen. It can be taken as read that he had the backing of the East Anglians, having grown up there, and he now courted the Mercians, whose support, along with that of the Northumbrians, was crucial. For a time, there were two courts, with Eadwig’s kingdom now restricted to the central heartland of Wessex. This might have been the Half-king’s plan all along.

Was it a rebellion? One chronicler said that the people ‘threw off their allegiance to Eadwig.’ Eadwig continued to issue charters, but only for land in Wessex, while Edgar was styled ‘King of Mercia’ in his. It might be that it was a pre-arrangement, as when Edward the Elder died in 924 and one of his sons inherited Mercia, another Wessex. (A short-lived arrangement, with the Wessex king dead after sixteen days). 

Edgar recalled the exiled Dunstan and appointed him bishop of Worcester but Eadwig, still officially king of the English, appointed a married man and father, the bishop of Winchester, as the new archbishop of Canterbury. The biographers of Dunstan and the other reformers did not approve; Eadwig was proving to be the obstruction to certain ambitions. Conveniently for some, the archbishop elect died on his way to Rome, and Dunstan took the role.

Possible image of Dunstan praying before Christ

The reformers and the old guard now had Edgar in place as king of the ‘Danelaw’, a pro-reform archbishop, and another ally, the abbot of Abingdon, accusing Eadwig of distributing ‘the lands of the holy churches to rapacious strangers’.

Yet still Eadwig remained, albeit only as king of the West Saxons. An untenable situation, and one which was resolved when, in 959 and still aged only around nineteen, divorced and childless, Eadwig died. Edgar then became king of all England.

Eadwig had been elected by the Witan (council) as king, but from the outset there were factions at court who favoured his brother. Whether or not the division of the kingdom can be classed as a rebellion, its result was the same. And who can but wonder about the nature (unrecorded) of the young king’s timely death?

The opening scene of my novel, Alvar the Kingmaker, shows the moment when Abbot Dunstan discovers the young king 'rioting in the harlot's embrace' (as one Anglo-Norman chronicler put it). I've also related the incident in detail for The Historian Circle blog, where I looked at what we know of the king's young wife and the importance of her status. You can read the article HERE . I've revisited the reigns of Eadwig, his father Edmund and his uncle, Eadred, for my new book, Murder in Anglo-Saxon England: Justice, Wergild, Revenge, which will be published in February 2024.

For a look at the reign of Eadwig's predecessor, you can read my chapter on King Eadred in Kings and Queens: 1200 Years of English and British Monarchs edited by Iain Dale and published by Hodder & Stoughton.

*[A version of this article appeared in The Historians Magazine Ed.9 August 2022]

The Kingdom of the Hwicce

As you probably know, I love researching and writing about the history of Mercia. There’s so much to find when we start digging around; legacies and connections that lead to interesting stories and link to decisive moments of history. Today I want to narrow the focus to one part of what became Greater Mercia.

The early history of this midlands kingdom is complicated but it was, in essence, composed of a central core, expanding by absorbing other smaller kingdoms and tribal areas, much in the way that other ‘Anglo-Saxon’ kingdoms developed. A curious document known as the Tribal Hidage - its origins are also obscure - lists some of these tribes, with Mercia ‘proper’ at the top, then going out from the Mercian heartlands to include such names as the Wreoconsæte, the Westerna, the Pecsæte and the Hwynca, or Hwicce. (See image, left) These names are probably unfamiliar, and sound like they have been lost in time. So were the Hwicce just another lost tribe? No, they retained their status and even provided a link to one of the most widely-talked about periods of Mercian, indeed English, history…

Historians have been troubled by the kingdom of the Hwicce and whether it existed before Penda’s reign (c.628-655). It is often supposed that the kingdom was created when, according to the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, Penda fought, and beat, the West Saxons at Cirencester in 628. We know where it was - much of what we now know as Worcestershire, Warwickshire and Gloucestershire - but can we discover who they were?

The Hwicce lived in the flat-bottomed valley between the Cotswolds and the Malvern Hills, and some suggest that their name means ark, or chest, and refers to that topographical feature. There are many other theories, but none that can be comprehensively proven. It seems the British (or Romano-British) controlled the area in the sixth century, for the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle records that at the battle of Dyrham in 577 the Saxons fought and slew three British kings and captured the cities which they had ruled (one of them being Cirencester) but it seems like the area remained a mix of British (‘Celtic’) and Anglo-Saxon.

Cirencester had been the tribal capital of the Dobunni in the late Iron Age - perhaps a little of this tribal identity remained. The distribution of Dobunnic coinage is roughly coterminous with the land of the Hwicce, according to landscape historian Della Hooke.

It is not known what happened to the area and who was in control after Dyrham up to the formation of the bishopric of Worcester in the mid-seventh century but it’s almost universally agreed that the diocese represented the territory of the kingdom. (The bishops there described themselves as episopi Hwicciorum.) The Hwicce might, even as a subkingdom of Mercia, have ruled over smaller tribes (a charter of 849 mentions the Pencersætan - southwest of Birmingham - and the people known as the Weogoran gave their name to Worcester itself).

Whilst we might not be able to pin down their exact origins, or the derivation of their name, they are not lost to us as people, and we know of several individuals who played crucial roles. 

Bede tells us of seventh-century Queen Eafe who was baptised in her own country, the kingdom of the Hwicce, and we know that she was the daughter of King Eanfrith, who was Christian, as were their people. From her story, we can glean that the Hwicce had by her time lost their independent status, if indeed they ever had it; her marriage to Æthelwalh of the South Saxons probably led to, or was conditional upon, her husband converting to Christianity. The baptism was at the ‘suggestion and in the presence of’ Wulfhere, king of Mercia (son of Penda). The inference is that the South Saxons and, indeed, the Hwicce, were certainly subordinate to Mercia at this point. 

It has been suggested, to support the idea that Penda either liberated or created the kingdom, that he did not act alone. Using personal name evidence, one theory has it that Penda was in alliance with a branch of the Northumbrian royal house who had been temporarily exiled, that the area stayed in West Saxon hands after Dyrham and that Penda ‘liberated’ it with the help of these northerners who then ruled it for him. This is based on the number of names beginning with ‘Os’ in both areas and is not universally accepted, although it does lead us to two of those people, both interesting characters. A certain king of the Hwicce, Oshere, was killed, and whilst surviving records don’t tell us how or why, the theory linking the Hwicce to the Northumbrians provides a reason for the murder of Osthryth, the daughter of King Oswiu of Northumbria, who married another of Penda’s sons, Æthelred, and was killed by the Mercians; again, we are given no reason. Had she and Oshere been related, and were they somehow plotting to overthrow the Mercian overlordship? It’s not a theory I subscribe to, but it is tantalising! 

Another ‘Os’ character for whom we have a little more information is Osric. He attested charters in the 670s, one (for the foundation of Bath Monastery) as rex but, crucially, only with the consent of King Æthelred of Mercia. Osric was also said to have founded the original monastery where Gloucester Cathedral now stands, and in that building there is an effigy of him. 

Three brothers, Eanberht, Uhtred and Ealdred appear in charters, each of them as regulus, in charters of 757 and 759, but there is no mention of their having had any children, and by the time of a charter of King Offa in 778, Ealdred is styled subregulus and dux.

After Ealdred, there were no more kings or even subkings of the Hwicce, although an ealdorman, Æthelmund, was killed attacking the people of Wiltshire at Kempsford in 802. The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle tells us that he ‘rode from the province of the Hwiccians across the border at Kempsford.’ He was met by Ealdorman Weohstan of Wiltshire and a ‘great battle’ ensued. In a charter of 796 Æthelmund was described as a faithful princeps. But I’ll come back to this ‘mere’ ealdorman in a moment…

One of my favourite Mercian characters is Cwoenthryth, daughter of King Cenwulf and abbess of Winchcombe, in the heart of Hwiccian territory. A wealthy and powerful estate manager and heiress, she was the keeper of the royal archive (her father claimed Winchcombe as family land, and it may be that his origins were indeed Hwiccian) and abbess of multiple religious houses. Her ownership of some was questioned by the Church at Canterbury and a legal dispute ensued. A later chronicler accused her of arranging the death of her infant brother and, when his body was discovered, of chanting a psalm backwards as a spell in the hope of avoiding retribution, whereupon her eyeballs fell out. The chronicler claimed to have seen blood on the psalter, but the truth is we have no evidence that this younger brother ever existed. [For more on her story, see my blog post HERE]

Nothing remains of Winchcombe Abbey bar a few stones on display at nearby Sudeley Castle, (see left) but in the Hwicce territory you can, unusually, see not one but two existing buildings from this period. Do, if you can, visit Deerhurst in Gloucestershire. It was here, at St Mary’s Church, that, according to some, Æthelmund the ealdorman was buried after his death at Kempsford. The church retains much of its original Anglo-Saxon features, including the bifora (double window) and stone-carved animal heads.

A short walk down the lane takes you to Odda’s Chapel. In 1675 a tree fell down outside a half-timbered manor house, revealing an inscription stone. In the nineteenth century the chapel itself was discovered, attached to the house. It was commissioned by Earl Odda, owner of the estate of Deerhurst in the eleventh century, in memory of his brother who had died in 1053. 

Before we leave Deerhurst, let me return to Ealdorman Æthelmund. Though, in reality, Mercia was perhaps no different in its growth from the other ‘Anglo-Saxon’ kingdoms, it tended to continue to recognise its origins, insofar as its earldormen were often leaders of erstwhile smaller kingdoms/tribes rather than being centrally appointed. This also meant that there was nearly always more than one claimant to the throne, hence its - often bloody - succession struggles. It ran out of kings, eventually, but played a massive part in the history of this period when its leaders, the Lord and Lady of the Mercians (she being Æthelflæd) allied with Wessex to push back the Viking advance. Barbara Yorke, Emeritus Professor of Early Medieval History at the University of Winchester, has postulated that Æthelflæd’s husband, Æthelred, Lord of the Mercians, was descended from Æthelmund. It is my view that without the support of the Mercians, Alfred the Great and then his son, Edward the Elder, would not have been able to push back the Vikings. Thus the Hwicce played a major role at a pivotal moment of history.

Æthelflæd (from The Cartulary and Customs of Abingdon Abbey, c. 1220)

[A version of this article first appeared in Historical Times Magazine 2022]

You can read more on the kingdom of the Hwicce in my book, Mercia: The Rise and Fall of a Kingdom, available in book shops, on the Amberley Publishing Website, and on Amazon

[all photos by and copyright of the author. Tribal Hidage and depiction of Æthelflæd are Public Domain images]