Something Completely Different

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I suppose it only seems fair really, if I'm going to badmouth the English in my History of Ireland journal, to give them a chance to talk back; and to be honest, though I'm still writing that journal it has given me something of a taste for looking into the history of our nearest neighbour and longtime oppressor. Yes, I have a million journals on the go, but when did that ever stop me? I actually tried to talk myself out of this one, but I know me: once I get an idea in my head I can't dissuade myself, and I know it's useless trying, so I gave up and left me to my own devices. All I can say is, if this turns out to be too much work for me, I'd better not come crying to me, because I told me so, but would I listen to me? Would I, as our English friends say in certain parts of their country, hell as like. So let it be on my own head. I'm done with me.

Identity crisis to one side, yeah, that's what I've decided to do, and while I may slag England off as a true son of Erin would, I am quite aware that it has a truly fascinating history, and it should actually be fun getting into the nuts and bolts of it. Naturally, at points the two journals are going to meet, and cross, and in that case, rather than rewrite what I've written in Four Green Fields already, I'll just refer or link to those entries. So events such as the Reformation, or at least, how it came about via Henry VIII, already well documented in the History of Ireland, will be noted but then linked; if there's more to say, as in, events that went beyond how they impacted Ireland, then I'll carry on the story in this journal. I'm sure you get what I mean.

But as I say, England has its own long and very rich history, and that does not by any means rely on Ireland and its oppression. In fact, for probably eighty percent of English history my country doesn't play a part, and that's fine. Linking into the history will be countries such as France, Spain and Holland - with whom England was all but perpetually at war - as well as Italy (Rome invaded England) and Scotland and Wales. Wait, I hear you say: aren't those part of Britain? Yes they are. And shouldn't this then, I hear you say again, be the History of Britain? Who do I look like, I ask: Simon Schama? No, though the history of England will invariably end up as that of Britain, I'm concentrating here on the English bit, as both Wales and Scotland have their own separate histories, and much of what happens in England doesn't really involve them. So it's the history of England, at least until the Kingdom of Great Britain comes to be, and there's a lot happened before then.

What to expect here? Well if you've read my History of Ireland journal you'll know. A timeline reflecting the greater (and lesser) events that went to make up the story of how England rose from being a tiny little insignificant island to being one of the biggest and baddest powers in the world, at least up until about World War II, when America pushed her aside and said "It's all right, honey, we'll take it from here." Kings and queens, England has had more than you can shake a sceptre at, many of whom didn't do a lot, many of whom are unforgettable, both in the history of England and that of the world, or at least Europe. We'll be looking at them all. Battles? You want battles? We got battles. One thing England did better than almost anyone else in the world was pick fights. It seemed, at times (and may in fact have been) that they just got bored and wanted a war, or, to put it in the words of Captain Edmund Blackadder, it was just too much trouble not to have a war.

The English navy, or Royal Navy, grew to be the terror of the high seas, and was, almost single-handedly, responsible for the growth of England from an unregarded bit of land floating in the Atlantic Ocean to a force to be reckoned with, an empire on which it was said the sun never set, though of course eventually it did. The Royal Air Force alone kept the skies over Britain free of Nazi fighters and ensured Hitler would not be having tea in Windsor Castle any time soon, something for which I think nobody can deny we owe them a huge debt of gratitude. English artists, architects, musicians and writers spread His or Her Majesty's fame far and wide, and of course they gave us names like Wren, Constable, Wellington, Nelson, Shakespeare and Dickens, to name but a very few. Speaking of Dickens, they were also one of the most inhumanly cruel people the world ever saw, at least when it came to the poor, who were treated almost worse than the slaves from Africa were by Americans.

As in all histories, there is good and there is bad, and unless history has already done so, I will try not to make judgements. I do have a bias against the English, merely by virtue of being Irish, my ancestors have suffered so much under them, but I don't intend to let that influence or interfere with my chronicling their history here. I will try, as I always do, to be as even-handed as possible. And as in all histories too, it would be impossible to relate every event and talk about every character who featured in the story of England, but I will try to ensure nothing important is left out, while also trying to dig a little behind the scenes as it were and talk about some of the lesser figures we may not know about, but who may be important to English history.

There will not be, however, a rousing or otherwise chorus of "God Save the Queen". I have to draw the line somewhere.

All right then. Let's get started, shall we?

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Part One: Albion Rising -
In Fire and Blood, a Nation is Forged

Chapter I: Ruled Britannia: The First Conquest of Britain

Timeline: Approx 6,000 BC - 87 AD

There are certain sectors of English society who believe, rather naively or perhaps in a pig-headed way, that they are "true" Englishmen, original inhabitants of England, proper English and the only pure English. They are, of course, wrong; as is the case with just about any country, the original population are long gone, destroyed or gone extinct, they have vanished into the mists of time with often very little to mark their passing. I mentioned in my History of Ireland journal that even the Celts, seen by many as the original Irish, are not the first to have lived on the island, and so it is with the English*. Although the island (not an island at the time, as I'll explain in a moment) has been occupied for about a million years, in common with every other habitation of humanity we have no written records to go on, and must glean the scant details of these disappeared civilisations through the artefacts and structures they left behind.
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With stone tools and footprints thought to date back 900,000 years on the Norfolk Coast, this makes that area the oldest known part of England to have been inhabited by humans, Sussex providing the oldest human fossils (about 500,000 years old) and Neanderthal fossils found in Kent which date back 400,000 years, it's clear England was occupied long before human history began being recorded, and this is probably, almost certainly, true of any country you look at. Possibly fleeing from advancing ice and rising seas, for about 120,000 years England was unoccupied by humans, with Neanderthals coming back about 40,000 years ago but only lasting a mere 20,000 years before becoming extinct. With the end of the last ice age, about 11,700 years ago (ah I remember it as if it were only yesterday!) modern humans, or Homo Sapiens, repopulated England and have remained ever since.

For a long time, as alluded to a short while ago, England and indeed Ireland were connected to the mainland of Europe by a chalk ridge known as the Weald-Artois Anticline, which ran from southeast England to southern France, but rising sea levels as ice sheets melted and glaciers retreated, about 425,000 years ago, swamped the bridge and no longer made it possible for Englishmen to pop over to France by way of Shank's mare. In place of the Weald-Artois Anticline was the English Channel, and as this now made of England an island, it was effectively cut off from the technological and cultural advances taking place in Europe at the time. Paul Pettitt and Mark White writing about Britain call it, rather fatalistically and quite dramatically, an island of the living dead.
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* Note: though much of this concerns the history of Britain as an island, I'm mostly going to refer to the inhabitants as English where I can, as I want to differentiate them from the Scottish and the Welsh, with whom this history is not concerned. Initially though, they're all going to be called the Britons, because, well, that's what they were called back then.

Pytheas of Massalia (fl 310 - 306 BC)

The first written records of England come from the Greek navigator Pytheas, covered in my World Exploration journal, from which I'm going to shamelessly paste the article concerning him.

Pytheas is said to have travelled south to Spain and Portugal, and thence across to Britain and Ireland, becoming perhaps the first one to use the word "Britain" for the island country. His impressions of the British seem to indicate that he found the land cold and wet (quelle surprise!) which to a native of France would be quite a shock, that the people lived in thatched cottages and were ruled by many kings - another odd thing to a democratic Greek - but were at heart a simple people who lived in peace with each other. When they did war, he says, they rode in chariots just like his own people.
(From The Men Who Drew the Map of the World)

The origin of the word Britain is disputed, but seems to have been coined by Pytheas (or at least, he seems to have been the first to use it) to denote a "people of forms", meaning that the British understood and used pictures and shapes, as they tended to tattoo their bodies for war or decoration. He described three "corners of Britain", these translating as Kent, Orkney and Cornwall. By this point the English are already what could be called civilised, as engaging in commerce. They make tin ingots and sell them in France and other countries, and as they have to deal with buyers Pytheas says they are quite approachable.

There's probably a lot more to be said about Neolithic Britons, but who cares about them? They couldn't even be bothered to leave us any written record, so fuck them. The next period therefore in which we're interested in some thousands of years later.

Settling Down (200 BC - 43 AD)

Expansion by the Roman Empire forced refugees from Gaul to migrate towards England, and probably Ireland too, bringing with them their Celtic language and customs, and also sophistication to the English way of life, Kent, Hertfordshire and Essex becoming the centre of the pottery trade around 175 BC, with iron bars replacing, um, whatever they had been using as currency up to that from about 100 BC.

What's quite interesting about this is that unlike we Irish, who knocked seven bells out of the original Celts and then snaffled their country (Go Tuatha!) England does not seem to have proceeded along the same lines at all, with their peoples moving to and from Britain as it got  colder or harder to live there, and returning when the weather or the living conditions improved. Nobody seems to have kicked anything out of anyone, and really, for a country that ended up being the bully of the world for a very long time, the top dog and the one all others would bow and scrape to (while secretly plotting their overthrow beneath the doffed cap, so to speak) that's quite remarkable. So other than the likes of Neanderthals and so on going extinct, there was no major shift as to who controlled England. Makes us like the aggressive ones!
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As temperatures began to rise and weather improve around about 5,000 – 6,000 BC, the hunter-gatherer population began to settle down a little more, and some animals, like the dog, were domesticated. DNA in human remains seems to indicate the migration of people from what would become Finland and Estonia, as well as other European countries, so it could possibly be said that the first real Englishmen were in fact what are now considered by certain sectors of their society as "foreigners". Take that, English Defence League! Around 4,500 BC the idea of farming and raising crops seems to have been considered a good one, and more settling down occurred as the woodlands grew and hunting became more difficult. In fact, a program of extensive deforestation began around 4,300 BC to provide more land for crops and farming.
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The original inhabitants of Britain were soon supplanted by what were known as the Beaker people. No, not them! These people came from all over Europe, and are so-called due to their creation of and usage of the inverted bell-shaped beaker which became prevalent everywhere. I don't know, but I presume the precursor to that was a normal tumbler-style thing? Not sure, but anyway this is the reason they were called that, and by about 2400 BC they had more or less taken over Britain. They were able to exploit the vast reserves of tin in England, especially in Cornwall and Devon, and this provided them something to trade with other countries, and a form of commerce began.
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Evidence of a certain belief in some sort of religion began around 2,500 BC – 2.000 BC, when huge stone monuments, burial chambers and possibly sites of religious worship, began to appear all over Britain. The most famous of these of course is Stonehenge, still a popular attraction in England today. Nobody has ever been able to work out definitively what Stonehenge was intended for - some say burial mounts, some say a place of worship, others say something to do with astronomy or even a place to gather at certain times such as the Summer and Winter Solstice (June and December 21 respectively). In addition to burying their dead the Britons also cremated them, with the urns then buried in cemeteries.

Manufacturing processes were changing too. From around 2150 BC British people learned to smelt copper and then bronze, heralding the arrival of what is known as the Bronze Age in Britain. As the previous age, the Stone Age, receded then, bronze became the go-to material, replacing stone in things such as weapons and tools until about 750 BC, when this great new thing was imported from Europe. They called it iron, and it was even stronger than bronze, making better weapons and better agricultural implements, and so improving the lives of the Britons and ushering in (say it with me) the Iron Age. This saw the organisation of people into clans headed by chieftains, and almost by default, the first proper wars between tribes.

They would soon have a new and powerful enemy to fight though, and would have to band together and forget old enmities, or perish under the onslaught of the greatest empire the world had ever seen.

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Romans go home (55 BC - 43 AD)
One man, of course, would make it his business to attempt to bring Britain to heel, and he was perhaps the most famous of all the Roman emperors. It is pretty amazing to hear that Romans feared the area in which Britain was said to lie, the island existing, as it was seen at the time, on the edge of the known world. It's even more intriguing to find there were Romans who refused to believe Britain existed at all! Fake News, huh, in the Empire! Nevertheless, news of Britain's vast stores of tin (very much a coveted item in those times, it seems) had reached the empire, and so they naturally assumed they could just go and take it.

And they did.

Well, they tried.

I'm not going to run a profile of Julius Caesar, as I don't think it's warranted. Anyone who doesn't know him or of him, or know something about him clearly has not been paying attention, or has been holidaying on Alpha Squiggle IX for most of their lives. I hear it's lovely there. But back down here on Earth, I might as well try to tell you about Hitler (which I do, in my World War II journal, but that's different). So suffice to say we won't be going too deeply into Caesar's biography.

Part of the reason for invading Britain seems to have been a matter of revenge, as the Britons had supported the Gauls in their war against the Roman general, and as already noted, some of the refugees from that defeat had fled to the shores of Britain to escape the advancing Roman hordes. Caesar landed in Britain in 55 BC but did not have things his own way, the capricious English weather proving as much an enemy to him as the Britons, swamping his low-built ships and driving them against each other, wrecking some. In essence, Caesar's first attempt at subduing the Britons failed miserably, on just about every level, but with his usual talent for turning potentially bad press about him to good (in other words, Julius Caesar was as good a propagandist as Goebbels, if not better) he claimed victory in having successfully sailed "beyond the known world" and come back alive. The Senate agreed, and ordered a twenty-day holiday of thanksgiving in his honour. It wasn't quite the triumph he had hoped for, but it was a good result for him that papered over the cracks in his campaign, and ignored the fact that he had utterly failed in his objective.

He would not, of course, leave it at that.

The next year, armed with his experience of England and with better-built boats (and also with hundreds of allies, traders who were willing to shift loyalties in return for the chance of earning more than a few sesterces) Caesar was back. This time, whether due to the size of the fleet or as a delaying tactic while they prepared defences, the Britons did not oppose him, and the legions marched inland, where they met a British force in Kent. These guys did offer opposition, but to no avail. Rather oddly, it seems our man Julius had not taken on board (sorry) all the lessons he had learned in the previous year's campaign, as once again the high tides and wild winds that plagued the English coast damaged his ships, and he had to return to oversee their repair. Having done so, he returned to Kent, where he met his first real challenge.

Cassivelaunus

If we want to frame it in such terms, seeing Caesar as Hitler, trying to advance across England as Der Fuhrer swept across Europe in 1939, then it would seem that Cassivelaunus was the equivalent of perhaps Churchill, or maybe Montgomery. He was the one who marshalled all the English tribes together to resist Caesar, realising that no one clan could hope to defeat him alone. However, such alliances have always been fragile and hard to hold together, and given that Cassivelaunus had defeated the king of the Trilobites, sorry Trinovantes, and caused his son Mind Your Braces sorry Mandubracius to flee to Gaul to seek Caesar's aid in regaining his father's kingdom, well, you can see where this is going, can't you?

As almost always happens in history, and as we've certainly seen happen time and time again in Irish history, the deposed and vanquished look to a foreign power to restore them to their throne, in return for which they will sell out their countrymen. And so it was with Mandubracius, who revealed the location of Cassivelaunus's stronghold, which was then put under siege by Caesar. Although he fought well, and enlisted four other kings to his cause, Cassivelaunus had to surrender, and Mandubracius was crowned king of the Trinovantes, his erstwhile enemy having had to undertake not to engage in war against him. With things wrapped up and unrest simmering back in good old Gaul, Julius Caesar once again bad farewell to the shores of old Blighty and left for friendlier climes.

An interesting point to note here is that, until he beheld them being used in Britain, Caesar had never seen chariots used in war, in fact no Roman had, and the intelligence of these he brought back to the empire surely set in motion their own love affair with the things, which in turn must have been of great assistance to them in winning future battles and wars. He notes, with obvious deep interest, "Their mode of fighting with their chariots is this: firstly, they drive about in all directions and throw their weapons and generally break the ranks of the enemy with the very dread of their horses and the noise of their wheels; and when they have worked themselves in between the troops of horse, leap from their chariots and engage on foot. The charioteers in the meantime withdraw some little distance from the battle, and so place themselves with the chariots that, if their masters are overpowered by the number of the enemy, they may have a ready retreat to their own troops. Thus they display in battle the speed of horse, [together with] the firmness of infantry; and by daily practice and exercise attain to such expertness that they are accustomed, even on a declining and steep place, to check their horses at full speed, and manage and turn them in an instant and run along the pole, and stand on the yoke, and thence betake themselves with the greatest celerity to their chariots again."

He also reported back on other aspects of Britain, such as the geographical layout (such of it as he got to see anyway) and the climate: "The climate is more temperate than in Gaul, the colds being less severe. The island is triangular in its form, and one of its sides is opposite to Gaul. One angle of this side, which is in Kent, whither almost all ships from Gaul are directed, [looks] to the east; the lower looks to the south. This side extends about 500 miles. Another side lies toward Hispania and the west, on which part is Ireland, less, as is reckoned, than Britain, by one half: but the passage from it into Britain is of equal distance with that from Gaul. In the middle of this voyage, is an island, which is called Mona: many smaller islands besides are supposed to lie there, of which islands some have written that at the time of the winter solstice it is night there for thirty consecutive days. We, in our inquiries about that matter, ascertained nothing, except that, by accurate measurements with water, we perceived the nights to be shorter there than on the continent. The length of this side, as their account states, is 700 miles. The third side is toward the north, to which portion of the island no land is opposite; but an angle of that side looks principally toward Germany. This side is considered to be 800 miles in length. Thus the whole island is about 2,000 miles in circumference."

He had things to say too about the people: "The interior portion of Britain is inhabited by those of whom they say that it is handed down by tradition that they were born in the island itself: the maritime portion by those who had passed over from the country of the Belgae for the purpose of plunder and making war; almost all of whom are called by the names of those states from which being sprung they went thither, and having waged war, continued there and began to cultivate the lands. The number of the people is countless, and their buildings exceedingly numerous, for the most part very like those of the Gauls... They do not regard it lawful to eat the hare, and the cock, and the goose; they, however, breed them for amusement and pleasure.

The most civilised of all these nations are they who inhabit Kent, which is entirely a maritime district, nor do they differ much from the Gallic customs. Most of the inland inhabitants do not sow corn, but live on milk and flesh, and are clad with skins. All the Britons, indeed, dye themselves with woad, which occasions a bluish colour, and thereby have a more terrible appearance in fight. They wear their hair long, and have every part of their body shaved except their head and upper lip. Ten and even twelve have wives common to them, and particularly brothers among brothers, and parents among their children; but if there be any issue by these wives, they are reputed to be the children of those by whom respectively each was first espoused when a virgin."

Shipbuilding: "[T]he keels and ribs were made of light timber, then, the rest of the hull of the ships was wrought with wicker work, and covered over with hides."

Religion: "The institution [of Druidism] is thought to have originated in Britain, and to have been thence introduced into Gaul; and even now those who wish to become more accurately acquainted with it, generally repair thither, for the sake of learning it."

And resources: "[T]he number of cattle is great. They use either brass or iron rings, determined at a certain weight, as their money. Tin is produced in the midland regions; in the maritime, iron; but the quantity of it is small: they employ brass, which is imported. There, as in Gaul, is timber of every description, except beech and fir."

For all his bluster however, the greatest general the world had ever seen since Alexander the Great proved unable to subdue Britain, leaving without so much as a Roman garrison in place, although he did sponsor two separate kings to rule over Britain, and in that way made it part of the Roman Empire, if in name only. It would be almost another century before Rome would try again to take on this mysterious land beyond the known limits of the world.

The British would probably have been conquered by helpless laughter alone, had they seen the so-called preparations for war laid by the unhinged emperor Caligula, who lined his troops up at the sea facing in the direction of Britain and ordered them, without prejudice and without mercy or quarter, on pain of death to... gather seashells! Yeah, well, the guy was a nut, we all know that. You only have to read a little history to see what he was like, or if you prefer to give my Serial Killers journal a look... Oh well, coming soon.

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The next, proper invasion would be prosecuted by, again, one of the greatest Roman emperors ever known, and here's a clue as to its success or failure: it's gone down in history as the Claudian conquest of Britain.

It's one thing to set up client - which is to say, puppet - rulers in another country, but unless you have a way of reinforcing your wishes (in other words, unless you have an actual force that will ensure they're carried out) there's nothing to stop your new king being deposed by another who seizes power.

And that's exactly what happened once Julius Caesar left Britain. Wars broke out - or, I should probably say, resumed, as the Britons had been at war with each other for yonks, only ostensibly joining forces to oppose the invader - and our man Mandy Brunches sorry Mandubracius was unceremoniously (or perhaps with great ceremony; it amounted to the same thing) kicked off the throne of Britain, the throne basically given to him by Rome, and another chieftain, Cataractus sorry Caracatus had taken his place.

The problem here for Rome was not the deposing of Mandubracius; his tribe had already fallen out of favour with the empire for the heinous sin of allowing a stronger enemy to defeat and supplant him, and they left him to his fate. What they did not take kindly to was that chieftain ignoring the edict of Rome, which held that Verica, of the Mastur - sorry Atrebates clan was the officially sanctioned ruler of Britain, and taking the throne for himself, in the process exiling poor old Verica. Who, as had his predecessor, went crying to the emperor, demanding his throne back.
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With the supposed intention of reasserting the claim to the throne of Verica,  Claudius set sail in 43 AD for the shores of merry old England, to have a frank exchange of views and see if they couldn't sort this out over tea and crumpets. Possibly.

Now it wasn't just a case of taking their lands and resources due to the Hillary principle, ie because it was there. No, now it was personal. Caratacus had given the finger to the world's mightiest empire, and the world's mightiest empire did not take that sort of insult lying down.
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Caratacus

Probably one of the first great leaders of the Britons, and given how he stood up to Claudius, possibly one of their first real heroes. Caratacus was a member, and later leader of the Catavellauni, one of the two most powerful and respected tribes in Britain at that time. He was a prince, son of the king Cunobelinus, taken under the wing of his uncle Epaticcus, who was responsible for expanding the territory of the Catavellauni as far as that of their rivals, the Atebates, whose leader, Verica, as already explained, had been chosen by Rome as king.

That didn't matter a red deer's jawbone to Epaticcus though, and after his death in 35 AD his protege carried on his work, eventually defeating the Atebates, exiling their king and setting himself up as ruler of Britain. After Claudius invaded Caratacus had enough sense to see that the only way to deal with the Roman legions was with guerilla warfare, and in this he was quite successful. For a time. But unlike Julius Caesar ninety years ago, Claudius had come to Britain with the very definite intention of conquering it, and to that end brought with him three legions, as well as other allies, so Caratacus would have been well outnumbered and would not have stood a chance in open, direct combat with the battle-hardened and well-armed and armoured Roman legionnaires.

Not surprisingly, Caratacus's stronghold at Camulodunon - where the city of Colchester now stands - became the focus of the Roman efforts, and he and his brother fought but lost two major battles, the Battle of the River Medway (no I said MEDway) and the Battle of the River Thames, where his brother was killed.

Caratacus could only hold out so long, and eventually he was defeated and fled to Wales, where he took up the fight again, but when his wife and daughter were captured by the Romans and his other brothers surrendered, Caratacus legged it to Yorkshire (then called Brigantes) seeking sanctuary there with its ruler, Queen Cartman I mean Cartimandua. She, however, betrayed and sold him out and he went back to Rome in chains.

Sentenced to death, he earned himself an unlikely reprieve due to the eloquence of his speech, which he made before the Senate, proving, perhaps surprisingly to them, that he, and indeed all Britons, might not be the unprincipled, ignorant barbarians they had been told they were. Caratacus was allowed to live in peace in Rome, and marvelling at its wealth and opulence, wondered why such people would covet a crappy land like Britain?
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Not on your nelly! Living engines of war

If, when Julius Caesar had first visited Britain, Romans had never before seen chariots being used in war, they were able to repay the compliment by bringing as part of their invasion force something no Briton had ever laid eyes on: elephants. And not just any elephants (though the mere sight of the beasts was enough to send the Britons into a panicked rout) - war elephants. Elephants armoured for war, carrying men on their backs who fired spears down from their great height advantage. This was enough to force the surrender of most of the tribes of southeast Britain, and the conquest continued apace.

By 47 AD there was a Roman governor of Britain, Publius Ostorius Scapula, and he launched an invasion of Wales. The Welsh, however, proved harder to conquer than the English, and Claudius decided to leave them to it. What, after all, was there of worth in Wales? Nero, when he came to the throne, thought differently, and consequently many Welsh druids were killed when he had the new governor, Quintus Veranius, invade Anglesey. He was almost directly responsible for the creation and rise of one of Britain's first true legendary figures, and as you might expect, she was a woman.

Wait, what?

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Boudica (died c. 60/61 AD)

Boudica's story is that of one woman being pushed way, way too far, and an arrogant, overbearing occupier who believed he was invincible, had no reason to fear a mere female, and acted accordingly. It is surely also one of regret for Rome, partial triumph for Britain and a legend for the ages. Boudica did not start out as a rebel, far from it. She and her husband had signed treaties with Claudius during the conquest of Britain in 43 AD and had remained loyal to his successor, Nero. In fact, her husband, Prasutagus, was such an arselick that when he died he left half of his kingdom to his two daughters, and the other half to Nero. I suppose it's expensive running an empire, and every little sesterce helps.

Nero however didn't see it this way, and sent his emissary to take the lot. When Boudica protested that these were not the terms of her late husband's will, said functionary is reported probably not to have said, "are you calling the emperor a liar? That's treason, that is!" and proceeded to have her whipped. Humiliating enough, you would think, for a woman who was now queen of the Iceni tribe, and for someone who had thrown in her lot with the very people who were now abusing her. But no, apparently it was not enough. Spotting Boudica's two daughters, the unnamed centurion directed his men to rape them, which they did. In the final analysis, and understandably, this would have been the last straw. It would lead to the first proper revolt in Britain under Roman rule.

Waking the Lion: the Revolt of Boudica

"'But now, it is not as a woman descended from noble ancestry, but as one of the people that I am avenging lost freedom, my scourged body, the outraged chastity of my daughters. Roman lust has gone so far that not our very persons, nor even age or virginity, are left unpolluted. But heaven is on the side of a righteous vengeance; a legion which dared to fight has perished; the rest are hiding themselves in their camp, or are thinking anxiously of flight. They will not sustain even the din and the shout of so many thousands, much less our charge and our blows. If you weigh well the strength of the armies, and the causes of the war, you will see that in this battle you must conquer or die. This is a woman's resolve; as for men, they may live and be slaves."


I've said it in the History of Ireland journal, and it holds true for most peoples: you can only push them so far, and if you think a populace is so beaten into submission that you can ride roughshod (perhaps literally) over them, then all I can say is you have not been reading your history, my son, and you had better sleep lightly, because when you least expect it, when you feel at your most secure and are at your most arrogant, that's when they'll come for you.

Believing the Britons no threat (he had, after all, subdued their entire island) Nero was surely taken by surprise by the uprising that broke out, and cost so many Roman lives. Gathering all the disaffected tribes to her - for she was not the only one with whom the empire had broken faith - she marched on Camulodunum, the Roman capital as already noted, modern-day Colchester.

Here many Roman veterans had retired, and the people there had been mistreated by them, forced to build a temple to Claudius at their own expense, so they were just in the mood to kick some Roman butt. All they needed was an impetus, which arrived in the form of Boudica and her allies. Laying siege to the town they took it easily, destroying a large bronze statue of Nero and knocking its head off, which Boudica took as a trophy.

The rebels scored another huge victory when a Roman legion, coming to relieve the town, was met by them and roundly defeated, leaving its few survivors to fly for their lives. On hearing of the comprehensive defeat, and of the fall of Camulodunum, Catus Deciamus, the Roman procurator decided Gaul was a much safer place to be, and departed English shores. With the rebels on the way, the governor, Gaiuis Seutonius Paulinus, decided to abandon Londinium (anyone?) and evacuated all his people from the city, everyone left behind tortured and slaughtered by the rebels when they arrived. Whether they discriminated between their own people and the Romans is not made clear. What is made clear, apparently, is that being a woman did not imbue in Boudica any pity or sympathy, or indeed weakness shown towards others of her sex.

The Roman historian Dio - that's Cassius, not Ronnie James! - tells us that the Britons were not taking prisoners, slaughtering, hanging, burning as they came, and that the noblest of the Roman women were impaled on spikes (that's a real pain in the arse. Sorry) and as if this wasn't enough, also had their breasts cut off and sewn to their mouths. Must have felt like right tits. And left tits. Okay, I'll stop now.

As, eventually, did Boudica, whose revolt was of course doomed to failure, if a glorious one. Once the Romans regrouped, there was no way a ragtag band of pretty much untrained and undisciplined barbarian warriors were going to get one over on the cream of the empire, and this was only going to end one way.

As ever in such battles, he who controls the terrain controls the battle, and from Scotland to Agincourt we've seen that strength in numbers can mean nothing if the territory is used to best advantage. Despite being outnumbered by Boudica's forces by a factor of, say some historians, twenty to one, others claim thirty to one, Suetonius had fought many a campaign whereas this was Boudica's first. Not a good time to be learning!

A seasoned soldier, though not of course a native of Britain, Suetonius selected a narrow gorge with a forest behind him opening out into a wide plain. The forest protected him from an attack from the rear while the gorge of course meant his forces could not be outflanked. In contrast to the well-armed and drilled legionnaires, Boudica's people were poorly armed, their tribes having been disarmed previously by Suetonius prior to their revolt. The Roman governor disdainfully told his men "Ignore the racket made by these savages. There are more women than men in their ranks. They are not soldiers—they're not even properly equipped. We've beaten them before and when they see our weapons and feel our spirit, they'll crack. Stick together. Throw the javelins, then push forward: knock them down with your shields and finish them off with your swords. Forget about plunder. Just win and you'll have everything."

It was a good speech, and in truth it seems that overconfidence was Boudica's undoing. The tribes even brought their families along and set them in wagons behind the battle lines, promising them a mighty victory they could enjoy. A real day out, huh? Except of course, it didn't quite turn out that way.

Perhaps naively, perhaps desperately, perhaps arrogantly, the warrior queen led her army in a frontal attack, playing right into Suetonius's hands. Javelins launched by the Romans at the Britons killed many and damaged the shields of others, forcing them to discard them and thereby leave themselves defenceless.

The legions attacked, and once their cavalry joined the melee it was all over for the Britons, who tried to flee but found their exit blocked by their own wagons. A mass slaughter ensued, as even the women, children and animals were butchered by the victorious Romans. Boudica herself is said to have taken poison rather than be captured.

A rather amusing side-note concerns a Roman centurion who was believed to have robbed his legion of a share in the triumph by not turning up for the battle and who fell on his own sword in disgrace. His name? Poenius Posthumus. :laughing:

Despite her defeat, Boudica is recognised as a true hero of Britain, an example of the fighting spirit and a role model for women in a time when they did little but support their men. Indeed, her revolt shocked Nero so deeply that he seriously considered pulling his forces out of Britain, but decided to let them remain, not wishing to lose face in front of the Senate. It would be another nine years before Britain would rise again in revolt, and this time it would be in the north.

Having defeated Boudica comprehensively and shown Britain that it was unwise to awaken the wrath of Rome, Suetonius pillaged the land around, carrying out reprisals against anyone suspected of having supported, agreed with or perhaps even heard of the warrior queen, or who he just didn't like the look of. His blood was up, and Nero decided so too was his time in Britain, the emperor removing him before he could do more harm than good, and provoke further rebellions. It was, however, a little late for that.
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Rumblings in the North: the revolt of Venutius and Cartimandua

You'll remember the second name; she was the queen of the Brigantes who delivered up poor old Caratacus to his hated enemies when he went seeking shelter from her. So why did she and her husband turn against Rome? Well, apparently it was all down to marital strife. No, I said marital, not martial, though of course that figured in the deal too.

See, apparently Cartimandua had lost interest in her husband and had abandoned Venutius to go with, of all people, his armour bearer, a guy called John. well no actually he was called Vellocatus (didn't anyone in this age have a name without ten or twelve letters? Sounds like a very soft kitten, doesn't it?) Hey, at least she chose someone whose name began with the same letter, so that if she and Venutius had ever carved their names on the bark of a tree (or more likely, in the skull of some enemy) the sentiment would still stand. Anyway Venutius initially went to war against the old lady because she had set Vellocatus up on the throne that was his, you know, by right. The little woman was, however, well protected by her Roman masters, but Venutius wasn't having any of that.

History does not record their conversation but it's entirely unlikely he said "I'm not having any of that!" while she smiled sweetly and invited him "Come at me, hubby dear. I'll wipe you out," and that he responded "Oh yeah? You and what army?" and that she grinned and said "This one." Even if she had, this guy was no coward, or alternatively, thought only with his sword, and so might have snapped back "Think you can hide behind them? I'll do you, and your bloody Roman lapdogs!" And so he did. Or tried to.

To nobody's surprise - and no doubt his wife's delight - he was quickly beaten, but that was in the AD 50s, and by almost the time of the 70s he was ready again. This time the Romans weren't so quick to come to Cartimandua's rescue, being a trifle more concerned with matters at home. Nero had finally pissed off and died, having burned Rome almost to the ground before he went, and in that year, 69 AD, no less than four emperors came to the throne in quick succession, each gone almost before he could warm his arse on the seat. This, as you can imagine, caused great unrest and political turmoil in the empire, and Britain was not seen as a priority. Thus, when Venutius attacked his ex again, they really weren't that interested and thought best to leave them to it, no point getting involved in petty family squabbles.

In the end, all they could do was get Cartimandua out of England, and this left Venutius possibly beating his chest and standing on some high mountain roaring "YES! I am the BEST!" and according to some sources (all right: according to me) giving Rome what was traditionally referred to in Britain as the Finger.

They weren't going to stand for that.

And they didn't.

Now, you see, the problem here is that the only written accounts that we have left are those made by Roman historians such as Tacitus and Dio, and invariably, and unsurprisingly, these are written with a strong Roman bias. So mostly you get a version of "the brave Roman army pushed the barbarians back" and so forth, leaving us with little hard detail - indeed, any detail - about the nuts and bolts of the battles. But from these sources and archaeological finds it appears that Venutius was relatively easily beaten, though his people, the Brigantes, made life tough for the occupiers for the next few decades. The Scots, too, rose in revolt but that's another story, and one we're not concerned with here, though it does deserve a short mention.

So here it is.

Suffice to say, by around 87 AD Britain was more or less completely under Roman control, and for the first time the people of Britain felt what it was like to be under the heel of an oppressor. It wouldn't be the last time.

Mother Should I Build a Wall? Scotland Attacks

Although Britain as an island had been subdued by Rome, they certainly did not have it their own way, and rebellions and uprisings continued to break out for another eighty or so years. Much of this resistance to Roman rule came from the far north, the area they called Caledonia but which we know as Scotland. While the Scots - Picts, mostly, at the time - had no love for Britons (Englishmen) and there would be strife between the two for centuries (and even still is, to some extent) they weren't going to sit back and let this foreign power invade their homeland, and they fought fiercely, more savage and with more abandon than Romans had ever seen, even with the English. Although this journal isn't concerned with the history of Scotland, as such, it is impossible to imagine the eventual forced withdrawal of the Roman Empire from Britain without the constant attacks on them from there taking place.

This so concerned Rome that in 122 the new emperor, Hadrian, commissioned the building of a wall at the northern border, which would effectively provide a barrier between the "barbarians" and his people.
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Hadrian's Wall, as it came to be rather unoriginally known, is still there today, stretching from Wallsend on the river Tyne to Bowness-on-Solway, more or less bisecting the island from west to east and cutting off Scotland from what is now England. Of course it's a ruin now, and a tourist attraction, but that any of it at all survived is testament to the prowess of Roman engineering and construction. The wall was, and remains, seventy-three miles long, and originally was said to have reached to twelve feet in height, though of course most of that has now fallen and it's much lower.

Hadrian's Wall marked the "boundary of the civilised part of Britannia" (as they came to call England) and the unconquered, barbarian, mostly unknown land of Caledonia, Scotland, though it is built entirely in England and does not form a true border between the two countries.
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Of course, the wall was also a physical representation and reminder of the might of the Roman Empire in Britain. Its construction provided employment for thousands of soldiers who might otherwise have been idle and restless, and helped to control the flow of commerce, and people, through that part of the empire.

It wasn't just a wall though, being supplemented by a number of forts and milehouses along its length, staffed by Roman soldiers. It took six years and three legions - approximately 15,000 soldiers - to build. After three more emperors had unsuccessfully attempted to subdue the Scots, the last of them, Septimius Severus, withdrew to Hadrian's Wall around 211 and it became the northernmost border of the Roman Empire in Britain. Even so, Picts breached it in 180, killing the commanding officer. Roman soldiers and officers were beginning to resent being in Britain, and a withdrawal was on the cards as events further afield began to occupy the empire's attention.

But first...
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(Note: I have no idea if this is a real flag that was used or not, but it's pretty damn cool, isn't it?)

The Britannic Empire (286 - 296)

There were two things every man needed to possess in order to progress, even survive, in the Roman Empire, and those were ambition and a sense of ruthlessness. If you were squeamish, if you were weak, if you were idle or just not prepared to do what needed to be done, you didn't last long. Most of the emperors had risen to power by one of two means: bribery or murder, often both. Even when there was a clear line of succession to the throne, a prospective claimant could be unseated or even prevented ascending if his enemies - often from within his own family - were powerful or rich enough, or had enough support to oppose him. Thus, while Greece was the world's first democracy, Rome was anything but, and the men who sat on the throne were forever restive, anticipating - sometimes with cause, sometimes without - a challenge to their reign.

It was enough to drive you mad. And some emperors did indeed descend into madness, such as Nero and Caligula, and surely others too. But then again, it could be seen perhaps as a good thing that, unlike the line of royal succession a millennium later in England, in effect any Roman could rise to be emperor, somewhat like the American presidency. Of course, he usually had to be from the right background, but theoretically, once enough money had crossed enough palms or enough knives had been sunk into enough backs, the way was often clear for a man to take power who should, and often did, have no such claim to the throne.

Thus it was with Marcus Aurelius Mausaeus Carausius, who was a commoner who had clawed his way up the ranks of the Roman military and was given command of keeping the seas around France clear of Saxon and Frankish raiders. However accusations that he was in fact in league with the pirates, that he allowed them to loot and then they paid him a percentage, in a sort of perhaps ancient foreshadowing of the Mafia, led to the order being given for his execution by the then-emperor, Maximian. In response, Carausius declared himself "Emperor in the North" (shades of Game of Thrones, huh?) and with the fleet at his command he was able to back this up. Maximian sent a force to take back Britain from him in 288 or 289 but suffered a defeat, and Carausius remained emperor of that part of the world.

He also made alliances with the natives, who were at this point weary of Roman rule, and set himself up as Restitutor Britanniae (Restorer of Britain) and Genius Britanniae (Spirit of Britain). In this way he presumably hoped to show or prove that he was the great liberator who would release Britain from the yoke of its longtime oppressor, and allow them some form of autonomy. Whether he had any intention of doing this or not is unknown, but he needed the support of the Britons and, like most Romans, was ready to say what was needed. He could always go back on his word later.

He therefore set up what became known as the Britannic Empire, which was not to last long, with the end beginning in 293, when the emperor Constantius Chlorus cut Carausius off from his Gaul allies by besieging the port of Gesoriacum, modern Boulougne-sur-Mer, and invading Batavia. After seven years in power, Carausius fell victim to the favourite Roman pastime, assassinate-my-leader, when his treasurer, Allectus, did just that, taking the title of emperor for himself. He was not to hold it long, as an invasion fleet arrived in 296, quickly routing his army and once again Londinium was the scene of a massacre. The Britannic Empire had lasted ten short years, and direct Roman rule was once again established over the island.
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Barbarians at the Gates: The End of Roman Rule in Britain, and the Beginning of the Fall of the Roman Empire

I'm sure that, to someone living at the time, especially those living under Roman rule, it must have seemed completely inconceivable that this mighty empire could ever fall, but as history tells us, nothing lasts forever, and while Rome may not have been built in a day, for an empire that had lasted a thousand years she certainly fell within a couple of hundred. Incursions by German (Teutonic) tribes such as the Goths and the Visigoths and the Franks proved too strong for the empire to resist, perhaps as a result of being spread too thin, or perhaps due to internal politics or bad management, or arrogance and overconfidence, or bad strategy. I'm sure scholars have many reasons why Rome fell, but the barbarians didn't care why, they just intended it should.

And it would.

Certainly, internal power struggles which often erupted into civil war did not help the cause of the Romans, and to some degree the Visigoths and their allies had only to sit back and watch the greatest empire the world had ever known tear itself apart, though of course they made sure they did some of the tearing themselves. As the situation became increasingly desperate for Rome, they began to consolidate their forces to defend the empire against the encroaching hordes, and this meant that Britain became less a priority, as troops were shipped back home to assist in the defence of the motherland.

By about 383 the north and west of Britain had been cleared of any Roman presence, and around 407 Constantine III took what troops remained from Britain to aid in the defence of Rome (or actually, to try to set himself up as emperor), but neither he nor the currently-serving emperor, Honarius, could prevent the Visigoths breaking through and Rome was sacked in 410, effectively bringing to an end the mighty Roman Empire.

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Chapter II: Dying Groans, Birthing Cries - A Nation is Born

Timeline: 446 - 770

After the end of the Roman Empire Britain entered the medieval age, the Britons once again faced attack from the north, from the Picts, and appealed to the emperor for help, in a letter which has been recorded by history as "The Groans of the Britons", but he was rather busy fending off barbarians. Historians argue (as they invariably do) over what was in the letter, and what was the reply, if any, but a part of it seems to have been this:

To Agitius [or Aetius], thrice consul: the groans of the Britons. [...] The barbarians drive us to the sea, the sea drives us to the barbarians; between these two means of death, we are either killed or drowned.

The message is believed to have been sent between 446 - 454, and when it was not responded to (or was, but not favourably; at any rate, when no assistance was sent) the Britons battled, were invaded by and eventually defeated by German troops from the region of Saxony, known as Saxons. On their settlement of Britain, and in order to distinguish the new inhabitants from their German cousins, the new race were called Anglo-Saxons, as some had come from Anglia (not to be confused with the later English county) on the border between Denmark and Germany.
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Saxon Violence: The Second Conquest of Britain

Though Hitler failed in his attempt to conquer, or even invade England, Germans did succeed, albeit fifteen hundred years before the dictator was even born. As you might expect, with the withdrawal of Roman troops and the end of Roman rule, Britain descended into a kind of anarchy, with kings elected who had no interest in anything other than keeping power, ignoring the suffering of their people as famine gripped the land. According to the British monk Gildas:  "Britain has kings but they are tyrants; she has judges but they are wicked; they plunder and terrorise the innocent, they defend and protect the guilty and thieving, they have many wives, whores and adulteresses, swear false oaths, tell lies, reward thieves, sit with murderous men, despise the humble, their commanders are 'enemies of God'"; the list is long. Oath breaking and the absence of just judgements for ordinary people were mentioned a number of times. British leadership, everywhere, was immoral and the cause of the "ruin of Britain."

Into this chaos came the Saxons, and they were determined to put their stamp on the country, and as the English were to prove, to a degree, centuries later in Ireland, one way to do that was to destroy the culture and traditions of the people you are trying to supplant. A very effective way of doing that, in turn, is by abolishing their native tongue and substituting your own.

You're Speaking my Language! The Decline of the Celtic Tongue in Britain

Up until about 400, most people in what was then Britain spoke the Celtic language, their own version which was called Brittonic. When the Saxons arrived they spoke German, which in time would metamorphose into Old English, and become the dominant language in the country. A form of British Latin had also been spoken, which is not surprising, as if nothing else, constant hassle by Roman soldiers and governors and functionaries would have meant that the Britons would have picked up at least some sense of the language of the occupiers, and that in some places, perhaps even merely as an expedient so that one could understand the other and avoid unfortunate incidents (what is the Latin for "Your mother hangs around with sailors" anyway?) it may have been adopted as the dominant language. It's also possible that it may have been forced upon the populace, as it's hard to give orders if the people you're talking to don't understand what you're saying.

However, with the decline of the Roman Empire and the withdrawal of Roman troops, and the end of Roman rule in Britain this became less and less popular and eventually faded out altogether. The later establishment of the Christian Church in England would have prompted a revival, or resurgence of Latin, and hastened the death of the Celtic language, its final death-throes occurring when the Saxons arrived. I've always wondered why Old English bears little or no resemblance to modern English, and now I know: it's essentially German. The other three countries in, as it were, the British Isles continued to retain the Celtic languages, and even today Wales and Scotland speak their own tongue (the latter a sort of bastardisation of the English one) and of course Ireland was eventually driven so far under the English boot that all but the most rural and western areas now speak English.
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What's it worth to ya mate? Buying national identity

Might seem strange indeed, but it appears that one theory advanced for the success of the Anglo-Saxon takeover of Britain points to the possibility of people being technically bribed, or if you prefer, incentivised to change their allegiance. The question has often been asked, down through the ages, what price a man's life? Hell, Jesus is even reputed to have said "what shall it proft a man if he gain the whole world but lose his soul?" Well, according to the ancient system of personal value practiced by the Saxons, that all depended on how rich or important you were.

The weregild was not, as you might at first think, an exclusive club for those of a lycantrhopic bent, but was in fact the established "man price", which was levied on every man in the kingdom. This meant that, should someone be killed and his family seek restitution, there was a ready-made scale by which to award compensation. Another story goes - I can't remember from where - that a man is asked to tell a king, to a penny, what is he worth? Obviously not using the weregild system, he replies that Jesus was sold for thirty pieces of gold, so a king - who could not, and should not, put himself on the same level as our Saviour - would be worth twenty-nine. All very well reasoned, but in reality, the Saxon system had a king valued at thirty thousand pieces of gold, or thrymsa, as they were called in sixth century Saxony, with an archbishop half that, and a bishop slightly more than half that (8,000) all the way down to the common men, where a "prospering" peasant was only worth 2,000 and a non-prospering Welshman a snip at only 80 shillings.

This system, then, the theory goes, may have been used to attract Britons to foreswear their Britishness and become instead Anglo-Saxons, by which they increased their weregild by one hundred percent, an Anglo-Saxon man being worth twice as much as a Briton. This naturally increased their social status; if you're worth more, then you must be better, so why are you clinging to those old ties to Britain when you could be like us, living it up as an Anglo-Saxon? Not to mention that I'm sure those who did not "climb up" were then looked down upon by those who had. Kind of reminds me of the Protestant Ascendancy, though without the cash incentive. Or, indeed, any chance to rise in the ranks.

Those who just did not want to, as it were, take the king's shilling (see my History of Ireland journal under Oliver Cromwell) may have emigrated, most of them moving to Brittany in France, originally called, believe it or not, Armorica (but not the united states of) and changed to reflect the influx of Britons. No doubt there were plenty of wars, skirmishes, forced resettlements and good old fashioned plague (always a reliable source for cutting down populations) too, but one way or another by about the sixth to eighth century the Anglo-Saxons were well in control of Britain, or at least the part that would become England.

Emergence of a Kingdom: From Britannia to England

It was under the Anglo-Saxons that England was born, as various chieftains claimed areas of the country and renamed them, giving rise to the first English kingdoms, the names of many of which survive today in English counties.
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The Kingdom of Kent

It might be hard for English people to contemplate a small, market county like the so-called "Garden of England" forming the first proper post-Roman settlement in the country, but it is said to have been the first real English kingdom. Settled by two of the very first Saxon chieftains, Hengist and Horsa, two brothers who, finding their native Germany a little overrun with warlords and would-be kings, answered the call in 449 or 450 from Britain for assistance against the marauding Picts and Scots. Warriors born, the Saxons were easily able to defeat the northern invaders, bringing 1,600 men with them. This however turned out to be a two-edged sword, and the Britons soon had reason to regret having sought help from abroad.

The Picts and Scots had been so easy to defeat, and yet the Britons so unable to fight them before the arrival of the Saxons, that Hengist and Horsa looked at each other, looked at England, nodded and said "We'll have some of that" and proceeded to relay details of how puny and ripe for conquest these Britons were. So in the event, Britain swapped one occupying force for another, and the Saxons came over in their droves. They were clever though, careful not to reveal their true intentions at once; coming as saviours, defenders, paid mercenaries to protect the Britons from the wild Scots, they quickly found a way to quarrel with their erstwhile allies, claiming they had not been paid, and made alliances with the far more warlike Picts and Scots, joining them in oppression of the Britons.

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Vortigern

The man who had inadvertently opened the door to invaders was the so-called King of Britain, Vortigern. He does not seem to have been overly popular, accused of incest - he is said to have had a son by his own daughter - faithlessness (though that might be due to his being essentially tricked by Hengist and Horsa) and, well, unlucky, which would be for the same reason I assume. He is linked to the myth of Dinas Emrys, recounted in another of my journals, which states that when a great lord (presumably meant to be him) wished to build his castle at this rocky hillock but it kept collapsing, Merlin (yeah, that's how much we can rely on this tale - a fictional wizard. But it gets better...) advised him to have the foundations excavated, and they found two dragons asleep there, one red, one white. When the dragons were disturbed from their sleep they fought, the white triumphing, showing that England, the white dragon, would prevail against the red one of Wales.

Vortigern is supposed to have married Hengest's daughter, Rowena, giving him most of Kent in exchange (hope she was worth it!) and is said to have perished in "fire from heaven" brought down by the prayers of the monk Germanus (later Saint Germanus) of Auxerre, because sure why not? I imagine incest doesn't go down too well with holy men, but as usual there's no real way to verify these things, and he could have been hit by lightning, or died by the sword, or who knows? Nobody seems to have a good word for the guy though. Here's what the foremost English historian of the twelfth century, William of Malmesbury, had to say about the first King of the Britons:

At this time Vortigern was King of Britain; a man calculated neither for the field nor the council, but wholly given up to the lusts of the flesh, the slave of every vice: a character of insatiable avarice, ungovernable pride, and polluted by his lusts. To complete the picture, he had defiled his own daughter, who was lured to the participation of such a crime by the hope of sharing his kingdom, and she had borne him a son. Regardless of his treasures at this dreadful juncture, and wasting the resources of the kingdom in riotous living, he was awake only to the blandishments of abandoned women.

I guess these Britons were still getting the hang of this king lark, but it seems odd that Vortigern was king, then succeeded by his son Vortimer (sounds like something out of Harry Potter, doesn't it?) and when he was killed, dad snatched back the throne. I've never heard before of a line of royal re-succession, but that seems to be how they did it back then. Not that it mattered much, as Vortigern was defeated and replaced by Hengist, the throne (I guess basically of Kent) passing from father to son to father to father-in-law. Hey, there are even historians who think the name Vortigern doesn't even refer to an actual individual, but stands as a sort of honorific or title. If he was real, I bet he's rolling in his grave now. Well, rattling. Well, probably gone to dust by now. But I bet those dust particles are agitated.

Horsa didn't last too long in merry old England, going down at the Battle of Aylesford (455), as related in the ninth-century Anglo-Saxon Chronicle: This year Hengest and Horsa fought with Wurtgern the king on the spot that is called Aylesford. His brother Horsa being there slain, Hengest afterwards took to the kingdom with his son Esc.

Press escape, huh? Sorry. Hengist is said then to have enlisted help from Saxony from his son, Octa (no, as far as I know he only had the two arms) who settled in Northumberland while Hengist ravaged the southeast, sparing "neither age nor condition nor sex", which I think we can take to mean men, women and children, old and young, sick and well. He established the Kingdom of Kent, comprising Middlesex, Essex and parts of Surrey, and fixed his royal seat at Canterbury, from where he ruled for forty years until his death in 488 or thereabouts.
(https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/thumb/7/71/Hengist_King_of_Kent.jpg/440px-Hengist_King_of_Kent.jpg)
News of his success soon spread back home, and the Saxons, Angles and Jutes - all more or less the same and going under the one title of either Saxons or Angles - began arriving in numbers. The next kingdom to be set up was that of South Saxony. The Angles were so eager to come to Britain that they all did, leaving their country all but deserted and settling in (anyone?) Anglia, as well as Northumbria and Mercia.

Esc seems not to have been the greatest of kings, nothing like his father anyhow, and under his son Octa part of Kent was lost, taken or acceded to the East Saxons, who took Middlesex and Essex and formed the kingdom of East Saxon, or Essex. To some degree, under successive kings it seems that Kent could indeed have been called "the sleeping kingdom". Esc's son reigned for twenty-two years but seems to have done nothing of note, while his son reigned for ten years less but did as much, or as little, all leading up to AEthelbert, who appears to have been the first king of Kent to actually get his arse off the throne and do something for his kingdom.

What this was initially was to make war upon Ceawlin, king of Wessex, in 568, but his army was defeated and he retreated home to Kent. He then had to acknowledge Ceawlin's authority over not only his but all the Saxon kingdoms, affording him the title of bretwalda, or Britain-ruler. Later (it isn't clear when) he led the armies of other Saxon states (again, no information but we can assume East Anglia and Sussex were part of his "association", as it is described) and this time Ceawilin was defeated, Aethelbert taking the title and also helping himself to the throne of Mercia. Aware that his allies might turn against him though, he cleverly returned the Mercian throne to Webba, son of its founder, Crida, but more or less as a puppet king.
(https://catholicphilly.com/media-files/2015/03/PERU-MARTYRS2.jpg)
More to the point, he almost single-handed converted his people to Christianity. This was due to several factors. The Saxons were a warrior people, loyal to their god Woden, god of war, and Thor, god of thunder, hoping to win valour in battle and enter Valhalla. But as  their enemies diminished (despite still regional skirmishes, battles and even small wars among the Heptarchy) and the Saxons began to settle down, like the Vikings who would follow them in three or four centuries' time, and consider more the benefits of farming and commerce than war and plunder, the idea of paying homage to a god of blood and violence began to appeal less. Also, their people back home had mostly already been converted by missionaries sent out from Ireland and Rome, and they might have felt sort of like the poor relations or the backwards brothers in clinging to old, outmoded beliefs. Maybe it was time to change.
(https://www.catholicireland.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/09/greg-the-great.jpg)
There is also the story told of a kind of epiphany had by one of the Pope's prelates. "Gregory, sirnamed the Great, then Roman pontiff, began to entertain hopes of effecting a project which he himself, before hemounted the papal throne, had once embraced, of converting the British Saxons.

It happened, that this prelate, at that time in a private station, had observed in the market-placeof Rome some Saxon youth exposed to sale, whom the Roman merchants, in their trading voyages to Britain, had bought of their mercenary parents. Struck with the beauty of their fair complexions and blooming countenances, Gregory asked to what country they belonged; and being told they were Angles, he replied, that they ought more properly to be denominated angels: It were a pity that the Prince of Darkness should enjoy so fair a prey, and that so beautiful a frontispiece should cover a mind destitute of internal grace and righteousness. Enquiring farther concerning the name of their province, he was informed, that it was Deïri, a district of Northumberland: Deïri! replied he, that is good! They are called to the mercy of God from his anger, De ira. But what is the name of the king of that province? He was told it was Aella or Alla Alleluiah, cried he: We must endeavour, that the praises of God be sung in their country.

Moved by these allusions, which appeared to him so happy, he determined to undertake, himself, a mission into Britain; and having obtained the Pope's approbation, he prepared for that perilous journey: But his popularity at home was so great, that the Romans, unwilling to expose him to such dangers, opposed his design; and he was obliged for the present to lay aside all farther thoughts of executing that pious purpose.

Well, you have to admire the old guy's cheek, making so much out of so little. Had it not been for those pesky Romans though (what did they ever do for us?) he probably would have been on the next galley or trireme or whatever, on his way to England, accompanied by a heavenly host, or at least a whole shitload of monks, bishops, priests and clerics. Not sure what kind of reception he would have got in then-Pagan Northumberland though!

Instead he chose his shock-troops, led by a Roman monk called Augustine, later to be canonised as Saint Augustine, but they were so fearful of the Pagans that they decided to layover in France for a while, and sent their leader back to the Pope asking if he was sure it was safe. Gregory basically chased them out of France with a broom, telling them to go do their job, and duly admonished they landed in England and met with Aethelbert. Their first impression must have been "damn rainy here" (though being holy men and not wanting to profane the name of the Lord they probably said something like "Has God not in his wisdom blessed this land with an abundance of his bounteous rain, that the crops may grow and the land be fertile?" Possibly adding sotto voce, "but thank Christ he hasn't seen fit to endow our eternal land with the same gifts, as I like to take the air in the gardens of my Italian monasteries, and there's nothing as certain to ruin a nice walk as a heavy fucking shower of rain, beg your pardon Lord, pardon my English." ) That was a long bracket! Get used it it: I do that all the time.

Their second though may have been "this isn't such a bad place is it?" and when monsters completely failed to rise up out of the ground and swallow them whole, fire did not rain down on them (though rain surely did) and the approaching contingent of Saxons, led by Aethelbert, were only normal size and had the standard number of heads each, they must have breathed a sigh of relief. Aethelbert, for his part, was still suspicious, expecting magic and sorcery (being an ignorant pagan and all) and so had ensured he met the Christian missionaries in the open air, as if that somehow negated any magic they were perceived to have.

Finding, possibly to his own relief, that these unbelievers also possessed only the regulation number of heads and did not try to suck the soul from his living body, Aethelbert may have grumbled "Look, I still don't know about you guys... Hey!" Turning on one of them fiercely who had begun muttering a prayer. "No trying to convert me when I'm not looking!" And back to Augustine as their leader "I suppose you can have the Isle of Thanet. It's not very big and we're not doing anything with it at the moment. Kind of a dumping ground for old weapons and odds and sods. Kick back there and we'll see how you go. But no," again turning with a fierce eye, "sneaky trying to steal my soul behind my back, you!" I'm sure Bede himself would back up such a conversation. Oh no wait, he's dust now. Oh well, you'll just have to take my word for it I guess.

(https://www.coburgbanks.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2016/06/handshake-smaller-400x400.jpg)

Trollheart's Hilarious History presents... Converting the Heathen in Anglo-Saxon England, a Beginner's Guide

I suppose in fairness you can see how, to pagans who had struggled all their lives to live up to a certain code in order to be included on Woden's guest list, Christianity must have been almost like a free meal ticket.

Let's imagine, for the sake of it, a typical conversation (soon to be conversion) between an unnamed Saxon and a Christian monk, the latter kind of the medieval equivalent of those military recruiters that haunt college campuses in search of souls they can snare and trap in a lifetime of servitude to the war machine.

Monk: "So what's the current deal with your god?"
Saxon: "We get to go to Valhalla when we die, where we will feast and sing and carouse with the prettiest women for all of eternity."
Monk: "Our God does not allow drinking or feasting or sex in his house."
Saxon: "Goodbye."
Augustine: "Nice try brother, but remember page one of Converting the Heathen, a Guide for the Novice Missionary: never tell them anything they won't approve of."
Monk: "But surely, Father, tis a sin to lie?"
Augustine: "I told you before, I'm not your father. I don't care what your mother says, she's a bitc - ah, where was I? Yes, a lie. Well, brother, as the Good Book says, there are lies and there are lies."
Monk: "Where does it say that, Fa - ah, brother?"
Augustine (annoyed): "Ah, somewhere at the back I think. It's not important. The point is, if you're lying for the glory of God, it's not a lie really, and since you're dealing with pagans, the lie does not apply. Got it?"
Monk (doubtfully): "Got it, brother."
Augustine: "Good man. Now here's another. What's your name friend? Really? Egthel, Slasher of Throats. Jolly good. My, you are a large fellow aren't you? Look at those muscles. Er, over to you, brother."

Monk: "Ah, well, I'm, ah, that is, I'm told that you can get into Valhalla if you...?"
Egthel, Slasher of Throats: "S' right. All you need do is die a hero's death, be valiant in battle, kill all your enemies, rape their women, take their land..."
Monk: "That's, ah, rather a lot of conditions."
Egthel, Slasher of Throats: "I don't care to be interrupted."
Monk: "Sorry, do go on."
Egthel, Slasher of Throats: "Sacrifice animals, obey your king, teach your children the ways of worship, never show weakness..."
Monk: "."
Egthel, Slasher of Throats: "I think that's it."
Monk: "I see. And if you don't, well, fulfill all those conditions?"
Egthel, Slasher of Throats: "Well, you don't get in."
Monk: "But what if there is no way for you to die in battle? What if you're at peace with all your neighbours?"
Egthel, Slasher of Throats: "Well, you go out and look for some enemies, don't you?"
Monk: "And what if you can't find any?"
Egthel, Slasher of Throats: "There's always enemies." A little less certainly "Aren't there? I mean, stands to reason. Man got to have enemies."
Monk: "But if there are none? What do you do then?"
Egthel (worried): "Well, I suppose you might - urgh - have to die a peaceful death, die in (spits) bed!"
Monk: "And then what?"
Egthel, Slasher of Throats: "Well, then you don't get into Valhalla, do ya? I mean, stands to reason. Doesn't it?"
Monk: "Ah, but what if I told you that MY god will take you into HIS house NO MATTER HOW you die?"
Egthel, Slasher of Throats: "You're winding me up, son!"
Monk: "No, really. I promise."
Egthel (still suspicious): "You're telling me (grappling with the unfamiliar concept) this god of yours will let me in even if I (whispers, looks around guiltily) die in bed?"
Monk: "Yep."
Egthel: "Sign me up, son! I never really liked all this dying in battle lark, if I'm honest with you now. All that rushing about with axes and swords and hammers - fella can get really hurt that way! Sides," (guiltily) "I haven't slashed a throat in yonks now. Wondering why I continue calling myself Egthel, Slasher of..."
Monk: "Throats, yes."
Egthel, Slasher of Throats: "Exactly. It's like, I'm more into farming these days, so maybe not so much throat slashing, more herding of sheep. I don't know," looking doubtful, "You think Egthel, Herder of Sheep works better?"
Monk: "Definitely."
Egthel, Previously Slasher of Throats, potential future Herder of Sheep: "You really think so?"
Monk: "No doubt about it at all. I mean, look at it this way: anyone can, um, slash a throat..."
Egthel, Previously Slasher of Throats, potential future Herder of Sheep: "Not like I could, mate! I was known for it! Famous I was. These kids these days, they don't know how to slash a throat, it's all rush rush hack hack with them. They don't realise there's an art to it..."
Monk: "Ah, yes. So, moving on. You think you might be interested in converting?"
Egthel, of no current occupation: "Could be, could be. Tell me, how do you deal with your enemies?"
Monk (uncomfortably): "Well, um, that is, we're taught that if someone strikes us on one cheek..."
Egthel: "Break his arms, right?"
Monk: "Um, no..."
Egthel: "Gouge out his eyes? Smash his teeth? Break his nose?"
Monk: "Not exactly."
Egthel, nodding, winking: "Ah, I got you! You're a cutting people, right? Why fuck around with breaking and gouging when you can cut. I can respect that. What do you cut? Arm? Leg? (eyes shining with a sudden manic light) Throat?"
Monk: "No! Listen, I..."
Egthel: "Gotcha. You go for something more (looks down, winks again) personal, right?"
Monk: "No! No! Bloody no! We don't gouge, cut, break or smash anything!"
Egthel (mystified): "So... what do you do?"
Monk: "We offer them the other cheek."
Silence.
Egthel, eventually: "Sorry, my helmet must be on too tight. Wife is always getting me one size too small. She says my head's too big but I know it's her. Can you repeat that? I almost thought you said..."
Monk (miserably): "I did."
Egthel: "You... offer them the... other cheek? Why? They're just going to strike it too... oh wait!" (Brightening) "I think I have it now! Very clever, yeah. You turn the cheek so they don't see your mate coming up behind them with a big axe..."
Monk: "No, no, there's nobody coming up behind them."
Egthel: "Then why... I mean, how do you wreak your, you know, bloody vengeance?"
Monk: "We don't. We're a peaceful people."
Egthel: "Yeah, well, me too, son, but I got my limits. And if anyone hits me on the cheek, he's going down, and hard."
Monk: "It's not son, it's brother."
Egthel: "You're not my brother (confused). I bloody hate my brother. (Suspicious again) Hey! You're not, are you? You're not... you're not Egthorn, in disguise? (shaking head) "Nah, couldn't be. That bastard is about a foot taller than you."
Monk: "I think we're getting sidetracked again."
Egthel: "Look, you seem a nice guy, but if you're not into wreaking bloody vengeance, what's in this for me?"
Monk: "A free pass into Paradise? No dying gloriously in battle required? Those dying peacefully in bed welcome?"
Egthel (scratching chin): "Oh yeah. Forgot about that bit. I do like that idea. Not so keen on turning the other cheek though."
Monk: "Tell you what, let's put a pin in that for now, eh?"
Egthel: "Good idea. Where to put the pin though? I prefer the centre of the eye, driven hard..."
Monk: "It's just an expression."
Egthel: "An expression of violence, yes."
Monk: "Let's go back to this god of yours, shall we. Woden, isn't it? He demands a lot of you, does he not?"
Egthel, Previously Slasher of Throats, potential future Herder of Sheep: "Well yeah, I mean, your god must be more powerful than Woden if he can guarantee me a place in - what did ya call it? Pair of dice? He must be really strong! What's he like?"
Monk: "Well, he died on the cross for our sins..."
Egthel, Previously Slasher of Throats, potential future Herder of Sheep: (frowning) "Hold on just one Saxon second, son. You telling me - now, you seriously telling me your god is, well, dead?"
Monk: "Well, yes, but he rose again and..."
Egthel, Slasher of Throats, no longer considering a change of name: "Sorry son, you lost me. Give me a god that can kick Woden's arse, I'm there, but some Johnny who let us mortals hammer him up onto a cross and didn't come back to wreak bloody vengeance..." (Pause. Hopeful look) Did he come back to wreak bloody vengeance? Cos, I could be down with that. That speaks to me, god that gets killed, rises from the dead and then goes looking for his killers with a big axe in each hand. Did he go looking," another hopeful look, "for his killers with a big axe in each hand?"
Monk: "Well, not exactly, no."
Egthel, Slasher of Throats: "One big axe in both hands?"
Monk: "Um..."
Egthel, Slasher of Throats: "Two small axes, one in each hand?"
Monk: "The thing is..."
Egthel, Slasher of Throats: "Any... kind of axe at all?"
Monk: "He doesn't..."
Egthel, Slasher of Throats: "Doesn't have to be an axe." Sense of desperation. "Any weapon will do. Sword? Hammer? Big stick with nails in?"
Monk: "He's, well, he's not that kind of god I'm afraid." Brightening slightly. "Love is his weapon. And brotherhood. And..." Trailing off... "Peace."
Egthel, Slasher of Throats: "Nah, ya lost me pal. Any god who thinks peace is a weapon deserves all he gets. And any god who allows himself to be nailed to a piece of wood and doesn't avenge himself in - I should make this very clear - the most awful and bloody manner, is not a god I can get behind. I'll stick with the All-Father, if it's all the same to you."
Augustine (shaking head): "Brother! Page one, brother! Page fucking one!"

Despite my somewhat lame attempt at humour there (sorry if you had to read through all of that but I can't help myself sometimes) the idea of eternal life being granted just as long as you obey and lead a good life had to be more attractive than one only attained through a glorious death in battle, especially as, like I already pointed out, battles and the opportunity to die gloriously in them were becoming few and far between as the Saxons settled down. So it wasn't quite the slog that the missionaries had originally envisaged.

But if you want a job done properly, send a woman to do it. Aethelbert married Bertha, the only daughter of the king of Paris, Carlbert, on the condition laid down by her father that she should be free to practice her religion after being married. She brought her priests and bishops with her, and between their zeal (nothing like converting heathen to get a bishop out of bed in the morning!) and her popularity at court, most of Aetehelbert's people were won over (and those that weren't were probably given friendly advice that it might be in their best interests not to upset the queen with all those icky blood sacrifices and praying to the thunder like children) and by somewhere in the early seventh century all of his kingdom had converted.

In 602 or 603 Athelbert pronounced a series of laws, known to be the first written examples of Anglo-Saxon, which aimed to set penalties for crimes and create a code of conduct for his subjects. Penalties and fines were set by social status, though I'm not sure whether those on a higher level were fined more or less; the rich usually get the better part of the deal so I would assume the latter. Maybe not, but it's unclear. At any rate, Aethelbert left his kingdom in a far better state (no pun intended) on his death than it had been in before he rose to the throne.

Rather annoyingly for him, his son promptly undid all his father's good works, getting jiggy with his mother-in-law, which outraged Christianity and plunged all of Kent back into paganism, and surely made Augustine, if he was still there, throw up his hands in despair and say "That's it! All my work up in smoke because this kid wants to get into his mother-in-law's nether garments! I have had it with you Saxons! The Devil take you all - I'm going back to Rome, where they know how to make proper pasta!" Or words to that effect.

However his successor, Laurentius, gave it the old college try, appearing before Eadbald, the son and new king, all marked with bruises and weals and stripes, and when Eadbald asked who would dare to beat a holy man so, Laurentius told him it had been Saint Peter, who had taken him to task in a (surprisingly tactile) vision for failing. In reality, he probably did it himself or had some monks do it, they surely not loath to do so, hating England and its pagans and its rain, and yea verily most eager to take out their frustrations on the boss man. Whatever the truth of it, his ploy worked and Eadbald kicked mum-in-law out of bed and begged Laurentius's forgiveness, returning his people to Christianity, while the holy man went to anoint his body with some much-needed Savlon.

The return to Christianity did not bring peace to the kingdom. On Eadbald's death his own son reigned for another twenty-four years, and was famous for establishing the custom of Lent and also for getting rid of all those unsightly pagan idols and altars, but his son, Egbert, was a little too free with the sword and fearing the challenge of two of his uncles for the throne, removed them from the picture, precipitating unrest and eventual virtual civil war across the kingdom until finally Wessex defeated and took Kent in 686, later itself absorbed into the huge and mighty state of Mercia, as King Offa consolidated all the kingdoms together and dissolved the Heptarchy.

(https://sussexflag.files.wordpress.com/2015/03/bbc-scr-flag.jpg?w=640)
Kingdom of Sussex

Things didn't go so easily here for the invaders, and they suffered massive losses at the Battle of Mearcredes-Burn, so much so that although they won the battle it was all but a pyrrhic victory. They took their revenge on the defenders of Andred-Ceastar, when they slaughtered all the inhabitants once they took the town. Aella, the Saxon chief who led the assault, set up his kingdom here, taking Sussex and parts of Surrey, but was prevented from moving into Kent as Hengist was already established there, and wasn't planning on going anywhere any time soon.
(https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/d/d2/Flag_of_Essex.svg)
Kingdom of Essex

Half-inched, as related in the entry above on Kent, from that kingdom when its ruler grew weak and feeble, Essex basically comprised, not surprisingly, Essex, Hertfordshire and Middlesex. Reading its - very sparse - history, I can't understand how such a weak kingdom was able to take territory from what was one of the larger and more powerful ones at the time, Kent, but so it says. Anyway it seems that for most of its existence Essex swung from paganism to Christianity and back, the latter not helped by a particularly virulent plague which, as you might imagine, convinced the Saxons that this new god wasn't any better than their old one, and they went whingeing back for forgiveness, hoping Woden would show the pestilence who was boss. He didn't, and back to Jesus they went, like some sort of religious tennis match or one of those roly-poly toys.

Listen, when your kings carry the epithet "the Good" and "The Little", you know you're not exactly destined to make your mark on history, and one of the kings - one of the last, in fact - though he had married, took and was determined to keep a vow of chastity, went on a "pilgrimage" to (read, ran away to) Rome and shut himself away for the rest of his life in an oyster. Sorry, cloyster. Cloister. This Old English can be hard to interpret sometimes. A later king than him also took the same path, dying in the eternal city, and his successor shrugged and called up Egbert, wondering if they could do a deal: did the King of Wessex fancy adding Essex to his portfolio? The king did, and Essex was absorbed too.
(https://britishcountyflags.files.wordpress.com/2013/09/insert-image-29-fear-flag.jpg)
Kingdom of Wessex

Cerdic arrived around 495 and was attacked on the very day of his landing, but though victorious he suffered heavy losses and, perhaps surprised at the stiff resistance from the Britons, when he had been told they would be a pushover, found it necessary to enlist help from Kent and Sussex as well as the homeland. He engaged, with this reinforced army, the Briton king Nazan-Leod, whom he defeated with the loss of over (it's claimed) five thousand of the enemy. It seems even the mythical King Arthur himself came to the aid of his fellow Britons, taking on Cerdic and his son Kenric, though how much of that is embellished legend for effect you can never be sure, and I don't think there's been any historical evidence found to prove the man existed at all. Still, I guess it makes a good story.

Even Excalibur though was not enough to stay this army, and the Saxons prevailed, taking Hantshire, Wiltshire, Dorset and Berkshire, as well as the Isle of Wight, and naming the new kingdom West Saxon, or Wessex. Cerdic ruled till his death in 534, succeeded by his son Kenric, who died in 560.
(https://www.crwflags.com/fotw/images/g/gb-eang.gif)
Kingdom of East Anglia

When your entry in the account begins "the history of this kingdom contains nothing memorable", you know you're on to a loser. However, small as this state was it did give us Sale of the Century (what do you mean, you're too young to get that reference? Get out of here before I take me old man's stick to ye!) so we should at least look into it briefly, if only for the sake of Nicholas Parsons (I said, get out!)

Named, like Wessex, for the people who settled/conquered/created it, the East Angles (no, not the Right Angles) this was one of the smaller of the Saxon kingdoms, and as such only survived less than two centuries before being absorbed into the much larger one of Mercia. It comprised the counties of Norfolk and Suffolk. Wehha (sounds like he was named after sitting on a tack!) is said to have been its first king, but history tells us nothing about him, is not even sure if he existed, but if he did, seems reasonably certain that he was part of the ruling Wuffingas dynasty, and that his son, Wuffa, succeeded him. If he existed. Or his father. Not much evidence to prove it either way. If the name of that dynasty sounds like it was that of a pack of dogs, you wouldn't be far wrong. Wuffingas means "descended from the wolf".

A point of interest though is that the kingdom of East Anglia seems to have been established on the ground once ruled by the Iceni, of whose greatest leader, Boudica, we have already heard. And like her tribe, though small, the kingdom of East Anglia was, for a short time in the early seventh century, one of the most powerful in England, as it was developing into being, its third or fourth king, Raedwald, powerful enough to defeat the king of Northumbria, Aethelfrith and replace him with his own choice, Edwin, thus securing the loyalty and support of the northern kingdom.

(Note: Many of these names use the Saxon/Old English habit of joining an A and an E so that they're inseparable one from the other. I can't do that with my fonts, and can't be arsed copying and pasting each time, so just take it that the two will be separated at all times. If you have a problem with that, try doing this yourself. It ain't easy).
(https://m.media-amazon.com/images/I/31rn3WjH96L._AC_SX425_.jpg)
Kingdom of Northumbria

Originally two separate kingdoms - Deira, ruled first by Aella and then by Aethelfrith and Bernicia, Ida its first king - Northumbria (literally, north of the Humber (river)) was one of the more powerful of the Saxon states. A darkly humorous tale from the reign of Aethelfrith concerns the Battle of Chester, where the Britons opposed him with the aid of 1250 monks from nearby Bangor, who did not take part in the fight but prayed for their success. Aethelfrith was not pleased about this. Essentially he pointed and said "What are those guys doing?" When told they were praying for victory for his enemy, he is reported most definitely not to have said (but maybe thought) "Fuck that! Then they're my enemies too. Let's see if their prayers can save them from the sword! Or spear. Or pike. Or big pointy stick. Records from this era are spotty and nobody's sure what the weapons used were, but one thing is for sure: it will hurt!"

And so his forces massacred the praying monks (whose God seems to have sauntered away whistling nonchalantly and did not bring down fire and thunder or smite their enemies in any other way) almost to a man, proving the simple truth of war: if you're not with us, you're against us. Or perhaps disproving the maxim that the pen - or prayer - is mightier than the sword. The Britons, for their part, considering this hardly at all cricket, were shocked and quickly overwhelmed, defeated completely and lost Chester. Aethelfrith rather snippily then had the monastery pulled down. What happened to any spare monks left inside is not recorded.

Having exiled Edwin, son of Aella, the landless noble found refuge with Raedwald, King of East Anglia, and Aethelfrith wanted him. Hand him over or, you know, just kill the dude, he requested of Raedwald. I'll make it worth your while. The East Anglian king demurred, but as the promises of gifts grew richer and richer he became inclined to think, hey, what's this guy to me? Why not hand him over? Or... he could have a very unfortunate fall - onto a sword blade. Not to mention, that when the carrot failed to motivate Raedwald, Aethelfrith tried the stick, and threatened war if the kid was not handed over. His mind made up, Raedwald was all ready to do the deed when his queen stepped in. "Oh no you don't!" she snapped. "That nice young man sought sanctuary with you, and it is your sacred duty to uphold that and protect him. Unless you feel like going without for the next few months - YOU know what I mean! - you just go tell that Aethelfrith he can sod right off."

And so he did. In person. Believing it best to get his retaliation in first, Raedwald attacked Northumbria, defeated the rather surprised Aethelfrith, lopped his head off, probably - killed him anyway - and set Edwin on the throne. No doubt the ex-king's final thoughts were "should have left the little bleeder where he was!" And probably "Arrrggh!" too. However, establishing Edwin on the Northumbrian throne wasn't purely an act of philanthropy on the part of Raedwald, of course, nor was it because he didn't wish to wear his right hand out if his queen withheld the goods. He knew that by placing Edwin in charge he had secured the loyalty of Northumbria, and had expanded his sphere of influence, to say nothing of the good it did to his reputation. No doubt he showed his queen his appreciation for making him do the right thing when he got back to his own kingdom.

It turned out to be a good move. Sort of. Edwin became one of the most successful and, unusually enough, best-liked kings in all the land. Under his reign, crime was reduced to almost nothing - robbery, rape, murder, all sort of violent acts outlawed and dealt with, and drunkenness curtailed. THAT must have made him popular! And yet, it did, for a strange story is told of king Cuichelme of Wessex who, unable to best him in arms, determined to send an assassin to take Edwin out. When one of his guards saw the man rush at the king, and with no other weapon to hand, he threw himself in the killer's path, literally taking a bullet for the king, except of course bullets had yet to be invented. Now that's a popular ruler!

When Raedwald's nobles revolted against and killed him, and offered the throne of East Anglia to Edwin, he, remembering how he would not have been where he was but for his benefactor, refused, ordering instead that Raedwald's son be given the throne. Edwin further cemented alliances by marrying the daughter of the king of Kent, and she, a Christian, convinced him to convert. But it seems that he was the only man who could hold Northumbria together, and on his death Penda of Mercia again divided the kingdom, as related further, under the entry for Mercia. All the effort to convert them was wasted as Northumbria returned to paganism until Oswald defeated Penda and finally reunited the two kingdoms into one.

After Penda was killed by Oswiu, things got a little, well, bloody.

The new king slew Oswin, son of Osric, who was to be the last king of Deira. His own son, Egfrid, died without heir as his wife refused to violate her vow of chastity (some confusion over the idea of being a wife there!) and his brother Alfred ruled for nineteen years, leaving the kingdom in the charge of his eight-year-old son Ofsted sorry Osred, who, despite his tender years managed to rule for another eleven before he was slain by Kenred, who only got to sit on the throne for a single year before he was done in. With me so far? Next up was Osric, then Celwulph, until Eadbert, coming to the throne in 738, decided this was not a healthy occupation and like Sigebert legged it to a monastery so fast that the crown was still ringing on the floor of the throne room where he had dropped it, possibly.

From then on you have this guy and that guy ruling for a year here, a year there before being brutally murdered, betrayed or proven a pretender (and then betrayed and brutally murdered) until finally the people had had enough and invited King Egbert of Wessex to take the throne, to which he responded "Ta very much, don't mind if I do." And that was basically the end of Northumbria as an independent power, and nobody can say they didn't deserve it.

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Kingdom of Mercia

For a long time the most powerful of the six kingdoms established by the Saxons, Mercia (border kingdom, or march) covered huge swathes of England (you can see from the map above how big it was) including South Derbyshire, Leicestershire, Nottinghamshire, Staffordshire, Northamptonshire and northern Warwickshire. Like the establishment of many of these early kingdoms, little actual evidence is left to us as to who founded them, but the earliest ruler of Mercia - assuming he existed (yes, that again) - seems to be someone called Creoda, and that's as much as we know about him. However the next king is a different matter.
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Panda, sorry Penda, was supposedly one of the descendants of Woden (Odin) - though how you can be descended from a makey-up figure of fiction you'd have to ask the Saxons I guess - and the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle gives his lineage in a sort of Biblical "Ham-begat-Sham" sort of way like this: "Penda was Pybba's offspring, Pybba was Cryda's offspring, Cryda Cynewald's offspring, Cynewald Cnebba's offspring, Cnebba Icel's offspring, Icel Eomer's offspring, Eomer Angeltheow's offspring, Angeltheow Offa's offspring, Offa Wermund's offspring, Wermund Wihtlæg's offspring, Wihtlæg Woden's offspring". So now you know.

We're told Penda came to the throne in 626 and ruled for thirty years - none of these Saxon kings seem to have had anything like a short rule; whether that was because they were very popular or very strong, or because the idea of usurping was not part of the Saxon mindset, I have no idea, but in general as the English royal line got established later on, kings were always being murdered, challenged, deposed and basically the throne was almost interchangeable, a game of musical chairs (or thrones) being played by all claimants. But that's in the future. Of England's past. If you know what I mean.

The Battle of Hatfield Chase

Penda teamed up with Welsh king Cadwallon, ruler of Gwynedd, to take on the most powerful Saxon king at the time, Edwin of Northumbria (you probably recall that Raedwald, king of East Anglia, had him set up as ruler) and they met at Hatfield Chase, in Doncaster. It was a revenge battle, as Cadwallon had been defeated by Edwin some years earlier, but having secured the alliance of Penda he was able to return and kill not only Edwin but his two sons, weakening the kingdom and it's said paving the way for Penda to take the throne of Mercia. Using the old axiom of "divide and conquer" he did exactly that, splitting Northumbria back into the two separate kingdoms it had previously been, Deira and Bernicia.  Cadwallon's triumph would not last long though, as he was defeated and killed the following year at the Battle of Heavenfield, when Oswald, an exile under Edwin, returned from Scotland and attacked Northumbria.
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With supposedly the saints on his side - he having dreamed the night before the battle of St. Columba, who promised him victory, and to whom he prayed - Oswald defeated the forces of Cadwallon (this time the Welsh king was alone, without aid from Penda) and killed him, taking the throne of Northumbria as he reunited  the two kingdoms into one. His reign would last eight years, after which Penda decided Northumbria had become enough of a threat for him to march against it again, and he met Oswald at the Battle of Maserfield in 641 or 642, where, if this can be characterised as a fight between pagans (Saxons) and Christians (Britons) - which is very much oversimplifying the situation - then the pagans triumphed, as Oswald was not only killed, but dismembered, his head stuck on a pole along with his arms. Poor man went to pieces! Disarmed and lost his head. All right, I'll stop now.

Maserfield left the kingdom of Northumbria weak, as it again divided in two, and secured Penda the title, at the time, of the most powerful king of Mercia. He would push his luck though, always driven by his hatred and/or jealousy of, or covetousness for the kingdom of Northumbria, and it would end up being his undoing. In 655 he marched with a huge force to take Northumbria, now under Oswald's brother Oswiu (although he had only taken reign over one of the two kingdoms in the split realm). Initially, Oswiu capitulated, buying off the Saxon king, but as Penda began the march home in heavy rain, and as many of his followers and allies deserted him, Oswiu struck, and they fought at the river Winwaed.

Oswiu emulated his brother and appealed for divine assistance, this time cutting out the middle man and going direct to the Big Guy, promising he would have his daughter take the veil (become a nun) if God gave him victory - nobody knows what she thought about it, though I guess back then women did what they were told - and would also build, and I quote*, a shit ton of monasteries. God may have considered it, thought hell I could always do with another nun, and who doesn't need monasteries, shrugged and said sure, you got a deal. Besides, he may have winked, I don't particularly like these pagans with their blood sacrifices and their strange rituals, coming over here, taking our jobs, stealing our women. Or not.

* not a quote

Anyway, the upshot was that Penda's army - or what remained of it after many had decided that there were perhaps better occupations to pursue in seventh century England - got the shit kicked out of it, the Venerable Bede, noted monk, historian and know-it-all citing the heavy rain as one of the bigger factors in the victory of Oswiu, where "many more were drowned in the flight than were destroyed by the sword." Never rains but it pours, huh? In a slice (sorry) of true poetic justice, Penda was beheaded, and all of his chieftains killed also, along with the East Anglian king, Ah here now, sorry Aethelhere.

Mirroring the fate suffered by its king, Mercia was now beheaded, as in, divided into two, just as Northumbria had been by him, with the victorious Oswiu taking one half, while Penda's son, Peada, who had converted to Christianity in order to get it on with Oswiu's daughter, was allowed to rule over the other half. Much good it did him though, as he was murdered a year later, betrayed by the very woman for whose love he had given up his pagan ways.

The defeat of Penda and the death of his son, along with the annexation of Mercia shifted the balance of power back to Northumbria, and also turned the formerly pagan kingdom into a Christian one, meaning that now the two most powerful and influential realms in Anglo-Saxon England were of that faith, and the rest could not be long falling into line, willingly or not.

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(Look! Another stained-glass window. Well, a lot of the time it's the only way I can get any sort of a picture of these guys. It's not like they had cameras back then, and even artistry was all but unknown except to monks, who preferred creating, you guessed it, stained-glass windows. I guess they were like the JPEGs of their day, or something).

Sigebert, the Reluctant King

Before we move on, I've found this account and think it's amusing, in a dark kind of way, to take a look at. Sigebert was believed to be either the son or stepson of Raedwald, ruler of East Anglia from 599 - 624, and was sent into exile in Gaul during Raedwald's reign, where he converted to Christianity, returning around 629 and bringing with him Saint Felix, to help convert his subjects. Under his rule, Latin made a comeback as he established a school for its teaching to young boys as part of Christian education. This being a time coinciding with the great push from Irish monasteries to convert the heathen in the wake of the decline of the Roman Empire, it seemed saints were everywhere in England. You couldn't turn around without bumping into one, or, as Mrs Doyle once remarked in Father Ted, it was wall-to-wall saints. Columba, Felix, Fursey, Aidan... if saint-spotting was your thing you would have been in hog's heaven in England during the seventh century. Paganism didn't stand a chance.

Eventually though, Sigebert decided he'd had enough of this kinging lark and abdicated his throne, going into a monastery he built himself - you might say it was his personal retirement home. But he was not to be left to die in peace, oh no. Famous and popular as he had been, when Mercia attacked East Anglia they tried to make him come out of retirement and lead their people, but he was having none of it. "Fuck off," he's rather unlikely to have said, "I just want a quiet life, talking to God and tending my rose bushes, probably." His subjects were unmoved. "Plenty of time to talk to God later," they surely did not respond. "One more job, Your Majesty, or Your Grace, or Your Kingness, or Your whatever we called a king back then. One more job and you can retire."

Left with no choice - I mean, literally: they dragged him out of the monastery! - Sigebert plumped for passive resistance, a thousand years before Gandhi, determined it should not be worth their while to have called him from his solitude. He refused to hold a sword, going into battle armed only with a staff, and the enemy understood, and let him go back to his prayers. Oh no wait, they didn't: they killed him. And all his army. Well I never. He became a Christian martyr and saint (I'm sure he'd rather have been a live Christian monk than a dead martyr and saint) and his church at least lasted longer than he did, remaining the church of East Anglia up to about 840.

The above incident I think illustrates some sort of point probably: if you're forced into battle it's a good idea to use a weapon that can at least protect you, and a staff ain't it, or perhaps you actually CAN take the king out of the monk, but not the monk out of the king. Or something.

Seven Saxon States: The Heptarchy

And so were established the seven Saxon kingdoms, called the Heptarchy, which spread right across what is now known as England, and more or less civilised or pacified the country (take your pick), bringing, perhaps oddly enough given that it had been a pagan invasion, Christianity to the shores of Britain. Scotland, as ever, was left alone, though Northumbria did encroach on its border, running as far as Carlisle, destined to become the "gateway to the north" (or south, depending on which direction you were coming from, of course). While it might be hard to believe or accept now, the Saxon conquest of England was nothing more or less than an ethnic cleansing, in the same way as the original Irish had been destroyed by the Celts in Ireland. I started this journal off by remarking that the kind of annihilation practiced on the original inhabitants in my own country had not occurred in Britain, but it seems I was wrong to a degree.

Although not the original inhabitants of Britain, the descendants of Roman invaders were at this point in time the native population, and the  Saxons had no interest in either living with them peacefully or even making slaves of them. They were hungry for land, and as it says in History of England from the Invasion of Julius Caesar to the Revolution of 1688 by David Hume, John Clive and Rodney W. Kilcup:

"The Britons, under the Roman dominion, had made such advances towards arts and civil manners, that they had built twenty-eight considerable cities within their province, besides a great number of villages and country-seats: But the fierce conquerors, by whom they were now subdued, threw every thing back into ancient barbarity; and those few natives, who were not either massacred or expelled their habitations, were reduced to the most abject slavery. None of the other northern conquerors, the Franks, Goths, Vandals, or Burgundians, though they over-ran the southern provinces of the empire like a mighty torrent, made such devastations in the conquered territories, or were inflamed into so violent an animosity against the ancient inhabitants.

As the Saxons came over at intervals in separate bodies, the Britons, however at first unwarlike, were tempted to make resistance; and hostilities, being thereby prolonged, proved more destructive to both parties, especially to the vanquished. The first invaders from Germany, instead of excluding other adventurers, who must share with them the spoils of the ancient inhabitants, were obliged to solicit fresh supplies from their own country; and a total extermination of the Britons became the sole expedient for providing a settlement and subsistence to the new planters. Hence there have been found in history few conquests more ruinous than that of the Saxons; and few revolutions more violent than that which they introduced."

Until the Britons were defeated, the Heptarchy acted almost like I suppose a modern coalition of forces, banding together (though not always, as we have seen) against the common foe, the native. But once they had been pushed into Cornwall and Wales, no longer a threat, the deal was over, and each kingdom looked to secure its own borders and, if possible, extend them, leading to wars between the kingdoms that might have rivalled anything in the imagination of George R.R. Martin.

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Chapter III: A Game of One Throne:
The Rise and Fall of the House of Wessex
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Terror from the North: The Vikings Arrive in England

The last time we left England, the previous inhabitants, the Britons, had been more or less completely wiped out or subdued by the Saxons, now the Anglo-Saxons, who had divided the country up into seven separate kingdoms, most of which survive today in the names of English counties: Sussex, Wessex, Essex and so on. But the first millennium of England's history was one filled with conflict, invasion and conquest. Whereas the Saxons had come from relatively nearby Germany to settle in England, the next invaders would come from far north, and would certainly leave their indelible mark on the country. In their case, England would not be their only target, as they ranged south in search of lands and plunder, glory and battle. Indeed, by the middle of the tenth century there would not be a country in Europe which had not heard of, feared or been attacked by the mighty northmen from Scandinavia.

The third invasion of England was strange in comparison to the previous two. The Romans had basically come there as a matter of westward expansion of their empire, on tour as it were, conquering all before them, ready to literally take on the world. They installed governors and praetors, left garrisons and laid down Roman law. They administered and oversaw the people they had conquered, and considered them now part of the Roman Empire. In an effort to get rid of them, as has already been noted, the Britons as they were pretty much shot themselves in the foot, inviting the Saxons, who, on seeing how weak they were, emulated a later businessman and decided they liked the country so much they'd buy it. Or, actually, steal it, take it by force of arms.

The third invasion though, was nothing to do with empires, and came out of nowhere. Vikings were not particularly interested in building communities, taking territory or passing laws. They were more of your smash-and-grab merchants, not that interested in the land, but they'd take your gold, your coinage, and if women were going, well they'd take them too, much obliged. Livestock? Nah, not so much. It's this old Mark II Longship you see. Now, had we the Mark III with all the bells and whistles and all the latest gadgets, as Olaf Bloodsword writes in the November issue of What Longship? "a roomy and practical ship for the discerning raider of today, rating five axes," then sure, but only your earls and your kings owned them. Expensive to build, a bitch to maintain, just not worth it. Not even for the fluffy dice.

Had we one of those babies, then yeah, maybe we'd take your horses and oxen and sheep, though to be honest the smell might be a bit much. Forty or fifty unwashed Viking warriors crowded together over the course of a sea voyage of many months might offend the animals. And then of course we might have to sacrifice them. To our gods, you know? Just not worth it, pal. Must say, your wife looks pretty tasty though, What? CLONK! Sorry, my mistake: your widow there looks pretty tasty.

Probably the hardest foe to fight is a man who wants to die, and while probably few if any Vikings wanted to actually die, they weren't completely against the idea. As is widely known of their culture, to die in battle was the greatest honour any Viking could achieve, and Vikings were all about honour. From a very young age they were taught to fight, and how important reputation was. No young man worth his salt would want to hang back in the village or settlement while his bros went off pillaging and raping. The chance to make your name in battle was something every Viking craved, and certainly affected his standing in society. Men were measured by how many people they had killed, what battles they had won, what scars they had picked up. A Viking wasn't really expected to have enemies, at least, living ones. Not if he was doing this Viking thing right anyway.

So when a chance came for glory every Viking of qualifying age wanted to pile into the ship and strap on his axe or hammer and head off for adventure and violence. He knew he might get killed, but if he did, well, that was just a bonus wasn't it? Free entry into Valhalla and the honour left behind for his family of a true, fallen warrior. In many ways I think Vikings could be almost likened to unpaid mercenaries. They would fight for king and country, sure, and for family and friends, but they were always up for a fight and if some local earl or king had trouble and wanted a few likely lads to crack (or maybe hack) some heads, they were your men. They were even known to team up with rival lords as long as they got a share in the booty. There was no standard going rate for a Viking warrior, no flat fee for his services paid by the leader of the expedition, but they could certainly help themselves to whatever they found during the raid and thus enrich themselves that way.

Apart from material wealth though, taking part in daring battles and raids helped Vikings store up stock in the Bank of Odin, where valorous deeds and mighty victories would all be chalked up to their account, checked when they finally popped their clogs and, assuming their quota was met, they would be welcomed into the halls of the heroes. Or so they believed, and belief is a powerful thing. If you think that by fighting and dying you can attain for yourself immortal fame and glory, well, it's a lot easier to throw yourself into the fray, isn't it. And harder for your enemies to cow you.

The first time a Viking ship is said to have docked at the English coast was the year 787, less than fifty years after the Saxon Heptarchy had been established, setting the seal on Anglo-Saxon rule of England. When the king's envoy, however, rode out to treat with these new arrivals, they killed him (and presumably anyone with him) - not, one would have thought, the most diplomatic opening of negotiations with a foreign power! But then, Vikings were never about talking. Well, they were, but on their terms. They generally preferred conquest over conversation, might over mediation and brute force over a nice cup of tea and a scone. That Elvis song could have been written for them, as they definitely preferred a little more action, as they showed when, only six years later (barely time to catch your breath, in terms of history) they launched an all-out attack on the peaceful monastery of Lindisfarne.

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Meet Me on the Corner - and I'll Kill You: the Lindisfarne  Raid (793)

It must have come as something of a shock to the quiet, pious monks on the island of Lindisfarne, on the northeast coast of England, also known as the Holy Island, and with good reason. No less than four saints were said to have resided there - including the one who set up the monastery, Saint Aidan - and it was one of the most important centres of early Celtic Christianity. Although this was not the very first Viking raid, it shocked the English because of not only its ferocity, but its sacrilegious nature. One just did not attack holy men, to say nothing of defenceless holy men. But the Vikings were a breed apart. They were not Christians, and did not believe in one god, but a whole pantheon of them. Not only that, their gods were warlike and vicious, and viewed such things as mercy and compassion as weakness. Well not really, but they would have kicked the Christian God's arse in a fight, that's for sure.

The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle puts in words the outage such an attack engendered: "In this year fierce, foreboding omens came over the land of the Northumbrians, and the wretched people shook; there were excessive whirlwinds, lightning, and fiery dragons were seen flying in the sky. These signs were followed by great famine, and a little after those, that same year on 6th ides of January, the ravaging of wretched heathen men destroyed God's church at Lindisfarne."

Alciun of York, a scholar from Northumbria, gives us a more PG-rated account: "Never before has such terror appeared in Britain as we have now suffered from a pagan race ... The heathens poured out the blood of saints around the altar, and trampled on the bodies of saints in the temple of God, like dung in the streets."

So Vikings probably saw no reason to exempt, or exclude monasteries from their raids. In fact, they would have been drawn to them due to the riches to be found there. As related in the History of Ireland journal, monks were poor and took a vow of poverty, but the works they created were some of the most beautiful and used the richest materials that could be obtained. Gold, silver, precious stones, expensive cloth, inks, all of these went into their illuminations and books, and the statues and ornaments that decorated the chapels were richly furnished of gold and other precious metals. The Vikings wanted these, and the fact that the monks put up very little or no resistance (not that they could) surely enraged and disgusted them. They were used to fighting enemies who fought back, who could be killed and who might kill them - a fair fight, well matched. But these men! It must have been like skinning rabbits, or whatever equivalent they had up there in the frozen north.

Not a lot of fun then, and certainly not many opportunities for glory, but plenty for plunder. Rape was probably off the menu (unless, you know, some of them had particular preferences) as to my knowledge there were no convents on the island, but the raiders would have been able to slaughter at will, collect up all they could hold in their brawny arms, fire up the monasteries (Vikings liked a good blaze) and then fuck off back across the sea, hoping their Mark II's didn't sink under the weight, and considering perhaps checking out the new issue of What Longship? to see if those Mark III's were worth looking into.

Yes, Vikings were almost the epitome of guerilla warfare. They struck hard and fast, and then disappeared as quickly. They would have pitched battles, especially as the Anglo-Saxons got their shit together and began defending themselves, but they did not hang around. They might make a base camp for a short while, but once the battle was over they would head off back home. They weren't about settling in England, and they certainly were not about ruling it. Plunder, rape, burning, pillage, booty, no problem, do that all day. Passing laws though? Keeping order? Balancing budgets? Ah, no thanks. Feeling a little homesick as it goes. Catch you next time. Probably with the blade of my axe.

Mind you, the Vikings didn't have it all their own way. I'm sure it wasn't the monks themselves who resisted, but the year after Lindisfarne was done over another band of the raiders headed up north, across the Tyne to take out the monastery at Jarrow. Here they met with stiff opposition, and their leader was even killed. It seems they were ambushed on their way home, carrying their ill-gotten gains, as related here in, again, the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle: 'And the heathens ravaged in Northumbria, and plundered Ecgfrith's monastery at Donemuthan , and one of their leaders was killed there, and also some of their ships were broken to bits by stormy weather, and many of the men were drowned there. Some reached the shore alive and were immediately killed at the mouth of the river.'

So they not only lost their leader - what effect that had on morale I don't know but it surely could not have been expected, given the easy time the other group had had on the island the previous year - but also their ships, which would have been of greater concern. After all, without their longboats they couldn't get back home, and I imagine, as sea raiders, the loss of their ship might have been viewed as more of a dishonourable event than that of losing their leader, who they surely believed was living it up in Valhalla with a maiden on each side.

Due to this, perhaps humiliation, Viking raids on England stopped for a while as they concentrated on the "softer" targets of Ireland and Scotland. It would be decades before a proper Viking raiding party would attack England, and when they did, well, it would be an army, and in the words of the Venerable Bede maybe, they were not fucking around.

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The Great Heathen Army Goes to War: This Time it's Personal! Maybe.

In 865 a huge army of Vikings, known to history (and from the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle) as "the great heathen army" arrived in England. Ostensibly, they were there to avenge the death of the legendary Viking king, Ragnar Lothbrok, portrayed with varying degrees of historic licence in the series Vikings, he having been killed by King Aella when he attempted himself to extract revenge for the slaying of his own countrymen in Ireland, according to some accounts. In the army, the Chronicle faithfully reports, were Ivar the Boneless, Hvitserk, Sigurd Snake-in-the-trousers, sorry eye, Sigurd Snake-in-the-eye  and Bjorn Ironside. This account has been disputed however, and as with most events so far in the past, it's impossible to be sure, as often these sagas and chronicles exaggerated or were biased on one side or the other. It's possible Ragnar's sons were not in the army at all.

If that's the case, and the assault was not retaliation for his death, then the main thrust of the force may have come from Francia (the Kingdom of the Franks, which seems, so far as I can see, to cover most of near Western Europe - France, Germany, Netherlands, Austria and so on, almost as far as, but obviously not including, Italy) where a power struggle between the emperor and his son had resulted in the assistance of the Vikings. During the war, they discovered what easy pickings monasteries on the coast were and started harassing the Franks, but improved fortifications along the Frankish coast made this a non starter, so they turned their eyes further west. It's probably more than likely then, given the Vikings' way of life, that rather than a concerted effort to avenge the king Ragnar this was a pure for-profit mission, opportunism which spoke to all the various Viking chieftains, who banded together not out of love for or outrage over the slaying of Ragnar Lothbrok, but for pure, hard cash. And women. And anything else they could carry away.

Wary of landing in Sussex, where King Aethelbert had been successful against a large fleet in 851, the Great Heathen Army turned its attention to East Anglia, and landed there in 865. Once again the Isle of Thanet featured (you may remember when hopeful Christian missionaries arrived in the sixth century the Briton king let them stay there) as the Vikings were given the island in return for Danegeld (protection money, basically) but decided they had not come all this way without slaughtering - Odin, you gotta slaughter something! - and so went on a binge of murder, burning, looting and, one would comfortably assume, an ample amount of rape. A Heptarchy there may have been, but nobody could show the East Anglians anything in writing that said they were part of any Saxon version of NATO, so they looked after themselves and bought the fierce northmen off with some horses. The Vikings said ta muchly and set up their invasion base.

They spent the winter there (a warmer winter than back home, I'll wager, Olaf! You're not wrong there, Thor me old buddy!) and then set their sights on Northumbria, which was basically part of the kingdom of Wessex by now, as we've seen. They headed for the capital, York, which was a really good idea, because even if they didn't know it (and they may not have; there's no real information on the sort of intelligence Vikings in general or the Great Heathen Army had on its enemies at that time, though Clare Downham in her book Viking Kings of Britain and Ireland: The Dynasty of Ivarr to AD 1014 seems to believe there was information, noting that it was "likely the Vikings had been tipped off concerning events in the north") King Aella was in the middle of a civil war, and his army was basically knackered. The city walls had been built by the Romans but not maintained, and so were crumbling by the time the GHA arrived. Aella probably dropped his head into his hands and groaned "Oh guys! You could not have picked a worse time!" and rode to meet the new invaders.

Aella decided the enemy of my enemy and all that, and he and the rival king he had driven out, Osberht joined forces. It didn't matter. There are no sources which confirm the size of the GHA, but various scholars talk of it being from about 1,000 to being in the "low thousands". Either way, it was pretty big and considered the largest invasion army to set foot in England. The Battle of York didn't last long, and both kings were killed. There's no real historical evidence to back this next bit up, but it's fun and gruesome so let's consider that it may have happened.

Those of you who have seen the series know what the "blood eagle" is, and for those of you who have not, no, it is not a nosebleed you get from listening to Hotel California at full volume. This is the punishment supposedly meted out to Aella, who is said to have been the one to have thrown Ragnar into the pit of snakes (though again, this may not have happened), by his sons (who may also not have been there). Here's how it goes. For those of you who are squeamish, talk amongst yourselves or skip ahead; I'm not spoilering this. Pussies.

First the victim was laid on his stomach and his shirt torn to expose his naked back. Then a sharp tool was used (watch those edges, kids, and always ask mother if you can borrow the tool) to break the ribcage. The lungs were then pulled out through the gap made, to resemble two (very bloody and slippery) wings, hence the name of the punishment. Traditionally, this was only practiced on members of the royal family, which would back up why Aella would have been singled out for such vengeance, but also makes it unlikely, given that it was a specifically Scandinavian thing. Also, most well-known brainbox spoilsports say this is all made up, but fuck them, it's fun. Not, of course, for His Majesty.

Anyway, whether that happened or not is kind of immaterial, as the Battle of York won, the Vikings now had Northumbria and turned towards Mercia in 867, taking the town of Nottingham. Unable to withstand the invaders by themselves, Mercia looked to Wessex for help, and the two kingdoms joined forces, but even at that they were unable to best the GHA and had to eventually sue for peace by paying Danegeld. For pretty much the next year the Viking army was quiet, wintering in Nottingham and then returning to Thetford. In the winter of 869 the king of East Anglia, Edmund, launched an attack but was defeated, his lands now coming completely under the control of the Viking army.

A year later, another huge army arrived to bolster up the Great Heathen Army, this one going under the title of the Great Summer Army, presumably not because they all arrived in shorts and shades and carrying surfboards under their arms. The combined armies now marched on Wessex, but, rather surprisingly, given that the forces of Wessex and Mercia could not defeat the GHA, this "double-army" was repulsed by the Anglo-Saxons at the Battle of Ashdown. This was in fact preceded by the Battle of Englefield, four days prior, which I think I'm correct in saying appears to have been the first victory for the Saxons against the Vikings since the GHA arrived.

It wasn't, to be fair, the full army that encountered the forces of King Aethelwulf, just a "large scouting party", but when one of the earls in the party was killed, it is again the first time I see that even part of the Great Heathen Army broke and ran. They redressed this four days later at the Battle of Reading (pronounced red-ding, not reed-ing, in case you were wondering) where they faced Aethelwulf again but this time with the future king Alfred the Great. However, glory and fame in his future didn't impress the Vikings and they kicked their arses, killing Aethelwulf and forcing Alfred to leg it. That's more like it, the Vikings may have grinned. Normal service has been restored. But it wasn't to last.

As I said, the Battle of Ashdown would see the GHA (and presumably the GSA too, though probably not the GOP or GPS, sorry) roundly defeated for the first time. Not just a scout party this time, King Aethelred and King Alfred faced the might of the two huge Viking armies and the leader of the Great Summer Army, Bagpuss sorry Bagsecg was killed, duly despatched to his reward in Valhalla no doubt. Interesting stuff in this one. And here it is. The Viking army arrived first and took the high ground, which should have given them the advantage. Alfred (not yet a king, much less a legend) decided to copy their formation. Aethelred, on the other side, decided it was time to pop off for a quick prayer. No harm in having God on your side, eh?

Except it turned out not be so quick. As Alfred advanced up the hill and gave bloody battle, his king was still down in his tent mumbling prayers, no doubt something along the lines of "If you could see your way clear, Lord, to smashing our enemies, that would be just great." Alfred's frantic cries from on high finally reached his ears - the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle clearly does not relate his words as "Any time you're ready, Your Majesty! Getting a bit hairy up here!" and it absolutely does not record his later cry "Jesus fucking Christ! Enough with the prayers already, Your Kingship! God helps those who help themselves, so help us!" Aethelbert did finally end his prayers, probably offering profuse apologies for the swearing of his bondsman, and advising his Lord that no doubt in his wisdom he knew what it was like, and hurried off.

In the end, his joining the battle turned the tide and the Vikings were scattered, Bagpipes sorry again Bagsecg killed and with cries of "They're on the run! God has given us the victory! Get them heathen bastards, lads!*", Alfred and Aethelred charged after them. It was indeed a mighty victory, but it would be overturned two weeks later at the Battle of Basing and again two months after that, in the decisive Battle of Meretun. Not, it would appear, at the battle, but Aethelred died (possibly due to natural causes, as the Chronicle records his death as "he went the way of all flesh" although - wow! Only 26 at the time of his death! Not old age then) and was succeeded by Alfred as King of Wessex.

Alfred took on the Vikings, now led by Halfdan Ragnarsson (who, as his name suggests, is believed to have been one of the sons of Ragnar Lothbrok) and was again defeated at Wilton and only secured peace by buying the Vikings off. After this he more or less waged a guerilla campaign, with the Vikings almost completely in control of the midlands. He made his stand at Edington, where he completely defeated Guthrum, the then Viking king of East Anglia, and internal divisions with the Viking armies ensured they would not be able to band together for much longer. Guthrum's defeat was followed by a treaty in which he swore to be baptised, and to remove his arms - huh? Sorry: his armies from Wessex.

In 878 another army arrived, but due to the defeats the two great armies had suffered, and looking east to the instabilities at the Frankish court after the death of their king, Charles the Bald, they are likely to have muttered "Fuck this lads; let's head over to Francia. I hear there's rich pickings there." And so, off they fucked. The final army to land in England also shook their heads, shrugged massive shoulders and either joined their comrades - who were now living in peace in what was known as Danelaw, farmers and merchants and all sorts of respectable trades that hardly ever needed an axe or hammer, except as a tool - or also fucked off to Francia.

For over a hundred years Saxons and Vikings lived in a kind of uneasy truce, the Vikings establishing what was known as Danelaw - basically the Scandinavian laws which governed the areas they held - until the Saxons again attacked and drove them out of Northumbria in 954. Even at that though, they fought back under Cnut (no it's not a typo, smartarse!) who held Wessex up to his death, his heirs only defeated by William the Conqueror in some unremarkable and forgotten battle around 1066 or thereabouts.

By 890 the main Viking threat to England was all but over, with no more overseas armies arriving and any further conflicts a matter of internal dispute. Alfred, who had done much not only to defeat them but to put in place treaties and reforms that made it difficult for their like to seize towns and cities from then on, was remembered as one of England's first great kings. Well, they did call him "the Great", didn't they? Wonder why? Let's find out.

* Actual quote from the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle**

** Not an actual quote

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A Hard Reign's Gonna Fall: Birth of the English Monarchy

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Alfred the Great (847/848 - 899)

While not technically the first king to rule England, Alfred is more or less accepted as the first "true" English monarch, in that he ruled over all of England, defeated the Viking invaders and began the royal line of the House of Wessex. His predecessors, notably Offa and Egbert, are mostly discounted because the former was not interested in English unity, just power for himself, and the latter only ruled Mercia and soon lost control of it, so Alfred is seen as the first great unifying force in what would become England, and therefore accepted as the first English king.

With three breaks in between when other Houses ruled, and including so-called disputed claimants, the House of Wessex saw a total of fourteen monarchs sit the English throne, from Alfred's reign in 871 to Edward the Confessor in 1066, though the final king to rule before the ascension of William the Conqueror later that year was of the House of Godwin, Harold Godwinson.

The year of Alfred's birth is disputed, but believed to be generally somewhere between 847 and 848, in Berkshire, then part of Wessex. He had four brothers, one of whom would be sub-king of Kent, the other three all taking the throne of Wessex over a period ranging from 858 to 871. His only sister married the king of Mercia, Buggered, sorry Burgered sorry... Burgred. Yeah. Burgred. Alfred came to the throne, as we have seen, on the death of his older brother Aethelred at the hands of the Great Heathen Army, which he continued to battle and eventually subdued.

Alfred would also marry into Mercian nobility, taking Ealhswith for his wife in 868, and travelled twice to Rome, perhaps (though I can't confirm) the first of the Saxon kings to do so. His exploits during the war against the Great Heathen Army have already been related above, so there's no need for me to go into them again. Therefore we begin our history of Alfred the Great proper with his years after the defeat of the Vikings, apart from this one anecdote, which has followed his history and legend down to today, and may or may not be true. It's the story of the "burning of the cakes", and it's really not as interesting, I feel, as it sounds.
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While on the run from the Vikings Alfred is said to have taken shelter with an old woman in Somerset, who, unaware of his identity (which he was careful to conceal, being on the run  and all) set him to watch some oatcakes she was baking. Distracted, and thinking of his kingdom and how he would save it from the northern invaders, Alfred is said to have not noticed the cakes burning, and when the old woman came back she gave him a piece of her mind. It's not recorded as to whether he ever revealed himself, or whether she, later, found out who she had castigated. There: like I said, hardly worth waiting for, was it?

Anyway, back to the good stuff. Under the Treaty of Wedmore (sounds like an adjuration to marry as many spouses as possible, doesn't it?) in 878 Guthrum was granted the part of England which became Danelaw, basically East Anglia and some of Mercia, while Alfred ruled over Wessex. A further treaty in 880 sealed the deal, and though Alfred had to fend off some smaller sea incursions by Vikings throughout the first half of the decade, the threat of land invasion was pretty much gone by then. The only real battle - as such - of note was at Rochester in 885, where the Vikings seem to have shit their pants and legged it for their ships, buggering off altogether.

Whatever about the treaties signed, Alfred was not averse to plundering his old neighbour, and a weird kind of see-saw battle took place soon after the Rochester rout, when he sent his fleet to East Anglia on a raiding mission, succeeded, was on the way home when the Viking fleet (I'm not sure if it was the same one he had defeated or a different one) appeared and took him on, defeating him and, presumably, either making off with the spoils or, if they were the same fleet, bringing them back home. Either way, it was an interesting case of turnabout, kind of snatching defeat from the jaws of victory.

The next year he took London back and began refortifying and redesigning it. This year, 885, begins the period historians typically accept as Alfred being seen as the first proper King of England, but he wasn't to have it all his own way. The death of Guthrum in 889 created a power vacuum, and though he had been Alfred's foe he was a known quantity, and they had come to a general understanding, leaving each other's kingdoms alone apart from the odd raid here or there, men being men and all that, fills in the long boring evenings, you know how it is. But now, with the passing of Guthrum and no heir to speak of, unrest broke out across East Anglia. This was exacerbated by the arrival of over three hundred Viking ships in 892. Having had no luck on the continent, they hied them back to the shores of Merry England, where they engaged the forces of Alfred, now pretty much the only thing standing against a complete colonisation of the country. The Vikings, in preparation, had packed up the wives, children and probably a few chattels (never go anywhere without your chattels, never know when you  might need them) and were all ready to hammer in - probably literally, and perhaps with Saxon thigh bones - the "SOLD" signs they had brought with them, for planting in Wessex and East Anglia.

"No you fucking don't!" thought the new King of England. "I've spent the last few years getting this shiny new kingdom of mine just how I like it, and I'll be thrice-damned if I let you bastards mess it up with your filthy marauder boots and your pagan ways!" And off he rode to meet them. Actually, he didn't plunge into screaming battle (getting a bit old for that now, at the ripe old age of forty-five!) but opened negotiations instead. While he was so engaged though, one of the two divisions decided to attack Appledore and were chased by Alfred's son Edward, who met them in battle and kicked their arses at Farnham in Surrey, taking back the booty they had half-inched and sending them scurrying across the Thames. No doubt this provided his dad with a crucial piece of leverage with their boss, Hastein, when he learned that not only had one of his divisions broken the truce (to his entire surprise, honest, your Majesty! Swear on me wife's grave, and I should know: I put her there myself. Not in the mood for sex, indeed! But I digress) but also fucking LOST the battle, he was more amenable to Alfred's terms.

Well, no actually. That's kind of the opposite of what Vikings do, after all. Fuck this sitting around and talking lark, I'm gonna kill me something, is more their style. Well actually no it isn't - Vikings often held conferences and mediated rather than fight, but who wants to hear that? And so Hastein saddled up and went to war too, placing Exeter under siege. His first division (commander's name not recorded) rather stupidly took refuge on an island after the Battle of Farnham, where, surprise, surprise! They were surrounded and forced to surrender, booted out of Wessex. They then tried their luck in Essex, but got short shrift there too. Hastein is reported to have said "Hold on lads I'm coming!" and promptly got caught in the middle of a battle at Buttington. No, seriously. And again they were besieged. You would think by now they would have realised how dangerous and counterproductive it is to make your stand somewhere where you can be surrounded, but no, off they went, and our friendly local Chronicler tells us how bad it was for them.

"After many weeks had passed, some of the heathen [Vikings] died of hunger, but some, having by then eaten their horses, broke out of the fortress, and joined battle with those who were on the east bank of the river. But, when many thousands of pagans had been slain, and all the others had been put to flight, the Christians [English and Welsh] were masters of the place of death. In that battle, the most noble Ordheah and many of the king's thegns were killed."

Like anyone in a siege situation, there are four possibilities: surrender, hope the besiegers get tired and go away, starve to death or break out and make a battle of it. The Vikings, you won't be surprised to hear, decided to break out and make a battle of it. They lost. Meanwhile, the lads who had been turfed out of the Siege of Exeter tried their luck at Chichester, but those people had seen bigger and more scary attacks when their local football team played their rivals in a friendly, and they beat the shit out of them and nicked their ships. It was all going a bit, as they say, Pete Tong for the Vikings. After a few more years of wandering around disconsolately, trying this or that attack, they eventually shrugged and gave up and went home, probably muttering "Too much fucking rain in that country anyway. Who's for the Riviera, lads?"
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With the kingdom basically at peace now, Alfred set his mind to reorganising the military, changing the very structure of manner in which men were marshalled at a time of need. By 897 he had a full standing army ready to repel any invaders, a bigger and much improved navy, and a network of garrisons across the country. He streamlined the administration and taxation system, and set up a system of burhs (fortified settlements) so that help would always be no more than a day away, no matter where the raiders might strike. Many of these were sited at strategic points such as rivers or protecting bridges, and perhaps taking his cue from the Roman occupation of England, Alfred made sure there were roads connecting each burh to the next, and also used the Romans' expertise (and that of the Greeks) to construct better ships than the Vikings had. From these burhs comes the word now in use, borough. Just thought you'd like to know.

However, with no seaborne weapons such as cannon or other guns, and with his ships faster and bigger than the longships, but not suited to manoeuverability, battles between the ships of Alfred's navy and those of the Vikings presaged the pirate attacks of almost a thousand years in the future, where the two ships would be roped together and then men would swarm from them to engage those on the other ship in hand-to-hand combat, basically making the deck of the attacked ship a battlefield. Hey, at least there was no need to bury those who fell in the battle!
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He set about repairing, to some degree, relationships with the Welsh and Irish, and eradicating forever the stain of paganism from his kingdom, as he instituted religious learning and endeavoured to improve literacy in a country in which few people outside of monasteries could read or write; he had a chronicle written that appeared to trace his family's ancestry right back to Adam, which showed that his authority then came directly from God; he built monasteries, many of the originals having been sacked by the Vikings during their time in England, and he invited foreign monks to come minister there. He was however hands-off about religion, believing this best left to those who had trained for it all of their lives, and had dedicated themselves to it.

Aware that Latin was declining, particularly with the twin factors of the fall of the Roman Empire and the depredations of the Vikings, Alfred began ensuring English people were taught to read not in the ancient tongue but in English. This meant many important books had to be translated into what would now be the mother tongue of his kingdom.

From what I read about him, Alfred seems to have been the first king who truly cared about his people, not about power or riches or standing. I'm sure he wasn't the paragon he's being painted as, but he does genuinely seem to have believed that the welfare of his realm was paramount, and the worship of and devotion to God part of his mission. Seeing the attacks by - and eventual repulsion and defeat of - the Vikings as an assault on Christianity, I don't know whether you could make the case that kings like Alfred and those who came after him lent weight and legitimacy to the ultimate holy wars, the Crusades in Palestine and Jerusalem, but certainly later kings such as Richard I must have taken their cue from him, a man who was determined to bring God back into the hearts, and worship, of his subjects after they had been partially enslaved by the heathen.
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Alfred almost made it to the tenth century, dying in October of 899 (gonna party like it's... yeah yeah all right) of some sort of bowel disorder from which he suffered most of his life, most likely Chron's disease or, um, piles. Well, now ain't that a pain in the arse. Sorry. His bones, however, were not to be allowed to restus in paxus. When William the Conqueror defeated Harold in 1066 and a new dynasty began in England, many of the Saxon monasteries were destroyed as the Normans started redecorating, and one of those to go was the one where Alfred had been laid, or rather, not quite. He was laid in Old Minster, the cathedral in Winchester at Wessex, but had left instructions before his death for the building of the abbey of New Minster, which he had intended would become the family mausoleum. His body was moved there when it was ready, and it was here that the Normans decided they fancied putting up their own abbey, and knocked his down. Luckily, there was time to move the remains, although after over 200 years by now there can't have been much to move but bones.

Reinterred just down the road in Hyde Abbey in 1110, Alfred and his family were again at rest. But four hundred and fifty-odd years later, King Henry VIII, in a snit because the Pope wouldn't grant him a divorce so he could marry Anne Boleyn, declared all Catholic monasteries "dissolved", and in the case of Hyde Abbey this was literal: it was reduced to rubble and this time there was no time - or perhaps, inclination - to save the bones of the first great English king. They lay under the ground, the abbey not even built on but left as a quarry, until 1788, when the land was needed for the construction of a jail. Catholic priest Dr. Milner gave this account:

"Thus miscreants couch amidst the ashes of our Alfreds and Edwards; and where once religious silence and contemplation were only interrupted by the bell of regular observance, the chanting of devotion, now alone resound the clank of the captives chains and the oaths of the profligate! In digging for the foundation of that mournful edifice, at almost every stroke of the mattock or spade some ancient sepulchre was violated, the venerable contents of which were treated with marked indignity. On this occasion a great number of stone coffins were dug up, with a variety of other curious articles, such as chalices, patens, rings, buckles, the leather of shoes and boots, velvet and gold lace belonging to chasubles and other vestments; as also the crook, rims, and joints of a beautiful crosier double gilt."

The bones were not exactly revered either, sadly. The convicts, never the most respectful of people and certainly not giving two shits about the old historical bones of some geezer who had lived almost a thousand years ago, smashed open the coffins they found, ripped out the lead and flogged it for two guineas, then, for added indignity, threw the bones carelessly about. They were said to have been rediscovered a hundred years later, in 1866, and given over to St. Bartholomew's Church, but later advances in radiocarbon dating in 1999 proved them only to date from about the fourteenth century. Finally, in 2014 one other bone found in the same place as the now-discredited ones did turn out to be dated to the right period, and though it can't be proven conclusively has been tentatively accepted as being, um, the pelvic bone of maybe Alfred or his son. It's no way for the first king of England to be remembered, that's for sure.

Alfred left behind him a country that was, well, a country: no longer several separate kingdoms, no longer divided by Danelaw, and with a real sense throughout the kingdom of everyone working together. That's totally naive of course: Englishmen would continue to fight Englishmen when they could find no common enemy to fight, and there would always be rivalries, but overall the actual idea of an "English people" as opposed to "people from Wessex" or "Those who come from Northumbria" or whatever began to coalesce as a real possibility thanks to his reign. He also solidified, or perhaps re-solidified the hold of the Catholic Church on England, bringing back the idea of Christianity to a country that had suffered much under both the original Saxons and Romans and later the Vikings. Perhaps an appropriate motto for his House might have been MEGA, huh?

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Edward the Elder (874 - 924)

On the death of Alfred his son Edward the Elder ascended to the throne, but not unopposed. As is often the case when the king dies, there was another claimant to the kingship, and this was Aethelwold, the son of Alfred's older brother Aethelred, who claimed he had been too young at the time of his father's death to take the throne, which had passed to Alfred as next in line in the succession,  but that it was his birthright. And he intended to assert that birthright. And how did nobles in tenth-century England assert their birthright when challenged? By sitting down and talking things over calmly, of course, putting all points of view on the... yeah. Right.

Aethelwold raised a small army and seized Wimborne, in Dorset, where his father was buried. He then took the surrounding area and waited for Edward to respond. When he did, Aethelwold refused to engage him but instead rode to York to seek support from the Vikings still in control there. They crowned him king, while Edward was crowned in Kingston-Upon -Thames in 900. It wasn't the last time England would have two competing kings. Aethelwold began a campaign against Essex and Mercia, trying to weaken his cousin's powerbase, but he came unstuck at the Battle of the Holme, in which he was killed. End of challenge.

Alfred had been proclaimed as the first "King of the Anglo-Saxons", and so Edward also took this title when his claim was established beyond doubt and supported. Alliances were further forged between his England and Francia (with the marriage of his daughter to the king, the hilariously-named Charles the Simple) and Germany, where another daughter was wed to Otto, the king and later Holy Roman Emperor. Alfred had proven that he was good at developing networks with his burh line of defences, now his son extended those networks into a socio-political one, linking three great countries and tightening the bonds of interdependency of each on the other. Edward then set about retaking the area of England currently under Danelaw, defeating the Vikings in the Battle of Tettenhall in 910, so comprehensively in fact that all territories south of the Humber were at his mercy and Edward was able to take most of East Anglia and Mercia including Derby, Lincoln, Stamford, Nottingham and Leicester.

The next year, on the death of the ruler of Mercia, Aethelred, Edward moved in on London and Oxford, and, with the help of Aethelred's widow Aethelflaed, began to fortify Mercia against incursions by the Danes. One of the last major Viking attacks was in 914, when a force from Brittany invaded South Wales, but they were pushed back. By 918 he had defeated all opposition and basically ruled almost all of England. Those Vikings left in the country submitted to his authority.

Soon after he took the throne, Edward obeyed his late father's wish and began to have built the new abbey at Winchester which would be called New Minster, to which the dead king's remains were transferred, until the arrival of the Normans. Edward continued his father's policy of trying to educate his people - in English - and in passing new laws, one of which led to a process which persisted through England well into the medieval era.

Trial by Ordeal

From what I can see, two things characterised the idea of Trial by Ordeal: one, that no man was considered innocent until proven guilty (in fact, possibly the opposite) and two, that God was literally expected to be the star witness. Sounds weird huh? Well, it was, but the thinking seems to have been that God would not allow the guilty to escape, and so would send some sign that they were guilty. The most simple and basic - and slightly understandable - version was Trial by Combat, which surely needs no explanation. However, not only were the two parties in the dispute allowed to fight each other, they could also nominate a champion to fight in their stead. Seems a little unfair. What if you're innocent, but your opponent chooses well-known pillar of the community (literally; he once held up a post that was bringing down the roof of the community shelter!) Harry the Glass-Eater, built like yon brick privy and with a head like a bullet? He's going to win, isn't he, and then the law says you're guilty. So that's literally a case of only the strong (or clever) survive.

What were the conditions or criteria for choosing a champion? No idea; I can't find any. But over time this practice, until it was done away with, seems to have evolved into the later modern idea of a duel. That was only trial by combat though. You also had trial by fire, in which the accused had to walk across burning coals, and if innocent would either receive no burns or God would heal them rapidly (three days was usually the time period allowed; trial by water, both hot and cold. Trial by hot water involved picking some object up out of a cauldron of boiling water, while trial by cold water seems to have been concerned with the accused man throwing himself in a river and if he survived he was innocent. Then there was trial by cross, not nearly as brutal as it sounds. The accuser and the accused would stand on either side of a cross and stretch out their arms. The first to drop his arms was deemed to have lost, so basically an early version of using the stress position.

There was also trial by ingestion, where an accused person was given blessed dry bread and cheese, and if they choked were guilty, and trial by poison. Wait, what? No, that's right: the person accused would be given a poisoned bean to swallow and if they puked it back up they were cleared, if they died, well, they were guilty and deserved to die. Stupid, yes, but not as pointless as trial by turf. No, I'm not having you on and no it was not an Irish custom, you racist, but in fact an Icelandic one. Not very complicated: the accused walked under a bale of turf and if it fell on him he was guilty. Possibly where the phrase "turfed out" comes from? Could it be that illegal wagering on such an event led to turf accountants? I'll get me coat.

No, I won't. I have much more to bore you with. But it should be noted that not every facet above of this trial by ordeal was practiced in England, just that it sort of began there to be seen as a legitimate practice and hung on really into about the sixteenth century, though rarely used by then. Of course, a version of it figured in the witchcraft trials of the tenth century. But it was being more or less phased out by about the thirteenth.

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Aethelstan (894 - 939)

Edward died in 924 at his estate, shortly after having put down a revolt at Chester, and was buried alongside his father Alfred in the New Minster. He was succeeded by his son, Aethelstan, who, even more than Alfred and certainly more than Edward, has been recognised by historians as the first true King of England. Like his father though he did not come to the throne unopposed, as many believed his brother Aelfward was next in line. However he died only ten days after Edward, which kind of made the situation moot. Rather oddly perhaps for a king, who were usually obsessed with passing on their power, maintaining or creating a dynasty, which naturally requires progeny, Aethelstan took a vow never to marry or have children. Al Bundy would have respected and envied him! But it didn't help the line of royal succession, of which more later.

Nonetheless, the coronation of Aethelstan is recognised as the first time an English monarch wore a crown, instead of the usual helmet used, which certainly lends weight to the argument (not really an argument; for once all these usually squabbling historians agree) that he can be said to have been the very first proper King of England. Winchester hated  him though, its support behind the late Aethelward and seeing him as a bastard; they even plotted to blind him, this certainly a crime but not as serious a matter as murder (sure I only blinded him, Yer Honour. The bastard had it coming. Yeah, Doubt it would go far as a plea for clemency) and the Bishop of Winchester returned all RSVPs unopened when he was invited to ceremonies. He didn't even bother going to the coronation. I bet he wasn't missed.

The death of Athelstan's remaining step-brother, Edwin, who perished at sea while possibly legging it from a failed coup attempt in 933 helped bring Winchester into line. With nobody left to challenge the king they more or less shrugged and said "Fuck it, he'll do." Not like they had any choice. Kings are of course notorious for failing to keep their word, and when Aethelstan promised Sitric, king of the last remaining Viking strongholds, York, that he would not invade his kingdom, sealing the deal with the marriage of his daughter to the Viking king, he seized his chance once old Sitric was knocking on the door of Valhalla requesting entrance and bearing a long scroll, no doubt, of his valourous achievements. York was easily taken, and when Northumbria had to submit too, Aethelsan became the first southern king to rule the northern kingdoms (yes yes, go on, you know you want to say it: King in the North! There; feel better now? Can we continue?) and in effect became the first King of England.

He ventured over the border in 934 to make war upon Scotland, though there are no actual accounts of what he did up there. He was accompanied by four Welsh kings, and while this might not be the first time Wales attacked (or participated in an attack against) Scotland, it's the first time I've read of them venturing that far north. At any rate, the campaign did not last long and was over by September, having begun in May. His next conflict though was a pretty major one, and even if we have only sketchy details of what went on, it has been acknowledged as one of the most significant battles in the history of what was becoming England.

Olaf Guthfrithson, Viking king of Dublin, having secured his position by that ancient Norse expedient of slaughtering all his foes, decided the time had come to reassert his control over what had been Danelaw and sailed to England in 937, intent on taking York. The Scottish king, Constantine, probably smarting from his earlier defeat, joined up with him and they met at the Battle of Brunanburh, which nobody can seem to decide a location for, much less pronounce. It's probably not that important. What is important is that Aethelstan kicked Viking arse and Olaf retreated, limping back to Ireland for a well-earned Guinness or ten, while Constantine fucked off back across the border, one son less. It was a great victory for Aethelstan and ensured his enemies, both foreign and domestic, would think twice before taking him on again.

Under his rule, the emerging England (land of the Angles, or Angle-Land) began to see the growth of a true government, with officials such as ealdormen at the top (often ex-earls or leaders from the Danelaw) who administered in the name of the king, then reeves, landowners who seem to have their closest contemporary in mayors or burghers, ruling over a town or estate in the king's name, and the witan, or royal council, which was not set in any one place but could be convened by the king, a sort of travelling committee. He seems to have had a particular thing about theft, prescribing in his laws the death penalty for anyone over the age of twelve years caught stealing more than eightpence. Why twelve years, and why eightpence? I have no idea, but it seems that Aethelstan equated robbery with a breakdown of the laws of society, and he may, following his predecessors' devout views, have considered that since it was a literal breaking of one of the Ten Commandments, that it deserved harsher punishment.

Aethelstan devised the system of tithing, which is nothing to do with giving away a tenth of what you earned to the Church, as happened almost a millennium later in Ireland, but was in fact a subdivision of a parish or manor. Tithingmen appear to have been the very first rudimentary police force in England, or at least a precursor to the Watch. Ten men would be sworn to ensure to keep the peace in a particular area, and would be responsible for anyone who broke the law, sort of in effect standing guarantor and vouching for them I guess. It's a little complicated and I don't quite understand it, so here's what Wiki tells us: "The term originated in the 10th century, when a tithing meant the households in an area comprising ten hides. The heads of each of those households were referred to as tithingmen; historically they were assumed to all be males, and older than 12 (an adult, in the context of the time). Each tithingman was individually responsible for the actions and behaviour of all the members of the tithing, by a system known as frankpledge. If a person accused of a crime was not forthcoming, his tithing was fined; if he was not part of the frankpledge, the whole town was subject to the fine."

Yeah, still don't get it really.

In Aethelstan's time, and long after, there was no such thing as a separation of Church and State, the two intermeshed and bound together, and who could truly say where the real power lay? A king who lost or had not the backing of the bishops might not last long, while represtantives of the Church were chosen by Rome, where the Pope had very much a veto, and to go against him would not be good for any king. People of course were almost fanatically religious, obedience to the Church and obedience to their king one and the same in the minds of most folk, and heretics would be mercilessly dealt with, as we saw with the Druids and indeed the original Britons themselves, to say nothing of the Picts to the north. At that time, it was probably impossible to even contemplate the existence of one without the other - the Church supported and gave legitimacy to the Crown, and the Crown ensured the Church was revered and obeyed as a matter of law. It wasn't of course until six hundred years or so later that this all changed when Henry VIII couldn't get his way.
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Aethelstan was free to appoint bishops to whichever diocese he preferred, though it seems likely that he would have to secure the permission, or at least agreement of the Pope for these appointments, and he certainly would not be able to ordain any new ones. That power rested solely with Rome. He also fostered closer relations with other countries, including Germany, the spiritual birthplace of the Saxons who now ruled England, and of whom he was a descendant. In a move which will seem insulting to us today, but was probably common practice in the tenth century, and perhaps for some time beyond, he sent one of his bishops with two of his half-sisters to the court of the Holy Roman Emperor Otto, basically inviting him to take his pick, choose one for his wife. He probably didn't care which, and I doubt the woman was allowed any say in the matter: this was all about building alliances and securing territories.

Aethelstan was the first real English king to establish the prestige and power of the young country outside of its own borders, his and his forebears' victories against the Vikings making England quite the power in the west, and if there's one thing kings and emperors and princes and dukes are drawn to it's power. Aethelstan married off many of his sisters and half-sisters to foreign nobility, as we have seen above, and created strong bonds both military and political with countries such as France and Germany. He was also popular in Norway, where he helped Hakon Haradlsson reclaim his throne, and he is, probably more than any other English king before or since, responsible for the mixing of the royal bloodlines, and the eventual close relationship between England and Germany, as the latter assumed the English throne in the centuries to come.

When he died in 939, Aethelstan chose not to follow the example of Alfred and Edward, his father and grandfather, by being buried at Winchester, but chose instead to have his remains laid to rest in Malmesbury Abbey in Wiltshire, the only Saxon king to be buried there.

Unfortunately, all the good work he had done driving out the Vikings came undone after his death. York, rising again perhaps in confidence now that the king was dead, crowned Olaf Guthfrithson, who you may remember had been sent running defeated back to Dublin, and he immediately invaded the east midlands, as the Viking threat, thought subdued but really only brooding and waiting across the sea in Ireland, reared its head again.

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Edmund I (920/921 - 946)

Aethelstan had died without issue, and so the crown passed to his brother, Edmund. He now had to deal with the resurgent threat of the Vikings, this time as a force from within his own country, but despite battles and truces, he had to surrender the part of Danelaw that had been taken back, the five boroughs of Lincoln, Derby, Stamford, Nottingham and Leicester. He was quick to regain them a year later though, when Olaf died in 941. His successor, Anlaf Sihtricsson, accepted baptism and so, having acknowledged the authority of Edmund, it wasn't long before he was expelled from York and the king took back the city. Nevertheless, the Northumbrians continued to resist his rule and that of his successor Eadred, until finally submitting in 954.

Edmund passed more laws, some of them dealing with the celibacy of clerics. You wouldn't want to risk a quick wriggle with a servant girl or lady-in-waiting in Edmund's time! Just not worth it  mate. Your remains would be denied burial in consecrated ground (and really, if you're going to go into the clergy business that's the very ground you've staked out for your mouldering bones, surely, while your soul ascends to Heaven maybe), and more immediately and importantly, your lands could be snaffled by the king for being a bad boy. Nah, just take cold showers and think about gardening, son, much more profitable, both for your immortal soul and your property portfolio, whichever you value the more.

Murderers were not allowed come into the presence of the king. Now here I'm confused. If you were a murderer, then surely you would be executed or at worst in jail, and given this was the tenth century I don't think too many killer were cooling their heels in cells! So, is this not a pointless law? Also, how do you identify a murderer? The law said apparently that he had to have done penance for his crime, though it doesn't state exactly what that penance was. I'm willing bet it wasn't three Hail Marys and an Our Father, though. It also uses odd language: "not allowed to come into the neighbourhood of the king". What does that mean? The city he rules over? But as King of England (or at least, all the Anglo-Saxons) he ruled over every city, didn't he? Or maybe it meant where he was sitting at any one time, where his court - which in those days was quite mobile and moved from town to town something like a travelling mummers' show - was set up? Vague, to say the least. And what if he lived in that town, village, city, and then the king arrived? Had he to leg it until His Majesty had buggered off somewhere else? Perhaps it just meant in the actual presence of the king, as in, maybe occupying the same room or building, and if he kept his head down while His Majesty visited, he'd be ok?

Edmund also condemned false witness and the use of magical drugs (I guess standard drugs were okay then), and was greatly distressed by violence (for a man who put down Viking rebellions, this sounds a little hollow, but I guess he meant non-Crown-sanctioned violence, yes?) in particular wishing to put an end to blood feuds and vendettas. He proclaimed that any relatives of someone murdered could not go after the murderer, but that he, the murderer, would have to pay weregild to the relatives of the victims. Weregild we discussed earlier, but basically it was a price levied by the Saxons on people as their worth, also called a man price (I guess women weren't worth anything), so essentially compensation had to be paid. If the murderer told the relatives where they could stick their compensation, they were allowed to practice their vendetta, but mind they keep away from churches and royal manor houses. All this blood feud business seems to have been imported by those pesky Vikings, and Edmund was eager to stamp out as much of their influence as he could.

He wasn't too easy on slaves either. I suppose, as usual, we have to remember this is all taking place more than a thousand years ago, when slavery was not only permitted but seen as a natural part of the fabric of society, a holdover from when the Saxons were warriors and raiders in Germany I guess. Even so, it is pretty nasty and seems quite unfair. "we have declared with regard to slaves that, if a number of them commit theft, their leader shall be captured and slain, or hanged, and each of the others shall be scourged three times and have his scalp removed and his little finger mutilated as a token of his guilt".

But that was life in tenth-century Anglo-Saxon England, as the country slowly metamorphosed from a motley collection of villages, to seven separate kingdoms and finally, eventually, into one cohesive nation.

Edmund is the only king I've read of so far (at least, the only English king) who died in a brawl. How this could have happened I'm unsure, but maybe back then kings did not have the kind of protection that they did later; you can't, for instance, imagine Henry VI or Edward III going essentially into a pub to rescue a servant and getting killed. I could maybe seen Henry V or Richard I, but even so, it seems a shocking lapse in royal security to allow such a thing to happen. According to John of Worcester: "While the glorious Edmund, king of the English, was at the royal township called Pucklechurch in English, in seeking to rescue his steward from Leofa, a most wicked thief, lest he be killed, was himself killed by the same man on the feast of St Augustine, teacher of the English, on Tuesday, 26 May, in the fourth indiction, having completed five years and seven months of his reign. He was borne to Glastonbury, and buried by the abbot, St Dunstan."

There have been other, perhaps more plausible theories that this was an actual assassination, but even if so (and it's certainly not proven, nor ever will be, and most historians shrug and say no) again I can't remember any king up to now being actually assassinated. Killed in battle, yes, but taken out? At any rate, he was succeeded on his death by his brother, Eadred, making this the third son of Edward the Elder to sit on the English - or at least, Saxon - throne.

Eadred (923 - 955)

Eadred faced two new Viking threats - well, one old and one new. First the deposed Olaf Sihtircsson, booted out of Dublin, returned to take York and was for a time tolerated by Eadred, but later defeated and supplanted by the brilliantly-named-for-a-Viking Eric Bloodaxe. He in fact set himself up as king of Northumbria, which for Eadred was a bridge too fucking far, sunshine, and so he marched against him. He kicked the shit out of him and was on his way home in triumph when he was jumped by Eric's allies, but he warned them he'd be back, bigger and a hell of a lot more angry if they didn't fuck off back to Northumbria, and so they did, realising their king had been knocked for six and that their best bet was to play nice with the English king.
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Eadwig (940 - 959)

Eadred died at the ripe old age of thirty-two, having reigned for ten years but sired no children. He was therefore succeeded by Edmund's son, Earwig, sorry Eadwig. Ah, not though for King Eadred the glory of dying in battle, or even the slightly lesser glory of having your guts ripped out by a thief's knife down your local, or even like Edwin, way back, drowning as your ship went down. No, his was a death that seemed somewhat common to the men of his age, and no surprise, given how and what they ate. It is recorded as a "disease of the stomach" which forced him to "suck the juices from his food, chewed on what was left and spat it out." Well, you certainly wouldn't have wanted to be invited to dine at the royal table, now would you?

Eadwig sat the throne for less than half the period his uncle had reigned, a mere four years, and his rule did not get off to the perfect start. Fresh from his coronation, he felt he wanted some copulation, and went off from his banquet, probably leaning nonchalantly against the wall and saying to likely maids, "I've just become king, you know," or possibly "Fancy some Wes-sex with the new king darlin'?" Or possibly not. He was caught with not one, but two ladies - a mother and daughter - by the terribly religious and utterly spoilsport Saint Dunstan, who, king or no king, apparently grabbed him and dragged him back to the banquet, with possible boxing of the ears and grunts of "Here you, you're only king a few hours and already you're trying to father bastards!" The king was, of course, very penitent and understanding, forgiving the abbot entirely, and the loss of Dunstan's abbey and his own sudden urgent need to flee the country was surely all down to a clerical error. Well, certainly an error for that cleric! In the event, Eadwig married one of the women. Guess which? Well, which would you choose, if it was between a mother and her daughter? Oh, you liar!

There's a belief that the whole account could be bollocks, made up by the miffed Dunstan, but then we do have the word of our buddy John of Worcester, who so faithfully chronicled the killing of Eadred in that pub brawl, so, you know, maybe. It's all over a millennium ago, and we all know how historians like to bicker and argue over just about everything. But given Eadwig was only sixteen at the time and had just become the most powerful man in the country, well, I think I can understand where he was coming from. Dunstan had his revenge from exile though, as he made sure the marriage got annulled, citing the ancient ruling of "seven degrees of consanguinity" which basically means I think that you couldn't marry anyone who had any sort of relationship to you, and there was a connection there. Weak, but enough for Dunstan to run blabbing to the Pope, who no doubt shook his head and tutted at the kids these days.

Not satisfied with breaking up the lovebirds and ensuring any children they had would now be illegitimate, our Dunstan started supporting Eadwig's brother and rival, Edgar, who himself found allies in the eternally-disgruntled Northumbrians and Mercians, and with civil war looming the two decided to split the kingdom, Edgar becoming (yes, again!) king in the north while Eadwig ruled Wessex and Kent. Not for long though. Two years later he was brown bread, and Edgar took the lot, becoming the next King of England.

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Edgar the Peaceful (943 - 975)

Now I'm not certain titles such as "the Good", "the Peaceful" or "the Okay" are the sort of things you really want to hear in connection with kings. All right, I made that last one up, but Edgar was known as "the Peaceful" or "the Peaceable". I mean, it's not quite as impressive as "The Great" or "The Brave" or "The Wise" now is it? Not that there's anything wrong with being peaceful, even for a king, and there are worse titles - we've got Charles the Simple, Ethelred the Unready, John Lackland and of course Ivan the Terrible - but it doesn't bode well for expanding his kingdom does it? With predecessors such as Eadwig and Alfred the Great, Edgar the Peaceful just sounds like he's kind of letting the family down a little. Is he? Let's find out.

Perhaps it might be fair to say that, with Eadwig's death removing all claim of the former king on the lands he held, Edgar, the new king, had no reason to wage war upon Wessex, as it automatically became his property when the power-sharing agreement was nullified on the death of Eadwig. So maybe he didn't have to be a warlike king, and historians seem to agree that England pretty much solidified into the country it is today under his rule, whereas previously Eadwig had allowed parts of it to slip back into separate kingdoms (most notably, as already mentioned, Northumbria under the Vikings and then of course the part yielded to Edgar), so Edgar could be seen as the first king of a "united" England.

But while he may not have been a war-mongerer, there's evidence to suggest Edgar was far from peaceful. When one of his ealdorman, Aethelwald, sent to suss out the beauty of Aelfthryth, whom Edgar was considering marrying, did the dirty on the king and married the girl himself, reporting her as not worthy of his affections, Edgar was not best pleased. At least, he was not best pleased when the deception came to his notice, and decided to head out and see the lassie for himself. Fearing the jig would be up, Aethelwald instructed his new wife to go against centuries of feminine instinct and make herself un-pretty, but Aelfthryth, knowing a better deal was on the table, unwilling to hoodwink the king and possibly fed up already with the ealdorman, ignored him and put on her best. King Edgar, on seeing her, said "that'll do for me" and proceeded to battle his disobedient representative, killing him to teach him a lesson.

Having been an ally of Saint Dunstan during Eadwig's time, it comes as no great surprise that on taking the throne Edgar invited the disgraced bishop back, awarding him with the Archbishopric of Canterbury. This union of Church and State as it were, compared to the fractious relationship that had existed between Dunstan and the previous king, gave Edgar the power to force through reforms and strengthen the hold of the Church over England, while also bolstering up his own power, now supported by that of the Church in the shape of Archbishop Dunstan. There were no sides to be chosen anymore, as both clergy and King were in concert, so there was little if any opposition to Edgar's rule.

This was cemented by his Council at Chester in 973, when the King of Scotland, the King of Strathclyde (who had long fought against Eadwig's incursions into his land) and several kings of Wales all came to pledge their homage to Edgar, perhaps giving him reason to claim being the first true king of Britain, not just England. To symbolise their submission to him, the six (or possibly eight) kings rowed Edgar personally in his royal barge down the river Dee. Edgar was also equated with Christ, this further binding him to and identifying and allying him with the Church (and, oddly, not pissing off the Pope, who was and is supposed to be after all God's rep on Earth, and surely this has to have been seen by him as a demotion?), making England once and for all, and forever a Christian nation.

Also oddly, Edgar's coronation did not take place on his ascension to the throne but fourteen years later, seen not as the beginning but the culmination of his reign. Ironically, two years later he would be dead, having ruled for almost sixteen years. Unlike his predecessors however, Edgar had not been shy about putting himself about, and so there was a ready-made heir available when he popped his royal clogs.

Another Edward.
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Edward the Martyr (962 - 978)

Okay, well if "The Peaceful" is the sort of title that as a king you would prefer to avoid, "The Martyr" is a whole lot worse. Poor Edward only lived to rule for three years, and as often happens when a strong (if "Peaceful") king dies, disputes arose over who should succeed Edgar. It was widely believed (though not possible to prove beyond doubt) that Edward was a bastard, said to have been born to a nun whom his father abducted from Wilton Abbey, while his other son, Aethelred, raised the suspicions of Dunstan, as his mother had been already wed to Aethelwald before Edgar did him in. With no divorce proceedings - other than divorcing her husband from his life - the future saint ruminated on whether the marriage was therefore legal and legitimate.

In the end, both men would rule England, one as I say for a mere three years before meeting his end at the point of an assassin's knife, the other for almost forty. Details of, and reasons for Edward's murder vary, but there seems to be some basic agreement that it was perpetrated by men loyal to Aethelred, supported either tacitly or openly by his own wife the queen Aelfthryth, or possibly just because nobody really liked him. Under his rule, a lot of the land granted to Benedictine monasteries under his father's reign were given back to nobles, while Dunstan appears to have shoved his hands into the pockets of his vestments (do vestments have pockets? Well if not, then into each other, very monklike) and done precisely nothing to stop this reversal of Edgar's edicts.

It's interesting to see how disliked Edward was, given that he later became known as "The Martyr", as his body is said to have been buried "without honours". Doesn't exactly say they kicked him into an open grave and spat on him, but they certainly didn't give him anything like a state funeral. Later though when they dug him up it seemed his body had not decomposed - and this was a year afterwards - so he was pronounced a vampire and a stake driven through... no? No, apparently. Would have been my first thought. Body failing to age, still looking as young as when the coffin lid was hammered down? Vampire, mate. Got to be. Trust me, I know about these things. But no, they decided he was in fact a saint and his remains reinterred in Shaftesbury Abbey. I guess, given that there are no surviving reports of old King Edward taking a stroll after midnight and bothering the local talent, can't argue with that. Possibly.

Soon afterwards a cult grew up around him (you sure he wasn't a vampire?), however I personally have problems with calling him a martyr. Isn't that supposed to be someone who dies for their faith? Edward died because his rivals wanted rid, and that's happened before without the unfortunate obstacle being canonised. I bet if you asked him if he wanted to die for God's glory, Edward would have said "No thanks, I like living just fine."

With the threat of his brother removed, the way was clear for Aethelred to take the throne. He is one of the few English kings from this period of history whom we can still remember today.
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Aethelred (the Unready) (966 - 1016)

Let's get one thing out of the way here from the start . Aethelred, known as "the Unready", was not a man who was unprepared for battle or whatever. The word doesn't refer to our one, though it has been changed into that meaning in recent times. His actual epithet was unraed, which means badly-advised. He was, however, one of the worst kings England had ever had, as well as, perhaps paradoxically, one of the longest-reigning up to that point. As we've noted above, Aethelred was one of the two sons of Edgar, and on the death of his father doubt and confusion had arisen over the parentage of both boys, and therefore their legitimacy to rule the kingdom. Aethelred's brother, Edward, was chosen but again as we've seen this didn't last long, as he slipped in the shower and ran right into a handy knife, or something. Anyway, on his death Aethelred took the throne.

The youngest to ascend at that time, the boy was at best twelve, possibly as young as nine years old when his brother was murdered, and so for several years the kingdom was administered by his mother Aelfthryth and Dunstan, as well as Aethelwold, Bishop of Worcester. During this time, and after it, the English court would be plagued by scandals and coups, and the ordinary man would suffer as never before, with taxes raised to all but unsustainable levels. The bad blood between those who had supported his brother and wished to avenge Edward's murder would help to stymie the response of the English to, not a new, but a fresh and renewed threat, believed disposed of.

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Return of the Vikings: Can't Keep a Good Dane Down

Despite the absolute rout of the King of Dublin in Aethelstan's time and the breaking of the power of the Danes soon afterwards by Eadred, the Vikings were not yet finished with England and they attacked again in 980, streaming over from Denmark, and though originally carrying out lightning raids on the coast only, and these spread out over almost a decade, with some years of respite in between, the lacklustre and uncoordinated response from England emboldened them. Aethelred tried to placate them by buying them off ("paying tribute") but their blood was up and conquest was on their minds, and in 991 they sent a huge fleet to sack Ipswich, and in August came face to face with the English at Maldon in Essex. This was to be not only the first major defeat for the English but the nascent beginnings of the later Norman invasion of England, something that was to shape the country's future forever.

With the soundest of defeats against the English under their belts, the Vikings - though demanding, and getting tribute - rampaged across the country, and you can't help but call to mind the rather self-defeating invitation of the Saxons by the Britons two hundred years ago, sealing their own fate. The Vikings had not been invited, no, but the resistance of the English under Aethelred - who really could be accused of being actually unready, as it seemed he certainly had not been expecting this massive fleet to attack - was so weak that the Vikings were able to make it as far as London with impunity. England's defence, such as it was, became more a desperate rearguard action, and there was really no chance the Danes, now supported by the French in Normandy, were ever going to be defeated.

The best the English could hope for was a truce, and this they got in 994, when King Olaf Tryggvason, suitably paid off, took much of his force to Norway and promised never to darken England's doorstep again. He kept his word, but some of his men stayed on, as mercenaries loyal now to Aethelred, who thought he could control them. Big mistake! Three years after their prince had returned to the comforting icy wastes of Scandinavia, these soldiers of fortune seem to have fashioned their own fortune, and turned on Aethelred, deciding it was, say it with me, pillaging time!
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And so in 997 the coastal attacks began again, until as the new millennium dawned, the Vikings decided to check out their new pals in Normandy, and Aethelred, as any king faced with such a sudden and unexpected respite in hostilities would do, gathered his forces, shored up his defences and... attacked Strathclyde. Um. The reason for this rather unreasonable attack is, according to historians, "lost in the history of the north", but I would be willing to bet he was paying back some old scores, as Strathclyde had been one of the kingdoms to support Danelaw. He was caught rapid, as we say here, the next year though, as the Vikings returned, bored with eating frog's legs and snails and hankering for some Yorkshire pud, or maybe Yorkshire puss(!) and back they came. I hope Aethelred and his court partied like it was 999, cos from 1001 onwards there wouldn't be much cause for joy.

The Danegeld, already mentioned several times, would have been one of the main reasons taxes skyrocketed, as the Vikings demanded more and more tribute for not knocking in English heads (that much) or setting English cities on fire (well, maybe a small one here or there, but nothing serious), and Aethelred, with no real army to oppose them, had no choice but to cough up. Which meant making the people cough up. Which presumably left a less than glowing impression on the minds - and wallets - of his subjects. Eventually, he decided he'd had enough.

St. Brice's Day Massacre

Herod would have been proud. Well, maybe not, but Al Capone would. When word came to Aethelred that the Danes were rising and would kill him and all his people, and take their land, he decided to get his retaliation in first, and ordered the massacre of all Danish men in England. This was on, appropriately enough, November 13 1002 (I don't know if it was a Friday, but how cool if it was, eh? My phone's calendar doesn't go back to the eleventh century, cheap piece of crap) and is the first time I've read of an English king ordering what amounts to all but genocide. I mean, these people weren't even prisoners of war. For all Aethelred knew, the accusations could have been what we would call today "fake news", an attempt to stir up local hatred of those who belonged to the peoples who had attacked them, but who might not themselves have had anything to do with those attacks.

I find the king's matter-of-fact recounting of what is on the face of it surely a savage and un-Christian act chilling, the more so because it was only related in reference to explaining why the funds were needed to rebuild the church.

"For it is fully agreed that to all dwelling in this country it will be well known that, since a decree was sent out by me with the counsel of my leading men and magnates, to the effect that all the Danes who had sprung up in this island, sprouting like cockle amongst the wheat, were to be destroyed by a most just extermination, and thus this decree was to be put into effect even as far as death, those Danes who dwelt in the afore-mentioned town, striving to escape death, entered this sanctuary of Christ, having broken by force the doors and bolts, and resolved to make refuge and defence for themselves therein against the people of the town and the suburbs; but when all the people in pursuit strove, forced by necessity, to drive them out, and could not, they set fire to the planks and burnt, as it seems, this church with its ornaments and its books. Afterwards, with God's aid, it was renewed by me."

Here the king is saying, without any sense of outrage or regret, the cheek of these guys! Instead of letting us exterminate (note the use of the word) them, they took refuge in a church! And because of that my people had to burn the church! The nerve! So now, like, we have to rebuild it so dig deep people!

It's an act of pretty much wanton savagery on a par with the worst excesses of Cromwell in Ireland, or Lake later on in Ulster. Sure, Henry V would later execute French prisoners of war, and that was a reprehensible deed which has been more or less glossed over by English historians, but at least it has the very small saving grace of those men having been fighting the English, and being military prisoners. Yes, in fairness, the skeletons of 36 men excavated at the site in 2008 and analysed in 2012 does seem to support the fact that the Danish corpses were all warriors (and all men) so probably those mercenaries all right, but even so, once again English historians shrug and treat the whole incident with a kind of they-had-it-coming attitude. One even describes the incident as a "so-called massacre". How there can be any doubt, when the king lays the entire case out in a fucking royal charter, you got me there son!

In the end, as nobody will be surprised to hear, this massacre of their people led not to pacification of England but further reprisal attacks, and the coming end of the House of Wessex.

I don't quite understand how (unless the order was open to misinterpretation, or it happened accidentally as she was trying to shield her husband or lover) but the rumour was that Gunhilde, sister of Sweyn Forkbeard, the King of Denmark, was among the slain, and her brother did not take this well. I can just see Aethelred now: "Was I not fucking crystal clear here? Did I not say men? Is this woman a man?" And one of his disgruntled warriors muttering "She looked like a man", whereupon the king might have turned sharply and demanded "What?" But the warrior who spoke had suddenly developed a deep interest in the tapestries on the wall, or something.

And so a proper Viking invasion of England kicked off in 1004, ploughing through East Anglia while Aethelred remained in the south, unable to engage the enemy while his court began to self-destruct under coups possibly instigated or at least supported by his second wife, Emma. There were some victories against the Vikings, but mostly they had everything their own way, and for the next five or so years England was under constant attack, the latest, an invasion launched in 1008 was only bought off in 1012. A year later Forkbeard attacked again.
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Sweyn Forkbeard was the son of Harold Bluetooth (yes that one, from whom we get the word) and was to be reckoned one of the greatest ever Viking generals. His fleet hit English shores in 1013, this time with the intention not just of raiding and plundering, but to take the English throne. Sweyn was unstoppable, and by the end of the year England was his, and he was crowned its king, Aethelred fleeing into exile. His reign did not last long though, as he died a mere year later, leaving his son, Cnut the Great, to take his place. We'll be hearing much more about him later. The English weren't having this though, and invited Aethelred back, provided he fulfilled a lot of their wish list, including forgiving any bad stuff any of them may have said about or to, or done to him. Basically blackmailing a king, it would seem, but Aethelred shrugged and said sure, let ye bygones be ye bygones, swore to implement all the reforms they requested (demanded) and when he returned to battle Cnut few Vikings and hardly any Englishmen supported the son of Sweyn, who was quickly defeated and Aethelred reinstalled on the English throne. I'm not sure, but I think this might be the first (only?) time in English history when a king ruled, was deposed, went into exile and was then restored to the throne.

Though he beat Cnut, Aethelred walked into more trouble on his return, as his son, Edmund Ironside, established himself in the Danelaw and revolted against his father. Later, when Cnut (it's so hard not to misspell that name!) returned both father and son allied against him, but in 1016 both were defeated and soon after Aethelred died, perhaps ironically, given his fractious rule of the country, on the day most revered by Englishmen, St. George's Day, April 23. This left Cnut as king, initially sharing power with Edmund (though Aethelred's son was only permitted to rule over Wessex until his death a little over a month later, whereupon Cnut became king of all England) the first not of the Wessex line, in fact the first non-Saxon king since Alfred the Great, discounting the very brief forty-odd-day reign of Sweyn Forkbeard. Cnut's ascension meant power passed for the first time in almost a hundred and fifty years from the unbroken line of the House of Wessex, and though it would be temporarily restored with the rule of Edward the Confessor, he would be the last Wessex king to sit the English throne.

Although Sweyn Forkbeard had subjugated England and become its king, he ruled for a mere couple of months before his death, after which the throne reverted to an Englishman. But Cnut, as the first true Viking king of England, was to remain in power for nearly twenty years, a reign only bettered by Aethelred and the two original Wessex kings, Alfred the Great and Edward the Elder.

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Edmund Ironside (990 - 1016)

An interesting fact about Edmund II's rise to the throne would be reflected later in the ascension of one of the most notorious and divisive kings of England, Henry VIII. Like the Tudor monarch, Edmund was not the eldest son and so not actually in line for the throne, but his two brothers died. We might suspect foul play, but this does not seem to have been the case; indeed, Aethelstan, the eldest, left a sword in his will to Edmund, one that had belonged to the legendary King Offa of Mercia. The brothers did not follow their father into exile when Sweyn Forkbeard took the English throne, but with Aethelstan dying before Aethelred's return, his other brothers also dead,  there was only really Edmund whose aid his father could call upon. However Edmund, as we have seen above, decided instead to rebel, stealing the wife of one of the disgraced (and executed) brothers who had run the Danelaw, marrying her and setting himself up as king there.

He did however join his father in the later fight against Cnut, when his own borders were threatened, and Cnut was so impressed with him that a compromise was reached. On the death of Aethelred, the people of London elected Edmund king and he continued to fight against Cnut, hopelessly outnumbered. He won many battles though, and when he was defeated Cnut, probably fearing an English civil war,  allowed him to rule in Wessex while he took the rest of England for his domain. As we've said though, this was not to last long, as he died in November 1016 and Cnut then became the first non-Wessex King of England.

The manner of Edmund's death is disputed, but some accounts claim he died on the toilet, in a scene which surely must have inspired George R.R. Martin when he was writing the death scene for Tyrion Lannister. One account says Edmund was stabbed multiple times while taking a dump, another uses - wait for it - a crossbow as the weapon, but others shrug and think yes, he may have been murdered, probably was, but he might just as easily have fallen in battle. You've got to hope, don't you, that the latter case is closer to the truth, as otherwise it's a shitty way to die. Sorry.
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Cnut the Great (d. 1035)

Also known as Canute, he was the first Viking king of England, and the first to rule Denmark and Norway as well. The son of Sweyn Forkbeard, his date of birth is unknown but may be around 980 - 990, even 1000. However the latter seems unlikely at best, as he conquered and was crowned king of England in 1016, which would make him, what, sixteen years old? I can't really see the English accepting a "callow youth", no matter his fighting prowess or their position, as their king, can you? At any rate, the real year will never be known as there are only hints for historians to guess at. He was said to be "exceptionally tall and strong, the handsomest of men", and on the death of his father returned to Denmark to request of the king, Harald (who may have been Harald Bluetooth, though this would then have been his grandfather) a power-sharing deal, which the king refused. No wait: I see it was Harald II, Cnut's brother. Right, well that makes more sense. A brother is more likely to tell a brother where he can shove it than a revered grandfather. Cnut instead set sail in 1016 for England, with a fleet that was to result in his defeating Aethelred and Edmund Ironside, and winning for himself the English throne.

As an aside, you have to love these epithets. We've had Alfred the Great, Edward the Martyr, Edgar the Peaceful and of course Aethelred the Unready - though most of these were affixed to the names of the various kings after their deaths, often long after - now we have the future King of Poland, Boleslaw the Brave (no not Coleslaw!). We also have Eric the Victorious and Gorm the Old, Harold Bluetooth of course and even Sigrid the, um, Haughty. No, not Naughty. Now that would have been interesting. Anyway, back to the story of Cnut.
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Responsible for the palace coup at Aethelred's court, Eadric Streona, ealdorman of Mercia, must have seen which side his bread was buttered and deserted the English cause, throwing in his lot (and forty of the latest ships) with that of Cnut. Thorkell the Tall, another previous ally of Aethelred, also came over to the new king's side. This of course weakened the forces then being led by Edmund, as he and his father - who was soon to die - never seemed to be able to meet up together, sending force after force back without its expected reinforcements. Cnut set about subduing Northumbria, and then turned his attention towards London, wherein Edmund had been proclaimed king on the death of his father.

Unable to stand against the invader alone, and with his ex-allies deserting him in droves,  Edmund made a run for Wessex, hoping his ancestral homeland would provide him the troops he needed to muster an army and take on Cnut. It did, and he returned to London, relieving it, but only temporarily, and for the next while each faction struggled to hold, or take, what would eventually become England's capital. Eventually Cnut gave it up, hopping over to harry Essex instead, and with typical turncoat skills, and perhaps feeling that the wind of change was again blowing in Edmund's direction, Eadric changed sides and offered his help to the English king. Cnut would deal with this treachery soon enough.

The decisive battle that would settle the matter of who ruled England took place at Assandun, in Essex, in October 1016, where Edmund's forces met those of Cnut. Instrumental in his defeat (as perhaps had been his intention all along) was the withdrawal of the forces of Eadric Streona, who went back over to Cnut's side. With all that turning of coat, the man must have been positively dizzy! After the battle, Cnut and Edmund divided England, the former taking all land south of the river Thames (including his stronghold, London) and everything north would be ruled by Cnut. As already related though, this was academic really, as Edmund died only a month later and Cnut then became king of all England.

If, six hundred years later, Oliver Cromwell would declare himself Lord Protector of England (or Britain) then Cnut did it first. Not the actual declaration - he had nothing against being a king, insisted on it in fact - but he became England's defender against outside attack. Being monarch of most of Scandinavia he was easily able to forbid further raids by the Vikings on England, and so under his almost twenty-year rule England enjoyed an unparalleled period of peace and prosperity. As bad a king as Aethelred has been said to have been, and as ineffective, Cnut was one of the greatest kings England had had since Alfred. Not that that meant he didn't take revenge on his enemies, of course. He was, after all, first and foremost, a Viking.

Heads literally rolled, with Aethelred's remaining son, Eadwig Atheling, at first only exiled, later murdered on Cnut's orders. Edmund's two sons were exiled, while Cnut ensured the troublesome and unreliable Eadric Steona had no further opportunities for betrayal, having him executed, and I doubt anyone cried. The new king paid off his Viking army and sent them home, keeping a small standing force in England, just in case. In a somewhat Viking tradition, he married Aethelred's widow, Emma, and had a son by her, Harthacnut, whom he declared to be his heir.

You have to hand it to Cnut. In addition to being the - now uncontested - King of England, he also secured his position as King of Scandinavia, taking on Sweden and Norway and beating both in 1026. You would think that, distracted by such a war, his return to England might have seen some rival taking advantage of his absence and making a play for the throne, but no. So untroubled and unrivalled was his reign that he was able to take a leisurely trip to Rome (the first Viking to do so with peaceful intentions?) to witness the installation of the new Holy Roman emperor. He took the opportunity to discuss certain things with the new emperor, as below:

... I spoke with the Emperor himself and the Lord Pope and the princes there about the needs of all people of my entire realm, both English and Danes, that a juster law and securer peace might be granted to them on the road to Rome and that they should not be straitened by so many barriers along the road, and harassed by unjust tolls; and the Emperor agreed and likewise King Robert who governs most of these same toll gates. And all the magnates confirmed by edict that my people, both merchants, and the others who travel to make their devotions, might go to Rome and return without being afflicted by barriers and toll collectors, in firm peace and secure in a just law.

And

... I, as I wish to be made known to you, returning by the same route that I took out, am going to Denmark to arrange peace and a firm treaty, in the counsel of all the Danes, with those races and people who would have deprived us of life and rule if they could, but they could not, God destroying their strength. May he preserve us by his bounteous compassion in rule and honour and henceforth scatter and bring to nothing the power and might of all our enemies! And finally, when peace has been arranged with our surrounding peoples and all our kingdom here in the east has been properly ordered and pacified, so that we have no war to fear on any side or the hostility of individuals, I intend to come to England as early this summer as I can to attend to the equipping of a fleet.

There's a lot of stuff in Cnut's reign about his attempts to secure Sweden, only ever styling himself as "king of some of the Swedes", which sounds a little unimpressive until you add "all of Denmark, Norway and England" - that's a sizeable chunk of real estate! But I don't want to go too deeply into his Scandinavian adventures as this is the history of England, and while I had to detour through histories of England and Scotland in my Irish history journal, that was necessary in order to frame certain subjects. Here, in reference to England, these diversions don't matter, so let's just say Cnut was away from England a good deal and leave it at that.

Cnut's relationship with the all-powerful Church was delicate at best. They knew him to be all but unseatable (if they wanted to unseat him) and he had been baptised, renouncing his Viking ways (though only in religion, and perhaps only in public) and he built churches and monasteries, but there was the small matter of his having two wives. I believe somewhere in the Bible it says that a man marrying his brother's wife is a sin, and while Aethelred and Cnut were certainly not related, I wonder if the Church still frowned on the idea of marrying the wife, now widow, of the man you defeated, surely more a Viking tradition than a Christian one? That might be bad enough, but Cnut didn't do the decent thing and divorce or even send his first wife to a convent, but kept both around, so that he had two wives. The Church would not have liked that at all.

But what could they do? Cnut was powerful, more powerful really than any king of England since Alfred the Great, and more importantly, well liked. He didn't have any real enemies, at least, none left living, and there were no discernible divisions in his power base that could be exploited. Besides, though I can't confirm this but will try later, it seems to me that Cnut was the first king of England to award land to the Church, something which would really get up the nose of Henry VIII a half-millennium later, when he testily snatched it back with a Trumpish "Mine!" on his snarling lips. Everyone loves land, especially that granted by royal charter, so maybe the bishops just shrugged and said "hell, he's king. If he wants to have two wives, who are we to say no? Now, what about this new church?"

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God Save the Queen!

While technically no woman ruled over the English until the ascent of Mary I in 1553, two claim the title in the Middle Ages, this being Judith of France, who really seems to have held the title more symbolically and on account of her husband, Aethelwulf and later his son Aethelbald, and only for a short period on both occasions. Then there was Aelfthryrh, who was anointed as queen but does not seem to have held any real power, married to Edgar. For my money though, although not actually recognised as an actual queen (none of the women before the twelfth century were, indeed as we say above, no female actually sat the throne alone until Mary I) the one who makes the best case is Emma of Normandy.

Not only did she become Queen of England through her marriage to Aethelred the Unready, she later retook the title on her marriage to Cnut the Great, but as his consort also was named Queen of Denmark and Queen of Norway. She was the first, so far as I can see, to actually engage in political machinations, making alliances and moving pieces on the board, and at some points can be considered almost the de facto ruler of England. Here's her story.
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Also known as Aelfgifu she was, you'll no doubt be completely unsurprised to hear, French, a Norman noblewoman who was married to Aethelred in 1002 to both heal the rift between him and Richard II, Duke of Normandy, and save England from Viking attacks, most of which were by now being launched from there. On marrying Aethelred she was crowned Queen of England, though at the time it seems this was more just a formality, that her title was empty, depended entirely on her husband the king, and had no power attached to it. She did, however, receive land in Winchester, Devonshire, Rutland, Oxfordshire, Suffolk and Exeter. She had two sons by Aethelred: Edward the Confessor, who would go on to be one of the last kings of the House of Wessex, and Aelfred Atheling, who, well, wouldn't.

When Aethelred died in 1016, his heir was not any of Emma's sons but one from his previous marriage, Aethelstan. Angry at this snub to her sons, Emma began to try to gain support for her eldest son, Edward (later the Confessor) to be named successor, but even though the wily Eadric Streona - of whom we have already heard, and will hear more of shortly - gave his support to her claim, she was overruled and Aethelstan was chosen. Nevertheless, she held London on the death of Aethelstan before marrying the victorious Cnut, and again being proclaimed Queen of England. Cnut, however, had no intention of allowing her sons, the sons of Aethelred, to aspire to the throne and so they were sent away to Normandy on her marriage. Emma later gave Cnut a son, Harthacnut, who became his heir.

In 1036 the two lads returned to England, ostensibly to pay a visit to mum, but in reality probably to try to take the throne. Alfred was captured by Godwin and delivered over to Harold's men, who blinded him, wounds from which he quickly died later, while Edward, having had some success, returned to Normandy until it was safe to set foot on English soil again. When he did, and it was, he ruled jointly with Harthacnut, and as they were both sons of Cnut, Emma became the link between the two kings. In some ways, and to some historians and scholars, she is considered to have been all but a co-ruler of England. She even has part of an important eleventh-century work dedicated to her, the Encomium of Queen Emma, which no other woman from this time does.

There is a legend - almost certainly untrue or at least embellished in her favour - which speaks of her being accused of infidelity, and having to undergo one of the ordeals of fire spoken of much earlier in this chapter. According to the account she walked across hot ploughshares and "felt neither the naked iron nor the fire", and so proved herself innocent. Right. Now, about that asteroid shaped like a dancing moose...

Nevertheless, though she never officially ruled in her own name, given a) her marriage to two of the most powerful kings of the time, b) the fact that two of her sons then went on to be kings in their own right, c) her "stewardship" of London and later much of England and d) her machinations at court, particularly with Godwin, I think there's a pretty good case for seeing Emma of Normandy as the first, shall we say, unofficial Queen of England.

My Name is Earl: The Power Beside the Throne

Originally known as ealdorman, the title was given to a sort of provincial governor of a small town or hundred, with pretty limited powers, all of course very subservient to the king. With the arrival of the Vikings in the ninth century, their idea of erl, as a sort of sub-king, came more into use in England and the word was quickly adopted. With its adoption came its powers, as earls grew to be all but semi-princes, though having of course no royal prerogative that did not proceed from the monarch. Over the next centuries, earls would become some of the powerbrokers, and even to some extent kingmakers of England, and their support would be sought, bought and traded as they enriched themselves like sort of medieval godfathers. Three in particular were important during the time the House of Wessex held sway, and into the reign of the House of Denmark.

Eadric Streona (died 1017)

Although technically not an earl, as at this point ealdorman was still the title, Streona was the precursor to the sort of powerbroker figure earls would later become. Eadric married Edith or Eadgyth, a daughter of King Aethelred the Unready, but though this was a marriage of convenience, meant to ally him to the House of Wessex, Eadric would turn out to be the most double-dealing, traitorous, untrustworthy turncoat in the Middle Ages. He was loyal to nobody, supporting whomever he saw as best placed to advance his own prospects and play into his agenda, and he flip-flopped back and forth so much you might have considered he didn't even have a spine.

His first action of note is reported in 1006, when he is said to have slain an Ealdorman the king didn't much like, called Aelfhelm, using the old tried and trusted "hunting accident" idea, though he was careful not to dirty his own hands, paying someone to do his work for him, a local butcher. Soon after, Aelfhelm's sons were blinded, and King Aethelred was indeed pleased. But Eadric jumped and crossed loyalty lines more than Prince crossed genres, so I'm going to be keeping a record of his various treacheries in this piece. So far, score one for the House of Wessex. It wouldn't last.

Perhaps due to this favour to his king - or maybe he had carried out the murder on the understanding that he would be so rewarded - Eadric was given the title of Ealdorman of Mercia, even then a powerful position. Although he distinguished himself well in the position, fighting for his king against the Viking raiders, when it was clear that the day was lost and Sweyn Forkbeard was temporarily crowned King of England, Eadric decided it was a good time to leg it, and headed over to Normandy with Queen Emma. The king followed them a year later, in 1014. As we've seen though, he wasn't in France a wet day before Forkbeard snuffed it and the English invited him back, and of course with him came Eadric.

In 1015 the treacherous Ealdorman killed two other thegns, Sigeferth and Morcar, possibly as a reprisal for their collaborating with the men of Forkbeard, and in that same year Eadric again sensed which way the wind was blowing and threw in his lot with the newly-arrived Cnut, who would take the kingdom shortly after, and on his death Eadric would pursue his son, Edmund, in the service of King Cnut.

House of Wessex one, House of Denmark One.

Never a man to waste an opportunity, when Eadric, facing Edmund's forces in battle, noticed a man in his army who looked like him, he killed and beheaded him, holding up the head and shouting that he had killed Edmund, and his army might as well surrender. They did, this despite the fact that they were in fact winning the battle. When they saw what they believed to be the head of their leader, they lost all hope and ran.
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They soon rallied though when they realised they had been fooled, and that their king was still alive, and finally defeated at the Battle of Otford, Eadric again changed sides, allying himself to Edmund. House of Wessex Two, House of Denmark Two. When their forces met those of Cnut in 1016 though, Eadric helpfully withdrew his forces from the battle, leaving Edmund exposed. House of Wessex Two, House of Denmark Three. It's been theorised that this was Eadric's plan all along, to lull Edmund into a false sense of security and then betray him when his forces were needed the most. Whether or not Cnut was in on the plan, if there was a plan, nobody has commented.

Eadric then turned peacemaker and mediator, brokering the truce between Edmund and Cnut which divided England between the two kings, but which was not to last as Edmund died a year later, leaving Cnut in complete control of the kingdom. Despite his seeming defection, Cnut forgave Eadric and he was allowed to retain the ealdormanship of Mercia. Or did he forgive him? Cnut obviously knew the kind of man he was dealing with, someone who would sell out his own grandmother if he got him a position, lands or money, and he had an interesting and surprising Christmas present for Eadric. The man who had turned too many times was finally done in on December 25 1017, when Cnut, angered that he had been disloyal - both to him and to Edmund; the point didn't seem to be to whom, but that his loyalty could not be trusted, and he was without honour (remember, Cnut was a Viking, a man who prized honour above most other traits) - ordered one of his men to "pay what he was owed", and the axe literally fell.

Being away most of the time, Cnut realised he had to delegate some of his power, and therefore two men rose in his shadow who were pretty much in all but name co-rulers of England in the king's absence. Unsurprisingly, they were each in control of one of the most important regions of England, the ancient sites of Anglo-Saxon powers, two areas which had once been warring kingdoms, and which to some extent kind of still were.
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Godwin, Earl of Wessex (1001 - 1053)

Certainly an eleventh-century powerbroker, Godwin may have believed from an early age that he was destined for great things, as a fleet sent in pursuit of the man who may have been his father, Wulfnoth Cild, accused of crimes against Aethelred the Unready, foundered at sea. Left an estate by Aethelstan in 1014, Godwin would have been basically rich from his teens, though this estate had originally belonged to his family, so really all Aethelstan was doing here was restoring to Godwin what had been taken from him and was his by right. A mere six years later Godwin, now Earl of Wessex, was in Denmark with Cnut, where he made himself indispensable and also married the sister of the Danish earl Ulf, Gytha. In a sort of exchange-marriage, Ulf had married Godwin's sister, Estrid.

Cnut's death in 1035 did nothing to slow Godwin's ambitious rise to power, in fact it expedited it, as he became the main deciding force as to who should succeed the king. Though he supported Harthacnut, he was in Denmark putting down a rebellion, so it was agreed that Harold Harefoot would rule as regent till he could return and claim his throne. You've read all this already of course. What do you mean, you just skimmed it? Bullet points? I'll give you bullet points! What about hollow points, eh? Anyway, as you will (hopefully) also have read, Godwin thwarted the attempts of one of the sons of Aethelred, Aelfred Aetheling, to claim the throne in the name of his father, and turned him over to Harold's men, who blinded him. He soon died. This of course made him popular with Harold. With no sign of Harthacnut on the horizon any time soon, Godwin decided the best thing to do was make Harold king, and so it came to pass.

Isn't it odd how earls and nobles had such power back then, the power to literally choose the king? But that's how it was. Until much later, when divine right of succession was established within the monarchy, there was no guarantee, no mechanism in place to arrange or accept the issue of a king as his successor. The witan, the king's council, met and decided who they wanted to be the next king. You could say it was better that way, that then someone who may have had no idea how to be a king was not just thrown in at the deep end, but then again, it did mean that the most powerful people in the land chose the man they believed would best serve their interests, so that was hardly fair. The people? What had it to do with the people? They didn't care who was king. They had enough to be going on with just trying to survive. Why should they care if a Dane or an Englishman sat on the throne? Wouldn't affect their lives, and even if it did, there was nothing they could do to change it. Still isn't, now that royal prerogative has been established.

Anyway, as we've already seen, Harold wasn't to last long and Godwin then engineered the return of Harthacnut from Denmark to take his place. This didn't last long either, and eventually Godwin had to choose a successor, which turned out to be Edward the Confessor, Aethelred's son, bringing the whole dynasty of the House of Wessex full circle again. Godwin further strengthened his ties with the new king by having him marry his daughter, Edith, though Edward, swearing celibacy, would have no children Godwin or his heirs could control. Indeed, his time as powerbroker was running out. When he refused to punish the town of Dover when its people caused offence to the visiting Count of Boulogne, he basically said "Fuck this. I'm not killing English people for some filthy frog!" And realising that he took on the king himself with his defiance, he had no choice but to flee to Flanders (seems to have been the place to flee to, back then), exiled in 1051.
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(No, not that one!)

He wasn't prepared to leave it there though, and he and his fellow earls, who had also been exiled (the other two to Ireland) returned the next year at the head of an army, and Edward thought it prudent to let bygones be bygones. What did offence to a French noble Count for (sorry) anyway? Restored to his earldom, Godwin didn't have long to enjoy his victory, as he died the next year, of some unspecified illness, but possibly a stroke, which may have left him speechless and without strength for four days before he finally passed away on April 15 1052.

His son Harold would go on to succeed Edward and be the last king of the House of Wessex, ruling for less than a year before dying at the Battle of Hastings as William the Conqueror led the Normans into a new era in English history.

Leofric, Earl of Mercia (died 1057)

Ah, if there's one thing a man did not want history to remember him by it was that his wife was more famous than he, but Leofric of Mercia is really only taken notice of by history due to being the husband of the famous Lady Godiva, as related below. A contemporary of Godwin, he was earl of the other main territory, the kingdom of Mercia, but supported the claim of Harold Harefoot to the throne, in opposition to Godwin's championing of the right of Harthacnut. He was therefore not best pleased when, on Harold's death and Harthcnut's accession, the new king, enraged at the killing of two of his tax collectors, sent Leofric and Godwin to sack the town of Worcester. This had been his ancestral home, so Leofric, though he obeyed, chafed at the order, and this might indeed have factored into his later decision to support Godwin's disobedience to Edward the Confessor's order to sack Dover.

Initially though he fought against Godwin in the name of Edward, who led an army against him at Gloucester in 1051. Leofric convinced the king not to join battle, as too many of the nobility would be lost and it would damage the kingdom, so Edward instead exiled Godwin, which suited Leofric perfectly, making him basically the second most powerful man in England. His own son Aelfgar however damaged that power by bringing a combined force of Irish and Welsh against the king at Hereford; nevertheless this revolt was settled amicably and on Leofric's death in 1057 his son rose to the earldom.

As we'll see below in the story of Lady Godiva, Leofric was a man who brutally oppressed his people, levying harsh taxes on the people of Coventry, and could not have been a popular lord. The fact that his wife could not appeal to his mercy says a lot about him too. As usual, historians argue and bicker over how true all of this Godiva stuff is, and as usual we'll let them, as we have better things to do.

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There is Nothing Like a Dane, Nothing in the World: Important Vikings in England

Although they came to England as raiders, the effect and influence the men from the North had upon the country is undeniable, and even led to one - alright, two then - of them becoming king of the newly formed land. Here I want to look briefly into the main Viking figures who impacted upon English politics and history from the tenth century to the eleventh.

Olaf (sometimes Anlaf) Guthfrithson

The third Viking King of Dublin, following the expulsion of his people in 902 by the Irish, Olaf  first appeared in 933 hassling the people of Ulster, and fought a campaign against them, then turning south, battling the King of Limerick and taking the throne of Dublin for himself. Secure in his power in Ireland, he then headed across the Irish Sea to take on the English in 937. At this point Aethelstan was the king, and Olaf set his sights on Northumbria, which had always been fiercely independent and which was close enough to the defiant Scots to provide him with allies against the English. Besides, he believed he was only taking back what was his, as his father, Gofraid ua Imair, had been king of Northumbria before Aethelstan had taken it from him. Time for some revenge then, Viking-style!

The allied forces of Olaf and Constantine II of Scotland met those of Athelstan and his son Edmund at the Battle of Brunanburh, where the Vikings were defeated and Olaf hopped back across the sea to lick his wounds. But with the death of Aethelstan two years later he was back, and this time he took Northumbria, setting himself up as king. He fought the new English king, Edmund, and the result was a compromise whereby the area known as the Danelaw was established. Olaf died in 941, but his brother succeeded him as King of Northumbria.

Thorkell the Tall

Leader of one of the major invasions of the first decade of the eleventh century, Thorkell had a sandwich - sorry; landed at Sandwich in Kent in 1009, but the people of Kent bought him off and he tried his luck with London. The Londoners didn't have to bribe him though as their city was too well defended and he gave up, turning towards Canterbury in 1011, and besieging the town for three weeks. It fell finally due to the treachery of a man whose life the Archbishop, Aelfheah, had saved, which was pretty ironic as Thorkell captured the Archbishop and later had him murdered. Thanks a lot, dude! Mind you, it seems Aelfheah may have to some extent brought this fate down on himself, being a constant thorn in the Vikings' side as he continued to try to convert them with the annoying zeal of a Jehovah's Witness who just won't go away even when you shut the door in their face, and eventually, after seven months during which the Archbishop refused to be ransomed, the Vikings had had enough. During a drunken feast (did any Viking know any other sort?) they started throwing meat-bones at him, and then finished him off with an axe.

The killing of the Archbishop had been against the will and orders of Thorkell, which just goes to show I guess that drunk Vikings listen to nobody when their blood is up, and as a result he defected and went to work for Aethelred as a mercenary, taking forty-five ships with him. Though he and his men fought against the invasion of Sweyn Forkbeard in 1013, and escorted Aethelred into exile, Cnut allowed him to fight for him later, and in 1016 the king even made him Jarl, or earl of East Anglia. Although he fell out of favour with Cnut and was banished to Denmark in 1023, it was here that he was given charge of the king's son, Harthacnut, and the earldom of Denmark, though this quickly passed to Ulf. Nothing further is known about Thorkell after 1023.

Sweyn Forkbeard

The first true Viking king of England, even if he only reigned for just over a month and a half, Sweyn was of course father to the man who would become one of the eleventh century's most famous and successful monarchs, Cnut the Great. But his relationship with his own father had not been that great, revolting against his father Harald Bluetooth and taking his throne, having driven him into exile, where he died soon after. Supplanted himself by the incredibly-named Eric the Victorious of Sweden, and himself exiled to Scotland, Sweyn plotted revenge against the English after the slaughter of Danes following the St. Brice's Day Massacre in 1002, and invaded no less than four times, including one headed by Thorkell the Tall. In 1013 Sweyn was victorious, Aethelred Aethel-fled (sorry) to Flanders and Sweyn became the first Viking - indeed, the first non-Saxon - to sit the English throne.

Unfortunately he hadn't long to relish his triumph, as he died only forty-one days later. His son Cnut would succeed him, but not before Aethelred returned and both he and his son Edmund Ironside would rule England.

Ivar the  Boneless

Anyone familiar with the series Vikings will know of Ivar, and while there is evidence for him actually being lame, or having no legs, or weak bones (osteoporosis maybe) there is also belief that the epithet could refer to his being impotent, or even that it was mistranslated and should be more along the lines of the Hated. As with all events so far back in history and with few accounts supporting the facts, many contradictory or at best taking a guess, we'll never be sure. But what is accepted is that Ivar seems to have fathered (in a historical sense) the great dynasty that would one day lead to Cnut the Great sitting for twenty years on the throne of England.

Despite his infirmity, if he had one, Ivar is generally agreed to have been an intelligent and cunning man. When he led the Great Heathen Army against England in 865, but was unable to beat King Aella of Northumbria, he promised to live peacefully if the king would give him enough land to live on. He then tricked Aella into giving him far more than the king had expected (the details of which are probably mostly folklore-related) and settled in York or London. But whether this was a ruse or peaceful farming just did not suit Ivar, he was on the march again the next year, and this time took Northumbria and executed Aella. Alarmed at the success of the Great Heathen Army, the kings of Mercia and West Saxon (later Wessex) joined forces to oppose them, and pushed them back to York, where they remained for the winter.

869 saw Ivar lead his army out of York and into East Anglia, where he and his brothers executed the English king Edmund, to be forever after known as the Martyr. The death of Ivar himself, including its cause, is uncertain, noted by various sources as being 870 or 873, and possibly due to some "unnamed disease", which might possibly hark back to the believed manner of his father Ragnar Lothbrok's death, understood by many to have been a form of bowel disease. An interesting legend says that when he was dying, Ivar commanded that he should be buried in a place "open to attack" and that he would guard England even after death. Not quite sure why, as he had fought the English, but however. According to the legend, this prophecy came true until William the Conqueror had his burial mound excavated, saw the body had not decayed and had it burned, whereafter his invasion of England was successful, and he became the first in a line of Norman kings.

Siward, Earl of Northumbria

Possibly the cousin of Earl Ulf of Denmark, Siward's ancestry is very vague though most historians do at least place him as coming from Scandinavia, most likely Denmark. He was one of the three earls who carried out Cnut's commands during his reign - basically, his enforcers - but survived to serve both Cnut's successors, and even Edward the Confessor for a short time. Legend has it that Odin himself chose him to rise in English politics, but the All-Father could not be contacted for comment at the time of writing. Legends or at least possibly apocryphal stories abound in the career of Siward, who was said to have procured the earldom of Huntington by the rather drastic but simple precedent of killing the current holder of the title after he caused him offence. In fact, he cut off the earl's head and laid it at Cnut's feet in his throne room, to show that the position was vacant, and Cnut agreed to give him the earldom. I'm sure he always knew Siward would get ahead. Sorry.

Around 1041, with the killing and "betrayal" of Eadulf, Earl of Bamburgh, and having already been granted Cumberland, Northumberland and Westmoreland by the king, Siward became the Earl of Northumbria, one of the first to hold the title. That same year he helped put down riots in Worcester, as already mentioned, and when Edward the Confessor came to the throne he was one of his greatest supporters, taking part in the excursion to Queen Emma at Winchester where she was divested of most of her treasures by an angry Edward. He fought against Godwin in 1051 along with Leofric and, um, Ralph the Timid (I kid you not!) whereafter the Earl of Wessex was exiled.

Three years later he made his name by taking on Macbeth of Scotland, the previous king, Duncan I, having attacked Northumbria in 1040. Failing to subdue the kingdom, he was deposed a year later by Macbeth, and Siward sent his son Ozzy sorry Osbjorn against him, resulting in the death of his sprog. Siward then rode himself in revenge to Scotland In 1046, where he defeated Macbeth, placing another - who may have been Malcolm III - on the throne. On his departure though, Macbeth seized his crown back.

Like it seems so many English people, Siward's death was to be a messy and ignominious one, certainly not one fitting a soldier, much less an earl. Like Ragnar and Edmund, he died from dysentery, though a saga seems to insist he commanded that he would not die "the death of a cow" and ensured his armour was put on him and that his sword and shield were in his hands. Makes no difference whether he did or not though, as he still crapped himself to death. Urgh.

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Britannia Does Not Rule the Waves: Cnut and the Sea

Cnut died in 1035, having reigned, as I mentioned at the beginning, longer almost than any English king up to this. But before we write his obituary, I know you've all been  waiting for me to address the legend, story or parable so linked with him, though usually under the name Canute.

And here it is.

The story goes that Cnut, in an attempt to explain the limits of his powers, and that he, as all men, was helpless against nature and God, showed his courtiers that even he could not command the sea not to advance. The story is recounted in Henry Huntington's twelfth century account:

When he was at the height of his ascendancy, he ordered his chair to be placed on the sea-shore as the tide was coming in. Then he said to the rising tide, "You are subject to me, as the land on which I am sitting is mine, and no one has resisted my overlordship with impunity. I command you, therefore, not to rise on to my land, nor to presume to wet the clothing or limbs of your master." But the sea came up as usual, and disrespectfully drenched the king's feet and shins. So jumping back, the king cried, "Let all the world know that the power of kings is empty and worthless, and there is no king worthy of the name save Him by whose will heaven, earth and the sea obey eternal laws."

Over time, this has been taken, erroneously (including, until I read this, by me) as a demonstration of the arrogance of the man, his faith in his own power and his belief that he was, as Monty Burns' high-priced lawyers once pointed out, not as other men. But it makes more sense that it was a sort of parable to show his subjects that even a king had to bow to the majesty of God's creation. After all, Cnut was, from what I've read, neither a vain nor a stupid man, and he certainly was not ignorant. Having no real need to prove his powers, it makes no sense that he should attempt this demonstration unless he was trying to teach a lesson, as it seems he was. There is no real agreement though as to whether this event took place, or whether it was either embellished, misreported or simply made up later.

Despite his promises, on his death Cnut's son Harthacnut was not accepted by the English as his successor, mostly due to his spending most of his time ruling over Denmark, and his mother, Queen Emma, had to flee to safety in Flanders (well, hidely-ho, neighborino!) under pressure from Cnut's other son, by his other wife, Harold Harefoot, who became the next king of England in 1037, having been regent for two years.

We'll certainly come back to him, and pick up the story of the last of the Wessex kings, but right now let's digress a little.
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Death and Taxes

If there was one thing a king loved to do, or may not have loved to do but needed to, it was levy taxes. Whether this was to prosecute a war, for the upkeep of the armed forces, to help build or rebuild churches and abbeys, or to pay off debts, the king or queen was always the nation's principle taxman. And people had to pay. Or riot. Usually they paid, as rioting was so tiresome, with the ever-present danger of imprisonment or death, and the pretty good chance that the protest would avail nothing anyway, except perhaps harsher taxes. What kind of taxes were there in Anglo-Saxon England? Well, there were certainly a few.

The first was not even called a tax, and comes from the time of King Aethelbert of Kent in the closing decades of the sixth century, wherein the king proclaimed that all fines from court cases were to be given to him. Then there was food render or food rent, in which a stipulated amount of foodstuffs was to be presented to the king by each hundred, or small village, but only if the king or his representatives visited. If not, then that hundred was exempt from food rent for the next year. What this meant, in effect, was that when and if the king turned up at any particular hundred, he could be assured of a good feed. It's likely that the food part of the food rent was consumed by the king and his men during their visit, so really not what you'd call quite a tax, more like a catering-on-demand for the king, available wherever he chose to visit.

Possibly one of the first proper forms of taxation though was the Danegeld, which has been spoken of before. Basically this was a tax collected so that the marauding Vikings could be placated and bribed to fuck off and leave England alone, so to an extent it was a justifiable tax. Nevertheless,  some might say it was the responsibility of the king and his nobles to make sure the enemy was bought off, and that the burden should not fall on the common man - perhaps some who said that might regret it as they looked up at the slavering Dane wielding a broadaxe over their shoulder and looming down on them, and think "I wish I had paid the bloody Danegeld!"

It's a curious thing to me that fighting and battles could be decided not just by strength of arms, but by who was willing to pay for peace. I suppose it makes sense: money has always talked, and the Vikings after all were first and foremost raiders, and raiders want plunder. If they can be handed that rather than have to take it by force, sure why not? But what's quite interesting is that this practice seems to have insinuated itself into the English consciousness and the English way of doing things, as more and more kingdoms at war with each other would buy each other off rather than fight to the death, or to a standstill. I guess the Viking ways really did take hold. I doubt Odin would have approved though.

It was probably Alfred the Great who really took taxation to a new level, when he had built the system of burhs, or fortified towns and forts, referred to earlier in this chapter. In order to maintain these and keep them in a state of readiness, he imposed new taxes on his people, so many in fact that they all had to be recorded in a large volume which was called the Burghal Hidage, maybe the world's, certainly England's first tariff of taxes. Edgar later ensured that all coinage was updated periodically, and the dies used were taxed too.

There was also another type of Danegeld called heregeld, which was paid directly to the king for the upkeep and payment of a standing army. Like most taxes, this was extremely unpopular, except I assume in times of war, when people were glad they had the soldiers there to protect them. As Anglo-Saxon England was replaced by Norman England in the middle of the eleventh century, the system of taxation would rise exponentially, as the now-conquered country would be subject to new and cruel taxes and levies forced upon it by its new masters.

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The Naked Truth - Lady Godiva: Fact, Fantasy or Fiction?

Just about everyone knows the story of the famous, semi-legendary figure of Lady Godiva, who is said to have ridden naked through the streets of Coventry, and that's about all we know about it. It certainly is all I knew about it, but as she lived in the time of Cnut - and as her ride is tied in with the idea of taxation - I thought it might be an idea to do a little research and see how true, if at all, this story is. After all, just because she was a real person doesn't mean she actually did what she's said to have done, does it? So let's have a shufty at the legend, and the reality, and see what lies behind (sorry) the legend of what could be termed almost the first streaker in history.

Lady Godiva was the wife of Leofric, Earl of Mercia, with Eadric Stronea one of the two most powerful men under Cnut at the time. Her name may have been Godgifu or Godgyfu, though no Christian or forename seems to have survived. It seems she was a religious and indeed a generous woman, persuading her husband to donate to the Church with projects such as the endowment of a Benedictine abbey in Coventry and the granting of land in Worcester and Lincolnshire. She is one of the only female landowners to have retained her property after the Norman invasion, but when her death is placed between 1066 and 1086, that might not be such a big deal as it seems.

There are no dates for the legendary story, and it was first related three hundred years after her death, in the thirteenth century. Basically nobody believes it, but who knows? Anyway, the idea behind her ride is that she, seeing the suffering the people of Coventry were undergoing as her husband Leofric crushed them with tax after tax, and unable to appeal to him to be merciful and ease the burden, finally received from him a (we assume) laughing ultimatum. He would lift the taxes if she would agree to ride naked through the streets. To - presumably - his great surprise and possibly excitement, she agreed, on certain conditions, quite reasonable ones.

The streets must be deserted. Nobody could come out of their house or look from their windows or doors. There was, essentially, to be no witness, no peeping. This condition was strictly observed, but (according to the legend, and really to nobody's surprise reading this) one man could not contain his curiosity or excitement and did look. He was - so the story goes - a tailor and for his disobedience and debauchery he was blinded, either by God or more likely by Leofric or the townsfolk, the latter probably just jealous they hadn't had the balls to defy the lady. Interestingly, this legend is even less likely to be true, even if Godiva's one is, as "Peeping Tom", as he became known, an epithet now attached to any voyeur, is only mentioned from about the seventeenth century, four hundred years after the original story is first reported, so therefore must be a clever little embellishment. It might be there to try to give the story an air of authenticity. Who, after all, would believe that no man would look, risk the consequences? That there is one who is said to have done so makes this seem more plausible as a story, I think.

The tellings vary on how naked Lady Godiva was. The popular belief is that she was entirely naked, clothed only in her long flowing hair. This seems to me unlikely for several reasons. We have no record of the weather (always assuming this actually took place) and it may have been windy. If so, then her hair is  unlikely to have stayed in place for the ride, which would have caused her to expose at least part of her more intimate charms. Also, the motion of the horse, even at a slow walk, must surely have disturbed any attempt to keep her hair in position. Finally, there's the comfort angle. Leaving out the hair, riding a horse has never been a comfortable proposition, and riding in the buff would surely have been very painful. Is it likely Lady Godiva was ready to risk bruises and maybe welts on her thighs and buttocks just to prove a point? Was she really ready to suffer pain, in addition to humiliation, for her husband, on behalf of her people?

It seems to be more accepted that she wore some sort of close-fitting slip or shift, this mode of dress being linked with penitents at that time, and if she was basically representing a sort of submission to her husband in order to get what she wanted for the folk of Coventry, then that style might be more appropriate. In any event, trying to mount a horse naked (we must assume she got up on the horse herself, as everyone else had been commanded to remain indoors) would be difficult, painful and potentially dangerous. There are certain people who believe "Peeping Tom" may have been her groom, though I reckon that unlikely, but even if so, was she going to let a lowly groom touch her naked body as he helped her up?

There are many supposed symbolisations historians ascribe to Lady Godiva's ride, but though I don't personally believe it happened (wouldn't it have turned up in stories earlier than the thirteenth century if it had, especially given that she was a noblewoman?) I see it more as the affirmation of the gentleness of women as opposed to the cruelty and brutality of men, the idea that the harsh male nature can be softened by the tempering touch of a kind and caring woman. Of course, it can also be seen as the ultimate power man has over woman (or vice versa), as Godiva gave Leofric what he wanted, and in that sense possibly linked right back to Herod and Salome in the Bible.

Though it is, as I say, likely just bollocks.

Not that, of course, she had those.

What's in a Name, Ae?

Just want to digress momentarily here to look at what I believe is an interesting development in England, and in particular in its monarchs. Up until the arrival of Cnut (discounting our forty-day friend Sweyn) the names of all of England's kings have begun with A or E,  sometimes both, as in Aethelstan and Aethelred. Cnut's reign seems to dispense with that, forsaking the Saxon convention of naming boys and replacing it with that of his people. So his sons are called Svein, Harold and Harthacnut. I can't say for certain, but I wonder if this is around the first time the name Harold is heard, or used, in England? Harold of course begets, in a way, Henry (Henrys were often called Harry) a name which would go on to dominate English history in the centuries to come. Harold, or Harald, is very much a Scandinavian name, and Cnut was surely responsible for making it a popular one in England later. I don't see or hear of any mention of any Harold or Henry or Harry prior to this, and soon afterwards the usage of A and E together in names fades out, mostly due, admittedly, to the events of 1066 and the forced decline of the Anglo-Saxon ways, including the supplanting of their language, so do we have Cnut and his successors to thank for the sudden appearance of what would in time become such a regal name?

Anyway, on with the show.
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Harold I (Harold Harefoot) (died 1040)

Though the throne of England would see many bastards sit upon it, we might be able to point to Harold I, known as Harefoot for his supposed skill in running (hare meant fleet or fast) as the first, if you will, true bastard. Of course it's never easy to prove these things, but the accepted story of his birth seems to be this. Queen Aefligu, unable to have a son by Cnut, came up with the rather odd strategy of adopting the children of strangers and passing them off as her own, presenting them to Cnut as his sons. The belief is that Harold was the son of a cobbler, Aelfgifu's other "son", his "brother" Svein, the son of a priest. Some historians dispute these claims, but then, what historian worth his or her salt doesn't dispute historical claims when a chance presents itself? If she was barren though, it does make a certain amount of sense, and given that men back then had no real interest in their sons after the actual birth (and none at all in their usually unwanted daughters) until they were ready to be trained as their heir, it's not such a stretch. I mean, it's not as if he would have demanded to have been at the birth, after all, and money talks, loudly, at court.

Whatever the case, the late Cnut's promise that he would put no other of his children above Emma's son Harthacnut proved unenforceable, as he had to deal with the Danes, and was so long putting down a revolt in his father's other kingdom that the English shrugged decided the kid would do. Now, though there's no date for Harold's birth, it seems to be assumed that he was, at this time, too young to be king, and so was made regent. He didn't have an easy time of it though, as the Archbishop of Canterbury, perhaps mindful of the rumours about Harold's birth and therefore his illegitimacy, refused to perform the coronation, an absolute necessity to ensure the validity of the king's claim. Disgruntled, stymied, Harold renounced Christianity in protest and spent a lot of time hunting, no doubt envisioning the face of the pompous Archbishop in every stag or boar he took down.

But as ever, political pressure and the support of powerful nobles - along with a generous helping, no doubt, of bribery - secured Harold's position, and he was elected (sorry again but it keeps coming up) king in the North, that is, king of all territories north of the Thames, while Queen Emma ostensibly held all the land south of the river in the name of her son. Eventually though pressure told, and the Earl of Godwin, one of the main supporters of Emma, switched sides, leaving her exposed, and unable to resist Harold's claim, and he was proclaimed King of England.

As we've seen though, with her son still too young to be actual king, and more or less serving as regent, Aelfgifu really held the power until he came of age. Emma, also a queen, had held the lands south of the Thames, yes, and in that sense ruled by proxy for Harthacnut, but she was squeezed out and had to leg it to Flanders as her support collapsed (hate that: should have worn a wonderbra!) so never got to rule, even in her son's name, all of England, unlike her hated rival, her late husband's other wife.

Before that though, while her son could not leave Denmark to come claim his rightful throne, two of her other sons did. Aelfred Aetheling and the future king, Edward the Confessor, both sons of the late Aethelred. Their armies proved unequal to the task, however, when they landed in 1036, and Aelfred was captured by the Earl of Godwin, blinded and later died. The Earl would have cause to regret this later, when his brother ascended the throne. Edward, later the Confessor, did win some battles but rightly saw he had not enough support to challenge the son of Cnut for the kingship, and hopped back over to Normandy to bide his time and gather his forces. A year later, Harold was proclaimed unopposed king, and Emma got the hell out of Dodge.

Perhaps a little precipitously, as Harold only lasted four years on the throne, and indeed four years further on the Earth, as he died of some unspecified disease in 1040. Nevertheless, those who were exiled at that time seldom cooled their heels and relaxed into retirement, taking up knitting or bingo, and Emma plotted from Brugges to have her son returned to England and crowned king. She didn't have long to wait.
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Harthacnut (c. 1018 - 1042)

Whether at the urging of his mother (almost certainly part of the reason anyway) or horror at the death of his half-brother at the hands of Godwin, or just because he saw it as his right as Cnut's only legitimate son, Harthacnut landed in Kent exactly three months to the day after Harold breathed his last, and though he had a large fleet he encountered no opposition, the likelihood being that England had been gearing up for his coronation anyway since Harold was sick and soon to die. Crowned almost as soon as he arrived, Harthacnut set about avenging Aelfred Aethling's treacherous death, ordering the body of Harold to be dug up, beheaded and thrown into a marsh, though it was later transferred to the waters of the Thames, where it was later retrieved by Danish fishermen and eventually found its way to Winchester.

The reign of the son of Cnut was nothing like that of his famous father. Though short, it saw taxes rise to unprecedented levels as Harthacnut ruled like an autocrat, as he had in Denmark, and set about expanding the English fleet. Bad harvests added to the poor people's woes, and when the behaviour of heartless tax-gatherers (was there ever any other kind?) pushed them to the limit they rioted, leading the English into conflict with their own king for the first time in centuries, as Harthacnut reacted to a riot in Worcester by having his men burn the town to the ground. Add to this the charge against him as an "oath-breaker" and the people would not be sorry to see the back of him. Oaths were of course seen as sacred in England (and more so in Scandinavia) so when Harthacnut went back on his word, having promised safe passage to one of the earls of Northumbria, who had offended him but been forgiven and had the other earl murder him and take his lands, it really was the last straw.

They needn't have worried though, as Harthacnut was not long for this world. Having recalled his brother Edward the Confessor back from exile, he fell into bad health and during a wedding feast in 1042 died while proposing a toast to the bride. Now, this might be seen as bad luck and not the greatest way to start your married life, to have the man - indeed, the king himself - toast you and then end up brown bread a moment later, and there are various theories floating around, as you might expect, that he was poisoned, most likely by Edward. But while he may have been known as the Confessor, Aelfred Aethling's brother was keeping this one, if he was involved, between him and God, and never said, as was once written, a mumbling word, but quite possibly (though not likely) headed off to try out the throne for size. He'd want to ensure it was comfortable, as his reign, the last major Saxon one, would be a long one.
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I prefer to think though that Harthacnut just died a man's death, drinking himself literally to death at a wedding. I mean, let's be honest: as deaths go, this isn't a bad way to check out is it? And at least he didn't have to worry about the hangover the next morning! It's certainly said that he drank a lot, so it could just literally have been, as has been suggested, a stroke brought on by excessive alcohol consumption. As a Viking, I'm sure daddy would have been proud. I'm also sure the cheers could be heard all over England when the news broke. His reign had lasted just short of two years, his death coming nine days before what would have been the second anniversary of his ascension.
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Edward the Confessor (c. 1003 - 1066)

Although they had no idea of course at the time, the weight of history was pressing down on the line of Saxon kings, and on England, like a remorseless juggernaut, and soon events would transpire which would shake English history to its very foundations, re-order the way the people lived, worked, built and fought, and perhaps kick off the lasting enmity between England and France. After 1066, nothing in England would ever be the same. It would be as if a great flood had washed away the last five hundred years of its heritage and replaced it with something entirely new, and alien. While England had been invaded before - twice - no invasion would ever have the epoch-changing effect the arrival of the Normans would have on the country.

But before then, there were two more kings to rule the land, one of whose reign was short, one who ruled for over two decades. We've already seen how, not long for this world, Harthacnut had invited Edward the Confessor back from exile to England, and on his death soon after, and with the support of the Earl of Godwin, Edward was crowned King of England. Possibly, even probably due to her favouring Harthacnut over him when the son of Cnut was king, Edward was not well disposed towards Emma, and she did not figure in his reign, dying ten years later much poorer and not at all regarded or welcome at court. Edward may also have reviled her for climbing into bed with her husband's rival soon after Aethelred had died, feeling betrayed and since she did nothing to prevent or fight against his exile under Harthacnut.

Despite the support of Godwin though, Edward found himself in a rather precarious position as king. The ancient loyalty to, and power of the House of Wessex was so weakened it was almost non-existent, Danish rule having supplanted Saxon now for over a quarter of a century, and none of the earls, save one, were loyal to his House. Indeed, his own ascension to the throne was in doubt, as Magnus Olafsson, King of Denmark and Norway, claimed he had been promised both the throne of Denmark and that of England by Cnut III, otherwise known as Harthacnut, when he had ruled Denmark. He therefore asserted his claim to the English throne, and told Edward to expect an invasion. Edward, however, pointed out that the English people would never accept Magnus, reminding the Dane that he, Edward, was the son of Aethelred, rightful king of England and last of the royal Wessex line before the arrival of Cnut, that his mother was Queen Emma (whose name and reputation he didn't seem above using to validate his own claim, even if he had no time for her personally and treated her shabbily) and that no matter what army he raised, no matter what invasion he mounted, even were he to attempt to take the throne, he would be resisted. In short, he was told by Edward, "you can never be called king in England, and you will never be granted any allegiance there before you put an end to my life." Magnus is reported to have said "Fair doos, you got me there son" and left it at that.

Godwin, a central figure in eleventh century politics, who you may remember changed sides more often than Bowie changed his look, set about causing more trouble when he rode against the new king in a dispute over the ordered punishment of some of the men of Edward's brother-in-law, and losing the fight he had to flee into exile. In some ways then, Edward the Confessor had worked his vengeance on Godwin for the murder of his brother Aelfred (even though technically Aelfred had only been blinded; he had died of his wounds - having red-hot pokers pushed into your eyes will do that), despite his having needed the support of the earl originally in order to confirm his claim to the Crown. Ah, politics, eh?

And of course, that was the end of Godwin, right?

Was it fuck! :laughing:

Back he came a few years later at the head of an army, and fearing civil war, Edward had to sue for peace, the two shaking hands that were surely as ice-cold as those of a White Walker, Godwin finally did the decent thing and died in 1053, and nobody as relieved I'm sure as the king to see the back of him at last. However Godwin had not been shy about putting it about, and so he had sons. And those sons set about consolidating their power, gaining earldoms here and there, until, with the death of various nobles around the country, England was in all but name under the control of the Godwin family. At this point, around 1057, having successfully kicked the arses of both the Scottish and the Welsh, including defeating the king of Scotland made legendary five hundred years later by Shakespeare, Macbeth,  and seeing the growing power of the Godwins, it seems Edward gave up the kinging lark and decided to concentrate on hunting instead, leaving the sons of Godwin to run the country.

Crumbling support and a lack of respect for him as king led to Edward suffering from a series of strokes in 1065 which led to his death, bringing to a close the longest single rule of an English king since Cnut, and the last before the Norman invasion. The final king to rule would do so for a mere two years before being defeated at some battle you've probably never heard of.
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One of the major building projects begun during Edward's reign, and very much still standing and active today, is the Norman cathedral known as the Collegiate Church of St. Peter, or more commonly Westminster Abbey. A story goes that a local fisherman saw a vision of St. Peter on the Thames at the site where it now stands, and its building commenced in 1042, a Benedictine abbey having stood previously on the site but been destroyed. Most people consider maybe booking themselves a plot or at least checking out places they might wish to be buried, but when you're a king no "six paces of the vilest earth will suffice", and so Edward wanted to rebuild what was then called St. Peter's Abbey as a place to house his mortal remains.

It is the first building in England constructed in the Romanesque style, and therefore the first Norman building raised on English soil. Indeed, after Edward had been buried there the first recorded coronation of a King of England would be the first Norman king, William the Conqueror, less than a year after Edward's passing. It was in fact only completed a mere few days before Edward's death, and is now one of the most important and significant buildings in Great Britain.

As for who was going to take over from Edward, he confessed, he wasn't sure, and his dithering and indecision may have given the Normans the chance they were waiting for. Having professed celibacy, Edward had no children of his own, certainly no son and therefore no heir, so there were several claimants. First up was Edward Aetheling, known, perhaps dismissively, as Edward the Exile, the son of Edmund Ironside who had been banished from England by Cnut, along with his brother, Edmund, and sent to the Swedish court. The orders from Cnut were to do the two children in, but, Snow White-like, the Swedish king had been a mate of Aethelred and so declined to kill them, sending them instead to Hungary (presumably without enlightening the then King of England). When Edward the Confessor found out in 1056 that Edward Atheling was still alive he invited him back to England, intending him to be his heir.  This would allow the ancient House of Wessex to reclaim its lineage and push back against the Danish established House of Denmark.

It was not to be.

Edward the Exile arrived in England and promptly became Edward the Expired. No details are given of his death, but he was only on English shores a matter of days when he died. Given that his presence threatened the claim of the Godwins, you would imagine they had something to do with it, but I can't find out anywhere whether he died of natural causes, an accident, or was murdered. Either way, the end result was that the last of the bloodline of the Saxon kings died with him, or rather with Edward a few years later.

Then there was William I, Duke of Normandy and later to be known as William the Conqueror, whom it is believed had visited Edward when Godwin was in exile and secured from him a promise to be his successor. However in the end the Confessor went with this guy.

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Harold Godwinson (1022 - 1066)

After briefly coming out of a coma from which he would never again rise, admittedly. But still, for whatever reason, it was the son of the Earl of Godwin whom Edward marked as his successor. In the event, Harold's would be perhaps the shortest reign of an Anglo-Saxon king - and the last - as he would sit on the throne for a mere 282 days, only sixty days longer than Edmund Ironside, but still leaving poor old Sweyn Forkbeard with the wooden spoon for his 41 days. Still, Sweyn was not of the House of Wessex, so this certainly makes Harold's reign the second-shortest of the Saxon line. Harold's being picked out by Edward as the go-to guy is depicted in the famous Bayeux Tapesty, though really the king is only pointing to him, and could, for all we know, be saying "anyone but this guy!" They wouldn't have had time to clarify what he meant, as he never again regained consciousness, dying on January 5 1066, a year which, had he known (or cared) was to be a momentous one in English history.

There is plenty of argument about the validity of this, but on the Norman side it was said that Harold, having been shipwrecked on his way to France, was taken prisoner by a French count (no I said count!) but released by William, then Duke of Normandy, and that afterwards he had promised the English throne to William, presumably at the behest of Edward. Back then though, kings didn't decide who would be the next in line (despite the story about Edward's deathbed selection of Harold) and so neither Harold nor even Edward is believed not to have had the authority to make such a promise, if indeed he ever did.

Be that as it may, William was pissed. He had waited for Edward to push off this mortal coil, and now that he was gone, he would be damned if he'd let some little snotnose take the throne that was not rightfully his. So he did what all claimants do when their claim is spurned, and prepared to invade England.

The next great chapter of English history was about to be written, and as ever, it would be written in blood.

Trolls, I haven't read the whole thing obviously so correct me if you've already answered this, but why have you referred to England as an 'Isle' in the title and why have you used the Union Jack as the flag?

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Diamond Life: The Death of the Queen 
and the End of an Era

Britain was shocked and plunged into mourning this week* with the news of the death of the only monarch most of them have ever known, as Queen Elizabeth II ended a seventy-year reign on the British throne. She was 96. To be fair, it was big news around the world too, but more a dark footnote before the news networks got on with the more important news. After all, the position of the monarch of Britain has been, for about a hundred years now, largely symbolic and almost completely devoid of any power, a figurehead who rubberstamps the decisions made by his or her government, with little real choice in the matter and hardly any involvement in the running of their country. As a constitutional monarch, Elizabeth was beholden to, even controlled by her Parliament, and the real power in Britain lies, as it has done for a long time now, with the Prime Minister.

So it wasn't like when a president or a serving prime minister dies; sure, it's bad news and everyone is sorry, but life will go on and there is no threat whatever to the running of the country. There will be no battle for the crown, no pretenders or claimants fighting it out, no power vacuum and no policy changes. To be crude about it, all that has happened in real, political terms is that there is a new arse on the throne - a male one, for the first time in seven decades - and Britain has its third king named Charles*. There'll be a state funeral of course, with all the pomp and ceremony you would expect, but when it's over Britain's new Prime Minister, Liz Truss*, will head to Buckingham Palace (if she hasn't done so already) to meet the new king and talk about this and that, then fuck off back to Downing Street to do whatever she wants to do. Apart from getting certain things signed into law, the new king will not figure in the decision-making process as his country faces life under a new monarch and a new Prime Minister, and tries to come to terms with things like the aftermath of Brexit, Covid and the continuing worry of the war in Ukraine. I don't say none of that will bother Charles - I'm sure it will weigh heavily on his mind - but there won't be a thing he can do about it.

Speaking as an Irishman, I can't say I'm sorry Elizabeth is dead. No Irish person really is. She was the symbol of a country that kept us down and occupied us for seven hundred years, who treated us at times like slaves or even animals, and who tried to force their own religion upon us. She was the queen who presided over the illegal internment without trial of IRA prisoners, who watched impassively as Catholics were driven out of Ulster in the 1970s, who remained silent as the Birmingham Six and the Guildford Four were jailed, erroneously and without a shred of actual real evidence, for bombings they had nothing to do with, and who failed to utter a word of apology to these men on their long-delayed release.

However, before I go on, I would like to make one thing very clear. I am not a closet republican, nor do I, or did I ever, support the IRA. Inasmuch as we experienced The Troubles down here in the south - mostly through news reports, the very odd time it came home to use with bombs in Dublin - and as much as, I suppose, in my youth I kind of did want Ireland united, it was and never has been a big issue for me. I recognise fully that the men and women who call themselves the Provisional IRA and who purport to fight for Ireland's independence are, largely, not interested in such an outcome, and are fighting only for that most ancient of motives, money.

There was never a time when reports of IRA bombings on what was colliquially called by us "the mainland" (Britain) were greeted, by me at any rate, with a raised fist, joy and a "Take that you Brits!" No. Even soldiers being blown up is an occasion for both sadness and revulsion, and the more so when it's innocent civilians, be they shoppers, motorists or people in a pub. Nothing excuses that. Nothing. The IRA never conducted their campaign against the British (or indeed, the Loyalists in Northern Ireland), on my behalf, or with my approval, tacit or otherwise. That's a red line I do not cross. Murder is murder, to rather unfortunately quote and with great dislike agree with former Prime Minister, the late Margaret Thatcher, even if she said those words with a different agenda in mind.

On the other hand, the outright murder - summary execution - of IRA members in a carpark in Gibraltar in 1988, while it engendered in me no sympathy for these people who would have surely gone on to commit acts of terrible violence, is not acceptable either. Britain prides itself on its rule of law, British justice, yet was able to see fit to deny three people due process and pronounced them guilty without trial. The fact that their suspicions seem to have been unfounded is further damning evidence of the then-standing operational procedure of the British Army - and by extension Thatcher's government - of a "shoot to kill" policy. Two wrongs don't make a right.

So while I can deplore, and I think rightly, the internment without trial of political prisoners in Northern Ireland, this does not, to my mind, clash with my abhorrence of the deeds perpetrated by these men and women, and my unshakeable belief that they were not freedom fighters, but paid killers. My views, though, were obviously not held by every Irish person.

So you can see why no Irish tears will be shed at the news of her death. It might not in fact be going too far to say that more than one glass might be raised to her in pubs across Ireland, and not to her health. Old enmities die hard, and while our own government has tried to brush the last seven centuries under the carpet and attempt to move forward - which is fair enough, so far as it goes: simmering resentment and hatred in the end get you nowhere, and hold back progress - to paraphrase something said in Game of Thrones, Ireland remembers.

But it's not just us that have good reason to hate her. Her own subjects have hardly been treated well under her reign either. She allowed her country to involve itself in two wars, one in the Falkland Islands and one in Iraq, and made no comment. She was the one who should have spoken up, perhaps, when the full horror of the evil life of Jimmy Savile and the extent of the co-operation and cover-up involved by the institutions of the British media and government came to light, and yet she said nothing. She watched Britain disintegrate under the hardline policies of Margaret Thatcher, and preferred to remain aloof behind the walls of Buckingham Palace. She all but snubbed the death of Princess Diana, turning many of her supporters against her, and the only time she really emerged from behind the walls of the palace was to visit someone or welcome someone to her fortress home, one of her last real involvements with the public being when she whined about Windsor Castle nearly burning down. An edifice, I should point out, that is paid for with British taxpayers' money, and which she would not have to put her hand into the royal pocket to rebuild.

But all of that aside - and it's only so that nobody can call me a hypocrite by writing this - there's no denying that the loss of their queen is a big deal for the British. As I say, most people will only remember her on the throne. They've only ever had one queen, and yes, she's ruled the longest of any monarch in history, including her predecessor who bears her name, and Victoria. But then, what has she had to do to keep her crown? Nothing. What attempts have been made to depose her? None. How many wars has she fought, prosecuted, or prevented? Same answer: none. So what did her "Platinum Jubilee" represent? Seventy years of not dying, basically. Not a great achievement, in my book.

However, as I say, let's push all that to one side. British people are hurting right now*, mourning the loss of their queen, and we should recognise that. And it would be churlish and indeed disingenuous of me, in a journal which catalogues the history of England, not to mark the event. So we need to depart from the timeline, leaving the imminent arrival of William the Conqueror on English shores, and move almost a thousand years into the future, our present, to look back at the life of what is likely to be, for the foreseeable future anyway, Britain's last queen.

April 21 1926 was the date when the baby Elizabeth Alexandra Mary was born into the world, the first daughter of King George VI, though at this time he was only Duke of York, and would not succeed to the throne for another ten years. Somewhat like her sixteenth-century Tudor predecessor, Elizabeth was not expected to reign. There were two in line before her, her own father George and his brother, her uncle, Edward. The latter ascended to the throne first, but a constitutional crisis involving him and a divorced woman became a famous scandal, and led to the first-ever - and to date, only -abdication of a British monarch. George then became king.
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George VI would then be king at a time when England, and Britain, faced its darkest days, as Winston Churchill and the Royal Air Force held out against the massed hordes of the German Luftwaffe, prelude to a Nazi invasion of the island, the final bastion of freedom remaining in Europe at the time. It's fair to say George played no real part in that eventual victory, though it would also be fair to say he did give the British people heart through his famous speeches on the radio.

In a similar fashion perhaps to her illustrious ancestor, Victoria, Elizabeth fell in love with a foreigner, Prince Philip of Greece and Denmark, and the relationship was frowned upon. Philip had no financial standing of his own, and links through his sisters to the Nazi party. Despite all this, the two were in love and the marriage took place in 1947, just after the war had ended. Almost exactly a year later the couple had their first child, Charles, who was styled Prince Charles and has just become King Charles III. Two years after his birth he had a sister, Princess Margaret.

From 1951 onwards King George's health was in decline and his daughter often stood in for him in official capacities. When he died in 1953, Elizabeth came to the throne as Queen Elizabeth II on June 2. She began her reign, as her father had ended his, and most of the monarchs before him too, with very little power, but a lot to do. She was the symbol of Britain, and as the new queen it was important she be seen, so she spent most of her time on tour, as it were, becoming the first reigning monarch to visit her territories of Australia and New Zealand, where people went wild, turning out in droves to see her. She ended up being the British monarch who visited the most countries and states in history, but then, with no power to hold onto back home and no threat to her crown, what else was there to do? At the beginning of her reign Elizabeth did retain the power to choose a successor as Prime Minister, and when Anthony Eden resigned over the Suez crisis in 1957 she chose Harold McMillan, though it should be understood this was not a unilateral decision, but made in concert with the Cabinet and the Conservative Party Council. These days, they just decide among themselves and then go to the palace to get her royal seal, but the deal has been done long before they walk through the royal gates.
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In 1960 Elizabeth gave birth to her third child, Andrew, and four years later Edward joined the family. It's true to say that Elizabeth presided over the disintegration of the British Empire, though she had no control over events. People who had sworn - or been made or compelled to swear - allegiance to the British crown now wanted their independence, and African and Caribbean countries began to sue for self-governance, so that by about 1978 there was little left of what was now termed "the British Commonwealth". Despite celebrating her silver jubilee in 1977, things were not rosey in the garden. A communist spy was discovered to have been operating almost literally under the royal nose, as Surveyor of the Queen's Pictures Anthony Blunt was tried for treason but for some reason which I'm not going to research now was granted immunity from prosecution. Elizabeth did however strip him of his knighthood. That same year she had to deal with the death of Lord Henry Mountbatten, killed when a bomb planted by the IRA on his boat exploded.

In 1981 she was herself the victim of an attempted assassination, though apparently the bullets used were blanks (why would you bother? Honestly?) and again when she visited New Zealand later that year. This time the bullets were real, but the marksmanship was not. The would-be assassin missed, and after being sentenced to three years in an asylum escaped and tried to do for the future King of Britain too when he planned to shoot down Prince Charles. Evidence of the lack of influence the Queen had over other heads of state, and indeed quite likely the lack of power Britain had to resist the USA, came in 1983 when then-President Ronald Reagan ordered the invasion of Grenada, one of her commonwealth possessions, without informing her. Okay, the Canadian Prime Minister of the time claimed she was a "behind the scenes force" in ending the apartheid regime in South Africa. I don't know how much of that is true and how much is spin, but if more true than not, then I guess you have to give that one to her. How exactly she achieved such an object is a matter of speculation though.

During the 1980s the amount of esteem the public, or at least the tabloid newspapers, held the royal family in became apparent, as every other day brought headlines of scandal within the palace - real or made up, it really didn't seem to matter; Britons will believe what they read in The Sun or The Star or The Mirror as easily and with as little investigation or challenge as Americans will believe Fox News -and the whole thing became a sort of living soap opera. Not that every story was made up, or that the royal family did not give fuel for the fire, with Princess Anne divorcing her husband, Prince Andrew separating from his wife, and finally Prince Charles kicking Diana to the kerb. The institution that had once been viewed with awe, respect and fear and later at least reverence and regard became one of ridicule and gossip. Like the part of Windsor Castle destroyed by fire in 1992, leading her to describe the year as her anus horribilis- wait, what? Oh sorry: that should read annus horribilis - horrible year, the reputation of and regard for the monarchy was beginning to burn down. People began to question why they were being taxed to pay the enormous salaries of these people who basically did nothing and lived off their backs? An underswell of republican sentiment began to rumble through this green and pleasant land, and while they weren't exactly rolling guillotines out into Leicester Square, people were far from happy with their rulers.
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In her travels, Elizabeth scored many firsts. She was the first reigning British monarch to visit China, the first to go to Russia, but when she made a trip to India old enmities boiled over into protest, particularly at the site of the Amritsar Massacre, where hundreds or possibly thousands of peaceful protesters were slaughtered by the British Indian Army in 1919. In 1997, the same year she visited India, Princess Diana, now divorced from her son, was killed in a high-speed car chase. Despite having a state funeral, the silence of the Queen after the funeral and the refusal to fly a flag at half-mast over the palace gained her public condemnation. It was perceived that she was treating her late, divorced daughter-in-law coldly and that she no longer really wished her to be associated with the royal family. Whatever the truth - or not - of that, the Queen's reputation suffered because of it, and she was forced to make a public address to state her position and appear more warm and maternal towards the late princess. In some ways, people never forgave her for this. They may have loved their Queen, but they loved Diana much more, and to see her, or perceive her being snubbed in such a way cut to the heart of British outrage. To a large degree, the Queen's reputation never recovered from this.

In 2011, to much protest, none of which was listened to by our government, Elizabeth made the first state visit of a British monarch to Ireland. Well, the first of one who didn't want to crush, convert, invade or kill us, or all four. Prince Philip died in 2021, and unlike her government (and ours) Elizabeth strictly observed Covid-19 protocols, attending his funeral alone. You have to give her credit for that. Elizabeth celebrated her Platinum Jubilee in February of this year, marking seventy years on the throne, the longest of any reigning British monarch. Britain had only just got over all the pomp, excitement and pageantry when they were suddenly dealing with her passing, as the Queen became ill on September 8* and died hours later. No cause was given, though Her Majesty had been in poor health for some time, cancelling engagements and curtailing her traditional state visits. She had also contracted Covid, though this was not said to have played any part in her illness. Then again, she was ninety-six, so her age would not have helped towards any sort of full recovery.

On the passing of Queen Elizabeth II, her son and heir, Charles, formerly Prince Charles, has become King Charles III and is officially crowned since today* as the new King of Britain. For the first time in seventy years, Britain has a male monarch on the throne. Charles accedes to the throne at age of seventy-three, (surely the oldest monarch to do so?) but he has his own heir in his son William, Duke of Cambridge and now Duke of Cornwall (I don't know if one title supersedes the other, or if he holds both). To the best of my knowledge (and it's not great on the recent British monarchy) I think Charles' consort, Camilla Parker Bowles, now officially Queen Camilla, is the first "commoner" to sit beside a King of Britain, as in, she has no title, or had none before marrying Charles. What the British people think of that, I can only guess at.

The official state funeral for Queen Elizabeth II takes place on Monday, September 19* at Westminster Abbey. Until then, ten days of mourning have been proclaimed throughout Britain, but what that means officially I have no clue, as businesses, public services, sports fixtures and public venues have been told they are under no obligation to close, nor are banks, or anywhere, really, other than royal residences.

It just remains, then, for me to offer my condolences to the people of Great Britain and the Commonwealth, and to place the full stop at what is certainly, for most people, the end of an era.

* At time of writing.

(https://i.postimg.cc/PrNkkcGR/norman-castle.png)
Part Two: The Fallen Crown: New World Rising

"No-one would have believed, in the sixth decade of the eleventh century, that English affairs were being watched from the shores of France. Few men even considered the possibility of an attack by the Vikings. And yet, across the English Channel, military minds immeasurably superior to theirs watched that island with envious eyes, and slowly, and surely, they drew their plans against them."

(With apologies to H.G. Wells and Jeff Wayne)

Chapter IV: Under the French Heel, Part One
Ruled Britannia: The Third, and Final,  Conquest of Britain

If there is one date, or at least one year every school kid in Britain knows, it's 1066. That was, of course, the year of the famous Battle of Hastings, in which not only English but European life changed forever. The Crown of Wessex, as already detailed the last time we stepped into the history of England, had fallen, and though for a short time others such as the House of Godwin and the House of Denmark carried on, there was about to be a seismic event which would change English politics, policy and the lives of every Englishman and Englishwoman, and in the process both give rise to an enduring hero of legend, and more practically, change the shape of Europe, and even further afield, leaving its mark on the western world for all time. In some ways, you could say that though the Vikings failed to conquer Britain in the eighth and ninth centuries, they did eventually manage it, and more completely than they could ever have hoped to do. By then, though, they had settled in France and become known by another name: the Normans.

The future Kings of England, who would rule unopposed in pretty much an unbroken line for another six hundred years, traced their claim to the throne back to a - mostly disputed, never proven - promise that William, Duke of Normandy,  would be made king on the death of Edward, an assurance supposedly given by Harold Godwinson, who then tried the throne out for size and thought "You know, this ain't bad. Fuck that William. May I may be shot through the eye with an arrow before any damned frog sits on this throne!" Right. Anyway, you've read about that in the previous chapter, haven't you? But before we get to that broken (if ever made) promise and what it meant for England, and wider Europe, just who the damned hell were these Normans? Oh, glad you asked.

Pirates to Princes: The Rise of the Normans

As everyone knows, and as I've already told you, the Normans were the descendants of those jolly old folk, everyone's favourite raiders, five stars in Rape and Pillage Monthly and beloved of shipwrights, the Vikings. Having somewhat failed to hammer down the English like their poster boy, Thor, god of thunder, the Vikings had, in the early tenth century, decided to seek easier pickings to the east. Not very far east, just a hop over the English Channel where they said "Bonjour! Vous est morte!" or something and began harrying the French. They could not have really been expecting an easy conquest, and Vikings generally went where they thought they could pick a decent fight. True, if they could just slaughter and carry off treasure, then that was sehr gut, or something, and Lindisfarne and other monasteries along the coast of England provided them with little to no resistance. But Vikings were at heart warriors, and there's nothing really brave or particularly honourable about slaying men who wore dresses and shrieked like girls from the barest flesh wound, a simple cut deep into the shoulder and through bone, the kind of thing no self-respecting Viking would allow him to stop raping, pillaging and plundering to take care of. Doctor? What's that?

In France, they got the fight they had been craving. Many of them, in fact. Although they folded like umbrellas a millennium later when Hitler's wehrmacht rolled over Europe, at this time there were few fighting machines like the French one, and one thing they loved to do was defend their towns and cities, especially the jewel of la belle france. So when heavily-armed Vikings came sailing up the Seine, they shouted "Non!" and gave them what for. So much so, in fact, that really, the Vikings never managed to conquer France, and had to end up settling there with the permission of the French king. And most of that was probably down to these two.
(https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/d/d6/Coronation_of_King_Odo.jpg/440px-Coronation_of_King_Odo.jpg)
Odo (857 - 898)

You've got to love the French. They had three kings, all succeeding one another, all called Charles, so rather than give them numerals, as later became the trend, they identified them by their, ah, characteristics. So we had Charles the Bald being succeeded by Charles the Simple and then Charles the Fat. Oh, and there was also Hugh the Abbot, who was, well, an abbot. Of course he was. Was there a Charles the Costello? No of course there wasn't; don't be silly. Okay, he was never king, just regent. Oh, and Odo's father was Robert the Strong. And for you Star Trek fans, no, he wasn't called Odo the Shapeshifter. Wrong journal. Originally the Count of Paris, he was crowned king after the Siege of the capital, in which he drove back the Viking invaders.

The Siege of Paris (885 - 886)

It should probably be understood that at this time the Kingdom of Francia was not France, but was in fact the territory of the Franks, and encompassed what would become France, also Germany and part of Italy. Most, in fact, so far as I can see, of Western Europe, with the exception of Spain and Portugal. In 843 West Francia became a separate kingdom, which would evolve in time into France, and Paris was its capital city. In 845 the Vikings reached Paris for the first time, and attacked it, eventually sacking the city. How they carried a whole city away in sacks is something historians still debate to this day, but the French (we'll just call them that for handiness' sake, all right? I know they were the West Francians or Franks or whatever, but this is easier) decided that the Seine was too easy a conduit for those big longships to sail up and menace their beloved capital, so Odo's father, Robert the Strong, started having bridges built across the river, thus impeding Viking progress up the Seine and also making of them something of a target.

When Robert fell in battle in 866, his son Odo was made Count of Paris, and when Charles the Bald died in 877 he was succeeded by the other Charles, the fat one, who had barely had time to get comfortable on the throne before those annoying Vikings were back, shouting and halloooing and attacking up the river again. This time though, they meant business, and they weren't going to be driven away by a few poxy bridges. Some say they had 700 ships, but those who hadn't drunk too much wine thought it more like 300, still a big fleet and sure to put the willies up any Frenchman seeing them sailing up the Seine, shouting and hallooing and, you know.
(https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/0/08/NorthmenBarques.jpg/340px-NorthmenBarques.jpg)
As Count of Paris, Odo undertook the city's defence, and though outnumbered (even 300 ships would have carried about 15,000 men, and he had barely 200 at his command) he managed to drive them back. The Vikings had by now settled on a form of protection racket, where they arrived in a town or city and promised not to burn it to the ground and kill every living soul if they were paid off. It was called tribute back then, but it's the same principle as "ooops! Now look what you made me do!" that helped gangs to terrorise shop-keepers in the next few centuries. Anyway, Odo told them where they could stick their requests for a payoff, and possibly after enquiring whether he had anything to do with the All-Father, his name being so similar and all, and if so, could he put in a good word with Odin to aid them in their quest to burn Paris to the ground, the Vikings withdrew and set up a siege.

They mined the river (how did they work if they were on it? Oh right: they had camped on the other side of it. Still, they'd have to go out on it if they wanted to renew their attack. Seems a little self-destructive, possibly literally so). Hold on just one wench-chasing, axe-wielding, tankard-emptying minute son! How did they mine? This was the 9th century! What kind of explosives were available in the 9th century? I'll tell you what kind: none. But the account just says they mined the river, so who am I to question? Though I do. Get no answer to my question however. Bloody typical. Anyway, they used siege engines, catapults and sneering sarcasm probably, but nothing would induce the French to surrender. The city was probably unable to support a bribe, not when they had a king called Charles the Fat, and also knew what happened to those who gave in to the Vikings. So they fought on. The Vikings used battering rams and fire, but the French had a secret weapon: a cross! Yes, the Bishop of Paris planted a crucifix in the outer defences and called on all Christian men to resist the heathen invader. That'd show 'em!

The siege continued on into Christmas and the New Year, the Vikings trying everything to gain access, including shoring up the shallow part of the river with dead bodies (kind of lends new meaning to "close the wall up with our English dead", doesn't it?) but to no avail. They even had a shot at sending burning ships - the dreaded "fireships" - against the wooden bridge, but the damn things sank before they reached the structure, thanks Olaf the Lazy Shipwright! Odin, however, must have been bored, because he took an interest and sent rain that swelled the river and wrecked the bridge. Down it came and in came the Vikings. Go for it, lads! And they did. Seeing their plight was now somewhat up a certain creek without a certain instrument, Odo sent men to Charles, looking for reinforcements. They arrived, but after marching from Germany were too shagged to do any fighting, and sat down for a breather, no doubt to the massed mocking laughter of men who had wrestled ice giants in legend and drank the ocean possibly.

However, they weren't laughing by April, when one of the leaders declared "Fuck this lads, I'm bollocksed with all this sieging. Vikings weren't meant to siege. In and out, hit 'em fast and hard, fuck off back home, that's for me. Hell with this. Who wants their city anyway? Only full of pox-ridden whores, mimes and snooty Frenchmen. I don't really fancy eating frog's legs for the rest of my life, do you?" And with that, he was gone. But it wasn't all roses for the French either. As it tends to do when food runs low and sanitation is at best basic, disease began to break out in the city and the poor old bishop snuffed it. Odo decided to head to Old Fatso's palace, asking for more help. Charles' attendants looked on with horror as the big fat bastard agreed, envisioning the block and tackle and sheer disregard for physics it was going to take to get the king on his horse (his horse would not have been too pleased either) but somehow they managed it and off they went. They attacked and fought their way into the city, turned and mounted its defence.

Realising, as fresh armies arrived in the summer, that there was no way they were getting into Paris without wearing a tie and being on the guest list, the remaining Viking leader, Rollo, of whom we will hear more presently, gave up and, allowed by the king to head up the Seine to attack Burgundy - a handy way of putting down a pesky revolt that had erupted there - he eventually paid him off, (Odo possibly thinking "what the fuck did you do that for? I could have paid him and saved all those lives but I didn't, and now you just fork over the cash? Just wait till I'm king you fat...") but either way, the important thing was that the almost year-long siege was over. And more importantly, Paris had not fallen.

As part of the story of how Odo then became king, it's amusing to chronicle what happened to Charles the Fat. After he paid off the Vikings he was persona non grata (or possibly persona gras, sorry) in the capital, and fell out of favour. When he tried to have his bastard son Bernard made the legitimate heir to the throne in 885, the bishops, to a man, said oh no you fucking don't pal. No fat bastard - excuse our French - will sit on the throne of France while we have breath in our bodies. Unfortunately for them, their boss, Pope Hadrian III, declared that he would recognise the kid, and as long as he had breath in his body nobody would dare to defy him. Then suddenly he had no breath in his body, as, on the way to sort out the bishops and proclaim Bernard the Bastard as the new king, he sort of died (doesn't say whether this was of natural causes, an accident or whether some disgruntled bishop slipped deadly nightshade into his wine or something) and put a real crimp in Charles' plans. Would it be unfair and unkind to mention he was on the way to Worms, but before he got there ended up as future food for worms? It would? Tough. You should know me by now, and if you still don't then just get used to it: this is how I roll.

Quote from: jimmy jazz on Apr 21, 2024, 09:41 PMTrolls, I haven't read the whole thing obviously so correct me if you've already answered this, but why have you referred to England as an 'Isle' in the title and why have you used the Union Jack as the flag?

Hmm. Isle because it's an island (well, Britain is) and I'm also quoting some unremarkable and forgotten poet called Shakespeare on it.

"This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-paradise,
This fortress built by Nature for herself
Against infection and the hand of war,
This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
Against the envy of less happier lands,
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England."
Richard II, Act 2, Scene 1

Also, "this sceptred isle - apart from to the north and that bit on the west, think they call it Wales" doesn't hang the same ring to it. ;)

The Union Jack just more or less stands for the English flag, though I know you'll correct me and tell me it's the British flag. Meh, it just looks better. I know it should be the flag of St. George or whatever; just allow me my little bit of artistic licence, if you will.

Hopefully you will read this journal though, cos your country's history is fucking fascinating, and I'm really enjoying researching it.

(https://media.tenor.com/r50oqaHtmwYAAAAC/you-lucky-lucky-bastard-life-of-brian-you-lucky-bastard.gif)
Another who supported the legitimisation of Bernard was a Benedictine monk called Notker the Stammerer, but nobody paid him any attention, as you could never tell what he was saying. In fact (drum roll) you could say that they did Not ker about his views! Ba-tish! Yeah, well anyway, Charles continued to try to circumvent the fact that he had no actual legitimate children by attempting to cook the books, inserting the word proles (offspring) into the charters, but nobody was fooled. Specially as he did it in blue biro possibly. He then chummed up to Hadrian's successor, Pope Stephen V, but though he agreed to meet him the new pope pulled out at the last minute, possibly claiming he was washing his cassock or something. Charles then plumped for adoption, making Louis of Provence his heir for some reason, but Pope Stephen wagged his finger and said no way pal, not blessing that line of succession!
(https://media.tenor.com/mgb9goqjNFEAAAAC/nope-american-dad.gif)
All this bumbling and fumbling around, trying desperately to get someone to carry on your dynasty, from a man who had never been a great king anyway (well, great in the sense of being fat, but it's widely reported most if not all of his crowns fell to him without any real effort, and he never waged any proper war or got his nose bloodied like any self-respecting monarch) people began to look elsewhere for an heir. Odo headed down to his palace in 887, and may have been confirmed heir there. Either way, there was trouble a-plenty at Chez Charles, as he first accused his wife of infidelity. Having proven her innocence through trial by fire, she quite rightly told him where he could stick it and sodded off to a nunnery. Then he pounced on his hated enemy, Liutward his archchancellor, first minister and also bishop of Vercelli, with whom he had accused his - now proven innocent and convent-bound - wife of having an affair. Nobody liked him, so it was not any hardship to kick his ass out of court. Which he did. Probably with relish. He then replaced him with Liutbert, which really makes me think it was just the archchancellor wearing a funny wig. I mean, come on!
(https://i.pinimg.com/originals/94/46/94/94469476e6b50b75749ab5eb5891c49a.gif)
Proof that he was either desperate or losing it, or both, surfaces when you realise that Louis II, Louis of Provence, whom he wished now to make his heir, was, well, blind, as evidenced by that quaint French custom of naming someone after their main trait, so he was called Louis the Blind. Blind drunk? No, just blind. I wonder what they would have called me? Trollheart the Arsehole, probably. Anyway I digress. Adding to old Fat Boy's woes, one of his nephews decided he fancied the throne and went to war against him. History doesn't record what happened, but it probably involved a lot of huffing and puffing on Charles' part, a sort of "hold on till I get my breath, would you, there's a good lad" and stuff like that. In the end, to nobody's surprise, and probably not even his own, he was deposed, and that was that.

His fall wrecked the Frankish empire, as claimants and challengers to this and that throne popped up all over the place, and the empire disintegrated into separate kingdoms and countries, one of which became West Francia and later France. Which brings us back to our mate Odo.

Elected as the new king of that new country, he went about tearing the Vikings a new one, but as ever, heavy rests the head or something, and yet another Charles wanted to be king. Simple. Yeah. Charles the Simple. Doesn't sound like the kind of guy you want sitting on the throne, does it? I don't know if his title meant simple in the way of the brain, or that he was an uncomplicated man. Tell you what: let's find out, shall we? Well he was also called Charles the Straightforward, so I think we're looking more at a sort of direct, Meerkat Market sort of simple than the drooling, idiotic smile variety. Charles is however important, so we will come back to him very shortly. Meanwhile, Odo was crowned in 888 and would rule for ten years, though as I say his reign would be marred by his struggle against Charles.

In fact, I can't see that he had that great a time after saving Paris. He ended up looking for the support of the king of East Francia, Arnulf, but he must have insulted his wife or his wine or something (Frenchman, more likely the wine) as Arnulf instead threw his lot in with Charles, and Odo was forced to concede territory on the Seine to him. He had battled Arnulf for three years, and on the fourth he died, in 898. That left the throne Charles' for the taking. And he took.
(https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/5/54/Rouget_-_Charles_III_of_France.jpg)

Charles III, Charles the Simple (879 - 929)

We've already spoken a little about him above, but here are some more funny facts. He was preceded by - wait for this - Louis the Child, who wasn't a child. Though he was when he ascended the throne - probably with a bit of a bump-up from someone; he was only six, and died at eighteen. What a bummer. What did he die of? He died of a Tuesday. No, seriously, let's see. Died of terminal depression, it says here. Wow. If an eighteen-year old king can die of depression, how many of his subjects must have kicked the bucket? Anyway enough about him, as he's really not important except for me to point a finger and laugh at. Back to Charles the Simple. His dad was another stammerer, Louis the Stammerer - was he king? Yes. Yes he was, and by all accounts, though not a man to make waves or any impact of any sort, you kind of can't argue with the words of Herman Munster, sorry Sebastian Munster that  "he was a sweet and simple man, a lover of peace, justice and religion."

Oh for the love of - another child! This time Charles the Child, whom Louis succeeded as King of Aquitaine. He also died at age 18, though not from depression, unless you count being depressed by having been hit in the head by a sword while fooling around in mock combat with your own men! The incident left him a little doolally, and he passed away in 866. But as for Charles the Simple, well, he was destined to make his mark on history. Hey, at least he had a mother with a decent name - Adelaide of Paris, because, you know, she was from Paris. In the year 911 (shut up) Paris was again besieged, and again by Rollo, who had come back to finish the job. After Charles had kicked his arse he decided to negotiate with Rollo, and granted him all the land between the river Epte and the sea, and the Duchy of Brittany, naming it all as the new Duchy of, you guessed it, Normandy. Anyone singing "Pass the Dutchie" can leave right now, I'm serious. We don't need your kind here. Where was I? Oh yeah.  In return for this grant, Rollo and all his men were to swear fealty to France, and he himself was to be baptised as a Christian and take Charles' daughter Gisela as his wife.

It was quite clever of Charles to grant Rollo and the Vikings-soon-to-be-Normans the Duchy of Brittany (yeah, you can go too. You! The one singing "Hit Me Baby One More Time"! Out!), as this was at the time an independent kingdom he had been trying without success to conquer. Now all he had to do was sit back and let his new Viking/Norman allies conquer it for him. Well, for them, but it amounted to the same thing. That year, 911,  is also the one in which our friend Louis the Child comes, briefly, back into the picture. With his death, the East Francians elected him king, as they didn't fancy Conrad I. Well, this is not quite true. Bloody fragmented kingdoms within fragmented kingdoms! Right. Lotharingia was part of East Francia, and they were the ones who elected Charles their king, but essentially saw him as king of all East Francia. This didn't bother Conrad too much, not because he didn't care but because he was too busy fighting off claims to his throne, and not only from Charles, but within his own kingdom. So in one way - probably a very wrong way - you could make a very tentative case for Charles the Simple, being technically but not really king of both East and West Francia as being the first actual king of all of France. But you'd be wrong. Also it didn't last. After Conrad kicked it, it looks like Saxons or some form of Germans anyway took East Francia, and it then either became Germany or was subsumed into it.

Despite six tries, our Charles just couldn't muster up a son - daughter, daughter, daughter, daughter, daughter... hold on, hold on! Could it be? Is it poss - nah. Another daughter - so like kings everywhere at that time he blamed it on his wife and dumped her to marry another woman, this time the daughter of an English king. English gels knew how to do it right, and out popped an heir, first time of asking. Jolly good show! This boy would go on to rule as Louis IV, but I don't think he was one of the Bourbon dynasty kings, the likes of Louis the Sun King XIV and zut alors! Where's me head Louis XVII, and since I'm not writing the history of France (yet!) I don't really care.

A sad end really for Charles. His own brother Robert marched against him, with the backing of the nobles who had really got pissed off at him for doling out land that was theirs by right, and though Robert was killed in the ensuing battle, Charles was captured and died in prison in 921. Not a very fitting way to end your reign, even if it was a simple one.

But one thing Charles would always be remembered for was for the basic creation of the Norman state, which would go on to cause such misery and hardship in England (and, by extension, Ireland, Scotland and Wales) but which would also fundamentally change Europe and most of the western world.

(https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/a/af/RolloA.jpg/440px-RolloA.jpg)
Rollo (c. 835/87- - 928/933)

All right, let's just get this out of the way, for those of you who have seen Vikings and think "Oh yeah, that's Ragnar's brother!" He wasn't. At least, so far as history can ascertain (and you can see from the dates of his birth and death that there's not even agreement on those), Ragnar may or may not have lived (I think I went into this earlier, pretty sure I did) but if he did, he wasn't around at the same time Rollo was. Rollo can be definitely traced to a proper historical figure though, and so we have a lot more certainty about him than we do about Ragnar. Some facts about him that Vikings got right are that he was a giant of a man, nicknamed "The Walker", as it was said he was too big for any horse to carry, that he did attack Paris (as we've seen above) and was the father of the Norman dynasties. He also contributed to the history of England in a way which will link us back to 1066, if you'll just bear with me.

But to understand the Normans, and why they so easily defeated the English at Hastings, as I said, we have to know more about them, and it starts with Rollo. We've already seen a pencil sketch of him; we know he was a Viking lord who changed tactics from harrying the English to harrying the French (no doubt to a great big "huzzah!" from the English, one they would live to very much retract and regret) and that he besieged Paris. Unable to take it he came to a compromise with Charles the Fat and settled in the area of France (well, West Francia as it was known at the time) which came to be known as Normandy. But they're only the barest bones, so let's put the flesh on this skeleton.

Although he is definitely believed to have come from Scandinavia (duh, historians!) nobody can say for sure if it was Norway or Denmark where he was born. He was referred to as "Rollo the Dane", but then, Dane was a general catch-all label for all Vikings that Europeans used, regardless of their country of birth (which they were unlikely to have known anyway; it's not like they would ask, as they fended off a blow from a huge axe with a shield, "By the way, where was it you said you came from again?") so that's no proof of anything. There does seem to be evidence to suggest he was chased, harried out of or exiled from Scandinavia though, and the first time contemporary history picks him up is attacking Paris in that siege. There are other accounts, but you know historians: two or three corroborating sources at least please, or we're not interested.

So whatever he did before arriving on the shores of France is mostly unknown, and kind of unimportant anyway, as it is really from the time he became a Norman - the first, you could say - that we're interested in him. So what happened after Charles said to him "That bit there, down to there, that bit, that, you might have to fight for that bit, they don't like me and I haven't been able to subdue them but I'm sure you could. Oh, and that bit too. But not that one. That's mine."? We know Rollo was baptised and became a Christian, and that he then took the daughter of the king for his wife. Before this, there is an account of him carrying off the daughter of the Count of Rennes (well, what self-respecting Viking - still a Viking at this point, 876 - wouldn't carry off a beautiful woman? Went with the territory) and marrying her, she giving him a son, but our friendly historians believe this may be what they term "quasi-bollocks", meaning it might or might not be true, depending on how many rounds you're prepared to buy.

Stories, too, of his friendship with an English king, originally identified as Alstem, later seemingly confirmed as Athelstan, (look, just don't start, all right? The things that show got wrong...) the Danish leader Guthrun whom Alfred the Great baptised and then renamed. Again, this could be true or just "qb", and again it really doesn't matter, because dial the emergency services or stand outside Ground Zero: 911 is the year we're most interested in, as this becomes Year Zero for the creation of the Norman State.

Once the lands had been granted to him, Rollo (now baptised as Robert, but it doesn't seem like he's ever referred to as anything other than Rollo) decided it was time to put manners on the other Vikings in France and show them who was boss. When Charles the Simple was kicked off the throne though, Rollo thought his deal was over, and so it was hell for leather across West Francia as he pushed the borders of his new realm outwards. Eventually the new king sued for peace, giving Rollo more land. Because of their close connection with the native French, Rollo's descendants clove to the Catholic tradition, one of many reasons why England would become, for almost four hundred years, a Catholic country.

Rollo died, cause unknown, sometime between 923 and 928. His great-great-grandson was called William, and this is where we return, as it were, by a circuitous route, to the end of English rule and the coming of the Normans to England in 1066.

But of course, it wouldn't be like me to just go for Hastings now would it? Of course not. First we need to talk about himself.


(https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/3/34/William_the_Conqueror_%28TFA%29.jpg/440px-William_the_Conqueror_%28TFA%29.jpg)
William I, aka William the Conqueror (1028 - 1087)

The man who would change English politics and start a dynasty that would last centuries lost his father early, when the Duke of Normandy, Robert I (also known humbly as Robert the Magnificent) died on the way back from a pilgrimage to Jerusalem in 1035. Before departing, Robert had declared William his heir, and extracted from all his nobles a promise to uphold his claim, therefore WIlliam became Duke on the death of his father at the tender age of seven years. There's no such thing, so far as I know, as a regent for a duke, so though he was far too young to rule, William had to take on the job. He did however have allies, in Archbishop Robert, his great-uncle, and the king himself, Henry I. Things took a turn for the worse though when Robert died in 1037, and the duchy descended into anarchy.

William fell under the protection of various guardians, including Alan of Brittany and Gilbert of Brionne, and others, all summarily slain as the young duke's enemies tried to get to him. He eventually had to seek the protection of the king, but when grown he returned with him in 1047 and retook Normandy, defeating his enemies. He spent five years hunting them down and consolidating his power, but then that power became just a little too consolidated for the king's liking, and, fearing the power the young duke was building up in Normandy, Henry teamed up with his enemies against William. William proved himself an able commander and a charismatic leader, resulting in some of his former enemies joining him against Henry (turnabout is, after all, fair play) and his battle finally came to an end when both the king and his main ally Geoffrey of Anjou died in 1060.

In 1049 William had married Matilda of Flanders, cementing his alliance with Germany, though His Holiness Pope Leo IX, for some reason, refused to allow the marriage. He went ahead anyway, sort of taking a future page from one of his successors, Henry VIII, though he stopped short of creating his own Church.

Eve of the, um, Battle

It's always struck me as odd that a simple duke should decide to invade England. Was this not the prerogative of the king? Was it not kings who invaded and tried to take crowns from other kings? I suppose it's quite possible that if you look through history there have been some instances of other nobles invading foreign countries, but I would have thought that would have been a prelude to their king coming over and sitting on the throne? Did the French king give his blessing to, or even permission for, such a huge and potentially world-changing action? Who was even king at this time? Let's see. Hmm. Philip I is shown as being "king of the Franks" but there's no reference to his being involved in William's campaign. I suppose it's possible he had other things to worry about. William probably didn't feel he owed him any real fealty anyway, as Normandy was essentially all but a separate state, and powerful, so maybe Philip just let him go his own way. I'll try to research that a bit further later, because I find it strange. Would, for instance, say maybe Cnut or Alfred the Great allowed one of their dukes or barons to boogie over to France and try to take the crown? Sounds unlikely.

Then again, perhaps given the story that William had been promised the English crown, his boss thought maybe it gave him that right. Perhaps Philip was too busy fighting (or, considering his suffix, "the amorous", engaged in other activities) and just said "Sure if he promised ye the crown, you go and take it like a good man there, and leave me alone." Why he should have suddenly gained a Dublin accent we will never know. But there is no mention of him, whether he approved, disapproved or was totally oblivious to the ambitions of the Duke of Normandy, and it does appear, on the surface anyway, that he just left him to it.

Winding our way across the Channel and back to Merry Old England, it will possibly be remembered that we left the country in a state very much other than merry, as King Harold Godwinson was somewhat less than secure on the English throne, having in total three claimants to the Crown, one of which was his own half-brother. Four, in fact, if you include Edward Atheling, though he was only fourteen at the time. Tostig, the other brother, had been exiled, and we'll have a shufty at him in a moment. The third claimant, as already discussed in the previous chapter, was the king of Norway, Harold Bastard Hard, I mean Harold Hardrada. He had made an agreement with his uncle, King Magnus, that should Harthacnut die without an heir, then his son would take the crown, but should Magnus do the same, then his heir would be next in line for the throne.

It's been almost a year, and I'm getting a little confused, so let's recap on all these people and sort things out before we go any further.

First, Harthacnut: as everyone knows (and if you didn't know, then you would from his name) he was the son of Cnut, one of the wisest and longest-reigning kings of England, and the first ever Viking one. Harthacnut succeeded to the throne on the death of his half-brother Harold Harefoot, who had come to power after the great Cnut had passed away, he being his son by Aelfgifu, and Harthcnut being busy with trying to establish control in Norway. When Harold died, Harthacnut returned and took the throne, but only lasted seven years, dying, it appears, of terminal alcohol poisoning at a wedding.

Next up was Edward the Confessor, and he died childless, having decided to take a vow of chastity, which kind of threw the succession into chaos. They really needn't have worried, as William was on his way to sort out all their problems for them and take away forever the burden of ruling England. But anyway it was his brother, son of the late great Earl Godwin, and last of the Anglo-Saxon kings, did he but know it, Harold II, known as Harold Godwinson, who became his heir. Harold had to fight off an attempt by his namesake with different spelling, King Harald of Norway, then, having kicked his arse, may have thought, this French William will be a piece of cake. Shoot out my eye if - oh wait: I've done that one, haven't I?

So for whatever reason he was allowed, ignored or just went anyway, William decided the time was ripe to cash in on that "IOU 1 crowne of ye Englishe" and headed west, with a rather large army. His wife may have complained about not wanting to live in such a miserable rainy country, but history records his reply as "I'll give you miserable, you moaning old..." (the rest of the manuscript has sadly been lost to the ravages of time) and Hastings-bound he came.

Well I disagree with it obviously (and plenty of Welsh and Scots would too), it's part of an island but it's your journal. It just stood out to me cos that and the flag are pretty significant bits of information given the subject of the journal.

I will give it a read mate 👍

You can disagree with me but not with the Bard!  :laughing:  :laughing:
I definitely take your point about the flag, though it's probably fair to say that those who aren't Welsh, Scottish or even Irish just look on the UJ as being the English flag, right or wrong.

(https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/f/f8/Norman-conquest-1066.svg/840px-Norman-conquest-1066.svg.png)
Back to Harald we go. No, the other one. When he came over from Norway to kick the son of the Earl of Godwin (Godwinson, get it?) off the just-vacant English throne, he brought with him another enemy of the then-king, but paradoxically also a claimant, so not quite sure how that worked. Tostig has already been mentioned, Harold's brother whom he exiled from England, but who believed he jolly well had just as much a right to the crown as his sibling, dash it all, and decided to support the Norwegian king, perhaps in the hope he might be granted a duchy or a baronetcy or some damn title with a lot of land anyway. Okay, let's unpack this.

Tostig had come with his army to take the throne but had been driven off by his brother, and instead decided to head north, where there were always arses to kick. Unfortunately, these arses kicked back, so to speak, and Tostig was harried by the Earls of Mercia and Northumbria, and he lost most of his men. He decided to go to Scotland and lick his wounds, and maybe see if he couldn't scare up some support there. The Scots were always on for a fight, after all, and there was little they hated more than the English. Of course, he was English too, so there was that. As it went, King Harald, the Norwegian one, was cooling his heels on the south coast, looking at his watch and wondering where the hell this WIlliam character was, said to meet him on the south coast 1066, and here it was and no sign of him. It was then that his men came to him and said "Look Your Majesty, we'd love to stay and die horribly in your service, get mutilated and maimed for life all to get you this throne your heart seems set on, but the thing is, we're militia, see, and, well, we have these crops that need to be harvested." So off they went to return to a much safer life as farmers (unless you happened to get in the way of the local lord, who might just that morning have arisen with an insatiable desire to mow down farmers, the things these lords get up to, I don't know) and Harald was kind of left armyless.

So he moseyed on up north, which seemed to be the in-place to go, where he met a rather despondent Tostig. "How many men you got?" he asked him possibly over a few pints of good dark ale (or, being the north, possibly grey ale, and also possibly not good). "Not much," belched Harald maybe. "A mere 300 ships, no more than 15,000 men." Tostig may have grinned and the two may even have clinked glasses, who knows? "That'll do for me," it's possible Tostig may have said, having perhaps spent too long among northerners, and so they banded together and went to kick the king out of the royal palace. As for William, well, Harald may have thought philosophically, he may turn up, he may not, but this guy has an army here and now, and I'll be buggered if I'm spending another season pulling my dick in this cold climate waiting for him.

At York, at the end of September, Tostig was able to have his revenge on the two earls, whom he and his new ally sent running like girls maybe as they roundly defeated them at the Battle of Fulford. Had they waited for Harold Godwinson, who had texted ahead saying there was heavy traffic on the A40 maybe, they might have triumphed, but as ever in English politics (and not just English of course) nobody trusted anybody else, and the two earls thought maybe Harold would set Tostig up as Earl of Northumbria. The other earl, Edwin of Mercia, may have shrugged that that would suck, but what had it to do with him, and may have been answered by the reminder that there was also a Norwegian bastard involved, who might fancy Edwin's earldom. So stung into action, the two decided fuck Harold, we can take these two pussies.

They were wrong.

So when Harold did finally huff and puff his way up the motorway he found his allies nothing more than a rapidly-receding cloud of dust, with Harald and Tostig there going "Now, about this throne." They met at Stamford Bridge, and in true Chelsea home style, there was a massacre. 2-0 to the English king as he not only defeated Tostig and Harald, but killed them both. The exertion, however, left his forces depleted, and all he could probably think was that this would be the worst time for, say, an attack to come from across the sea.

He had barely a month to wait.

Of course, I'm sure we all understand well enough that it wasn't as if William texted Harold - "You, me, Hastings. Be there." In fact, neither probably had any idea where the decisive battle would be, and like any king (or in this case, duke, but soon to be king) landing on foreign shores he was invading, William had a lot of raiding and harrying and possibly raping to do as well before he got to grips with his enemy. His power had obviously grown by now, and I don't know whether you could call him the de facto king of France, but he was certainly able to muster men from Flanders, Brittany and other parts of France to fight for him, and though as ever historians disagree over the size of his force, it's generally accepted to have been somewhere between the 7,000 and 10,000 mark. Hard to be sure, as contemporary historians and present ones never get on: if they see each other at your local, watch out and hold onto your pint. Naturally, those on William's side would have been exaggerating to make him look more of a threat than he was, but it's never possible to be sure. So we stick with this range.

Doesn't seem that huge really. King Harald only brought about 15,000, and his army was considered large. Well, as they say, it's often not how big it is but where you stick it, and William stuck it to the English. Let's not forget Harold's men were also shagged out after the Battle of Stamford Bridge, and a fresh army with a duke eyeing his crown was really the last thing he needed right now. Right now though, was exactly when William came, and he landed in England only a few days after the battle, Harold's army limping home and looking forward to putting their feet up with a cuppa and a copy of Soldier Times or whatever. Sussex was where he made his invasion, setting up a wooden castle (huh?) at Hastings and using it as a base for attack. Since this was Harold's stomping ground, the idea was to lure him there by wrecking everything around, levelling his relative's castles and basically causing shit all through the neighbourhood till the king came to ask them nicely to keep it down if they wouldn't mind, there were people trying to sleep, and Mildred at number ten had a newborn that just would not fucking stop crying.

But when he got the e-vite that was it, and it would be rude not to respond, so off he went to Hastings. He set up defensive camp on Saulac Hill, hoping to surprise William, but the duke's scouts were out and about and had probably recognised Harold due to the crown on his head or something. Anyway, they legged it back to tell their master the English ruler was on the way, and William rode out to meet them. It was October 14 1066, the day everything changed for England. In a stunning piece of irony, those little quirks history is wont to throw up from time to time, the place where the battle actually took place was called, um, Battle. It still is, and I assumed it had been renamed for the famous confrontation, but it seems it has always had that name. So in effect, it wasn't really the Battle of Hastings, but then, the Battle of Battle 1066 would just be silly, wouldn't it?

Anyway the battle lasted pretty much all day, and as you know, I don't do all this battlefield historians shite; not interested in who made a pincer movement or who cut off who from their forces, who took this flag or that ridge or any of that bollocks. But I'll see what I can pick out from the details, see if there is anything I should be writing and telling you about. Okay, I see there was a rumour started that William had been killed, and the army began to panic and retreat, the English pushing forward until the man himself appeared, shouting rather unnecessarily that he was alive, and led the counter-offensive as the English wet themselves and fled. Incredible as it may seem to us, but perhaps a totally English thing (and observed by the French too) the two armies appear to have broken for afternoon tea, taking a rest and getting their strength back. Bah! Wouldn't have happened at El Alamein, I can tell you that!

Nevertheless, once Harold went down that was that. Again with the differing accounts, but whether it's the truth or just the accepted one, the later Bayeux Tapestry has the famous drawing of the king being shot in the eye by an arrow and thus being killed. That may not be the case, but it's passed down into legend and popular history, and who am I to dispute it? Although some of his men rallied around the king's corpse and fought to the end, as in most battles, once the leader is slain the army is out of here, and so they were. William had won the day, and the last English king had bit the dust. A lot of long-winded explanations and theories over how and why William triumphed, but they seem to be mostly centred on the English attacking when they should have been defending (Newcastle United anyone?), being fooled by the feigned retreats the Normans pulled off during the battle, only to be led into an attack, and their lack of cavalry, which would always remain one of the Normans' biggest advantages.

A decisive and stirring victory it may have been, and indeed the beginning of the end for English rule, but if William thought the country was going to fold like a pack of cards and meekly accept a frog as their new sovereign, well, he was about to find out he was in error.
(https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/8/87/Edgar_the_%C3%86theling.jpg)
Edgar Atheling (1052 - 1125 or possibly later)

We've heard of him before. He was the son of Edgar the Exile who, once his exile was over, returned to England only to earn a new name: Edgar the Dead. With so many powerful claims to the throne on the death of Edward the Confessor, and he being so young, still in his teens, at the time, Edgar Atheling was not really considered a runner, and Harold Godwinson was crowned instead. When Harold fell, and William began his march towards London in order to take the crown that was possibly rightfully his but never mind if it wasn't, he had won it by right of combat, the English elected Edgar as king. He never ruled though. In Southwark he fought with the English for control of London Bridge, unable to gain access to the city, he expected to encounter only token resistance at the bridge, but one of the leaders of the defenders, a man called Ansgar (or Esegar), the sheriff of Middlesex, had been with Harold at Hastings, and had returned to Southwark to organise its defence.

William, somewhat nonplussed to see such a force arrayed against him - even the townsfolk were armed and joined the effort - offered Ansgar the sheriffship under his rule if he would submit to him, but Ansgar told him where to stick it and they attacked. You have to give it to this guy: he was so badly wounded he had to be carried around in a litter, and had been offered pretty generous terms by the victorious duke, soon to be his king. If he recognised him not only would he be allowed retain his lands, but he could also have a seat on the council. Now, you can't say fairer than that, can you? But England doesn't like invaders, especially ones who rub out their kings, and so there was no compromise.

It's possible those two earls, he of Mercia and the other of Northumbria, were there defending the town too, and though William's cavalry broke through, they faced such stiff opposition that they could not hold the bridge, so they set it ablaze, and Southwark was virtually razed to the ground. London continued to put up stiff resistance until the clergy, convinced by William that they should concede, swore their fealty and he was allowed enter the city. He was crowned the first Norman king of England on Christmas Day.

His first few years, however, were far from easy or peaceful. England had been battered into submission, with the only real alternative to William - now known forever more as "the Conqueror" - being the weak and ineffectual and inexperienced Edgar Atheling, and really nobody wanted to rally behind him. When William returned to Normandy in March though, the English took their chance and revolted here there and everywhere, leaving his half-brother Odo, (so far as I'm aware. no relation to he of the defence of Paris the previous century) and his partner, William Fitzosbern with rebellions to put down, which they did. William was back at the end of the year and took a hand in suppressing the revolts himself, the great strength of his policy being what would become a feature of Norman conquest, not only in England and Ireland but everywhere: he built castles and installed garrisons there, so that there was no chance of rebels getting too uppity again. If they did, there was a ready-made force there to take care of them.

But then there were rebellions and there were rebellions, and one definitely demanded his own personal attention.

The Harrying of the North: No Mercy from the Normans

In late 1069 the north rose. To almost paraphrase and parallel Game of Thrones, winter was coming and the north had united behind Edgar. I don't know if they proclaimed him "King in the North" or anything - most likely not; they'd have wanted him to have been recognised and acknowledged as king of all England - but they rallied and stood against William, still more or less at this point seen as an invader. England - and Ireland - would of course have cause to hate and revile the word Norman over the next few hundred years, even more than it had hated the word French. What became known as "the harrying of the north" was only the beginning.

(https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/8/82/Map_of_Northern_England.png/440px-Map_of_Northern_England.png)

Up to now, I've held the view of the English that they were the sworn enemies of France, but Wikipedia tells me this rivalry didn't really develop between the two countries until much later, culiminating in fact in the Hundred Years War (1337 - 1453), one of the major battles of which was of course that of Agincourt, where Henry V booted French bottom and neutralised most of their nobles. Returning to choruses of "Hoorah!" for the most unlikely victory since Reading kicked Manchester United out of the FA Cup, he was adored by his subjects, but the French never forgot and so began the hatred between both. Maybe.

Look, that might account for the official, sanctioned establishment of the "auld enemy", but I have to believe that the ordinary folk started hating the French a lot sooner, like once William got confortable on their throne and started issuing edicts and levying taxes left, right and centre, and sending helpful bands of soldiers out with burning torches to ensure those who didn't pay the taxes paid in other ways, or just when he was bored.

Since there was no actual English king now to raise any objections, you could probably say with some degree of truthfulness that England was more or less a French possession now, an occupied territory, though that occupation would be one of the longest in history, lasting over half a millennium. So no state reaction, sure, but as anyone who has watched any version of the adventures of Robin Hood (of whom we will speak much more later) can tell you, the poor English common man fucking hated the French, and it has to be from here that any sort of enmity grew for those "frog-eating, slimy, snail-bothering sons of degenerate Vikings" (the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, just prior to being burned by William possibly). After all, if your country is invaded, conquered and then ruled by people who treat you as slaves and work and tax you into oblivion, how can you not hate them? Have you ever been to Ireland?

I suppose at this point it might be helpful to explain what "the north" comprised at the time. Borders and boundaries would be redrawn during William's reign, but at the time of his accession to the throne the north was Yorkshire, Durham, Northumberland, Lancashire, Cumberland and Westmorland (see map above). Many of these places, you may remember, had been part of Danelaw, and occupied by Vikings in the time of Alfred and Aethelred and so on, and they had little taste to bend the knee to a French king. They possibly saw their Norman cousins as Vikings who had submitted themselves to France, and were no longer worthy of the warrior race. Or maybe they just didn't like William, who knows? Either way, they weren't having it.

One of the main points of contention was the earldom of Northumbria. This area had been a trouble spot since the days of Danelaw, often allying against the king, and by this time it had changed hands three times since the days of Tostig (remember him?). The first had been when a supporter of his, with the unlikely name of Copsi (sounds like a character from Beatrix Potter!) took over, swearing fealty to William, having fought Harold with Harald, as it were, on the side of Tostig at the Battle of Stamford Bridge. But the north was against William, and within weeks of being made the new earl Cosplay sorry Pepsi sorry Copsi was killed, replaced by Osulf, who was in turn murdered and the earldom then bought by his cousin, Cospatrick. Who promptly offered his allegiance to Edgar. And so here we were.

William, having had quite enough of these Anglo-fucking-Saxons and their treachery and treason (there's always an excuse for it) rode to Northumbria and Edgar and Cospatrick and assorted allies all scattered, making a beeline for Scotland, where the king, Malcolm II, always happy to stick it to an English monarch, especially a new one finding his feet, said "Come on in, all o' ye! Sure ye'll find braw shelter at mah hearth, ye ken!" or something. William then solved the problem of the Earldom of Northumbria by conferring it on someone he could trust, a Norman. Job done.

Or not quite. Secure now in his new position, Robert de Comines rode into Durham and swiftly adn brutally learned that the one thing the north did not like was a fucking Frenchman trying to lord it over them. So that was the end of him, and the beginning of a resurgence of the revolt. The rebels then burned York castle, which really ticked William off and he rode back, snarling "That fucking castle cost me a lot to build, you English bastards!" And someone may have whispered in his ear so that he added, shrugging "Oh. Right. Yeah. And you killed my newly-appointed earl, too!"

As it often does, rebellion spread, so other towns rose in support of Edgar, who turned to a Viking, Sweyn II, a nephew of Cnut the Great, who was probably none too pleased to see what a pig's breakfast this William head was making of his uncle's ex-kingdom, and sent a large fleet against him. They retook York, but when William came again to make them give it back, they quipped "Didn't want your stupid castle anyway!" and ran back across the border to Scotland. Possibly seeing what a useless wimp this Edgar Atheling was, Sweyn headed back down the coast, William bought him off in the time-honoured fashion and he buggered off back to Denmark with all his ships. You could probably hear the sound as William clapped his gloved gauntlets together and eyed the north.

"Right!" said he, probably. "Now let's sort this fucking place out once and for all!"

And so he did.

The people would remember it forever as the Harrying of the North. Historians would call it genocide. Even later, more sympathetic writers of Norman descent would opine that it was cruel and merciless, but that William had no choice. Basically, it was a slaughter. The Viking blood that pulsed in his  Norman veins was up now, and William had had just about enough of these English. He set to ensuring they would learn their place, would stay there, and would never rise again. Nobody was spared: towns, villages, households; men, women, children, animals, possibly even furry toys - all fell to the sword, the arrow and the fire. The North was set ablaze from border to border, the fires possibly reflected in the eyes of the king and his men as they went about their business like demons from Hell. Well, they wouldn't be demons from anywhere else, would they, but you know what I mean.

An Anglo-Norman chronicler wrote in 1116 of the fury of the king, and how savage - and indeed, unjust - his reprisals were: "The King stopped at nothing to hunt his enemies. He cut down many people and destroyed homes and land. Nowhere else had he shown such cruelty. This made a real change. To his shame, William made no effort to control his fury, punishing the innocent with the guilty. He ordered that crops and herds, tools and food be burned to ashes. More than 100,000 people perished of starvation. I have often praised William in this book, but I can say nothing good about this brutal slaughter. God will punish him."

It may not really have been the best policy. If you're trying to establish your rule on a foreign land, trying to (presumably) create alliances and win allies, torching half of the country is probably not the way to go. Then again, it was only the north. This would, however, instil forever in that half of the country a hatred, resentment and resistance to William's rule which would come back to haunt him. English kings had raided and gone on the rampage before, but not, it would seem, in such an indiscriminate and murderous way. Villages were torched, crops destroyed, livestock killed, the whole land laid waste. In the ensuing and inevitable famine, it was said, with some support, that people turned to cannibalism in order to survive. I don't believe this had happened in England before this, so there's a mark of shame William was never able to remove from his reign.

Band of Brothers: Harold's Progeny Rise

Although he had been crowned King of England, the West Country remained loyal to Harold, where his mother Gytha had set up her powerbase while her three grandsons Godwin, Magnus and Edmund sailed to Ireland to muster an army. With the ex-queen mother and three potential heirs to the throne in residence, Exeter became a beacon of resistance, and supporters of Harold flocked there. William could not allow such a challenge to his authority to remain, and so as soon as he was in a position to, he rode for Exeter to force the queen's submission. Ooe-er! Sounds kinky! (Shut it, you!) He arrived with a large force and besieged the castle (nothing a Norman liked better than a good siege) which held out for eighteen days before surrendering.

Though he suffered heavy losses as the town was determined to resist him, William finally managed to breach the walls by the use of mines, said to be the first time this technique was ever used in England. Gytha, seeing the game was up, had had it away on her toes in a boat, fed up of waiting for her worthless son's nippers to come to her rescue, and William took the city, perhaps surprisingly sparing all its defenders and citizens. Maybe he'd worked out all his aggression putting down the northerners. He then did something which again became de rigueur for Normans, and built a castle at Exeter, ensuring it would remain loyal to him. Gytha ended up on the Island of Flat Holm, waited, waited and waited some more, than said fuck this and headed back to Flanders, from where she vanishes from history.

Meanwhile, the three sons of the defeated and dead King Harold Godwinson had fled after Hastings to Ireland, where they petitioned the king, Diarmait Mac Máel na mBó for assistance. The Irish, always ready to strike a blow against their neighbours to the east, agreed and sent a small fleet to engage William's forces. William had by now left Devon, but his men engaged the brothers and put up stiff resistance, sending them yelping back across the Irish Sea, possibly one brother short. The king grumped "You feckin' lads back already? Did yiz get that Norman bastard? Yiz didn't? Holy Jaysus! Do I have to do everythin' meself here? Look, here, take these men and boats and for the love of Jesus, Mary and Joseph, will yiz get the job done this time, or don't bother comin' back! I tell yiz, it won't be Ireland of the thousand welcomes for you hoors if yiz come back defeated again. Now get up that yard!" Or words, vaguely, to that effect.

Back the brothers went in June 1069. Still no William (he was oop north) but Brian of Brittany, his second cousin, met them in battle and the superior Norman forces, with those all-important cavalry units, kicked their arses and sent them home. It's reported that the Irish king decided to get very drunk that night, and wasn't seen for several days. The remaining brothers followed their mother out of history, and that was the end of any challenge by the line of Godwinson to the rule of William the Conqueror.

But what about our man Edgar the Halfling, sorry Atheling, still hiding out under Malcolm's kilt? Well, not much really. He literally did hide in Scotland until William decided it was time Malcolm bent the knee, and in 1072 part of the deal was that Edgar should be kicked out of Scotland, and indeed out of Britain. He went, where it seems all deposed/exiled/on the run kings, queens, nobles and persons of dubious birth went: Flanders. Eventually he decided to give up and accept William as his sovereign, so he doesn't really feature much more in the story of the Norman conquest of England.

But the Welsh do.

The Dragon Awakes, Look You! Eadric's Wild and Possibly Savage Revolt: A Prelude

You have to feel cautious engaging anyone with "the Wild" as their suffix, and Eadric was a wealthy owner of land in Shropshire and Herefordshire, said to be (though unconfirmed) a brother of that jolly ealdorman, Eadric Streona. Fiercely resistant to William's rule, he nevertheless realised that he needed allies, and turned to the west, where he joined forces with the Welsh princes Bledden and Rhiwallon ap Cynfyn, princes of Powys and Gwynedd. Around the time William was counting out gold pieces of whatever into Sweyn II's eager hand to enable  him to fuck off home and leave Edgar high-tailing it back to Scotland, Eadric and his Welsh allies attacked Shrewsbury Castle, while others of their forces took on the newly-built one at Exeter. Neither were successful, both pushed back and the Anglo-Saxons beginning perhaps to learn the value of a good stone castle at your back, so much more so if it was a Norman one.

However, as it was necessary to take a left-turn in the History of Ireland to look into that of Scotland, as I research more I feel that the same is important here, so that we can better understand the relationship, not only between Wales and England, but between the Welsh themselves. Like any nation of the time, their country was never really at peace, rival kings and princes fighting among each other for control of this or that territory, and while there was, to my knowledge, no actual war of Welsh independence, the land of the Valleys has always been one of the most fiercely independent of the United Kingdom. Okay, we all have - Ireland and Scotland too, but I'm not very familiar with the actual history of Wales, so before I go too much further and start talking about princes and alliances and grievances and wars, it would probably be helpful to know who and what I'm talking about.

(https://maproom.net/wp-content/uploads/Wales-Outline.gif)

This, then, is obviously not intended to be a history of Wales, but a quick retelling of how the Welsh got to where and how they are. Considering that they are so deep, as it were, in English territory, how did they stay virtually independent, even up to today? Scotland you can understand: it's way up there in the cold, frozen north, and it has highlands and crags to defend itself, plus the weather is awful in general and even as  you come down closer to the south, the people from the likes of Sunderland and Newcastle are more closely aligned with Scotland, in some ways, than they are with England. They did, after all, bear the brunt of invasions from England when kings rode north to try to conquer Scotland, and there have been certainly instances of the Scots and the men from the north banding together against a marauding king. This king, almost invariably, would have been an English one, but the English in the north were not prepared to smooth his way.

Add to this the fact that, as mentioned above earlier, places like Northumbria  had a tradition of being settled by Vikings (Saxons) and had been covered under Danelaw from about the eighth century. They had fought against kings of Wessex and Mercia, and held their own land as long as they could. There was no real loyalty in the north to the king, who traditionally ruled from, and in, the south, as today. London might as well have been a million miles away from places like Newcastle, and the north did not really regard the English king as theirs. Mind you, they weren't about to submit to the Scottish one either, but in general, unless forced to, as we saw in the War for Scottish Independence, the Scots didn't tend to bother too much about crossing the border into the south, so it's now as if Northumbria was being constantly menaced by Scottish armies.

All of this, then, makes it easy to see how Scotland, for a time at least, was able to maintain its own independence, even if seen by the king as being part of his dominions. In some ways, it probably just wasn't seen as worth going all that way to try to bring them to submission. Let them stay up there in the cold and think they were independent; when the time came, the king could march on them, but for now, the toasty throne room of London was much more attractive. Not so though with Wales. Wales essentially takes up most of the lower west half of Britain, and is more like a part of it than is Scotland. So how was it that the Welsh avoided being invaded and subjugated for so long?

(https://i.etsystatic.com/17474613/r/il/69907b/2492083543/il_570xN.2492083543_rhi7.jpg)

Land of my Fathers: A (Very) Short History of Wales

Leaving aside the 300-year occupation by Rome, the first major battle to involve Wales was the Battle of Chester, in 616 AD (there are sources who give other dates, but fuck them: I'm sticking with this one. Who cares anyway? Bloody historians!) when the invading Angles and Saxons under Aethelfrith, one of the kings of half of Northumbria (as detailed previously) - he was the one who had all those priests killed, as they were praying for victory - faced the "wild" Welsh.  Chester being close to the Welsh border, it was a force of men from Powys, Rhôs and possibly Mercia too which met Aethelfrith and whose leaders were killed in the battle. Wales was broken into two main kingdoms, Powys and Gwynedd, but the first man to rule over the entire country was Rhodri Mawr in the 9th century. Of course, this then became the period in which the Viking raids on Britain began, and the Welsh were no exception to the depredations of the Danes.

Wales was, like Ireland, overwhelmingly Christian, some of this being due perhaps to the influx of Irish settlers who arrived around the fourth century, and like Ireland (and indeed England, before the ascension of Henry VIII) there were monasteries and abbeys dotted across the country, and monks, abbots and friars administering to the spiritual needs of the people. Over time, parts of what were Wales and the northern kingdoms were taken and absorbed into both Scotland and England, leaving Wales more or less as it is today. Although Rhodri Mawr ruled over Wales, the first man to do so effectively came a century after him, but would die before William even set sail for England and his new realm.

Gruffydd ap Llywelyn (c. 1010 - 1063)

Originally king of Gwynedd in 1039 on the death of  the previous ruler, Iago, supposedly his grandfather, he killed the brother of the Earl of Mercia and then attacked Dyffed, where he defeated Hywel ab Edwin (no relation, I don't think) who had Irish support. Gruffydd drove them out but they returned again two years later, in 1044. Again Gruffydd routed the new Irish army and this time ended Hywel's threat by the simple expedient of ending his life. He then linked up with Aelfgar, a disgruntled son of the Earl of Mercia who had a bone to pick with Harold, and together they attacked Hereford. Look, when the leader of the defenders is called Ralph the Timid, you're not exactly going to be expecting a hard time, are you?

And they didn't, leaving the town ablaze as they left. Soon after, Aelfgar got the earldom of East Anglia and was as happy as a pig in shit, so this time Gruffydd attacked Hereford on his own. Maybe he thought it hadn't been burned enough so he wanted to finish the job. Taking territory after territory and kingdom after kingdom, he seemed unstoppable, and in 1057 was recognised as King of Wales. It should be made clear that he had to swear fealty to Edward the Confessor, as did the King of Scotland, and rule as a kind of "under-king", so that he had Edward's blessing, meaning peace with England. As long, of course, as Edward felt like maintaining that peace.

He is recorded as being the only true King of Wales, and he reigned for seven years. Whether he was a brutal ruler or a just one I don't know, but the fact is that there was peace in his reign, enforced or not who can tell. In 1062 Harold rode against him, sent by the then-king, Edward the Confessor, and put him to flight. The next spring Tostig joined up with Harold and together they encircled Gruffydd's position, cutting him off and then literally cutting him off as they took his head to the king. In fact, it was Gruffydd's own men, desperate for peace with England, who agreed to kill him and send his head on to the king. Wales was again divided into the three traditional kingdoms, Harold reached an agreement with two Welsh kings and they were set up each to rule one of the kingdoms. Not sure who ruled over the third.

From around 1070 to 1081 Wales was again at war, as king fought king and territory changed hands, and internal strife tore the country apart, but by and large the new Norman monarchy left them to it, other things on William's mind. I suppose the prevailing wisdom was that as long as the Welsh were fighting amongst themselves they were never going to be united, and therefore no threat of attack from Wales existed. However in 1081 William decided that Wales was becoming just a little too united for his tastes: Gruffudd ap Cynan had managed to regain control of Gwynedd, and had an army of Irish mercenaries at his side. That didn't look good, and the old adage held true that when an under-king gets less under than you want him to be, time to teach him his place.

So William sent the Earl of Chester, Hugh D'Avranches, to parley with him but it was a trap and he was captured at Rug (you could say he had the rug pulled out from under him, ho ho) and nicked his lands. He then tried to install bishops and priests loyal to the Normans in place of the traditional native Welsh ones, but this did not go well, leading to the bishop having to carry a sword and go around with a bodyguard when he went out. Shades of The Simpsons: "Bishop carries less than fifty dollars" huh? In the end, Gruffudd escaped from Chester and returned to lead a revolt in 1094, but we're getting a little ahead of ourselves, so that's where we'll leave the history of Wales for now.

I wonder if it was a mistake for William to keep shuttling back and forth between France and England? In his absence something always seemed to happen, and it must have been hard to keep control when you're constantly moving between the two countries. But then he had holdings a-plenty in Normandy which he had to watch over, and England in general wasn't exactly being welcoming to him, so maybe he preferred being back in the homeland whenever he could. His method of land control amounted to a feudal system, as practised by the Normans, where the king basically held all the land and distributed it to those he saw fit to receive it, and took it from those he did not. This resulted in many English lords losing their lands and castles for having stood against him, and also the often forced marriage of English women to Norman lords, in order that the property would remain in, or pass into, Norman hands. As usual, the king retained control by the usage of castles, more and more built throughout England as William consolidated his power.

However, somewhat in comparison, in a strange way, to the Ascendancy landlords in Ireland in the nineteenth century, William spent very little time in England, preferring to administer his new kingdom through intermediaries. This had several consequences, the first of which was of course the rise to unprecedented power of lower lords, who were left to look after areas of England, though still directly under the control of the absentee king. The next was the all but elimination of the English aristocracy, as Normans became the dominant power in England and Englishmen, all now seen as "Saxons", were relegated to a second class status, again somewhat like Catholics in Ireland some hundreds of years later. Englishmen could no longer hold posts in the Church, or if they had lifetime appointments, were replaced on their death (and who is to say, with not a shred of evidence but you know, that some of these troublesome natives were not assisted out of this world early?) by Normans.

Another consequence was the "fuck this I'm out of here" syndrome, or to put it more mildly and  politely, the exodus of English to other countries not controlled by the Norman king: Scotland, Ireland and even Scandinavia - well, not surprising, considering how many Vikings still remained in England - as well as the Byzantine Empire, which was crying out for good mercenaries, and where a seasoned English soldier or commander could make good money. Back home, even the language was changing, as the Norman overlords forced the use of their Anglo-Norman tongue, and Old English - the dominant language before Hastings - began to undergo the same fate as Gaelic would in Ireland with the later arrival of the English, technically the Normans really. Administrative documents were now written in Latin, not English, and the Forest Laws were enacted, designating certain areas of England as belonging to the king, royal forests wherein no commoner may tread or hunt. This would of course in a few hundred years give rise to the legend of the one man who dared not only hunt in the forest, but live there and strike from it as his base to harry the occupying Normans.

(https://filmschoolrejects.com/wp-content/uploads/2021/07/Robin_Hood_Disney_1973.jpeg)

(Did he exist, or was he just a myth, put about to bolster Saxon courage and provide a figure of resistance? Was he based on a real-life figure? I don't know, and we'll examine the legend of Robin Hood when we get to the era in which he supposedly lived. One thing I do know pretty much for sure, and that is that he was not a fox.)

It might seem odd that all of these changes came about not due to a mass immigration of Normans to England, but a relatively small number. It's estimated that the population of Normans at the time of William the Conqueror only amounted to about 8,000 - that's about a thousandth of the population of London alone today, and less than half of its population at the time. In all of England. So it's not like the Normans outnumbered the English. Far from it; they were very much the minority. But then, once you're in power and have all the major institutions, including the army of course, under your control then it kind of really doesn't matter how inferior your numbers are.
(https://i.redd.it/cwrahe7juks41.jpg)
While there were definitely advantages to the Norman conquest (not if you were there at the time, and English, of course), such as the abolition in short order (well, two hundred years, but lightning fast in terms of history) of slavery, this in a way didn't matter for England, as almost all of the peasant or serf working class English were relegated ot the position of all but slaves. They had few rights, taxes of increasing cruelty were levied on them to pay for foreign wars, and they had no representation in the country. Not as if anyone could have voted or anything in the time of the House of Wessex, but at least you could expect that the king would, generally, have your best interests at heart. Not so under the Normans. It would probably be fair to say that English Saxons were looked upon by the new occupier ruling class as about as favourably as Jews were in Germany in the 1930s, or blacks in the Deep South in the nineteenth century, or the tenant farmers in Ireland by the Ascendancy landlords. In other words, in the eyes of the Normans, they had no rights, and this would continue for centuries until, eventually, as always happens, the invaders were not defeated by force but by inevitable circumstances.

As they began to intermarry with Saxon women, Norman men would acclimatise to the English ways, and the two peoples would more or less mingle to become one, as had happened to the Vikings in Ireland and indeed in France, where the Normans had become about as French as you could be. Now they would, slowly and not without bitter contest and bloodshed over the next few hundred years, almost against their will be turned from French into Englishmen, and England would be ruled by a sort of hybrid of both for the foreseeable future.

But to the native English, for a very long time, the Normans would be French, the enemy who came across the sea and killed their king, and then set about changing their land till it was virtually unrecognisable, a brutal, occupying force that frequently burned villages and towns, either in reprisal for rebellions or just because they were bored, and the Saxon scum had to be taught their place, and kept there. The huge, frowning Norman castles which would rise all over England, and remain there to this day, would be, and are, a lasting reminder of the huge and all-but world-changing effect these people would have on England, Ireland, Europe and further afield.

The time of the Normans had begun.

(https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/thumb/c/c4/Taz-Looney_Tunes.svg/1200px-Taz-Looney_Tunes.svg.png)
The Wild and Possibly Savage Revolt of Eadric the Wild, Part One

So that brings us back to that wild fella again, and how he rose against William's reign. We touched on his revolt, barely, before I realised we needed to have a short history lesson on Wales, then I kind of pushed him to one side, but I'm sure one thing old Eadric did not appreciate back then was being pushed to one side, so let's look into how he fought against the new King of Britain. In fact, who the hell was he? Well, for a start, he was no Welshman, though it looks to have been him who was first to have organised Welsh resistance - even if this just meant mobilising them to his own ends - against William.

As the new king and his occupying force would soon set about the eradication of the Old English/Saxon naming tradition of placing E after A, Eadric (also known as Edric) was a proud Saxon magnate, and has indeed been said to have been a nephew of the infamous Eadric Streona, bane of King Cnut, of whom we have heard previously. As usual with the Middle Ages and before, reliable intel is next to impossible to come by, and things like lineage - unless you were famous and powerful, like a king - hard to prove. It may be that the relationship was other than that of being a nephew to Eadric Streona (Eadric the Wild's own father, Aeflic, may not have been Eadric Streona's brother but his nephew, which would then make Eadric the WIld his, um, something. Grandson? Not sure. Doesn't matter) but there was definitely a familial connection there.

Eadric's lands (we're done with Eadric Streona now, thank Christ, and every reference to Eadric means the Wild; we're just dealing with him now) - and presumably, those of his father, were in Hereford and Shropshire, both counties close to the Welsh border, which explains why he was able to enlist the help of his cousins to the west. While many English (Saxon) lords and nobles bent the knee to their new king, our Eadric was not one of them, and while he may - or may not - have been the first to say no, he did rebel a mere year after Hastings, so he must have been at the front of the queue. You can see, of course, why he - and any other lord or noble - would not take kindly to William the Conqueror. He was, after all, a conqueror of England and that meant rewarding the men who had helped him achieve his conquest and won for him the crown of England, or indeed Britain. How he rewarded them was of course with land, land that had previously belonged to the now-defeated English, the Saxons. And Eadric the Wild, no doubt so named for a reason, weren't having none of that, no sir.
(https://www.historic-uk.com/wp-content/uploads/2022/05/battle-hastings-bayeux.jpg)
His raids were doomed to failure, and to understand this we have to comprehend the biggest and most immovable innovation the Normans brought to England (and later Ireland). Up until the time of their arrival, the word "castle" was not even known in Britain. We may remember back to the days of Alfred the Great, less than a century prior, when the legendary first real King of England instigated the system of burhs, standing fortifications which were always manned. Even though these were, for want of another word, forts, they were not castles, not really even buildings. At best, they were constructed upon the remains of either Roman forts (which were not castles either, more walled encampments with perhaps a guard tower, slightly similar, perhaps, to prisons today) or even older Bronze Age hillforts. The idea of a huge, walled, stone edifice, with a standing army, drawbridge, moat, gates, turrets, arrow slits and indeed an entire mini-ecosystem running it, was utterly alien to the English. They literally had no word for it. The Normans, of course, did: they called them castles.
(https://www.english-heritage.org.uk/siteassets/home/00-shared-blocks-and-media/z-shared-blocks-and-media-archive/shared-media/rochester_castle.jpg?w=550&h=350&mode=crop&scale=both&cache=always&quality=60&anchor=&WebsiteVersion=20200219)

"Fuck me, boys! We are NOT attacking that! Hey! Who are you calling a coward ya bastard? I'll show ye!"

So first of all, to have to deal with the sudden emergence and proliferation of such massive strongholds was bad enough, but to consider attacking them must have seemed all but tantamount to suicide. Not forgetting, of course, the Norman mounted army, the cavalry, another new innovation, a further culture shock to the infantry-minded Saxons. It's not at all surprising, then, to read that Eadric's attempts to take Hereford Castle (built on the lands which used to be his, and his father's) was entirely unsuccessful, and though, as mentioned, he had help from the two princes of Wales (sorry) Bleddyn and Rhiwallon ap Cynfyn, he was forced to take shelter in Wales as the three considered their next move. It wouldn't quite be true to say the Normans' laughter followed them across the border, for although they had little to no chance of taking the castle, they did take a lot of men with them, as John of Worcester, writing in the 12th century, noted that "they [the Normans at Hereford Castle] lost many of their knights and soldiers."

The first word there is impressive. You could imagine Eadric and his Welsh allies taking down infantry, but, being of course not mounted themselves, the idea that they were able to kill knights, men on horses, Norman cavalrymen, must mean that they were fiercer opponents than the defenders of the castle had expected. Nevertheless, they may have struck some blows but they were never getting into that stone fortress and back off to Wales they went, to plan and plot. This, of course, it should be noted and understood, all took place at a time when the newly-crowned (as such) King William was living it up and basking in the adulation of his Norman fans back in good old France.

Two years went by, and by the time they were ready to strike again Eadric and the Welsh princes found themselves far from the only ones rebelling against the new king, as other lords and nobles rose in anger and wrath at the treatment meted out to them by the Conqueror. 1069 saw the three allies attack and this time besiege Shrewsbury Castle, though again they failed to take it. To console themselves they burned the town, so as far as they were concerned I'm sure that was something. At this time, William, however, was back in da house, as it were, and while he was at that moment putting paid to a rebellion by the Earl of Morcar up in ever-troublesome Northumbria, when news reached him of the burning of Shrewsbury and the attack on the castle there, he hot-footed it back south and met them in battle at Stafford. It should be also noted that this time Eadric, Rhiwallon and Bleddyn had further support, this time for Chesire, again very close to their home country.

It made no difference.

Whether we can judge him for being a coward, a shrewd man who knew ye game was up, or just someone who was beating a tactical retreat, Eadric legged it before William's army arrived from the north, and so was not there to see the defeat of his two allies. This must have given him pause though, and finally accepting the inevitable (and perhaps allowing it to be said, though it probably wasn't, that Eadric the Wild had been tamed) he submitted to William, thereafter even assisting him in putting down another rebellion later, in 1072, to the disgust of the other lords, who surely thought him a traitor.

Ah, but did they?

The Wild and Possibly Savage Revolt of Eadric the Wild, Part Two

If there's one thing any people love, and the English as much as we Irish, it's a good folk tale, and if that can involve a local hero - real or imagined - so much the better. Jessica Brain, a native of Kent who is a freelance writer specialising in local history, has a fascinating article which shows, or purports to show, how sometimes a traitor can be turned into a hero by the creation of a legend around them. Perhaps in a case of national (or local) refusal to accept that the great rebel had turned against England, several fanciful legends sprung up about not only Eadric but his wife Godda, some surely echoing those that were told about one of England's greatest kings who may never have lived, the semi-mythical King Arthur.

To explain the turning of their hero, the story was put about that Eadric and his wife had been taken prisoner by their own people, who were shocked and outraged at Eadric's betrayal of them. The stories - getting more fanciful as they were added to - went on to say that the two had been imprisoned in lead mines in Shropshire, and that a curse had been placed upon them, forcing them to stay there for eternity. Should England be threatened, they would have to rise and ride forth to defend the country they had betrayed, after which they would be forced to return to their eternal incarceration. Their vigil - and imprisonment - would not come to an end until the Norman oppressors were driven out of England, and Anglo-Saxon ways returned.
(https://folklorethursday.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/06/wildhunt.png)
Stories like these, of course, take on a life of their own, and so-called "sightings" have been made of the ghostly traitor and his wife, in 1814 during the Crimean War, and just before the two World Wars. Witnesses (surely unreliable/drunk) swear they saw the two riding side by side, leading an army of men across the Shropshire hills. But that's not all. Perhaps striking some parallels with tales of those doomed to roam this plane forever after death due to whatever they have or haven't done in life, such as the Flying Dutchman or the Headless Horseman, Eadric became involved with something known as "the wild hunt", which claims that legendary heroes (see how quickly, in relative terms, a traitor becomes a hero?) ride out in times of need, leading a hunt - sometimes even across the sky - in search of lost or doomed souls to capture and take back with them.

Again linking the Wild One back to King Arthur's legend, the tale of "the fish and the sword" holds that a great fish is in possession of Eadric's sword, and that if it is ever caught, the fish will simply cut itself free using the sword. Quite how a piscean that does not possess arms is supposed to use a sword is not explained, but you know storytellers and their legends. Oh, and the King Arthur bit? If the true heir of Eadric is ever to catch the fish, the sword will present itself to him. Presumably not, as George R.R. Martin noted, with the pointy end first. Yeah, all sounds a little fishy to me. Sorry.
(https://i.ytimg.com/vi/wTDLDdqMwnU/hq720.jpg?sqp=-oaymwEhCK4FEIIDSFryq4qpAxMIARUAAAAAGAElAADIQj0AgKJD&rs=AOn4CLC0MIsRO-lUhEfHOqt7OOSRYs5Sxg)
Eadric's wife is not just there as a sidekick either, or no. They have a legend about her too. As perhaps you might expect, she's rumoured to have been a fairy princess who takes human form, and agrees to marry Eadric as long as he is good to her. One day, his temper breaks and from that moment she transforms back into a fairy and fucks off back to wherever fairies come from, leaving him to bemoan his temper and consider taking anger management classes. Feckin' women, eh? Can't say a cross word to them but they turn on the waterworks, turn into a fairy and leave you in a pool of your own tears. How many times has that happened to me?

In reality, we know that Eadric helped his new master to attack that old enemy hold-out, Scotland, and then accompanied him to France where he fought with him at Maine (no, not the state, dummy!) and seems to have, rather ironically, ended his days in his home county. After opposing Ranulph de Mortimer in Herefordshire and being defeated, he was (it's said) imprisoned in Wigmore Castle, where he died, date unknown.

Papal Bull? The Pope Sets the Seal on William's Right to Rule

As has already been pointed out, at this time England was staunchly Catholic, mostly because there was nothing else. If you were a Christian, you were a Catholic. The two were interchangeable and indistinguishable. When various popes called for crusades against the infidel or the heathen, it was not against Protestants that they fumed and raged (though later, of course, they would) and for at least the next half a millennium, Catholic = Christian and Christian = Catholic. The only other religions were Judaism, Islam and others seen as "heretical" by the Church. So while there may possibly have been the odd group in medieval England who worshipped pagan gods and remembered the druids, it's probably fair to say that the bulk of the native population were Christian/Catholic. As were the French, and would remain so, one of the biggest Catholic powers along with Spain even as England turned to the wickedness of their own form of Lutheranism.

One good way, then, to have your monarchy legitimised was to have the head of the Christian Church give it his seal, and this happened in 1070, when the pope sent three of his legates (quick! Legate! Sorry) to England - I suppose he didn't fancy travelling there himself for some Norman duke who now found himself king of England - who all dotted the holy "I"'s and crossed the ecclesiastical "T"s to make his reign official in the eyes of the Church, and really, those were the only eyes to be seen as official in. Once His Holiness had given William the nod, he was the rightful ruler of England, and everyone had better toe the line, or they might just find themselves suddenly no longer on the guest list when they arrived at the Pearly Gates! Not that this stopped resistance to William's rule, of course, but it must have made some of the would-be rebels examine their hearts and wonder if material possessions in this life were, after all, important enough to sacrifice their immortal souls for?
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Not that, mind you, I'm saying anyone who rose against their new sovereign would be automatically excommunicated; I'm sure the pope had much better things to do, and while he would certainly, as it were, notarise the documents for William to say he was the One True King, it's highly doubtful he would have started condemning people to Hell if they rebelled against the Conqueror. After all, God needs all the souls he can get, right? And who knew: somewhere down the line, Rome might find itself ideologically or even militarily opposed to England and its new king, or his successor, and then, as ever, traitors would become heroes and terrorists patriots and so on. Therefore I'm assuming (though I don't know, but it makes sense) that His Holiness kept his nose out of William's affairs, had his legates stamp the certificates and recalled them to the sunnier climes of Italy, leaving England to fend for itself.

When we get to the legend, or otherwise, of Robin Hood it will be interesting to see if he or his men, or the people he fought for, ever appealed to or even mentioned or thought of the pope. I kind of feel they may have been (certainly were, in the series Robin of Sherwood) more disposed towards the friendlier, local and far more pagan gods, especially those of the forests, and may have considered the pope an enemy for having basically set his seal on the legitimacy of the king who oppressed them and now occupied their land. But as I say, that's all in the future. Right now it's sufficient to say that William had the backing, such as it was, of Rome, and could certainly consider, and prove himself to be the rightful King of England.
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But let's just take a moment here to consider: why did he do it? Was he worried that England - not, remember, at this time, anything like a European, never mind world power - might turn against Rome if he refused to legitimise William's claim? Or did he see in the new king a man who would spread Catholicism (Christianity) further and wider than had the kings of the House of Wessex? I suppose it can be remembered that a mere four hundred years ago,the people of England, these very Saxons who were now being ground under William's heel, had been not averse to the idea of "ping-pong belief", which is to say, if they converted and then things didn't go their way, they had no issue checking out what other gods had to offer. So at that time, around the seventh century, Christianity was in perhaps not quite as precarious a position as it had been in, say, Nero's time, but could not in all fairness be really said to have been established as the most popular or even state religion (not that there was, till much later, any state to speak of). So perhaps His Holiness didn't quite think Christianity had the stranglehold on England that it should have, and hoped this new guy would send his men into the various villages and perhaps forests and explain to the people in no uncertain terms that worshipping false gods came with certain terms and conditions, mostly that you might no longer be able to use all your limbs, as you would be deprived of them, and that that lovely thatch your roof is made of burns so easily. Why not take the easy way and just submit to God yes? Oh but we're going to burn your hovel down anyway. Why? We're Normans, son! Got to burn something.

There was, of course, a negative side to this papal seal of approval, and it had to do with the English (Saxon) bishops, most of whom began to search furiously for their nearest dole office as they were summarily defrocked, and Norman lads put in their place. Well, it made sense, didn't it? Not much point in enforcing your own (and the pope's) form of Christianity if you leave the old guard there to implement those laws. Like all kings and queens, William knew the most important thing was to place in positions of power men he trusted, and he didn't trust a Saxon as far as he could throw him into a burning village, so out they went and in came his people. The pope, of course, either smiled on or ignored this ecclesiastical cabinet reshuffle - France was a God-fearing Catholic country, whereas England? Well, England was still getting there. Too many damned pagan deities and wood sprites and what have you roaming the English countryside, infesting the forests and hanging out by the banks of rivers, waiting to catch unsuspecting innocent maidens and tempt them away from the worship of God possibly. Best to be rid of them all, and the frogs were the guys to do that. How they did it, how many they killed or made homeless was not his problem.

Was William that bothered about spreading the faith, converting the heathen? Nah, probably not. I imagine he couldn't give a pair of toasted stag's antlers what the Saxons believed in, but positions in the Church carried with them great power and wealth (and lands) and he had no intention of leaving these in the hands of his now-vanquished enemy. Not only that, he had to reward his people for having fought for him, and while being awarded lands and castles was all very well, people like them also wanted the titles, and this suited William. After all, remember that pretty much all of these Saxon clergy had been appointed by, well, Saxon kings. They would have been the remnants of, and reminders of the "old days", the days when the House of Wessex was in control of England (and later, very briefly, Godwin and not quite so briefly Denmark) and such memories were to be stamped out, ground into the English dust, which was now Norman dust, and if anyone had a problem with that, do please come up to the castle and check out our state-of-the-art dungeons. You'll never want to leave. Nor will you be able to.

A final reason, of course, for the deposing of the Saxon clerics would have been to practise upon them the final insult: take away their representation to God. While, probably, all English Christians still professed loyalty to Rome, the pope was a very long way away, and so the bishops and archbishops and deacons and abbots were the ones into whose trust was put the responsibility for the care of their immortal souls. Now, that was to be taken from them, and perhaps like the Irish a few centuries later, forced to convert to Anglicanism or face imprisonment or execution, and forbidden to practise their own religion, the Saxons, while still allowed to be Christians, had now to be Norman Christians. Which is to say, of course, that they could only take mass in Norman churches, celebrated by Norman priests and bishops, those masses held in Latin, not the more familiar Old English they were used to. In this way, I imagine, mass became less a participatory event and more a kind of pointless ritual, as most English could not understand Latin, nor did they wish to. Alfred the Great had seen to the former two hundred years prior, and as for the latter, well, reading Latin was tantamount to acknowledging the invader's right to be in England, almost like collaboration. So, like we Irish refused to speak English, the Saxons refused to learn Latin, and the Normans? They didn't give a curse; didn't want these nasty heathen Saxons sullying their lovely language with their uncouth tongues anyway. Sure, they didn't have to understand what the priest said, and being low and (in Norman eyes surely) unintelligent as they were, they probably wouldn't have been able to.

Danes to the Left of Me, Frenchies to the Right, Here I am...

Unfortunately for WIlliam, the pope's approval meant nothing to men to whom the pope himself meant nothing. Yep, the Vikings were again eyeing England and, perhaps seeing the new king as a weak point, or having intelligence of the rebellions breaking out across his new kingdom, they decided they wanted some of that action, and began putting orders in to Sven the Shipwright, all specially weather-proofed against the rainy English climate. If the fact that William, a Norman, was a distant cousin registered in their minds, it would have mattered little if at all. We've already seen that Vikings had a loyalty to little else but their pocket, and if the opportunity arose to attack their neighbour, well sure wasn't that what neighbours were for? So a guy who had Viking ancestry in his family did nothing to dissuade them, and on they came. They weren't the only ones who took advantage of William's difficulties, but let's deal with them first.

In 1069 King Sweyn, in association with Edgar the Aethling, brought a large fleet from Norway to fight William. Sweyn's uncle was someone called Cnut, you may have heard me mention him in passing. Now, in a strange case of coincidence, it seems that Sweyn had a similar story to tell about a claim to the English throne as did William. Though no evidence existed to back his tale up (about as much as legitimised William's own claim) he said that he had visited England during his uncle's reign and that the throne of England had been promised to him on the death of Edward the Confessor who, as you should recall, died without a sprog to his name, triggering the last-ever succession crisis prior to the Norman invasion. Though William secured a promise of neutrality from Denmark before he made his move on England, rumours abound that Sweyn sent troops to help Harold Godwinson retain the crown that was resting, rather shakily, upon his head.

When Harold fell at the Battle of Hastings and William became the new King of England, the first of a long line of Norman kings, Sweyn was none too happy about it, but unable to show the Conqueror exactly how unhappy, as he had troubles of his own to deal with. His kingship of Denmark was being contested, and for the moment England would have to wait. However now that things had settled down back home, and with the urging of the Saxons, who were also less than pleased to being ruled by a bunch of frogs (and possibly remembered how an all but English Golden Age had flourished under Cnut), he began making plans to invade England. He knew he had an ally in the aforementioned Edgar the Aethling, whom the Saxon lords would see as the true king of England, In 1069 good old reliable Northumbria exploded in revolt, and Sweyn's assistance was again requested. Wary of the power of the Danes, William sent one of his abbots to Denmark to ask Sweyn not to bother, it was just a few hundred rebels, easily cleaned up, and his trip would be for nothing. Sweyn, of course, knew a whitewash job when he heard it, and anyway, he had all these shiny new longships just sitting, rather like Otis Redding, on the dock of the bay, doing nothing, and as we all know, raiding ships that aren't raiding aren't making money.
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So he launched his fleet and headed back towards his uncle's second-favourite country to rule, and Edgar began rubbing his hands and making plans to redecorate the throne room maybe. In totally atypical Viking fashion, however, Sweyn did not travel with his fleet, possibly due to his bad back or needing to catch up on his box set of Game of Thrones, who knows? But he sent his sons Harald and Cnut, and his own brother Asbjørn. They came up against stiff resistance from the Normans, and had to flee from no less than four intended landing spots, one of which, Ipswich, they did land at but were chased back to their boats by irate Ipswich fans, or possibly Norman soldiers, or both, till finally they came ashore at the Humber, where an exasperated Edgar would have looked at his watch had they been invented and grumped "What the fuck kept you? Don't you know how cold it is standing around here on the shores of this bloody river in winter?"

Notwithstanding the king-in-waiting's possible complaints, the Danes and the Saxons marched on York, all the county of Yorkshire rising in revolt, which led to the attack by William's forces on the north and the subsequent harrying of it, as already noted. Whether shocked by the ferocity of the Norman attack (unlikely; he was, after all, a Viking) or realising that his allies had been so depleted that he now had little chance of victory, Sweyn, who had by now joined his fleet, stuck out his hand and accepted the gold William offered him to bugger off back across the sea, and buggered off back across the sea.

But not right away.

It may have come as something of a shock to the people of England as Sweyn's troops arrived in their counties and began ravaging the countryside. They surely must have thought the Dane had come to help free them, and place Edgar (or some suitable substitute) on the throne of England, but in fact Sweyn had secured, in addition to a large payout, permission from William to sack the eastern coast, in order to feed his rather ravenous army. After all, what did William care if they killed Saxons? Less enemies to rebel, less Englishmen to keep control of, and this would also, he must have thought rather cunningly, sow distrust between the Saxons and the Danes, making it unlikely they would band together against him in the future. In that, however, he was to be proved wrong.

The Revolt of the Earls: Marital Strife Becomes Martial Strikes

I mentioned earlier that, having secured his position as the new King of England, William almost immediately fucked off back to Normandy, and left his new kingdom in the hands of some of his most trusted nobles. At least, he assumed they were to be trusted, but as ever in such a situation, as a famous Irish sports commentator once stated, give a man a hat...

In this situation, that could have been amended to give a man a wife, or rather, refuse to give him a wife, and it is this refusal that is at the very root of the open rebellion among his court which led to what became known as the Revolt of the Earls. Whether it was a case of love at first sight, boy meets girl or simply boy wants girl, or what I don't know, but Ralph de Guader fancied one Emma, daughter of the Earl of Hereford, and sought permission to marry her. William, very busy frogside showing everyone there how clever he was and relating tall tales about how wet and miserable England was (possibly leading those who listened to him to wonder why he had bothered conquering the place if it was so shitty) either ignored his request or turned it down. Either way, it really didn't matter, as Ralph thought to himself, His Majesty is over the Channel and I want to get my leg over, so fuck him. And, in short order, fuck her. Every night. And so he married Emma, without royal permission.

Big mistake.
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When the Earl of Northumberland, Waltheof (who had been one of those greeting Sweyn at the Humber with Edgar) rose in revolt, and Roger de Breteuil, Earl of Hereford, joined him, Ralph, now related to him by blood, joined Roger in supporting Waltheof. He turned out to be what medieval historians technically term a little bitch, going ratting to the Archbishop of Canterbury about the plot, and dropping his mates right in it. As a result, Roger was held at the river Severn by a paid army of free Saxons (why were they fighting for the Normans? Didn't you see the word "paid"?) led by the one remaining Saxon bishop who had not been dismissed, and whom the Catholic Church would later canonise, Wulfstan.

With one of the triumvirate of rebels having betrayed them, the remaining two were running out of luck. Roger was excommunicated by Lanfranc, the aforementioned Archbishop of Canterbury, while Ralph's army ran into not one, but two bishops, one of whom was William's brother, Odo of Bayeux, and the distressingly-obsessed with cutting people's feet off Geoffrey de Montbray at Cambridge, and had to retreat to his castle in Norwich. Here, he literally asked Emma to hold down the fort while he sailed to Denmark to request assistance from Sweyn. The Danish king sent him a fleet, and two of his sons (again) but they were no help, and Ralph had to flee to (no, not Flanders for once) Brittany with Emma when his wife managed to negotiate terms of surrender. These included, of course, the loss of all their lands, and his title.

He, it turned out, was the lucky one.

Roger was imprisoned and later beheaded, though not until after William had also passed on to that Great Throne Room in the Sky, while crybaby turncoat Waltheof lost his during the king's reign (William perhaps, amusingly, crying "Waltheof with his head!" No? Fair enough), making him the only English noble to be executed during the reign of William the Conqueror, a milestone I'm pretty sure he would rather not have crossed. Needless to say, both men also lost their lands and titles, in addition to their heads. Waltheof, perhaps due to being, as I said, the only Englishman to be executed on the king's orders, later became a martyr, and all sorts of miracles were said to have been performed at his tomb, though as the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle sensibly points out, these reports were in all likelihood ye pile of bollocks.

What's not a pile of old bollocks is that the Revolt of the Earls was seen as the last significant rise against William's reign, though it seems nobody told the Danes about that. And back to them we go.

The Return of the King. Of Denmark

To some extent, you have to feel for William. Getting on in years now, possibly sitting more on the throne for support as to prove his kingship, he had in fact only two years to live when Sweyn's son, Cnut, decided it was time for a rematch, and, gathering allies from Flanders (Count Robert I) and Norway (King Olaf III) he prepared for a final attempt to regain his grand-uncle's throne and re-establish the rule of the House of Denmark over England. This time they meant business, their fleet numbering a thousand ships, which even back then was recorded by contemporary historians as being "fucking huge".

William, on the other hand, seems not to have had much of a navy. I wonder why? Didn't he come to England originally with a shit ton of ships? What happened to them? Hmm. Doesn't say, but yes, over exaggeration as it may have been, William is said to have sailed with three times that number - 3,000 ships - so where did they go? Perhaps when he had, as he saw it, subdued England he no longer needed them and sent them back to Normandy? I suppose a navy has to be paid for, and what point shelling out the wages if you don't need them? At any rate, the accounts say he had no major navy, certainly nothing capable of opposing the combined Danish, Norwegian and Flemish fleet, so instead he employed mercenaries from France and stationed them on the coast.

In the end, it came to nothing as, rather like the projected invasion by Hitler's Germany almost nine hundred years later, and that by the Spanish five hundred years later, events conspired to ensure England's shores would never echo to the footfall of the invader. Well, other than the invader who was already there, of course, and in control. Olaf and Cnut fell out, as any good Viking worth his salt will, and the Danish king also had problems dealing with overtures from the Holy Roman Empire, leading, perhaps, but certainly resulting in his passing in the year 1086, helpfully assisted through the gates of Valhalla by rebels (possibly loyal to Olaf, though it doesn't say) who ended his reign, his life, and, by extension, the threat to England. The massive fleet had never left harbour, and William stood his army down, confident that the danger was passed.

It was, and there would never be another. Small consolation to him, I guess, as he would himself pass beyond the veil the following year, though at least he would do so as the uncontested King of England.

Note: Though there was plenty of unrest in France that William had to deal with, this is the History of England, and so I'm not going to go into that in any detail. We've probably spent longer on William the Conqueror than I had intended anyway (not that he doesn't deserve it) and we've still a thousand years of history to write about - well, close to it anyway - so we're leaving it at that.

What did the Normans Ever Do for Us?

While it can't be denied that the invasion by and subsequent rule of William the Conqueror began a whole new chapter in English history, it also destroyed forever the grip of Anglo-Saxon England, relegating its names, heroic figures, practices and even its language to, as I heard someone say yesterday on a documentary about Hitler, the dustbin of history. The Norman occupation of England would give rise to the legend of the greatest rebel and hero of them all, Robin Hood, but even the fabled outlaw (if he existed) would be unable to break the power of the Normans over England, and they would rule in an unbroken line for the next seventy years. Which, I have to admit, doesn't really seem all that long. But I guess the point is that while the actual House of Normandy would end with Henry I in 1135, the legacy they had built is still with us today. Principle among which is...
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Norman Castles

It was rather to my own surprise that I learned the very word castle had not been in the English language until the arrival of the Normans, but in short order the previously-dominant Anglo-Saxons were shown just what that meant. Huge, frowning edifices of brick and stone, many hundreds of feet high, protected by high walls manned by garrisons of troops, with forbidding portcullis protecting the entrance and a drawbridge further restricting access across a moat in which an attacking army could drown or be easy targets for archers, Norman castles were the Death Stars of their day. Okay, they couldn't fly through space and they didn't launch hordes of fighters at you, but they were all but impregnable, and a single glance at the high, unscalable walls must have been enough to have had an opposing army turn away in dejection. Perhaps they could be more properly compared to aircraft carriers (minus the aircraft of course); a self-contained world which was mostly self-sufficient, all food, fuel, ammunition and other materials needed stored behind its vast gates, all but a mini-town of its own, keeping out intruders and undesirables.

One of the most famous of these Norman Castles is the Tower of London, which was begun just after 1066, and to which William had added the White Tower in 1078. In contrast to the timber fortification, the White Tower is made of stone, and of course, as everyone knows, stands today, and has been used by many subsequent kings and queens of England/Britain as a prison, a dungeon, an armoury and a place of execution. The idea quickly took hold of a castle as a place not only of fortification and defence, but of permanent habitation too. These were places armies could live in and places lords, nobles and monarchs could call their home. With the advent of the castle also came the somewhat revolutionary idea of towns, England having been previously divided up into shires, hides and other sections of the land.

William also brought with him Norman laws, such as the right to hunt. Under Norman law (or certainly, royal law) all of the forests and woods were the protectorate and possession of the Crown, and so anyone hunting there was guilty of stealing from the king. This law may have had two foundations: one the one hand, it kept the common Saxons in check and showed them who was boss, and on the other, it preserved all the game in the English forests for the exclusive use of the king, or those he allowed to hunt there. William, like many French nobles, was a big fan of hunting, and under his law many a man lost a hand or an eye for daring to trespass and hunt (poach) on this land. This, you'll not be surprised to hear, led to the genesis of the legend of Robin Hood, who, it is said, not only traversed and hunted Sherwood Forest with impunity, but made his base there, turning the king's forest against him and his officers, a Saxon two fingers to the Crown. But that's later in the story.

Although the accepted King of England, William did not renounce his French title, and so when he travelled to his home country he acknowledged that he was loyal to the French Crown (even if the French king was at various times attacking him or supporting rebels who rose against him), something, I believe - though I could of course be wrong - no other English king ever did after him. When Henry V, for instance, travelled to Calais he did so as the King of England, owing no fealty to the French throne - believing, in fact, that he should be on that throne as King of England and France. I suppose William's origins were unique in that aspect, though further down the line another William, he of Orange, did not, I believe, react similarly to the Dutch king, if he ever visited Holland again after being crowned. William also moved the royal capital, for the very first time, from its traditional location at Winchester to London, which has been ever since both the capital of England and the residence of the sovereign.
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The Domesday Book

The first, and certainly most detailed account of landholdings in England, the Domesday Book was commissioned by William and completed a year before his death, in 1086. And yes, it is pronounced "doomsday", the idea being that its contents could not be altered until the dawning of Judgement Day itself. Originally called Liber de Wintonia, or The Book of Winchester, it was a record of every shire or county in the kingdom, listing each lord's landholdings, serfs, agricultural equipment, livestock etc, so that the king could know the actual value of the land and thereby  how much tax was owed to the Crown. I suppose in some ways it was both the first Norman accounts ledger and the first Royal Census, though the Saxons didn't count as anything other than numbers - nobody cared what their names were, what they did or anything about them: they were, quite simply, resources, and one could say all but property, slaves in all but name.

Under Norman law, all the land in England belonged to the king, and so he was like a "super-landowner", hiring out the land to his "tenants", the nobles and  lords who "held" it for him, thus the description of them as "holdings" or "land holdings". In return for his granting them the tenancy of the lands, of course, His Majesty expected them to cough up the bucks, and the Domesday Book laid out in clear, precise terms (if in Latin) how much each lord owed. Naturally, the more land, workers, cattle etc any lord or noble had, the more he owed and would be expected to pony up.

Oh, and in case you want to know, just as words such as "terrific" had a far different meaning back then to the one they have now, the word "doom" itself did not carry the dire and dread implications we attribute to it now. Don't take my word for it: here's Henry II's treasurer, Richard FitzNeal, writing in 1179: "The natives call this book "Domesday", that is, the day of judgement. This is a metaphor: for just as no judgement of that final severe and terrible trial can be evaded by any subterfuge, so when any controversy arises in the kingdom concerning the matters contained in the book, and recourse is made to the book, its word cannot be denied or set aside without penalty. For this reason we call this book the "book of judgements", not because it contains decisions made in controversial cases, but because from it, as from the Last Judgement, there is no further appeal."
(https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/a/a7/DomesdayCountyCircuitsMap.png/480px-DomesdayCountyCircuitsMap.png)
Another thing that occurred in England during Norman times - perhaps not intentionally, but with the rise of the Norman noble classes and the fall into servitude of the Saxon lords it was bound to happen - was the rather rapid loss from history of names associated with Saxon England. As already noted, names such as Aethelbert and Aethelstan vanished, the very idea of pairing A with E given the elbow sharpish, and names more linked with France such as Henry, William and Robert came more into vogue, this being of course due to the important children being born all coming from noble (Norman) families, and therefore given Norman names. A few names did persist, such as Albert, Edward, Edgar etc., but they lost the old spelling and had to "Normanise" themselves.

But the main change in names wasn't to do with first names but last, as wealthy French families were rewarded with land which had previously belonged to English ones, and so the French way of denoting son (de/of) became more popular, with De Courceys and De Montfort, and other suffixes and prefixes like Fitz and De La. The links between England and Scandinavia, which had persisted for almost three hundred years, were severed forever as William forged closer ties with his native country and paid off the last of the Danish fleets to try to invade England, the last, as we saw, never making it out of the harbour.

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The Final Years of William the Conqueror

In 1082 William had his half-brother Odo arrested. Nobody knows why, but we can probably guess. Apart from it being more or less the done thing to have your siblings arrested, tried, and possibly imprisoned or executed (or, if you were feeling particularly magnanimous, secure in your power and merciful, exiled), the chances are that the two did not get on, and that William would have seen him as a threat. Odo was also said to have tried to enlist some of his half-brother's vassals to participate in an invasion of Italy, with the idea of making himself pope. This would not have gone down well with the king (or the current pope!) for two reasons: one, Odo seconding his vassals would have weakened the authority of the king and two, probably, he already had Rome onside with regard to his rule of England. Were Odo to become the next pope, and decide to invalidate that seal of approval, it could have caused untold trouble for William. Also, had the new Pope Odo (or whatever name he might have chosen) then opposed, even attacked his half-brother, William would again be fighting for his new country, and to be quite honest about it, and to quote Danny Glover, he was getting too old for this shit.

So into a dark cell he was thrown, not to be released until the king's passing, but William's problems did not end there. Like all good sons, his own, Robert, rebelled, and with the help of the French king, another rebellion a year later by Hubert de Beaumont-au-Maine, and the passing of his wife Matilda (whom he seemed to have genuinely loved), pushed him into an early grave. Accounts of his death vary, and nobody really knows how he died, but there are some disturbingly macabre and gory details and some rather black humour attending his funeral.
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Having fought against Robert in Mantes, west of Paris, William either "fell ill" (nice and vague) or was "injured by the pommel of his saddle", presumably falling on it? Yeah I don't really see how that would kill him. I thought maybe a saddle pommel was sharp or something, but I see a picture of one and it's not. Mind you, that is a modern saddle, and I'm sure there were plenty of changes in the design over almost a thousand years, so maybe. Ah, right. Another book tells me knowledgably that his horse stepped on a burning cinder, reared and threw him forward onto the - iron - pommel. Well, as Bart Simpson has said on several occasions, that's gotta hurt! At any rate, he died on September 9 1087, and that's where it begins to get interesting.

I certainly don't understand why, but maybe with the man opposing the French king now dead people did not want to be seen to be associated with him? At any rate, it's said that few people stayed with his body, each person leaving the deathbed at Rouen and "hurrying off to tend to his own affairs." If any of these were English, or Normans who had an interest in the succession, perhaps they wanted to get home and jockey for position, as was usual when a monarch died, or maybe they were anxious to make new alliances or break old ones. As I say, the body was left in France and, perhaps looking at each other and then shrugging, the monks must have found or been told of the English king's last wishes, to be buried in the Benedictine monastery of Abbaye-aux-Hommes (literally, can you believe it, abbey for men?) also known as the Abbey of Saint Etienne, in Caen, which he had founded. The king's body was thereafter conveyed there, and his funeral took place.

Everyone who was everyone was of course there, as was some wanker who claimed his family owned the land the abbey was built on, and demanded to be paid for it, saying he had been stiffed by, well, whomever. Possibly to shut him up and keep scandal to a minimum, possibly also hissing "this is a fucking funeral, mon ami, and not just any funeral - the funeral of the King of fucking England! Can't we sort this out later?" to be told that "Non, m'sieu, we cannot, because then you will refuse to pay me, whereas now, all you want to do is get rid of this annoying grotty little man who is stinking up your royal funeral, non?" And so they got rid of the annoying grotty little man, but the funeral was, sadly (and, I have to admit with a little guilt, humorously) about to be stunk up even worse.

Seems when they lowered the corpse into the grave, some idiot hadn't measured properly, and the king's body was too wide to go in. So, like all good workmen the world over, not just Frenchmen, I stress, they used their initiative and, well, forced it. Let me just take a step back and give you a personal view of how we all do this. I remember we were waiting for a taxi to take my sister Karen to a dental appointment, and I had stressed that we needed a wheelchair taxi. I had also made it very clear that we needed a large van, as she could not get out of the wheelchair, as some disabled people can, and would have to sit in it while in the back of the van. Come the day, they sent a small vanette. It had a wheelchair ramp, yes, but you entered through the side, not the back, and simply put, the wheels on Karen's wheelchair made it too wide to go in.

With no idea what to do, no chance of booking another wheelchair taxi for that day, and facing not only a cancellation of her appointment with the dentist - and who knew when we would get another? - but also the prospect of her being in pain for at least another day, I did what every desperate idiot does who has completely run out of ideas and has no clue how to proceed: I tried to force her chair through a gap that was clearly too narrow to allow such a thing. Talk about greasing the sides with butter! I nearly did. I was determined that this would not thwart us, that we would make the best of a bad situation, that I would get her in. I never, of course, gave any thought to what would happen, should I against all odds manage to force her in, when it was time to get her back out again. Oh no: I just kept pushing against the chair, trying by sheer force of a combination of stubborn will and gross stupidity, and a defiant refusal to see the truth, to push her through a gap she could not possibly pass through. It wasn't till the taxi driver put his hand on my shoulder and said "Son, she isn't going to fit" that I finally realised how truly thick I was being, and gave up, no doubt to Karen's relief, having felt like a square peg being forced into a hole which was decidedly not square.

So really, to some extent, I can't fault or laugh at or condemn the gravediggers for doing what they did, but when you step back and consider what happens when you try to force an object into a space for which it is far too small, you'd think they would have seen it coming. But they didn't. In a matter of moments though, they certainly smelled it, as the king's body burst, a smell which, I think, would have taken a whole lot of Airwick to cover! What a revolting and humiliating and entirely inappropriate end for the man who conquered England and brought an end to Saxon rule! Had those Saxons back home heard about this incident, I venture to suggest there would have been cheering and sneering laughter echoing from Land's End to John O'Groats.

That wasn't to be the end of the indignities for William the Conqueror, as in 1562, almost half a millennium after his burial, during the Wars of French Religion, about which I know nothing and about which I need to know less, his grave was reopened and his bones scattered around and lost, the only remaining relic being one thigh bone. Well, I suppose it's better than poor old Alfred the Great, of whom we have only a pelvic bone to remember him by! The thigh bone was reinterred almost a hundred years later, but the architects of the French Revolution weren't having that: the bones - sorry, bone - of an oppressive English king buried in the sacred (well, not sacred, as we don't follow any religion now, but you know what I mean, citizen) soil of France! So they destroyed it again.

A war of succession ensued, almost inevitably, after William's death, and we'll be tackling this in the next chapter. We'll see that as always, nature abhors a vacuum, and kingdoms in particular abhor a power vacuum, but luckily (or unluckily) there's always more than enough people rushing to fill it. William had begun and indeed mostly accomplished the conquest, for the first (and only) time of England by a French king. You might think this would strengthen ties between the two countries, but on the contrary, as we all know, it led to a rivalry that exploded into wars between both - which often pulled in or latched onto the conflicts being fought between other European powers, such as Holland, Spain, Portugal or Germany - and would, in time, raise England, and later Britain, to the status of a major player in European, and later world politics.

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Chapter V: Under the French Heel, Part Two: Sons of Anarchy

As often happens when a great man dies (great being subjective in a historical sense, and dependent very much on your own viewpoint of course), his successor fails to fill his boots in any significant way. We've seen this with (spit) Oliver Cromwell and indeed with Cnut, neither of which could rely on their sons to carry on their legacy.Harold Harefoot and Harthacnut both presided, in short order, over the fall of the House of Denmark, while Richard Cromwell was so bad at following in his father's footsteps that the English Parliament shook their heads and asked Charles II to come and take the reins again, hoping all that messy beheading business with his old man would be forgiven and forgotten.

In the same way, almost, the sons of William the Conqueror did little to consolidate their late father's power. Since there were two, this was never a good start, and as you might expect, each fought the other. William had left instructions for his succession which seemed, on the face of it, to solve the problem: he left England to his son William Rufus, and Normandy to his son Robert. In point of fact, William had four sons, but Henry, the youngest, was never going to inherit either kingdom as the lowly fourth son, and Richard, the third son, got done for in the New Forest when, rather stupidly but quite hilariously, he ran into an overhanging branch while hunting (no, I don't think it was a Special Branch ho ho) which stopped him from seeing his sixteenth birthday. Curiously, perhaps, William Rufus would later meet his end in the very same forest, though it would be an arrow that secured for his brother the throne of England, and not surprisingly, rumours, though unprovable, of murder would circulate. Oh, you know how those young princes can be! :laughing:
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Richard had the bad grace to be killed before his father had even passed on, so on the death of William the Conqueror he was already out of the running, but Henry must have been somewhat pissed off to have been ignored in his father's will, the old man not even seeing fit to leave him any lands. "We'll just see about that," he possibly fumed, and bided his time. Meanwhile, Robert kept up the family tradition of Normandy opposing England, and rebelled against William. This put the local nobles in something of a predicament: which brother did they swear fealty to? It couldn't be both, as these guys owned land both in France and England, and surely the best way to solve that problem was to unite the two realms, which meant deposing one or other of the sons of the Conqueror. When William's eternal nemesis, his half-brother Odo, plumped to support Robert, they flocked to him and attacked William.

This, then, was the short-lived Rebellion of 1080, and it did not end well for Odo, who was captured by William's forces, and Robert, his Norman troops driven back across the Channel by the oh-so-dependable English weather, knew the game was up when he was unable therefore to arrive at the captured Rochester Castle and rally his troops, who folded like umbrellas. Odo was banished penniless to Normandy, exiled there for life, stripped of all land and titles, while the vanquished Robert was allowed to remain in England and keep his estates across the Channel, provided he acknowledge his brother as the King of England and forswear any further claim to her throne, which he did.
(https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/1/10/Flag_of_Scotland.svg/800px-Flag_of_Scotland.svg.png)
In 1095, nearing the cusp of a new century, good old Northumbria rose again, this time under Robert de Mowbray. William rode to battle against him and defeated him, and perhaps showing he was after all his father's son and could be as cruel as the Conqueror when he wanted to or had need to, he had another noble who had supported de Mowbray's rebellion seized, blinded and castrated. Some balls, that guy. Sorry. He also took on the eternally oppositional Scots, and defeated their king, Malcolm II, and when Malcolm and his son were killed and his brother Donald took over, William supported instead the other son of Malcolm, Duncan II, and later his son Edgar, who swore fealty to him.Possibly just for the look of it, or in case they had felt left out, he also invaded Wales, but didn't get very far, though he did do what all good Norman kings did back then, and built a castle or two there before legging it back to England.

When Pope Urban II called all Christians to "liberate" the Holy Land in 1096, in what became known as the First Crusade, Robert, kicking around with little to do and possibly thinking of his immortal soul (or more likely, those sexy Arabian women and all that even sexier gold and treasure just waiting to be plundered) grinned "Sign me up, Your Holiness!" There was only one problem, but it was a large one. Like an international holiday (but with more swords and axes and blood and dysentery, depending I suppose on where you choose to holiday) taking part in a crusade was an expensive business, so he went to his brother and asked him to pony up the readies. After all, this was God's work, was it not? God was not available for comment at the time of writing.

William, however, was, and what he commented was "You must be fucking one brick short of a castle, bruv! Where the hell am I supposed to get that sort of cash? I mean, times have been hard, you know? Wars to fight, rebellions to put down: it all costs money." To which Robert had replied "What about Normandy? It's still in great nick, only two careful dukes, one of which was our very own pere. What do you say?" In the end, King William agreed, but in order to get the vast sum he would need to realise Normandy as collateral on this royal loan, he turned to the people kings always turn to when they want money: the tax payers. After all, they're not called that for nothing. So, another huge and highly unpopular tax (has any tax, ever in history, been popular?) and a lot of grumbling from the people as torches wavered in the cool morning air and coins were counted out into eager Norman hands, and brother Robert was on his way to Jerusalem.

It's not recorded, but surely it's possible that William entertained some hope that his bro might not return. Crusades are dangerous, and even if Robert could handle himself with a sword, there were all kinds of other hazards - diseases, heatstroke, hunger, getting lost in the desert... any number of reasons why, when they shook hands and waved each other farewell William might have considered this to be the last time he would ever see his troublesome brother again. As it turned out, he was right. Not because Robert died while killing for Christ, but because William did. Well, not fighting for Christ, but by the time a grinning, victorious and no doubt richer Robert made it back to the shores of dear Old Blighty, his brother and sovereign had turned up his toes, he just missing the funeral by a month.

While he had been away though, Robert found that his brother had not been idle, and having Normandy to play with he had of course used it, invading in 1098 and making significant gains, He then returned to England to plot further campaigns, but before heading back decided to get in a spot of hunting in, you guessed it, the New Forest. At least he got to see the new century in. Accounts of his death vary, but most agree he was shot with an arrow "by one of his own men". It's not made clear whether this was on purpose or by accident, though the story began to circulate that landless brother Henry had either been the man behind the bowstring or had arranged someone to be. Either way, by the time Robert returned, heard his brother was dead and possibly rubbed his hands together, thinking his time to sit in the big chair had come, his kid bro was already making himself comfortable there, possibly proving the old adage that all things come to those who wait. And who know how to engage an assassin who will never be traced back to them.
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The blame has historically been lumped on one Walter Tirel, as detailed here by the famous historian of the age, William of Malmsebury, though he refers to Tirel, for some reason, as Walter Thurold. "The day before the king died he dreamt that he went to hell and the Devil said to him "I can't wait for tomorrow because we can finally meet in person!". He suddenly awoke. He commanded a light to be brought, and forbade his attendants to leave him. The next day he went into the forest... He was attended by a few persons... Walter Thurold remained with him, while the others, were on the chase. The sun was now declining, when the king, drawing his bow and letting fly an arrow, slightly wounded a stag which passed before him... The stag was still running... The king, followed it a long time with his eyes, holding up his hand to keep off the power of the sun's rays. At this instant Walter decided to kill another stag. Oh, gracious God! the arrow pierced the king's breast.

On receiving the wound the king uttered not a word; but breaking off the shaft of the arrow where it projected from his body... This accelerated his death. Walter immediately ran up, but as he found him senseless, he leapt upon his horse, and escaped with the utmost speed. Indeed there were none to pursue him: some helped his flight; others felt sorry for him.

The king's body was placed on a cart and conveyed to the cathedral at Winchester... blood dripped from the body all the way. Here he was buried within the tower. The next year, the tower fell down. William Rufus died in 1100... aged forty years. He was a man much pitied by the clergy... he had a soul which they could not save... He was loved by his soldiers but hated by the people because he caused them to be plundered.


Now let's look at the case for the prosecution, as it were. First, the idea surely of any archer worth his salt making such a catastrophic miscalculation, especially in the presence of the king, seems less than ludicrous. Witness, too, Tirel's sudden flight from the scene to Normandy, and his unexplained death shortly after. Henry tying up the loose ends? Let's hear a little about the youngest son of William the Conqueror while we're at it. He once threw a man off a tower, so he was certainly not averse to a little violence, He had been left without lands or title by Dear Old Dad, and had had to watch his two elder brothers lord it over him as they ponced variously about Normandy and England. With Robert away doing God's work in the Holy Land (and with the help of the Almighty, never to return) he must surely have seen his chance to take the throne he had been denied?
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He was certainly present in the hunting party that day, though seems to have made sure that he was nowhere in the actual vicinity of his brother, perhaps to throw off any suspicion and provide himself an alibi. Also, as we've learned down through history, such accidents - actual or orchestrated - were so common during the hunt that it almost was the way young kings, princes, heirs to the throne and pretenders, bastards and anyone else deemed a threat to the current holder met their maker, almost as common maybe as traffic accidents today. It also seems very odd to me that, according to some accounts, the body of the ex-king was left by the hunting party in "a leafy glade" where it was later discovered by a - no doubt terrified - commoner by the name of Purkiss, who presumably had to report it.

If the king's death had been an accident, why would his corpse be abandoned by his retainers? What possible reason could there be to leave the body of your liege lord lying in a forest, beating a hasty retreat? Certainly, some might feel suspicion might fall on them, and they had a new king now, but even so, did nobody ask, on their return, where William was? What about his wife, unaware that she had just become a grieving widow? What about his supporters, his children... ah. Not married, no kids. Homosexual, in fact. Well that was handy. But still, he must have had people who at least wondered where he had got to, and even if they put about the story that the king ("The King is dead! Long live the King!") had become somehow separated from the hunting party and might be lost in the forest, did nobody go look for him? Maybe they did, and that was when one very scared-looking peasant encountered them?
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(A medieval peasant. Not to be confused with a pheasant, though both could be, and were, shot. It's not recorded, however, that peasants were eaten; probably too stringy, what with their poor diet and all.)

No. You know, it really does pay to read as many accounts as possible before writing about them, Trollheart me old son. The story, in fact, goes on to say that Purkiss - a charcoal-burner, whatever that may have been (possibly he burned charcoal, but don't quote me) actually loaded the dead king onto a cart and brought it to Westminster, where the monks there were so shit-scared that they buried the corpse immediately. I find it hard not to think that they had been told, should anyone turn up with the king's dead body, I want it to disappear, and I'm your king now, so you had better do what I say. I would also be surprised to hear that Purkiss survived. Nothing shuts a man's mouth more effectively than death, though I can't exactly see the monks doing the deed. They may have turned him over to the new king's men though. No, wrong again: read fucking AHEAD, Trollheart you knob! Seems Purkiss was bought off with some land, and his descendants had him to thank for a jolly old life and very much a rise in social status, from burning coal to owning land holdings. So I guess old Purkiss was after all happy that he decided to pick that day to head into the forest in search of wood for his charcoal burner, and found instead a dead king. It's an ill wind, eh?

As he was a known, as George R.R. Martin so colourfully described them, sword-swallower, it seems too that King William Rufus was not exactly the toast of the kingdom, things like buggery and sodomy still being very much frowned upon, especially by the ever-critical Catholic Church, and when the tower under which King William's hastily-interred corpse blew down in a storm a few years later, it was seen as a judgement by God on his wickedness, and no doubt everyone congratulated themselves on a job well done.

There is one further, damning piece of evidence against the now-king of England, but there is maybe an element of self-serving in it, so whether it can be taken as gospel or not is open to conjecture. Nevertheless, for what it's worth, if anything, it was Tirel's friend, Alan Sugar, sorry Abbot Suger, who sheltered the unhappy knight in France (though probably not for too long, since as we read, he died shortly after 1100) who had this to say: "It was laid to the charge of a certain noble, Walter Thurold, that he had shot the king with an arrow; but I have often heard him, when he had nothing to fear nor to hope, solemnly swear that on the day in question he was not in the part of the forest where the king was hunting, nor ever saw him in the forest at all."

A friend covering for a friend? Or a man who could not believe his buddy had performed, if accidental, regicide? Or maybe, just maybe, the man with the key to the whole case, to whom nobody listened because, well, he was Tirel's mate. Of course, nobody took note of who went on what hunt, so there would be no way for him to prove he was not there, and it's doubtful anyone would have spoken on his behalf, as to do so might have thrown suspicion on the man who was now their king, but it does make you wonder. No smoke without fire? I guess he didn't mention his concerns to Henry when he sat between him and Louis VI seven years later, mediating a dispute between the two monarchs. In fact, he lived to a ripe old age, though possibly due to the favour - and therefore, one might assume, the protection of the king - he enjoyed at the French court. Possibly, too, due to not opening his mouth and deciding the past was the past.

And what about Robert? Did he just accept this "rather fortunate" set of circumstances that conspired to place his kid brother on the throne? Well, what do you think? A year after returning from the Crusades he mounted a campaign against Henry, but the young king was well liked and had more support than had Robert, who had, after all, been away for five years in a foreign land, and who was not very well known to the Normans, having spent most of his time in France. His time in the Holy Land should however have stood him in good stead, and it kind of did, but he was fighting a losing battle, and he was roundly defeated and returned to his duchy of Normandy. Not entirely sure how that worked out, given that he had mortgaged it to William Rufus and never, so far as I can see, paid that debt. But it probably didn't matter, because Henry decided leaving his older brother to cause mischief across the water was not the kingliest of ideas, and so he invaded Normandy in 1105.

A son of William the Conqueror he may have been, a crusader he may have been, and a potential king of England, but it seems Robert was not the cleverest of men. While debauching himself with whores and jesters one night, he woke to find they had robbed all his clothes, and he had to miss the mass he had been looking forward to attending, as the Church tends to take a rather dim view of people - even dukes - who turn up naked at mass. After a decisive defeat by Henry at the Battle of Tinchebray (where, atypically, Henry ordered his knights to dismount and fight as infantry) Robert was captured, and Henry claimed the duchy of Normandy as a possession of the English Crown. Robert was imprisoned, moved from one jail to another, for the rest of his life. He died in 1134.

An interesting footnote is that on the very same day (and possibly, though I can't confirm, at the very same hunt) as Wiliiam Rufus had his "accident" in the New Forest, Robert's son Richard (not the third son of William the Conqueror, another one) also died in an accident there. Was this just pure coincidence, or was the future king of England making sure that, once he had dealt with Robert, his son would be out of the picture and unable to challenge him for the throne?

(https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/c/c1/Henry1.jpg/440px-Henry1.jpg)
Henry I (1068 - 1165)

The youngest, and therefore last of the sons of William the Conqueror, Henry also became the last Norman king, due to the death of his heir, William Adelin, in the White Ship Disaster (see my History of Ireland journal). He was, however, the most successful in keeping good relations with Scotland, having married the sister of King David I, Matilda., He was a king who recognised both the advantages of manipulating the local barons and nobles both at home and abroad, and also the need for an effective intelligence network, perhaps the first King of England to create and maintain a ring of spies to keep him informed. He was also merciless to his enemies. He set down certain standards and rules for court etiquette, and forbade his nobles from raiding each other's holdings, as had been allowed by his brother.

He introduced the Royal Exchequer and appointed roving judges, or "itinerant justices", to dispense his laws across the country. Although the punishment for counterfeiting money would, during the time of the American Revolution, be death, Henry took a slightly more lenient (!) attitude towards what were known as "coiners", instructing that their hands and, um, man parts should be chopped off. Nothing funny about that money, honey!

Between 1108 and 1114 Henry was busy with politics across the Channel, but as these did not directly affect England (no invasion or anything) we will not concern ourselves with them here. However, in 1114 he showed how skilful a politician he was when he actually had Scotland fight for him against the Welsh, defeating them and ending their rebellion. For now. Having lost his successor Henry needed an heir and so remarried, this time to Adeliza of Louvain, but she failed to perform, and with the death of Richard, Earl of Chester, the Welsh saw their chance and rose again. Henry put them down again double quick. Still desperate for an heir, he decided to target his nephew Stephen of Blois, and had him marry the Countess of Boulogne, Matilda, who would herself figure in the monarchical line of England, though she would never officially rule.

Look, I'm confused. There were fucking Matildas to beat the band: Henry's daughter was Matilda, he married Stephen to another Matilda, a third Matilda was the Empress and had a fucking daughter named, you guessed it, Matilda! So it's hard to know which Matilda we're talking about, especially since our Henry named the Empress Matilda as his successor when her husband died. But I've written an account on the woman who would be the first unofficial Queen of England, for another journal, and I'll transcribe it here later when we get to her - disputed - reign. For now, just know that Henry had a very ignominious end, and though he went hunting the day before, it for once had nothing to do with arrows, boars or misplaced overhanging branches. He would probably have preferred if it had done, but as it goes, he seems to have died of, well, I don't know. Overeating? Poison? Poisson? ;) The official account points the finger at his having eaten too many lampreys (eels) and feeling not quite so tucker afterwards. So not tucker, in fact, that he languished in agony for a week before turning up his toes, leaving the question of the succession unanswered, and leading to a period known to historians as "The Anarchy".

Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda: A Lack of Originality in Names

Just a slight diversion before we proceed, one of these little tangents I like to go off on, though this one is related. A little above, I mentioned that I wasn't sure which Matilda I was talking about when I spoke about Henry's intended successor, as there were many. I just quickly want to check out how many. From Henry's own mother, the wife of William the Conqueror, Matilda of Flanders (at least that helps differentiate her) to his own wife, Matilda of Scotland, we have no less than ten Matildas coming into the story. Henry, as we know, was not shy about putting it about, and had reams of bastards, no less than three of which were named Matilda. We have Matilda, Countess of Perche, Matilda, Duchess of Brittany and Matilda, Abbess of Montivilliers, whom, it can be presumed, never married or had children, so at least no more Matildas out of her!

Matilda, Henry's first wife (all of these apparently are also known as Maud, just to confuse things, and how cool is it that his mother then becomes Maud of Flanders?) died and the king married again, thankfully not another Matilda, but his nephew did, or at least was lined up for one. Matilda, Countess of Boulogne, but just to muddy the waters even further, the Empress of Germany was also called Matilda, and when her husband (Lord help us!) another Henry, though a French one, died, this Henry, the son of William the Conqueror, decided she'd make a better successor than Stephen, even though she was, obviously, a woman, and women generally - and certainly not in England - did not rule. Now, I think - checking, checking - that the empress was Henry's daughter (our Henry, not the dead French one)?

Right, on we go. With the Empress Matilda now his heir(ess) and married off to Geoffrey, Count of Anjou, Henry must have believed he was sorted and dumped Stephen and his Matilda like the proverbial hot potato. Sadly for him, Geoffrey and his Matilda fancied the throne - at least, the one in Normandy; not quite so sure about the English one, but sure if it was going I'm sure they would not insult him by saying no - and were not prepared to wait till her daddy kicked the bucket, and so rode against him, supporting rebels in Normandy. It was around this time that Henry, just back from a damned fine hunt and in the mood for some lampries - ooh lovely! Have another? Don't mind if I do - found that after stuffing too many slippery eel-like fishies into his gob he felt a little poorly, retired to his bed for a week and died, in not inconsiderable agony, as we have already seen.

So that looks to be, what, nearly a football team of separate Matildas? Some of which were dead, admittedly, like his mother and first wife, one of which hied her to a nunnery, but to make it even more complicated, as we begin to wade through the period of English succession known as the Anarchy, it looks as if two of the most powerful Matildas - Stephen's wife and the Empress - fought against each other. Sounds like fun, I don't think. I hope my brain doesn't implode.

Oh right, yes, true. I don't have a brain.
For-ward!

Anarchy in the UK: This Throne Ain't Big Enough for the Both of Us

I'm sure it's not the only time it happened, but I think it might have been the first, that two rival claimants for the throne of England both technically sat on it during the same period. We've had occasions where one king took the throne from another, or usurped or just ascended on the death of his rival, but I can't recall an instance were two separate monarchs both ruled, independent of and in opposition to each other. Of course, one of these was never acknowledged as the sovereign, but we'll get into that. The period known as The Anarchy of course came about due to Henry I's failure to provide an heir, his two sons going down with the White Ship and his plans to make the Empress Matilda his heir scrapped after she turned against him with her new husband, Geoffrey of Anjou. The man he had intended to hand over the throne to prior to that, his nephew Stephen, not unreasonably decided to claim his birthright, as he saw it, on the death of his uncle, and that was when all hell broke loose.

But before we go there, I have two articles posted in other journals which need to be reposted here, as they are not only relevant to the Anarchy but also help explain the reasons for it, and indeed the bitter rivalry between Stephen and Matilda (not his wife, the other one) which led to the first real English civil war. The first goes back to when Henry I was still alive (though his wife - yes another bloody Matilda! Haven't we been over this already?) was not. Henry, secure in the knowledge that his son would succeed him, was relaxing when he got the news.

What news? This news.

(https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/4/45/WhiteShipSinking.jpg/600px-WhiteShipSinking.jpg)

Sinking the Succession: The White Ship Goes Down

No less a figure than the son of the man who had brought William the Conqueror himself to England in 1066, the White Ship was captained by Thomas Fitzstephen, and was originally offered to Henry I but he had said "nah you're all right mate, I'm sorted already, but my sprogs would sure welcome a berth." And so his son, yet another William, as well as two of his many bastards, and a bunch of others boarded the White Ship. As did the man who would later be King Stephen, but he, seeing all the boozing going on, thought better of it and disembarked, recorded as saying "Go ahead; I'll catch the next one. Got a few loose ends to tie up here in Normandy anyway. I'll see you over there."

But he wouldn't. What was that? Oh yeah. Booze. Well, seems that drink was called for, and supplied "in abundance", showing little real difference from today's booze cruises. I have no idea how many it was supposed to take but it was certainly carrying more than its complement, reckoned at around 300 people. Suitably tanked-up and belligerent, the nobles and the king's sons roared "Follow that ship! Overtake the old man! We'll show him!" or words to that effect. "Right you are, your various Highnesses!" grinned the captain at the nine hundred people yelling at him, and gripping one of the three helms on the ship, steered it away from port and directly into nearby rocks. They never even got out of the harbour, the vessel going down like one of the rocks it had hit, most of its passengers probably too drunk to realise what was happening, never mind swim for it.

The only one with any sort of a clear head, oddly enough, was William, Henry's only legitimate heir, and he got into a boat and tried to make it but ended up turning back for his half-sister and being literally drowned by the rest of the bastards. When the captain, who had not drowned, surfaced and realised the heir to the throne had died on his watch, he decided it wasn't worth it and just let himself drown. Better that than face the furious and grief-stricken king.

And so this left a gap in the market, as it were. The removal of William left Henry with only one legitimate heir, even if she was a woman.
(https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/b/b4/Empress_Matilda.png)
Matilda (1102 - 1141)

Born into, as we have seen above, something of a time of turmoil as her father fought her uncles, Matilda did not know very much about happy families. She now had one uncle who had been killed, possibly by (yes, yes, eminent historians! I said possibly!) or at the behest of her father, another off fighting in Jerusalem who might very well want the crown back when he again sighted the shores of Old Blighty, and a mother who was from the royal family of England's age-old enemy, bonny Scotland. Not only that, but daddy could most definitely not keep it in his pants, and while she only had one legitimate sibling, a brother, she had no less than twenty-two bastard brothers and sisters. Talk about an extended family! As if this wasn't enough to deal with, she was barely seven or eight years old when the lecherous old king of Germany, another Henry, decided he'd have her as his wife. Let's see what age he was at this time. We're talking 1109 here, so then: born in either 1081 or 1086, this makes him at best (assuming the latter date to be the correct one) twenty-three years old. Well okay, not too old, but he sure did like them young then, didn't he? Matilda began her voyage to Germany in 1110, her dad chuffed at the marriage proposal, as it would strengthen his weak claim on the English throne and make Germany his ally. Matilda? What had she to do with it?

So Matilda became Queen of Germany, but in fairness she was too young to be married, even for the decadent Middle Ages, so Henry had to take cold showers (and probably mistresses and servant girls) for another four years, before his new bride was ready to be porked. Henry and Matilda were married in 1114, which still only makes her about eleven, but that's the twelfth century for you! I'm actually surprised His Majesty waited. Two years after their marriage Henry, with Matilda at his side, marched into Italy to sort out the pope, with whom he had a bone to pick, the guy having excommunicated him and all. Looks like popes just didn't like kings named Henry! Nevertheless, excommunicating a king is one thing, taking on his army is another, and like the big girl's blouse he was, the hilariously-named Paschal II legged it over the mountains at the approach of the Germany army, leaving his successor, Gregory VIII, to crown Henry as Holy Roman Emperor and Matilda as Holy Roman Empress.

"That'll do for me," grinned Henry, but unfortunately it would not. Do, that is. See, the thing is, our man Gregory VIII, then a mere papal envoy known as Maurice Bourdin, had also been excommunicated by his boss, and further, would be deposed and imprisoned by his successor, making the whole coronation thing a little shaky to say the least. Never one to let ambiguity get in the way though, both Henry and Matilda continued to use these titles, even if they may no longer have been seen as official. What happens in Rome stays in Rome, ja? Henry had to return to Germany in 1118, as the natives were getting restless, and Matilda ruled over Rome in his absence. He wasn't to be long for his world though, suffering from cancer and succumbing to it in 1125. I guess Matilda didn't have too many friends in the fatherland, as the local bishop convinced her to give up her claim to the throne, being childless and therefore unable to act as regent (for some reason I don't understand) and promptly handed the crown to Henry's enemy, Lothar of Supplinburg, who said ta very much mate, and kicked Matilda out of Germany. She stuffed all her jewels in a bag, also cramming in two of her late husband's favourite crowns and the Hand of St. James the Apostle (never know when you're going to need a hand. Sorry.) and bailed for England.

The twelfth century was not a good time to be a woman. It would take another four hundred years before England would accept one as their ruler, and they sure weren't in the mood to do so here. Despite being Henry's only remaining progeny from his marriage, Matilda had no real claim to the throne of England in the eyes of the - male-dominated - nobility of the country, and through Henry had bastards for all occasions running around the country, more bastards than you could count almost, nearly all of them were rebelling or fighting against him in one way or another. He wasn't about to crown one his successor, so his next plan was to do what any self-respecting heirless king would, and marry again, hoping to gain a son. Not only did his new wife fail to come up with an heir, she hadn't even the decency to give him a daughter, useless as that would have been. Back to the drawing board for our king in a quandary.

The best thing he could come up with was to get the widowed daughter back on the horse, so to speak, and see if she couldn't come up with a handy heir to his kingdom. To that end he had her marry Geoffrey, Count of Anjou. In theory, he could have married her off to any of a number of princes - Matilda was said to be quite beautiful, and still young and well able to bear children at this point - but like most kings, while he needed an heir he also planned strategically, trying to secure alliances that would consolidate his power in Normandy, and Geoffrey was his man for this. There were however several problems here, not least of which being the Count's tender age, a mere lad of thirteen when he was wed to the twenty-five-year-old Matilda, whom he must have looked upon as very old indeed. Matilda wasn't happy either; a count is a hell of a step down from a king, and miles from an empress, and remember, she was at this time the Holy Roman Empress, so she was being asked - ordered, commanded - to marry way below her status.

Add into this the fact that she didn't particularly care for Geoffrey either, and it's not that surprising that soon after the marriage she didn't want, she told her new husband "See ya! Wouldn't want to be ya! I'm for home!" And promptly returned to Normandy, leaving Geoffrey to sort through the CDs and DVDs possibly to work out who owned what. In 1131 they got back together, probably with a lot of urging/commanding/pleading/bribery from dear old dad, and to his immense joy his troublesome daughter finally popped a son out, a baby who would go on to become  Henry II, first of the Plantagenet Kings of England. About fucking time, probably thought Henry, and sat back to enjoy his last few years as king, the succession now assured. A year later she was pregnant again, though this time the birth was much tougher and in fact she came so close to death that she and her father argued about where she would be buried. Come on now: what father hasn't had that conversation with his dying daughter? We've all been there.

Anyway, Geoffrey was born and luckily Matilda survived. Henry now had two heirs, or if you prefer, and yes I'm going to do it, just see if I don't, an heir and a spare. Whether the birth of their children had brought them closer together, or whether Geoffrey just fancied his own arse on the throne of England, the two fell out with Henry and Geoffrey demanded that the king recognise Matilda as his successor, to which Henry said, "Ask me arse. I know what your game is mate: you want to take my throne while I'm still alive. Well, over my dead body you do." It's possible his son-in-law shrugged "Yeah, that's the idea," but Henry would not be swayed, and as a consequence, when rebels rose against him in Normandy, Geoffrey and Matilda put their own armies at their disposal, possibly trying to kill or dethrone daddy. When Henry unexpectedly died in 1135, the husband and wife saw their chance, and pressed their advantage.

Enter Stephen, fated to go down in history as one of England's worst kings

(https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/2/23/Stepan_Blois.jpg)

Stephen (1092 or 1096 - 1154)

Known as Stephen of Blois, he was a Frenchman, born to the daughter of our man William the Conqueror, and so with possibly a stronger claim to the throne of England than Matilda possessed. You may recall he was one of the few with the foresight to say "No thanks, this cruise is looking too boozy for me!" and step off the ill-fated White Ship, thereby saving his life and remaining as one of those with the best legitimate claim to the English crown. Ah. According to another account his decision not to be aboard the White Ship was a little more prosaic and less noble; he was suffering from a case of the runs. Well, if so, his decision turned out not to be a shit one. Sorry. Anyway, not about to waste his heritage, when he heard Henry had popped his clogs, Stephen thought "Oh to see the green shores of England again", or something, possibly ignoring the fact that he had never seen the shores of England, green or otherwise, in his life. But sure that wasn't going to stop him. There was a throne going begging and as far as he and his mother were concerned, it had his name on it.

See, the thing about Henry was that he was generally not considered a good or well-liked king, and there may have in fact been few who mourned his passing. Witness the explosion of unrest and in-fighting amongst his many progeny, most of which were, quite literally, bastards. Whether he had instilled this lack of common familial feeling in his sons and daughters, or whether he had angered them by not being there for things like First Holy Communions and birthdays, or indeed whether it was just that none of them liked him, Henry was not a popular dad, and this lack of regard extended well outside his rather large and mostly illegitimate family. The flags may have been at half-mast when he breathed his last, but it was probably only for show. Inside, and in private - or even public perhaps - many may have been glad to have seen the back of the old bastard.

Stephen could not have been more different. A pious, noble man, he was one of the guys, sitting with his own men and laughing and drinking with them, and even his people liked him. He was very popular, and a very competent ruler too. He wasn't a king in Normandy, but a noble, and also well in with the Church, which always helps. Making his way to London, Stephen was proclaimed king in 1135. Just to make things even more confusing, Stephen's wife was also named Matilda (not this again!), so technically there would be two Queen Matildas, as we will see. Whatever else  can be said about her though, the Matilda we're talking about, Henry's daughter, must have been one tough woman. While campaigning around Normandy with Geoffrey they clearly found time to get it on - again - and she was pregnant with her third child, another boy, whom she gave birth to (thankfully sans the complications and near-death experience of her second-born) in 1136.

Stephen left his coat on the English throne in 1137 so that nobody would sit on it while he was gone, and returned to Normandy to take on Matilda (the other one) and her husband. However as ever, slightly hilarious history intervened to thwart him. His Norman nobles, who thought little of the Flemish mercenaries the king had signed up to help him, decided they didn't much fancy travelling and fighting alongside them: they'd much rather fight with them, and so they did, the two sides of his army duking it out in a crazy mini-civil war, while Stephen may or may not have pleaded "Come on, guys! Can't we all just get along?" They couldn't though, and King Stephen remarked "Fuck this! I'm off back to England!" And off he fucked.

Things, however, did not get any better for him once he landed on Old Blighty, as Matilda's uncle, King David I of Scotland, seized the chance to attack the northern territories of Carlisle and Newcaste, necessitating the English king's crossing the border with an army and asking David if he wouldn't mind awfully going back to where he came from, to which David shrugged "Aye, sure. I was only fashin' anyroad!" And off he fucked back to Scotland, leaving Stephen to breathe a sigh of relief and head southwards again. But not for long. The Welsh, seeing the Scots rise, thought we can do that too, and so they did, and Stephen was off fighting again, putting down revolts and rebellions like there was no tomorrow.

Time for a bastard to enter the fray.

Robert of Gloucester, one of the many illegitimate progeny of the oversexed late King Henry, rebelled against Stephen, being, as he was, technically Matilda's half-brother. His rebellion caused everything to kick off: a civil war in Kent, the re-invasion of Normandy by Geoffrey, and sure David thought why not get in on the action too, and re-invaded the north of England. Stephen must have thought "Suffering Jesus! Am I to be allowed no fucking peace?" This was a period of three years during which everyone seemed to want to fight, rebel against or take his crown, and in 1139 Matilda, having failed to convince the Pope to legitimise her claim, decided to take the direct route and just take the throne by force. She landed in the suspiciously-French-sounding Arundel, in West Sussex, in the summer, though in the company not of Geoffrey but of Robert of Gloucester. Seems her hubby had decided "You're all right, thanks, I'm happy here. But, you know, bon chance and all that bollocks." Yeah, he stayed in France.

Seems a bit odd to me that Matilda and Robert only brought 140 men with them (well, it says 140 knights; maybe there were other soldiers?) - when Henry II landed in Ireland his army numbered in the thousands, and 140 men can hardly have been enough to oppose Stephen on his home ground. I expect they were looking for support from the Norman lords in England. Matilda's mother was there, and she helped them, though Stephen seems to have quickly besieged her castle and taken her prisoner, later letting her go with a firm admonishment not to do it again, possibly missing the raspberry she blew at him behind his back. While he set about pursuing Robert, whom he no doubt considered the more dangerous enemy (what threat, after all, could a mere woman pose to a king and his army?) she settled in Gloucester and began making alliances, and plans. Irked to discover she was not just buggering off to a nunnery or sitting at home doing needlework, Stephen attacked her again, meaning to teach her a proper lesson this time.

However, he was the one who was taught the lesson.

New ally of Matilda, or at least enemy of Stephen, which amounted to the same thing, Ranulf of Chester joined Robert and together they took on Stephen's forces at the Battle of Lincoln in 1141, defeated the king's forces and took Stephen prisoner, reversing the roles as he was now brought to Matilda's castle and incarcerated at Bristol. Matilda now began to make plans to have herself declared queen. Naturally, this as always involved bribes, promises, threats and the odd round of excommunications before everyone was happy, and even Stephen shrugged and said "Fuck it, let the bitch have the crown. It's been nothing but trouble to me since I put it on. Should have stayed in Normandy. They know how to treat a ruler there!"

On April 7 1141 Matilda was crowned Queen of England, though she assumed the title "Lady of England and Normandy" before she was actually crowned. This never happened though, as she was chased from London (where her coronation was to take place) by supporters loyal to Stephen, while back in la belle France Geoffrey folded his newspaper (yes I know), glanced at the clock (I KNOW!) and stretched and yawned. "Time for another invasion of Normandy, methinks!" he grinned, and set about fitting action to word. His successes then reverberated back through England, as supporters of Stephen began to see which way the wind from across the Channel was blowing, and thought of their own skin. Matilda's power grew as Stephen's waned. But if there's one thing you can say about military alliances, it's that they are fragile, and fluid. Two things. If there are two things you can say about military alliances, it's that they are fragile, fluid and likely to change. Three things. If there are three things you can say about military alliances, it's that they are fragile, fluid and likely to change. And affect the whole balance of power. Four things. Among the things you can say... you get the idea.

Having made an alliance with Henry of Blois, Stephen's brother, Matilda fell out with him and she and Robert besieged his castle at Winchester. Stephen's wife, the other Matilda (also known at this time still as Queen Matilda, to add to the confusion) took her chance and charged in for hubby's glory, and battle was joined. In what became known as the Rout of Winchester, Matilda was roundly defeated but escaped, leaving Robert to be captured and eventually exchanged for Stephen. Released, Stephen made sure he was re-crowned and so essentially, although never entirely legitimate, Matilda's reign as Queen of England lasted a mere eight months, making hers one of the shortest reigns in English history, though not the shortest. It's said that it was believed (whether true or just anti-Matilda propaganda) that during his imprisonment Stephen had been held in very poor conditions, and that as a result he had become so sick that it was feared he might die. As he hovered on the brink of death, sympathies began to turn back towards him and his following saw a resurgence.

Matilda had made her court in Oxford, and perhaps naively had sent Robert to fetch Geoffrey, hoping her husband would reinforce her relatively small and inexperienced army. Stephen, meanwhile, managed to convince Ranulf of Chester to throw his lot in with him again, and Ranulf deserted Matilda's cause. This left the Empress with a very small force against Stephen's more than 1,000, and he easily took the town and besieged Matilda's castle. Did a lot of besieging in those days, they did: besiege this, besiege that - couldn't move with a siege going on somewhere. Two months into the siege Robert returned, with about 700 men but no Geoffrey, who had again decided France was where it was at, and bugger his wife, who had never understood him anyway.

As the army besieging the castle got tired and bored, and careless - or possibly helped her, betraying their king, who knows? - Matilda managed to escape from Oxford with four knights, shocking and enraging a chronicler of the time, almost an apologist for Stephen, who fumed "I have never read of another woman so luckily rescued from so many mortal foes and from the threat of dangers so great: the truth being that she went from the castle of Arundel uninjured through the midst of her enemies; she escaped unscathed from the midst of the Londoners when they were assailing her, and her only, in mighty wrath; then stole away alone, in wondrous fashion, from the rout of Winchester, when almost all her men were cut off; and then, when she left besieged Oxford, she came away safe and sound?"

Like a dark ages Houdini, Matilda was gone again, slipped through the king's fingers like sand, literally, according to some chroniclers (not the one above) walking on water, though this has been taken to mean the Thames was frozen so she could use it as a path to escape, and wearing a white cloak as camouflage against the whiteness of the recently-fallen snow.

Having slipped through her enemy's fingers, Matilda made Wiltshire her new capital, at the castle at Devizes which had been confiscated by Stephen previously. Pulling in those old reliables, the fractious Flemish mercenaries, she set about securing the county under her rule. With Robert at her side again and the support of various nobles whose land Stephen had snaffled, she built up a sizeable court and settled down to wait the King out. Stalemate, or as we might say today, Mexican standoff. In England, obviously. Not Mexico. Which wasn't even discovered at this point. But you get the idea. She then decided to play Stephen at his own game, and besieged him in Wilton Castle in Herefordshire. This led to a battle as Stephen, knowing how serious a siege can be - he had done his share of besieging, after all - decided fuck this waiting around, I'm going for it, and out he broke. In the ensuing Battle of Wilton he was defeated, his castle burned, but he managed to become a dot on the horizon. One for Matilda and her forces. Girl power!

Things began to go slightly to shit for the king, as East Anglia rose up, followed by the yo-yo earl of Chester, Ranulf, who, like most nobles, didn't really care too much about promises or treaties or agreements, and went where the wind was blowing. At the moment, it was blowing slightly in Matilda's direction, so he headed that way. Stephen now had close to a full-blown rebellion on his hands, while in France  Geoffrey hadn't been idle, recognised by the end of the year as Duke of Normandy by the king, Louis VII. Despite this, things weren't all sweetness and light for the Empress either.

One of her best military commanders, Miles of Gloucester (no, not Miles TO Gloucester, though if he had been Miles II that would have been funny... okay, okay, I'll get on with it) fell victim to one of the most popular deaths for young virile men in 12th century England, the hunt. Whether he was done in or it was really an accident I don't know, but there's probably a reason men about to be married did not go on a stag. Anyway, his loss weakened Matilda's position, and then Stephen defeated Geoffrey (no, another one) of Mandeville, who had kicked off the East Anglian trouble, and sued for terms. Neither were prepared to compromise, and so the stalemate continued. But it wouldn't remain so for long.

Over a period from 1145 to 1151, Matilda lost many of her commanders to the Second Crusade, as they answered God's call to knock some good old European blood-and-guts sense into those damned heretics, Robert died - peacefully, it says, which surprises me, and probably surprised him - and Brian Fitz Count, another of her big supporters, decided he also wanted to die a non-violent death, and entered a monastery. They threw him out, probably silently, but he re-entered, and when he was eventually able to explain to them that he didn't in fact want to burn their abbey down, but join up, be a brother, be a monk, they said (silently; probably signed) sure dude, why not? God needs all the monks he can get. Unfortunately God called this new monk home sooner than he had expected, and the life of Brian (sorry) came to an end in 1151.

During this time, Matilda's son decided it might be a good idea to pop over the Channel, picking up some duty-free on the way no doubt, and visit mummy. The army he brought with him though seemed put out when he explained he couldn't pay them, and when mum refused to come up with the readies ("I only gave you sixteen thousand florins last week, son! That was supposed to last you all winter! You think I'm fucking made of money, do you?") they ended up getting paid by, of all people, Stephen, who probably thought well if I pay these guys they can hardly fight against me, now can they? He was of course right, and off they all buggered back to France, to his relief. Matilda followed them the next year, 1148, possibly at least in part due to her need to talk to the Pope about demanding his castle at Devizes back. "Oi! That belongs to the Bishop of Salisbury!" Pope Eugene II had thundered when he found out she was squatting in it. "Clear off, or I'll excommunicate you into the next century!" Hmm. Careful with that ex, Eugene!

"Fuck England into a hole!" snarled Matilda, setting up her new court at Rouen, and when Geoffrey died in 1151, Henry, their son, legged it back across to England to claim his throne, an army at his back to explain in detail the thinking behind his legitimacy. He failed,  but in the end Stephen adopted him as his son, and also his successor, so when Stephen died only a year later, Henry achieved what his mother could not, and became King of England. How proud his mum must have been.

As for her, she stayed in Normandy but did poke her nose into the new King Henry II's affairs, helping him to sort out his kingdom. And that relic, the Hand of St. James? Well, you might possibly have thought she had taken it as a handy back scratcher, and maybe she did, who knows? But it ended up in the Abbey of Reading, despite attempts by the Holy Roman Emperor, Frederick I, to get it returned to Germany. He was bought off instead with, um, a big tent. Yeah. If you have a choice between a supposedly priceless and powerful relic of a saint, and a marquee, go for the tent every time.

Matilda became a very valued advisor to her son and his court, and brokered many tricky deals and arrangements, and though she counselled against Henry's invading Ireland, he went ahead and did it anyway after her death, setting in motion a chain of events that would eventually lead to centuries of bloodshed, strife, death and really bad feeling between the English and us. See my History of Ireland journal, obviously, for more. Matilda died in 1167, and was buried at Rouen, though through the depredations, three hundred years later, of the people she had tried to rule, her bones got scattered (people do seem to love scattering bones, don't they?) and though re-located in 1684, Napoleon made sure they were messed up again in the eighteenth century until finally they were again re-interred at Rouen in 1846, seven hundred years after her death.

Although never officially crowned nor recognised, even today, as a queen of England, Matilda still took on the most powerful man of the time, the King, Stephen, and several times thwarted him, either evading capture herself, or indeed having him captured, and fought him to a standstill. Though she technically never really gave in - the war between her and Stephen sort of ground naturally to a halt, for the reasons stated above - she never sat on the English throne and is today only considered a footnote in the history of English monarchs. Nevertheless, considering the time, and the huge disadvantages of being a woman, and the enemies she faced both within and without her own power structure, immense credit must be given to her as surely one of the most powerful, and successful, women in twelfth-century England.

Stephen, for his part, is known as one of England's worst kings, which I have to admit is a claim I find hard to support. Sure, he plunged all of his kingdom into its first civil war, and sure, he was at times fought to a standstill - and indeed, captured and imprisoned - by a mere woman, but it's not like he torched his subjects (Bloody Mary, I'm looking at you!) or dissolved the monasteries (Henry) or even supposedly killed two princes in the Tower of London (Richard III, stand up), so was he any worse than kings that came before or after him, and why is he so hated? I shall endeavour to find out.

(https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/7/79/The_Simpsons-Jeff_Albertson.png)

Worst. King. Ever?

Okay, well first off he's accused of being an usurper. The English people, speaking generally, don't like usurpers and have even been known, on occasion, to frown on them. But was he? Didn't we read that Henry had made him his heir originally, and for this express purpose had married him to one of many, many Matildas? He only changed his mind then when the other big Matilda in the story, the German Empress, became a widow, and his focus shifted to her. Did he make his original intention known? If not, does it then matter if he had considered Stephen as the next king? And if he did, was not then Stephen simply doing what his (Henry's) own father, William the Conqueror had done, and making sure a promise was kept? Stephen must have felt that the throne was his, and if he didn't know already that he had figured in the late King Henry's plans for the succession, it's sort of an odd coincidence that he decided to try to take the throne.

Of course, I suppose anyone who was in any way related to the dead king would at that time have been trying to stake their claim, as it were, but Henry holds the historical record for most bastards produced in one life, and why were not all of them pushing to be made king? You'd have to say Stephen's being a natural nephew of the king was to his advantage over them, the bunch of bastards, but still: not one challenged his claim? Did that not then make him the rightful heir? Is it because his reign was contested? Nah, that happened before, and sure in living memory for these people - did not William Rufus and Robert clash, and then Robert and Henry? Not for all that long I guess but still, kings gonna king. But Stephen was opposed - and temporarily defeated - by a woman, so maybe that's a black mark against him.

His reign has been seen as "incompetent" and "reckless", and there's a lot of evidence to support the claim that this guy just did not know what he was doing, and often ignored or went against the advice of his people, a situation that often as not landed him in trouble. Maybe it's because he was a Frenchman, with no real claim, in English eyes, to the throne of England? But then so was William the Conqueror. Hmm. Perhaps it might be fair to balance out this "worst king in English history" (whom I had always taken to be the villainous King John, but maybe I just watched too much Robin Hood?) with some accounts of his bravery and determination. Like the time he was captured just outside Lincoln in 1141. Perhaps he knew the game was up, but had decided that if he was going down, he would take as many of Matilda's men with him as he could, and waded into the crowd, swinging first a broadsword and then, when that broke, a Viking axe. Must have cut quite an impressive figure. Unfortunately he was taken out by a mere stone, and captured. But at least he made a fight of it.
(https://media.istockphoto.com/id/1028147090/vector/dotwork-broken-sword.jpg?s=612x612&w=0&k=20&c=CN0YhIF4JcyCc_6Nm_ioJ02giYjE5UARAzPGywFeJmo=)

(How exactly do you break a fucking broadsword??)

Let's do him a little credit if we can, and look at one of the major battles he won. Odd enough title for it, but it's one of the ones that those chroniclers who had a bias in his favour remember as one of his best. Let's also not forget that writers and chroniclers in the Middle Ages, as in any time really, tended to write their accounts according to where their loyalties lay, so that Norman writers would naturally see the Saxons as brutish thuggish savages or whatever, while anyone writing for the previous rulers of England would portray the Normans as invaders, cruel and oppressive, and, worst and most damning of all, French. But the ones who supported Stephen and called him a saviour (where others called him a fool) lauded him for his victory at this battle, and possibly too because it was against the age-old enemy, Scotland.

The Battle of the Standard

Scotland was at this time ruled over by David I, whose daughter, you may remember (and you bloody should as she was another Matilda!) married Henry I, cementing the relationship between the two kingdoms, and even allowing the English king to call on the Scottish when those pesky Welsh needed reminding who was boss. But both his daughter and her husband were now dead, and David owed no allegiance to  the upstart frog who was now king. In fact, he had already sworn to support the claim of the late Henry's daughter Matilda, so he was dead against Stephen, and went to war against him. A truce was reached when Stephen made David's son Henry (another one, yes, what of it? I told you these people were less than original in their choice of names) the Earl of Huntingdon, but when he then later demanded that he be made earl of all Northumberland, Stephen thought that was a bridge too far and they squared up again.
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English castles on the Scottish border must always have been worried about invasion from the north, being the first in the line of fire, and this time was no exception. Norham Castle fell quickly, but Wark-on-Tweed was a tougher proposition, requiring that staple of castle warfare, the siege. Demonstrating the bias I spoke about, Norman chroniclers evinced shock as David really did a Harry-the-South-lite as he plunged into English territory, nowhere near as much a raving madman as had been their hero and poster boy, William the Conqueror, sixty-odd years ago. I suppose in fairness, even his apologists did denounce William for that atrocity, as we saw, but this guy certainly thought the Scots were little more than wild beasts. Well, what goes around comes around, eh?

"an execrable army, more atrocious than the pagans, neither fearing God nor regarding man, spread desolation over the whole province and slaughtered everywhere people of either sex, of every age and rank, destroying, pillaging and burning towns, churches and houses. Then (horrible to relate) they carried off, like so much booty, the noble matrons and chaste virgins, together with other women. These naked, fettered, herded together; by whips and thongs they drove before them, goading them with their spears and other weapons. This took place in other wars, but in this to a far greater extent."

How much of this is hyperbole, or exaggeration, is of course hard to say. We are dealing here with a Norman chronicler who surely saw the "uncouth" Scots as indeed pagans and wild men, and Richard of Hexam, our scribe here, would have wanted to have painted the enemy in the worst, most atrocious and lurid light possible. He then goes on to bemoan the fate of those hostages, slaves as he wails: "For the sick on their couches, women pregnant and in childbed, infants in the womb, innocents at the breast, or on the mother's knee, with the mothers themselves, decrepit old men and worn-out old women, and persons debilitated from whatever cause, wherever they met with them, they put to the edge of the sword, and transfixed with their spears; and by how much more horrible a death they could dispatch them, so much the more did they rejoice."

This account, and the remembrance of it, did however help Walter Espec when he massed his troops before the battle, calling on his men to "Remember what they did in the lands across the Tyne, and hope for nothing gentler if the Scots conquer. I am silent about the slaughter, the rapine, the fires that the enemy employed in something like a human way. I would tell such acts as no stories tell and no histories relate of the fiercest tyrants. I would tell them, I say, if words did not fail before such horror, or the listener flee. They spared no age, rank or sex. The high born, boys as well as girls were led into captivity."

So I guess harrying can be a two-edged sword, then. Stephen attacked David but once the Scottish king was on his home turf he wasn't about to be defeated, and Stephen still had  Robert of Gloucester causing trouble in Kent while Geoffrey of Anjou was making life hard for him across the Channel,  and soon Matilda would come into the picture too, so off he went back down south. David, of course, took the opportunity to ride that direction himself, and had made it all the way to Yorkshire by July of 1138. Stephen being otherwise engaged, his nobles and bishops and what-have-you all got ready to defend England against the Scottish king. Ah, I see now why it was called the Battle of the Standard.
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Seems it was a foggy day (fog on the Yorkshire moors? You jest, sir!) and the army couldn't really be seen too well, all the knights having dismounted as they awaited the arrival of David's army. But what could be seen was the battle standard (presumably Stephen's royal standard?); David had intended to take the English by surprise, using the mist as cover, but I think it's accepted that the enemy knew they were on the way. The Scots had the high ground, which must have been seen as being to their advantage. Quite why the English hadn't already claimed this is a mystery, but there you go. The Scottish knights did not dismount, and the king's son, the Earl of Huntingdon, was with his father in the ranks. Among the English/Normans, it seems the Archbishop of York, Thurstan of Bayeux (also known as "Lieutenant of the North") - himself having served under both previous Kings, William Rufus and Henry, and pushing it a little at seventy years old, and Walter Espec, High Sheriff of Yorkshire, were among the leaders.

As so often happens, even in the presence of the king himself, arguments broke out among the Scots as to who would have the honour of being the first to charge. I mean, honestly! It sounds like they were bickering over who would be the first to have the opportunity of dying! I'm for staying safely behind at the rear, who's with me? It has to stand as something of an indictment of King David that such internal conflict was allowed to break out, especially as they faced their enemy. Didn't they think they had bigger, more important issues to discuss? But it seems he gave in, perhaps to preserve the peace, oxymoron though that may sound, as they faced a large English army and prepared to charge.

" And Alan de Percy, base-born son of the great Alan – a most vigorous knight, and in military matters highly distinguished – took these words ill; and turning to the earl he said, 'A great word hast thou spoken, and one which for thy life thou canst not make good this day.' Then the king, restraining both, lest a disturbance should suddenly arise out of this altercation, yielded to the will of the Galwegians."

The Galwegians, by the way, for any Irish readers, were not men from Galway, but from Galloway, an area of Scotland. Just wanted to clear that up. Back to the battle. Which had yet to begin. Because, as we all know, after the posturing and the threatening and the provocative waving of the nether regions at the enemy comes... the speeches. Oh yes. Can't have a good battle without a decent speech before it. No army worth its salt charges into combat without first yelling "Speech! Speech!" or something, and the commander or one of his general coughing and shouting "Unaccustomed as I am to public speaking" to general hooting, roaring, banging of various weapons on shields, and horses' shying.

It was, according to one chronicler (and we won't dispute that, because in the end who cares?) our old friend Walter Espec, the High Sheriff - one assumes this was his title, not that he had dined on magic mushrooms or smoked opium before the battle - who made the speech, an extract from which we have already heard. But, like the best - and worst - speeches, it went on and on and the army on the other side must have rolled their eyes and snarled "Stupid bloody sassenachs! Gang on wi'it, why don't ye?" or words to that effect. But they would have to wait, because the speech was, as I say, a long one.

And here it is.

"Most illustrious nobles of England, Normans by birth, ... consider who you are, and against whom, and where it is, you are waging war; for then no one shall with impunity resist your prowess. Bold France, taught by experience, has quailed beneath your valour, fierce England, led captive, has submitted to you; rich Apulia, on having you for her masters, has flourished once again; Jerusalem so famed, and illustrious Antioch, have bowed themselves before you; and now Scotland, which of right is subject to you,[38] attempts to show resistance, displaying a temerity not warranted by her arms, more fitted indeed for rioting than for battle. These are people, in fact, who have no knowledge of military matters, no skill in fighting, no moderation in ruling. There is no room then left for fear, but rather for shame, that those whom we have always sought on their own soil and overcome ..have ...come flocking into our country."[37]This .. has been brought about by Divine Providence; in order that those who have in this country violated the temples of God, stained the altars with blood, slain his priests, spared neither children nor pregnant women, may on the same spot receive the condign punishment of their crimes; and this most just resolve of the Divine will, God will this day put in execution by means of your hands. Arouse your spirits then, ye civilized warriors, and, firmly relying on the valour of your country, nay, rather on the presence of God, arise against these most unrighteous foes"[37]And let not their rashness move you, because so many insignia of your valour cause no alarm to them. They know not how to arm themselves for battle; whereas you, during the time of peace, prepare yourselves for war, in order that in battle you may not experience the doubtful contingencies of warfare. Cover your heads then with the helmet, your breasts with the coat of mail, your legs with the greaves, and your bodies with the shield, that so the foeman may not find where to strike at you, on seeing you thus surrounded on every side with iron."[37]it is not so much the numbers of the many as the valour of the few that gains the battle. For a multitude unused to discipline is a hindrance to itself, when successful, in completing the victory, when routed, in taking to flight. Besides your forefathers, when but few in number, have many a time conquered multitudes; what then is the natural consequence of the glories of your ancestry, your constant exercises, your military discipline, but that though fewer in number, you should overcome multitudes?"


Okay, it's not Shakespeare exactly, but the general gist I get from this rather too-long speech of encouragement is: these bastards don't even have armour, and they're lawless, wild heathen who don't know their place. We are well protected, so fuck them and kill them, not necessarily in that order!"

Finally, to possibly everyone's relief, the battle charge was sounded, and the two armies charged at each other. Having forced King David to allow them the honour of attacking first, the Galwegans made a real mess of it, finding their own, weaker lances far from proof against the heavily-armoured Normans, and, seeming to think they were invulnerable to arrows, charged on with short sword to end up, as the Norman chronicler, Ailred of Rievaulx put it, "like a hedgehog with its quill, so would you see a Galwegian bristling all round with arrows, and nonetheless brandishing his sword, and in blind madness rushing forward now smite a foe, now lash the air with useless strokes. " As the battle turned against them, the Scottish king was hurried away by his retainers but his son charged into the Norman lines, scattering them and doing for the horse-holders (which one has to assume were unarmed men holding the mounts of the now-on-foot knights, and that doesn't seem quite cricket, now does it?) but when a call went up that David had been killed (which he had not, but who checks for proof of life in the heat of a battle?) the English surged forward.

The main advantage the Normans had was, for once, not their cavalry, but, equally useful, their armour. Most of the Scots (lending credence to Espec's claims of their being barbarians) were unarmoured, some unclothed at all, as Scots had been known to rush naked into battle, supposedly. But a naked or poorly-armoured man will always fail against a heavily-armoured one, and it seems that for the Scots, taking down the Normans was almost like trying to knock over heavy bowling pins with a sewing needle; they were just immovable and all but invulnerable in what Khal Drogo once called "their iron suits". Inevitably, this told, and the Scots were soon on the run.

It was a total rout. The Battle of the Standard had lasted a mere three-odd hours, and casualty reports vary between 10,000 and 12,000, all on the side of the Scottish, with very few Normans killed or even injured. Reports speak of panicked Scottish knights (the few Normans who were with David, around twenty) throwing away their armour in an attempt to get away, of men falling into rivers and drowning, of others escaping through woods and of general mayhem breaking out as the army of King David broke and scattered.

Hey! Hold on there just a moment, Trollheart me old mate! You put this forward as an example of King Stephen being a good ruler, and then he wasn't even at the fucking battle? Yeah, yeah, I know, but there's method in my - um, the thing about that is - well, I have a - oh okay! It's another case of me not reading the full article before writing about it. I thought he was - well, hold on - I can do this - they were his armies, after all. It's not as if they were independent of him or working against him, or without his orders. He was the mastermind behind the battle and, um, they were following his instructions and, well, I'm sure he was keeping in close contact - ah, riders, messengers ... what? No, no: you're right there. Not in three hours, no. Ah look, what do you want from me? Allow me to try to retain one tiny shred of whatever miniscule amount of dignity remains to me, huh? Is that too much to ask?[/i]

Let's see if I can find another example. Yes, this time he will be present. If I can find one, that is. Okay here's one. In 1140 he attacked the rebel bishop Nigel of Ely on the island that bore his name in the East Anglian fenlands. This kind of marshy ground is usually hard to march an army across, being, you know, marshy and all, and knights having a distressing tendency to sink into bogs and swamps and kind of not return. So our bishop thought he was safe, and possibly gave thanks to God for making him such a clever clogs. Stephen, however, was already making plans for Nigel (sorry) and had a trick up his sleeve, and it involved taking a bunch of boats (presumably, though it doesn't say, smaller, rowboat type things, rather than anything like warships, which would have been damn heavy) into the fens and had them lashed together to create a sort of makeshift walkway, across which his army trotted and nicked the bishop, perhaps in mid-devotion. Drat! Thought Nigel. Foiled again! etc. And had it away on his holy toes to Gloucester, leaving his castle and lands in the hand of the king, perhaps wondering if somewhere like the Isle of Wight might have been a better place to make his stand?

Credit must be given, too, to the part Matilda played in Stephen's campaigns. That's the one he was married to, not the one he was fighting. In order to identify which we're talking about, I'll call her Queen Matilda and the other one Empress Matilda. Anyway, Queen Matilda marshalled support for her husband after he had been captured by Empress Matilda, and indeed it was she who led the resistance in London that caused the empress to have to flee the capital, sans crown, and therefore never manage to be actual Queen of England, as related earlier. With cries of, possibly, "that's my fucking husband's crown, you bitch, and if you think you're putting it on your fat ugly German square head, you've got another think coming!" she chased the would-be-first-ever Queen of England out of London, where Empress Matilda had to take refuge in Exeter. Queen Matilda gathered Stephen's nobles and kept them together, even winning over Henry, Stephen's brother, who had been supporting the Empress Matilda. And of course the Queen secured the release of her husband at the Rout of Winchester, as already detailed.

Stephen, however, came perilously close to not only being the first king to be captured and imprisoned by a rival claimant (this would of course happen a lot more in the future, particularly with the Tudors and during the Wars of the Roses, but for this time it was a stunning setback that had not, so far as I can see, occurred previously) but to be captured twice. The second time he was in fact recovering from an illness - possibly due to the conditions of his incarceration, which were reported to have been harsh - which had led to rumours he was dying, and only saved from being taken twice by Empress Matilda's forces by the courage of his steward, William Martel, who covered for him as he escaped. Stephen does seem to have been though, at this time, kind of stumbling from crisis to crisis, and it's becoming increasingly hard to defend the general view historians have of him as one of England's worst and most incompetent kings.

Shortly afterwards, having made his narrow escape (and possibly cheated death too) the king seems to have decided that he hadn't enough enemies to fight, and provoked the Earl of Essex, who was no fan of his, and who accordingly joined the rebellion against him. Hardly a smart move, as Stephen was already fighting on several fronts. What was it Londo said in Babylon 5? "Only a fool fights a war on two fronts. Only the heir to the throne of the Kingdom of Fools fights a war on seven fronts!" You get the idea. Not a good idea to keep making enemies, especially of those who weren't crazy about you in the first place.

Tell you what: let's do a quick headcount of the enemies ranged against Stephen at this point. First we have Ranulf of Chester, who was not exactly pleased that the king had given away so much of the territory in the north to one powerful family, the Beaumonts, and had allied himself variously with Empress Matilda and Prince Henry of Scotland. So that was two more: the Empress of course, and the son of the King of Scotland. Oh, and the King of Scotland, too, obviously, so David made four. Then there was Robert of Gloucester, who was also an ally of Empress Matilda, so five and counting, and this is only in England. Across the Channel we had Geoffrey of Anjou, Empress Matilda's husband, who was busily invading and re-invading Stephen's lands in Normandy, and of course, till he finally turned and supported him, his own brother, Henry of Blois. So what's that now? Seven? Looks like Stephen may have had a greater claim to that throne Londo Mollari spoke of than that of England! And now he was adding an eighth!

Oh, and there was Miles of Gloucester too, though Stephen had a late Christmas present when the guy's earl Miles (geddit? Shut up) ran out and he fell victim to what was almost as common as dying from natural causes in the Middle Ages, dying from causes of the hunt. So nine became eight, though you could hardly call it a real reduction in enemies, could you? Things got a little brighter for the royal side when Geoffrey de Mandeville, the Earl of Essex, latest of his enemies, went and got himself killed in battle the following year, then Stephen got cocky as the wars began to turn in his favour. Presented with a chance to bring Ranulf of Chester to his side, he instead tricked him, but the earl escaped and of course stayed on the empress's side. It was in fact the same trick he had used on de Mandeville, summoning him to court and then arresting him, so fool me once, shame on - well, you know how it goes, and so did Ranulf, and he did go, right back to the opposition.

Luckily for Stephen, things began to peter out soon afterwards. Robert of Gloucester died in his sleep, Empress Matilda fucked off back to France, and Pope Eugene III called for a Second Crusade, utilising the old Christian warcry of "If at first thou dost not prevail, endeavour, endeavour, endeavour to prevail once more" or something. This had the effect of many Norman nobles answering the call of Christ to go kill heathens, and if they happened to get filthy rich in the process, well, it was all part of God's plan, wasn't it? It certainly was part of theirs, and Waleran of Beaumont certainly saw where the gold glittered brightest, and headed off for the Holy Land. That was kind of it then. There was no decisive victory, really - not any victory to speak of - more a case, it seems, of everyone shrugging, looking at each other and then sidling off muttering, going their separate ways. Apart from a half-hearted and sort of distracted attempt at invasion of England by the man who would in fact become her next king, the son of Geoffrey of Anjou and the now-disenchanted-with-England Empress Matilda, Henry, which failed mostly because he hadn't got the cash to pay for it, the Anarchy stuttered to an inconclusive halt, with widespread devastation, near-bankruptcy and nobody hailing King Stephen as any kind of saviour, and he now had to devote time to that pastime that occupied every monarch, usually near the end of their reign, the question of the succession.

He needn't have bothered. Like the House of Godwin, last of the Saxon kings to rule before the Norman invasion, Henry would end up being a one-man royal line; no other member of the House of Blois would ever sit the English throne again. With the death of one son and the later rescinding of the claim of the surviving one, his line was to end with him, and the next man to sit upon the English throne would begin a dynasty that would last for over 150 years . After his abortive first invasion of England, Henry tried twice more, and eventually succeeded, as first Stephen's eldest son Eustace died, and then he himself, in 1154. Having already renounced any claim on the part of his other son, William, Stephen left Henry as the next King of England.

Here, in a very real way, the true succession of English monarchs begins. History knows them as the House of Plantagenet, or more commonly the Plantagenet Kings, and they would in time split into the opposing House of Lancaster and House of York, leading to the second English civil war, known to history as the Wars of the Roses. This period would also encompass the rise to power of a king who should never have been a king, his brother, who would seek, and mostly find, to one extent or another, fame and glory in the Holy Land, and birth the legend of the world's most famous outlaw who may or may not have lived.

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Chapter VI: Under the French Heel, Part Three: Knights, Bishops and Pawns: Church or State?

As the twelfth century gave way to the thirteenth (unlucky for many), one immutable fact persisted and could not be changed (that's what immutable means): the Normans were here to stay. This would not be like kicking the Romans out (which of course never happened; they left of their own free will, to defend the rapidly-crumbling empire) or seeing off the Vikings with two fingers raised in the time-honoured salute (though again, you could say they had their revenge in the shape of the Normans). No. The final invasion of England resulted in its last defeat. The green and pleasant land had been conquered, finally, and it would never shake the yoke of the occupier off.

While there would of course continue to be fierce opposition to what were still seen for over a century as the invader, this resistance would peter out eventually, and England would adjust to life under the Normans. After a while, it would be hard for anyone to remember it being any other way. Today, we take such things as castles and towns and knights and the laws brought by the Frenchmen that they seem like they have always been here, and the exploits of the revered Anglo-Saxon kings have been all but relegated to the realm of legend. One thing - among many - that the Norman occupation would do for England was to allow it to rise to become a European power. During the time of kings like Alfred the Great, Aethelbert, Aethelstan, even Cnut and various Edwards and Edgars, and others with AE in front of their names, England was very much what the title of this journal proclaims: this sceptred isle. While there may have been trade with other countries, the English had no navy, no real army and certainly had nothing to do with European, much less world politics. It was an insular place, to quote himself again, "this fortress built by Nature for herself against infection and the hand of war... This little world, this precious stone set in the silver sea which serves it in the office as a wall, or as a moat defensive to a house."

Admittedly, when Shakespeare wrote this it was the Golden Age of British Exploration. Elizabeth I was on the throne, and England was very much a power. But I'm just using it to illustrate that, back before the Normans, how the Bard describes England is pretty much how it was: a self-contained, isolated fortress, standing alone, apart from the great mass of Europe, pretty much disinterested in the affairs of its neighbours, happy to be apart. That's probably very much simplifying things, of course, but it can't be denied that what the Normans brought was, if you will, a sense of cosmopolitanism, or perhaps even a sense of being part of Europe. A foreign-ness, certainly, and one of the many reasons the downtrodden Saxons hated their new overlords, but the Normans knew there was a whole big wide world out there (they would conquer, fight in or at the very least influence and shape most of it over the next few centuries) and must have looked on the English as somewhat provincial, ignorant clods.

Which is an accusation hard to refute, really. Like I say, until Hastings almost every king of England had looked to his own internal affairs, seeking to strengthen his immediate borders, make or break alliances with rivals and basically do his damndest to hold onto the throne until it had to be pried from his cold, dead hands. Apart from raids by the Vikings (and, earlier, as noted, the Romans) nothing much happened outside of England, in England, if you know what I mean. There was plenty going on, without question, but these were matters that did not concern English kings, who had enough trouble trying to make, shape and then hold their realm together. Remember, it was, at this point, a mere five hundred years since England had been more or less divided into seven states, each ruled by a separate king (you do recall the Heptarchy? Wasn't all that long ago, in historical terms) and England had really only been solidified into one nation, with one identity, for about three or four of those centuries. So in some ways, quite a young country. While nations like France and Germany had existed, in one form or another, since Roman times and before, England was kind of the baby.

Under the Normans, it would grow up, and fast. Normans, though originally descended from Vikings, were essentially French now, and thought of themselves in that way. They dressed in the French style, ate French food (if they could get it), spoke the French language and fought in the French way, by which I don't mean handing over your capital to Hitler after a three-day battle and then living as collaborators, what a terrible thing to say. Have you never heard of the French Resistance? Normans brought the idea to England of a navy - a proper one, not just a few piddling boats used to outflank the enemy by sailing down the coast if the army was too knackered to walk. They brought the idea of cavalry, and knights, and chivalry. Oh, and castles. Did I mention castles?
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As a direct consequence of the Norman invasion and conquest, England has kings we remember with names like Richard the Lionheart, Henry VIII, Henry V and of course Elizabeth. Who wasn't a king, but claimed she had the heart and stomach of one. Which one, and how he lived without it, is not recorded. Not all of these were Norman, or French, but they all descended from the same family tree, all belonged to the root, and had Harold won at Hastings it's probably unlikely that any such names would have populated the throne room of England. Dynasties like the Tudors, the Stuart and the Windsors, who rule today. Incredible feats of bravery, skill at arms and often pure dumb luck such as the routing of the Spanish Armada, the establishment of the Church of England and the Gunpowder Plot, to say nothing of the Battle of Agincourt and the burning of heretics on both sides would never have taken place. In some cases, I'll grant you, history might have been better off without these events, but good, bad or repugnant they all go together to tie in as closely interwoven threads in the tapestry that is English, and later British history.

It all began with 1066, which is why every English school child knows this date, even if they struggle with others.
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It would of course be remiss of me to list the accomplishments of the Normans and ignore the hardships, cruelties and injustices visited on the previous masters of England during the Middle Ages, and further. In almost a foreshadowing of what would happen across the sea in Ireland some hundreds of years later, the ruling English (Saxon) class had been entirely disenfranchised, their lands and titles taken from them and their rights trampled on. To be entirely fair, this was not, unlike in Ireland, because they refused to worship the same god, or at least, the way the conquerors wanted him to be worshipped. It was not because they were seen as heretics, or indeed because the minority occupiers feared uprisings which would topple them from power and unleash civil war across the land. No. The Normans beat down the English for two reasons: one, they were the vanquished enemy, and one does not show mercy to a foe one has beaten, at least, not if he is a Norman. But more importantly, two: they simply wanted their lands, titles, wealth and their absolute subjugation, because (and again, this is twofold) they believed them beneath them and the men who had fought for William the Conqueror, who had become King William I, had been made certain promises and expected these promises to be fulfilled. In short, they wanted to be paid for their service.

Land, castle, titles, all were taken from Anglo-Saxon lords and given to Norman nobles, lords, barons and bishops, both to reward them for supporting the new king, and to ensure that the power rested in Norman hands. Whether the innate and almost casual cruelty displayed by the Norman rulers towards their now Anglo-Saxon serfs are true or not, whether they have been exaggerated by TV and Hollywood, I honestly don't know, but we will find out as we progress through life in England under the Normans, or, to again use the overarching title of this part of the journal, England under the French Heel. My own belief is that, while perhaps every Norman soldier did not wake up every morning and think "Time to burn down another Saxon village," the overall feeling was probably that these people were almost sub-human, and that they must be ground down, kept down, crushed into the dirt, so I think it may have happened more often than it didn't. But as I say, we will see. Let's put it this way: if he did not exist, then it's unlikely the legend of Robin Hood would have grown up at this time if the Normans were basically all right, the kind of occupation force you could really get along with. Yeah: no smoke without fire, and usually from the thatch of a peasant's roof.

So we won't paint the Normans quite in the shades of black, yellow and red they may deserve, but I do feel we'll be filling in the sketch sooner than expected. Perhaps it will balance out. Easy for me to say, of course, not having had to live under such oppression, but overall, in a historical sense, I think we may probably find that the Normans did more for England than they did to it, or if you prefer, the pluses of their occupation may outweigh, or at least balance the minuses. As ever, of course, I may be talking out of my arse again. I really don't know. But I'm sure that along the way, some of the handy books I'm using will have first or second-hand accounts of how life was in the Middle Ages for ordinary English folk, and I tell you something else: I bet Robin Hood, if he existed, never wore green. A construct of Hollywood? Well, it would have made sense, I suppose, if you're going to make a forest your base, but it sounds a little trite, doesn't it? Just as bulls do not react to a red flag (being colour blind), we may find that the legends speak of the famous outlaw as wearing brown, or russet. Who knows? It's all ahead of us.

But as we have done more or less since the first kings emerged in the fragmented realms that eventually made up England, we have to trace the story of the country's evolution and history through the eyes, deeds and words of its rulers, and that brings us to a whole new regnal line, as I mentioned at the end of the last chapter. These were, of course, all French - I think I can say with some certainly that there would never be another king or queen of England who was not descended from European stock - and Norman. But the issue of William the Conqueror was now done. With the death of King Stephen in 1154 the new line of kings would come from the family of the Empress Matilda, her son, Henry, becoming the first of the Plantagenet kings.

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Plantagenet comes from Geoffrey V Plantagenet, Count of Anjou and, you'll remember, husband of Matilda and more importantly father of Henry. He was the one who kept invading Normandy, to Stephen's annoyance, while his wife was trying to get her arse on the throne of England. Never particularly interested in sitting on the biggest chair in England, it's kind of ironic that his son would end up fathering an entire dynasty, but then, not like father, like son I guess. You'll also recall that it was Henry who fought against Stephen during the Anarchy and who eventually secured from the king his fealty and the promise that his own remaining son would not try to claim the throne, not even when Henry took a long holiday and left the keys to the throne room on a hook beside the gates, honest, cross me heart.

Well, basically Stephen knew that the game, for him and his line, was up. He had never really had any proper claim to the throne anyway, and Matilda, outlasting him by a decade, lived to see her son become the King of England. Hey, if you can't do it yourself, live vicariously through your kids, eh? I bet she was a real power behind the throne. As you can see above, the now-famous "three lions" that represents England came from the Plantagenet family crest, and would remain as a symbol of England to this day.

(https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/1/12/Geoffrey_of_Anjou_Monument.jpg/440px-Geoffrey_of_Anjou_Monument.jpg)
This is him. This is the guy. Although never King of England himself (and though his wife almost made it, but fell at the last fence) he did give his name to a dynasty that would last for three centuries and produce some of the most famous kings of England. Nobody seems entirely sure where the word plantagenet comes from, but certain experts on heraldry (and who am I to argue their wisdom?) seem to think it may have stemmed from a nickname given to him when he was young, due to the sprig of yellow flower he used to carry in his lapel, the French word for which is genêt though the Latin name,  planta genista seems to fit better. Anyway, basically if this is right you could generally call the entire line of kings descended from Geoffrey "the yellow flower kings". Hasn't quite got the same ring though, does it?

Because of his origins in Anjou in France, the Plantagenet Kings are also known by historians as the Angevin Kings, and just to make it even more difficult, they're split into two branches. The first is counted from where the Angevin kings still possessed their lands in Anjou, but apparently they lost them later, mostly, I think, thanks to bad old King John. After that the Angevin line is treated differently (though still called Angevin, and indeed Plantagenet), and in fact it was only Richard, Duke of York,  who took Plantagenet as his family name, and that was all the way forward in the fifteenth century. It was used retrospectively after that by the kings who came after him, and historians now call all the line up to the emergence of the Tudors the Plantagenet Kings.

Getting a little ahead of ourselves here, but just some interesting information. But to the new royal line, and as I say, this began with Henry, son of Geoffrey and Matilda. Having secured the throne of England from Stephen, he now became King Henry II.
(https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/6/65/HenryIIGospels.jpg)
Henry II (1133 - 1189)

The first thing that strikes me about the portrait above is that the new king looks either drunk, out of his head or uninterested, as if he's rolling his eyes. Still, that's medieval art for you. In reality, of course, Henry could not be more interested in being king. He had, after all, fought Stephen and taken (well, sort of had surrendered up to him) the throne, and he would no doubt be at least happy that people would stop referring to him by his previous names, Henry Fitzempress or Henry Curtmantle, neither of which seem very fitting for a king. He came to the throne, as I said, on the death of Stephen, in 1154, and inherited pretty much a disaster of a kingdom. Stephen and Matilda's war had all but bankrupted England, the nobility was divided and there were those pesky Saxons still to deal with, and all this before his arse even hit the throne.

But he sat on it for the first time as a young man, barely twenty-one, and was said to be bursting with energy. He had married the beautiful Eleanor, Duchess of Aquitaine and ex-wife of the King of France, Louis VII. Grumpy that his wife had not produced an heir for him (not even a daughter!) His Majesty had the marriage annulled and Henry swooped in. This gave him further holdings in France, but again though the history of at least the early Angevin kings is very much intermingled with events in France, this is the history of England so, in so far as I can, I'm going to ignore them. So we take up the story as Henry arrives with his wife of two years in tow, on English shores to take up residence in the throne room. Incidentally, you may remember that when I wrote of her flight from Germany I noted Matilda stuffed two crowns into a bag (also the hand of Saint James, but I don't know what happened to that)? Seems her son wore one of those crowns at his coronation. Was that some unspoken sign that the reign of English kings was over? Probably not: maybe he just liked the fit.
(https://spartacus-educational.com/00eleanorA4.jpg)
The problem with having holdings in two countries though means you have to keep shuttling back and forth between the two, unless you have people you trust in one, or both countries. Henry therefore seems to have spent rather a lot of time in France - much more than William the Conqueror, and he appears to have been in England so short a time that he barely had time to put down rebellions before he was getting his passport stamped for the continent again. Over five of his first eight years Henry was absent, but while in England he did manage to force the Scots to hand back the northern counties they had taken as he and Stephen fought each other, which helped him secure the ever-fragile and fluid northern border, and though the Welsh were something of a tougher proposition, he eventually brought them into line, too, more or less returning the national borders to the way they were before that oik Stephen fucked everything up with his stupid Anarchy in the UK (yeah I know I've used it before).

While it would perhaps be unkind to say that Henry's reign was controlled by the two women in his life - he was certainly his own man, and a strong king by all accounts - there's no denying that neither his mother nor his wife were content with sitting at home and leaving the business of running the realm to the men. Naturally, having fought for several years against Stephen for control of England, Empress Matilda was not likely to take a back seat now that her darling son was in control, and Eleanor had ambitions to be, if not the power behind the throne, then one of the two driving it. With Henry away so often, it's probably not surprising that these two ladies made it their business to get as involved in court politics and royal policy and decision-making as they could. While few men would be likely to listen to, much less take advice or orders from a woman, the fact that one of these was a warrior empress who had battled the length and breadth of England, and also captured its previous king, would have made them more, shall we say, amenable to her suggestions. And Eleanor was a previous consort of the French king. Nothing Normans liked better than a good French king (or a bad one) - as long as he stayed the fuck out of Normandy, and their business, that is- and they would have been reluctant, at the very least, to upset him.

Mind you, Eleanor would have been quite busy squeezing out the sprogs, as Henry planted no less than eight children in her, five of which were boys, so no problem with an heir in his case. Given that she eventually turned against him and was imprisoned in 1173 - and assuming he made no furtive romantic visits to her while she was incarcerated (unlikely to the max, as he had fallen out of love with her and had a new filly to warm his bed) that means that their marriage, such as it was, lasted barely twenty years. Eight children in twenty years? Given that each pregnancy takes, duh, nine months (so really, we're talking a year per kid here) that means she must have been up the duff for eight out of her twenty year marriage. She must have been exhausted! No wonder she supported the rebellion against him. But I digress, and get ahead of myself.

As for Henry, he certainly had the stamina and seed of a king, didn't he? In addition to the eight children he gave Eleanor he fathered at least another two bastards. You'd wonder where he got the time, wouldn't you? Imagine them trying to co-ordinate their schedules! "Oh I'm ovulating, Your Majesty, on April 21. How are you fixed?" Henry looking at his diary, shaking his head. "No can do, love. I'm due in Brittany that night. How's next Thursday fortnight?" She looking surprised: "I wasn't aware you were going to be in France then," and he winking "Who said anything about going to France? Brittany is a sexy little kitchen maid I've been seeing!" And so on. Still, can't be too flippant. If he hadn't been so, well, frisky, the long line of Angevin Kings would be a whole lot shorter. Of course, we wouldn't have had King John, and then maybe Robin Hood may not have needed to be brought into existence (if he wasn't real) or elevated to the status of legend (if he was). So I guess it's ye olde swings and roundabouts.

But if the Norman nobles thought their new king was going to help them regain the lands stolen during the Anarchy, they would be disappointed. He left such matters to local authorities such as the Shire Courts, and had far more important things to be getting on with as he channel-hopped between England and France, possibly wondering morosely when someone would think of the idea of a Channel Tunnel to link the two. Nevertheless, when he was Blightyside he did do what he could to crack down on crime, and while they may not have been the very first of their kind (or may; the article is a little vague on the details) he seems to have introduced the idea of juries at court in 1176, perhaps coincidentally, perhaps not, exactly six hundred years before a major colony of what would be the British Empire declared its independence and sunk into the mire of history probably.

In matters of religion he may have looked ahead to the time of his great-great-great- (add a few greats probably) grandson Henry VIII, and was not a fan of the pope, wishing to maintain his own regal authority over the appointment of bishops, archbishops and perhaps what kind of bread was used in the Eucharist, or perhaps not. This was the twelfth century, but it seems that even this far back, English kings were wary of letting Rome have too much influence over their kingdom, while presumably paying lip-service to the Vicar of Christ. And there wasn't even such a thing as Protestantism yet. Of course, I don't know this, but I'd be willing to bet most of the higher levels of the clergy - abbots, bishops, archbishops - would have been just as happy not to have the Holy Father sticking his saintly nose too far into their affairs, as some of the things they got up to could be quite, um, ungodly, but not only that: they were mostly nobles and lords raised to their position by the king, and had lands, wealth and who knew what to protect? I'm not saying the pope would have told them to hand over a portion of their income to Rome, but I wouldn't be that surprised.

For his part, the Pope was pushing for more influence, especially over the appointment of clerics, wishing to dilute the power of the king over what would have I suppose have been termed ecclesiastical matters, so England looks to have, almost from the beginning at least of the Plantagenet or Angevin dynasty, maintained what could kindly be called a fragile balance with the papacy, something that would of course completely shatter in the sixteenth century, and lead to the current state of affairs in Britain. You would probably also have to take into account the status of the pope at this time. As has been mentioned by me many times (especially in my History of the Papacy journal) back then popes were more like feudal warlords, kings or even emperors. They did not always distance themselves from secular matters, and many was the pope who not only got himself involved in, but often started wars and struggles for power. So to some very believable and understandable degree, a king of England could see the pope in Rome as all but a rival king, and who wants to hand over power of any kind to a rival king?

Again showing that the Angevin line was the beginning of a whole new era in English monarchical history, Henry II was the first English sovereign to have his name on the coins minted, a process that continues today, on bank notes as well as coins. Perhaps the king might not have been so eager to have himself so readily recognised by his people - I'm sure at that time, few of the ordinary folk, even nobles could be relied upon to pick His Majesty out of an identity parade - when his name suddenly became synonymous with one of history's worst and most despicable murders, and one on which the pope definitely frowned. God the Almighty, Creator of Heaven and Earth, was not available at that time for comment, though reliable sources quote His celestial press office as reacting to the deed with a single, damning word: shame.

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A Killing at Canterbury: This Turbulent Priest - The Murder of Thomas Becket

Given that Henry's view of the Church in general was that it should keep its mind on religious matters and not interfere in politics, appointing his ex-Chancellor to the plum and powerful role of Archbishop of Canterbury may not have been seen as the most intelligent move an English king has ever made. With somewhat supreme arrogance, Henry believed that his man would see things his way, toe the royal line and do what he was told. He thought, in other words, that he was appointing, what Francis Urquhart would later call "a sound man" to the position. He did not, however, seem to realise just who he was dealing with.

(https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/6/66/BecketHenryII_%28Thomas_Becket%29.jpg)
Saint Thomas Becket (1119 - 1170)

Born, in some ways, not quite into poverty but certainly not nobility, Thomas Becket first screamed his presence to the world in a house at Cheapside, one of the market towns of London. His father, though by the time of his birth a landowner and well-to-do, had begun life as a trader, perhaps in textiles, so while you couldn't quite say he was a commoner he was not exactly born into wealth and privilege. However he was of course a Norman, his family coming from Brionne and his wife - another bloody Matilda! - from Caen, where William the Conqueror's body was brought after the tragic accident that led to his death. The stars may have aligned somewhat for young Thomas, as he was born both on his name saint's feast day (I don't know if they named him for St. Thomas, but if not it's an interesting coincidence) and on the day of the winter solstice, December 21. He had a somewhat idyllic early life, hunting and hawking and possibly fishing on the estate of his father's friend, Richer de L'Aigle, and spent a year in Paris but was far from a stellar student. In his early twenties Thomas's father's fortunes dipped, and the young man had to take a job as an office clerk. I imagine you could say this taught him humility, but then, considering he ended (literally) up going against the king, maybe not.

Eventually, though, he secured a position in the household of the then-Archbishop of Canterbury, and from then on his career in the Church was on its way. He became Archdeacon in 1154, just as King Stephen was breathing his last and Henry rubbed his hands together as he prepared to ascend the throne of England, and in fact one year later his diligence had brought him to the notice of the king, who appointed him as Lord Chancellor. I will just sound a personal note of scepticism here and say that I find it odd that a man of whom it appears the king had not even heard was suddenly elevated to one of the highest positions in the land, one year after the new king was crowned, but I expect there's more to that than I currently know, or indeed care. The point is, there he was, a cheap lad from Poorside, sorry I mean a poor lad from Cheapside, a moderate student of passable Latin, occupying the post of  Lord Chancellor to the king. Talk about local boy done good! His Majesty even sent his own eldest son, also called Henry, to stay in Beckett's house, as was, apparently, to quote Grampa Simpson, the style at the time.

Henry junior was in fact technically (but only technically) also king, and this is why. The French had this odd custom of having the eldest son crowned as the heir apparent, so that there would be no tedious mucking about with all that nasty succession lark that bothered the English so much, and so, in technical terms, though only a mere lad, Henry junior (known often as The Young Henry, or even the Young King) was also King of England, if in waiting. He would be left waiting though, as he would die before his father, and so would never ascend the throne, but more on that later. It must have been quite the honour to have the future King of England leaving his shoes and hose to be cleaned outside of a room he occupied in your very own house, and you also have to wonder (well, I do) whether or not Henry senior, the current king, was having his sprog keep an eye on the Lord Chancellor?

A few months after the Archbishop turned up his toes and went to meet his maker, Becket stepped into his shoes. Elected Archbishop of Canterbury, he was now the most powerful man in the Church, in England anyway. Now this I do find strange (bloody Church!): it says Becket was only ordained as a priest after being chosen for the top job, but how then could he have served as an Archdeacon if he wasn't even a priest? Let's see: what exactly is an archdeacon anyway? My dictionary says it's a "priest ranking just below an archbishop". So how could he be ordained if he was already a priest? I say again, bloody Church. Anyway, Becket resigned as Lord Chancellor (I'm not sure whether it was that he couldn't hold both titles, saw them as being a conflict of interest or if he just no longer wished to be or thought he could not be able to discharge both posts) which riled the king, who had thought, as I said earlier, that Becket was his man.

And with that, we return to the story of his murder, surely one of the most infamous acts of any king up to then. As they grew increasingly apart (if they had ever been that close - I don't know what the relationship was between Henry and Becket when he held the Chancellorship; they certainly were not old friends or anything), Becket pushing the divine right of the Church to hold court over religious matters, Henry grumping "I'm the King, and what I say goes", the whole thing came to a head in something called the Constitutions of Clarendon, in which Becket was told basically to shut the fuck up about the rights of the Church, bend the knee or it might just be bent the other way. Ah yeah but it wasn't that simple. Let's take a goosy at these edicts, shall we?

The Constitution of Clarendon: Putting Manners on the Clergy

Apparently, the idea behind this was nothing really to do with Thomas Becket initially, but was an attempt to curb the power of Rome in deciding the guilt of clerics who had committed crimes. Rather like, it would seem, a papal version of a court martial, any such person would be, and could only be, tried by the papal courts, not the king, not the law courts, and as they have done since shortly after Jesus was nailed up and Christianity became a thing, and then a bigger thing, and then the biggest thing you can think of and then some, papal courts went easy on the perps. No sentence of death was allowed (presumably this was against God's law, though see also the Crusades and the various Inquisitions) and really the worst any "bad priest" could expect was to be defrocked, which was hardly a punishment fitting the crime. So Henry set up the Constitution of Clarendon (named, of course, for Clarendon Palace, where the accords were drawn up), proclaiming that once a priest or cleric was defrocked they could no longer come under the protection of the Church, and were his to deal with. Kind of, I think, a little like the way the Anglo-Saxon kings would withdraw the king's protection from someone, leaving them at the mercy of anyone who wished to harm them, with no punishment due for themselves. As I said back then, a sort of eighth-century version of The Purge.

All the clergymen under the king's control saw they had little choice but to agree to these protocols, but there was one man who doggedly held out, and would pay the ultimate price. Thomas Becket knew that the real purpose behind the Constitution of Clarendon was not really to make clerics subject to the king's justice - that was just a happy by-product. The real intent was to weaken the power of Rome in England and strengthen the hand of the king. So while he demurred by basically agreeing to the thing in principle, he literally avoided signing on the dotted line, refusing to add his signature as the highest-ranking cleric in England. Henry ran out of patience, lost the head and summoned Becket to court, where he was accused of, and convicted of contempt of royal authority, and had to leg it to Europe to escape Henry's wrath.

All right, all right!We're talking about a cold-blooded murder here, and the murder of an archbishop into the bargain, and that's no laughing matter. But you have to grin at the image presented by this extract from Wiki: "Henry pursued the fugitive archbishop with a series of edicts, targeting Becket and all Becket's friends and supporters, but King Louis VII of France offered Becket protection."  I can just see the king galloping on horseback, loading edicts into a crossbow and firing them at the fleeing Becket, who ducks, and eventually is given shelter by the French king, who has a huge shield in front of him. "Over here, mon ami! I will protect you!"
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Indeed it is. So noted, Vivian, Rick, Neil and Mike. Becket was of course not without his own powers, and sought to excommunicate Henry, but the pope, his boss, said "here you! If there's any excommunicating to be done around here, I'll do it, all right? Now fuck off back to England and do your job." Surely aware of the fragile relationship between Rome and the Crown, Pope Alexander III was hardly going to further antagonise the new king on behalf of one miserable archbishop who had found sand in his vagina etc. So he sent his enforcers, um, papal legates to England to sort it all out, and back to Blighty trudged a grumpy Becket. Back in the green fields of England, and no doubt itching to deal out a bit of excommunicating himself, Becket turned his wrath on three bishops who crowned the Young King (remember him? Henry's eldest son?) in the wrong place, i,e., not at Canterbury. When Henry heard this he flew into a rage, and said one of many reported things, all amounting to the same thing.
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Some accounts say it was "Will no-one rid me of this turbulent priest?" hence my section title. Boring old Simon Schama, clever clogs historian, says that's wrong, and posits an alternative moan, along the lines of ""What miserable drones and traitors have I nourished and brought up in my household, who let their lord be treated with such shameful contempt by a low-born cleric?". This is very long-winded and wordy, and probably more the kind of thing a king might be more expected to say, though I personally think he might have shouted "Will somebody - anybody - please for the love of the great lord fucking Christ KILL this cunt before I go stark staring mad?"

Whichever version you choose to believe was uttered, the result was the same. Four knights took it as a command, and set off for Canterbury, planning to take the recalcitrant archbishop back to Winchester to answer to the king. When Becket was disinclined to go, they got all knighty and went back for their weapons, which, being brave men of chivalry, they had sneakily hidden near a tree outside the cathedral. Well, in fairness, the idea probably had been that it might have been seen as just a tiny bit sinful, not to mention sacrilegious, to have taken weapons into God's house, and maybe they had hoped Becket would come quietly. He did not. They called him a traitor, he denied he was one and clung onto a pillar of the cathedral for moral and quite literally physical support, daring them to drag him away, and one thing you don't do to knights whose blood is up is dare them.

Luckily, we have a first-hand account of the arrest which became murder, and it's from some lad called Grim, whose name seems apt as he was wounded in the attack. Here's what he says about it: ...the impious knight... suddenly set upon him and [shaved] off the summit of his crown which the sacred chrism consecrated to God... Then, with another blow received on the head, he remained firm. But with the third the stricken martyr bent his knees and elbows, offering himself as a living sacrifice, saying in a low voice, "For the name of Jesus and the protection of the church, I am ready to embrace death." But the third knight inflicted a grave wound on the fallen one; with this blow... his crown, which was large, separated from his head so that the blood turned white from the brain yet no less did the brain turn red from the blood; it purpled the appearance of the church... The fifth – not a knight but a cleric who had entered with the knights... placed his foot on the neck of the holy priest and precious martyr and (it is horrible to say) scattered the brains with the blood across the floor, exclaiming to the rest, "We can leave this place, knights, he will not get up again."

Well, yeah. It doesn't take doctor to know that any man who's had his brains bashed in and whose said brains are now leaking all over the nice clean chapel flagstones is unlikely to rise again. I think I would concur with your diagnosis, Grim me old lad: no second opinion necessary.

Far from being annoyed that his words had been misinterpreted, probably just happy to see the back of the old bastard, Henry did not pursue any sort of case against these four knights, who in any case fled to Wales where they probably weren't too gone on Becket and had limited time for Henry. The king had more important things on his mind, and now that the main opponent to the Constitution of Clarendon was gone he... um, revoked them. Right. Sort of as a peace gesture to the pope and as a way of saying "Soz dude for not going after those most heinous killers of your top guy here. We cool?"

Now, to be fair, I said I would ignore any events in France involving Henry (or any subsequent monarchs) unless they impacted directly on the history of England, and while the king's next act was the catalyst for all our troubles down the centuries, I'm covering that in my History of Ireland journal, so no need to go over old ground, and let's just say Henry II's next move was to invade Ireland, and if you want to read more about the details you know where to head. Henry's invasion of Ireland had the papal seal of approval of Pope Adrian IV, so I guess can be seen as fence-mending between the king and the pope, not that this helped us at all.

This was, however, the first mark of the Normans in Ireland, and meant that we started seeing castles and fortified towns spring up all over the place, just as they had in England. It also meant that Henry II was the first English king to claim sovereignty over Ireland, though he would not be the last. But Ireland was small potatoes to Henry, a minor possession to be stamped with his seal of ownership, and he soon had bigger problems as his sons did what almost all sons of kings do eventually, rebel against him and try to seek power. This came to be known as the Great Rebellion, and looks mostly to have involved France, so perhaps nothing to do with us, move along, move along, nothing to see here. But it did sour his relationship both with Young Henry, who went crying to the pope that daddy was being too selfish with his lands and couldn't he make him give him more, and also with his wife, who supported her sons against their father, possibly because their father, her husband, had, to put it in words used by Edmund Blackadder, shacked up with a new pair of tights.
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At the heart of this revolt was, you'll probably not be surprised to hear, a sulky teenager who wanted to do what he wanted and spend what he wanted, and whose friends were always saying to him "Dude! Your dad's king, like! Why don't you have like your own castles and junk?" Possibly. What is true is that the Young King (Henry the younger) chafed at being constrained by the restrictions his father put on what he could own, or inherit, and I suppose if you have the Crown of England plonked on your head at such an early age you probably consider yourself the actual king. So teenage rebellion was in the air, not helped when daddy gave away three of Young Henry's castle to his bro John as a dowry for his upcoming marriage, and nobles and barons, who could always be relied on to stir the shit if there was something in it for them, whispered "Dude, your dad totally gave away castles that were yours by right. You should, like, rebel, dude. Show him he can't push you around. And hey, we'll support you (till it suits us)."

Young Henry thought, "You know what, dudes? You're so right. That old man has been holding me back. Let's hie us to France, where the king will surely support us, or at worst we can cadge money and castles from him. He's always hated my pop anyway." Which he had, because, if you remember, Henry had snaffled his non-cooperating wife and Louis did not like that. Eleanor, trying to catch a ferry to Calais, was stopped by Henry. "Oh no you don't, my fine fucking beauty!" he snarled. "It's priz for you!" And into priz, or prison, she was thrown, which surely cannot have helped their marital relations one little bit. Another reason for the support Henry's son received was due to his name being not mud - god how he would have loved for it to be mud! If only! - but absolutely shit all across Christian Europe. Well, after all,, he had been the first sitting monarch to have had the man occupying the Church's highest post in England murdered AND in his own cathedral! Hard to shake that one off. So basically Henry was kind of Public Enemy Number One throughout all Christendom, perhaps even more so than the heathen, who were, after all, just heathen.
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While as I say most of the fighting took place in France, what Scot worth his salt ever passed up the opportunity to sock it to the English? Not William the Lion, current king of Scotland, but once again he backed the wrong horse, as his attempts to take Northumberland failed, and as the army that had kicked his arse headed back south they ran into the Earl of Liecester,, who had been on his way to render aid to the Scots and was utterly defeated. On July 8 Henry (the king) arrived back from Normandy and immediately went to do his penance for his part in the murder of Thomas Becket, hoping to regain some of the support of the clergy I guess, or maybe it just seemed like a good idea to try to clear his name a little. and when King Henry II did something, he did not do it by halves! Here's what David Hilliam says in his highly entertaining book Kings, Queens, Bones and Bastards: Who's Who in the English Monarchy from Egbert to Elizabeth II: "Henry walked barefoot into Canterbury, wearing nothing but a shirt. He knelt at the cathedral porch. Then, with bleeding feet, he made his way to the spot where the murder had taken place and kissed the stone where the archbishop had fallen. After a ceremony of penitence and absolution he submitted to being beaten: three strokes from each of the eighty monks, and five strokes from each of the various bishops and abbots. Still muddy and unwashed, he then spent the whole of the next night in the dark cathedral crypt, fasting and praying, and nearly catching his death of cold."

Whether God approved, or not, Henry's fortunes turned for the better as the Scottish king was again defeated and this time captured, and across the channel the boys realised daddy was in control and called off the revolt, heading home. In perhaps one of the finest pieces, not only of propaganda but actually turning a minus into a plus, Henry II actually used the popularity of the burgeoning cult that had sprung up around Thomas Becket to credit the saint with his victory, and managed to erase the black mark his unwitting (?) sanctioning of his murder had placed upon him. In effect, it seems people almost forgot the king was responsible for the man's death, that, had he just kept his royal mouth shut, Becket would have no need to be a saint, and would be walking around very much more alive than he currently was. But that's public opinion for you I guess: fickle and changeable. People believe what they want to believe.

When Young Henry died in 1183 (for which I give thanks to a god I do not believe in; I'm fucking sick of differentiating the two damn Henrys!) the king had to change his plans for the succession, and so turned to Richard, while John, who had already been made Lord of Ireland (thanks a lot dad!) was to be made Duke of Aquitaine. Had Henry known what a shit king his youngest son was going to turn out to be, he might have kept the keys of Aquitaine in his back pocket rather than give them to him, but of course he was trying to placate everyone and did not want another revolt on his hands. He had already imprisoned the kids' mother, after all, so things were obviously not going swimmingly between father and sons, and he was getting on himself at this stage. In fact, he would not last much longer, dying of a bleeding ulcer (surely an occupational hazard for any king) in 1189, dying mostly as he had lived, in his beloved France. The man to succeed him would be known as Lionheart, but would be more famed for his deeds abroad, and particularly in the Third Crusade, than at home.

(https://d3k74ww17vqc8e.cloudfront.net/app/uploads/2019/01/24225554/06_101_RRSS_campana02_slider_PROD_ES.jpg)

(No, I haven't jumped forward in the timeline, nor have you accidentally clicked into my World War II journal. All will become clear...)

Chapter VII: Wolfshead: Eastern Promise, Broken Vows and the Death of Two Kings

To those who are familiar with the legend of Robin Hood (and who is not?) the reigns of both successors of Henry are inextricably linked. Richard, known to history as the Lionheart, spent most of his time on the crusade for which he had been preparing when his father fell ill and died, and left behind his younger brother, John, to rule in his stead. Not quite a regent, but he certainly had the authority of his elder brother, and used it to his own advantage. John is of course known as one of the worst English kings in history, and his lack of engagement with the common people, his love of riches and luxury, his cruelty and the injustices he practised upon England, all gave rise to the legend of the hero of Sherwood Forest. So this chapter will bring all three figures together, as they shared the same time period, and were, in one way or another, a direct product of each other, one the result of a king who was mostly absent, the other the wish-fulfilment (real or imagined, we will see) of a downtrodden people, and the third the very catalyst for the emergence of that saviour. We can't really deal with one without including the other two, and so we will.

But first, to the man who inherited the throne of Henry II, and who would become the middle king in a dynasty that his successor would destroy.
(https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/6/6b/Church_of_Fontevraud_Abbey_Richard_I_effigy.jpg/440px-Church_of_Fontevraud_Abbey_Richard_I_effigy.jpg)
Richard I (1157 - 1199)

Again with the Jews!  Chaos at Richard's Coronation

It may seem odd that Henry's eldest son only outlasted his father by a mere decade, but then, his adventures in the Holy Land would certainly have taken their toll. However, rather like Henry himself, the new King of England would not die in battle, but suffer quite an ignominious death. His legacy, mostly - almost entirely - built on his exploits in the Middle East - would however far outlast him, and he would be remembered, unlike his younger brother, rightly or wrongly as one of England's finest kings. His reign, however, did not get off to the greatest of starts. For reasons which are, I assume, rooted in prejudices so ancient that they probably will never be understood, if they could be, Jews were forbidden at the coronation of any English king, and so when some Jewish leaders, running the gauntlet and perhaps I suppose hoping to curry favour with the new king and gain better terms for their people, brought gifts to the ceremony, they were welcomed with opens arms and ... well, maybe not.

Richard's courtiers stripped the Jews and had them flogged and thrown out of the city. That's gratitude for you! Maybe they didn't care for the presents they brought to the king. The rumour then began - you'd have to say quite understandably so - that the new king had given orders that all Jews in the city were to be killed, and a riot erupted. In a foreshadowing of a kind of kristallnacht, the Londoners attacked Jews and burned their houses. When it all settled down Richard is said to have punished the perpetrators - though whether this was mere propaganda I don't know; maybe he had given the order and then thought better of it - but I don't see any real accounts of any Jews being invited back to London (well, one, but surely that was a token gesture?) so maybe job done? To underline how useless his proclamations to, and I quote, "leave the Jews alone, guys: they're all right in my book. Now I'm off to the Crusades, so no sneaking Jew-killing while I'm away, right?" there was another riot soon after, this time in York.

(https://www.cinema.ucla.edu/sites/default/files/Nuremburg2.jpg)
Scapegoats and the Star of David: A (very) brief investigation into the reasons for the hatred of Jews

We owe it to the many dead Jewish people to check out if there is, or was, any sort of excuse (that the English/Normans used anyway) to have a beef with Jews, so let's do some research. I do recall a scene from an episode of Robin of Sherwood, one of the best ever interpretations of the legend of the outlaw of Sherwood Forest, when the Sheriff of Nottingham thundered angrily "I will not have Jews in Nottingham! Have them whipped to the city gates!" I thought at the time wow, that's harsh, but from the above it seems that yes, this is almost a retelling of the reaction of King Richard. This was actual English law. Or was it Norman? How far back do these prejudices against and hatred of the Jews go for Englishmen? Surely the Anglo-Saxons had no problem with them, and this was an imported bigotry brought by William and his men?

Yes, this does seem to be the case indeed, as Wiki tells me helpfully that there were, to its recollection anyway, no Jews in England before the Normans, and in fact they only remained there, as we would say here in Ireland, pissing time, in historical terms, as a mere two hundred years later the Edict of Expulsion was decreed by King Edward I which forced all Jews out of England! Therefore it was the Normans who hated them, and why I wonder? Well, amazing as it may seem, nine hundred years before a World War I corporal rose to power in Germany using almost the very same phrase, in Norman England we find it: international conspiracy, though thanks to the still-prevalent superstitions in England and France at the time (let's not forget how late in history these countries, and others, were burning people as witches, most believing that this is exactly what they were) the word "magic" is used too. Let's take a closer look at some of the accusations levelled against the most downtrodden and blamed people in history by the Normans.

Wang alert! Also, possible misinterpretation as child abuse in medieval art

(https://antisemitism.adl.org/wp-content/uploads/2020/02/7.jpg)

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It's actually chilling and scary how some of these beliefs, held at a time when, as I say, people believed in witches, literally thought Satan could walk into their room and claim their soul with not a metaphor in sight, and would blame bad harvests or deformed children on spirits and demons, are still held today, in a slightly different form. Jews were accused of killing the children of Christians to use in blood magic rituals. Ironically, the history of this fabrication (which is all it is; it has no basis in fact, there is no evidence supporting it and no accounts of anyone ever witnessing such things, but why let facts stand in the way of a good story eh?) is that it was originally levelled at the emerging cult of Christianity by the Roman Empire. Now, to an extent, you can understand that. If the Romans heard that Christians were abjured by their god to eat his body and drink his blood, well, you don't have to work too hard to fill in the blanks. And considering they themselves practised blood sacrifice (though only of animals) to their own gods, this would have been easier for Romans to accept, and believe, rather than see it as a metaphor, despite their intelligence and learning. Of course, even if they knew it to be so, it was a tool to use against the new challenge of the heretical One God, so why not?

Ever willing to adapt, Christians then decided to use this crazy accusation against their hated enemies, the Jews, whom many blamed for crucifying their saviour, a claim that I suppose can't be denied if you look only in shades of black and white, and makes a handy stick with which to beat the Jews with. Originating in the Norman-conquered England, these ideas pretty quickly made their way back to mother France, and from there to Germany, again quite scary when you consider what happened there almost a thousand years later. More silly (but earnestly believed) stories held that Jews needed Christian blood to bake certain cakes called matzos, which are eaten during Passover, that the Jews needed the blood to re-enact the crucifixion for some reason, and that, just to make it a little juicier (sorry) the best blood was that of Christian children.

This kind of nonsense came to be known as "blood libel", and was often used to explain the otherwise inexplicable deaths of Christian children (I suppose the unexplained death of Jewish children was seen as God taking His just revenge?) but as you might expect, the Normans were just resurrecting an ancient lie, which began all the way back in the tenth century, where a Greek historian writes:  "every seven years the Jews captured a stranger, brought him to the temple in Jerusalem, and sacrificed him, cutting his flesh into bits." What the basis for or source of this is, your guess is as good as mine, but as with all conspiracy theories, no common sense needed.  Once a story takes hold, especially if people want it to, that's it. Another Greek author (well, Greco-Egyptian, but you don't care about that) also swore that when the Hellenic king Antiochus Epiphanes entered the Greek temple in Jerusalem he saw one of his countrymen being held captive, and the guy told him he was being fattened up for sacrifice. Well, not exactly a unbiased source then, was he?

But all that goes back even further, to the first century, and in the fifth one author even said that the Jews had captured a Greek child, crucified him and scourged (whipped) him till he died. The real reason though, that these largely forgotten stories resurfaced with the arrival of the Normans in England had to do with that fella in the Vatican, you know him, always wears a white dress, big hat? Him and his Crusades. Pick your pope, any pope, didn't matter - whether he had called for a Crusade, presided over one or just thought they were a jolly good idea for keeping the heathen in their place (six feet under or rising as smoke from a pyre) every pope hated the Jews. And so with the anti-heathen rhetoric of the Crusades and Holy Wars came the idea, bound up inextricably with that, of the Jews being heretics and needing a damned good extermination. This, you'll probably know, persisted well into the Second World War, when it was common knowledge that the Catholic Church either stood by twiddling its holy thumbs while the chimneys at Auschwitz and Dachau and Belsen belched out thick black smoke into the skies over Europe, or actively sold out Jews to the Nazis. Even now, old enmities die hard.

But back to medieval England. In 1144, around the time of the Anarchy, coincidentally or not, a boy was found stabbed to death in the woods of Norwich, and the local Jews accused. This was mostly due to a guy called Harold Loudmouth sorry Monmouth, who, without any shred of evidence, wrote that every year Jews had to choose a country in which to kill a Christian child so that they could be restored to the Holy Land by God. Now, logically, if you think about it (but who does that?) why would God want to restore lands to a people who had nailed his son up? The idea therefore holds no water, but as I say, logic goes out the window when it's inconvenient to humanity, and so it was taken, literally, as read that Jews held an international council every year at Easter, stuck a pin in a board and chose a country in which to murder a child. This one, the one in Norwich, whose name was William, went on to be canonised, while presumably his real killer went on to kill again, further deaths quite possibly again blamed on the local Jews.
(https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/1/15/Host_desecration.jpg)
Perhaps oddly (!), it seems this "international council" chose England again in 1168, 1181 and 1183. Odd, I say, that the dart or whatever landed in England almost two years running. Bad luck for England. Bad luck for the Jews, too, as this all then led up to the attack on the Jews at the coronation of Richard I. But while that brings us back full circle, there's more to explore in the reasons behind why Jews were hated in medieval England. Sadly, there's always enough hate to go round, and to spare.

Jews were also traditionally accused of poisoning wells, which led to many thousands of them being burned when the Black Death hit Europe, and also desecration of the Host, the Communion wafer held by Christians to represent (or even, if you believe strongly enough/are naive enough to actually become) the Body of Christ. It was said (again, without any evidence and often no witness but the accuser, who may have had a problem with the Jew accused by him or indeed all Jews) that they stole, stabbed or burned the wafer used as the Host, and when, usually after extreme torture, the Jews confessed, not only were they burned alive but their entire community. I can't help feeling that this is not what Jesus was about, if he existed. Where's the peace and love, brother?

In effect, then, we can chart the presence of Jews in England (at least during the Norman era) from 1070 to 1290, less than three hundred years. Although there were a few scattered settlements during the time of Cromwell (around 1656) and an attempt to enforce the Jewish Naturalisation Act in 1753 failed after a few months, the real "emancipation" of the Jews didn't occur until the nineteenth century, either 1829 or 1858, with the rise to power of Benjamin Disraeli as Britain's Prime Minister. So you can say that Jews were in England for less than three centuries, then basically absent for another six. While they were here though, in the Norman period, life was not easy for them. I guess Normans being such staunch Christians had an inbuilt hatred for the people they saw as crucifying - or allowing or orchestrating the crucifixion of - their Saviour, and being in power were not likely to be well-disposed towards those now living under their rule. The only real reason for their existence, toleration in the new kingdom was their skill with numbers: they were there as tax collectors, minters of coin, and other occupations to do with the royal treasury and finance.

Despite the violence and bigotry they suffered, it does seem that Jews in general prospered in the short time, historically speaking, they were in England. You can say a lot of derogatory things about Jews, but one thing that is used against them all the time but does seem to be true is that they are all good with money, and fortunes were made. The king needed his "money men", and so I expect the Normans and the Jews existed in a sort of uneasy truce; he needed them to sort out his money issues, they needed his protection. Hardly a mutually satisfactory situation, but it seems to have worked for the most part. Jews do, however, seem to have been treated almost as slaves in one way, seen as the king's property, his to send where he wished and they completely subservient to his will.

As I said earlier, after the riot at the king's coronation, the next major massacre of Jews was in 1190, in York, but rather strangely involved most of them dying by their own hands or those of their family. With the Third Crusade beginning, and anti-Semitic sentiment flaring up again, the Jews of York were attacked and begged sanctuary from the warden of York Castle, who agreed. But Clifford's Tower, where they had taken refuge, was besieged by rioters, demanding they convert. In what must surely be seen as a prime example of extreme and disproportionate response to these threats, the rabbi advised all his people to kill themselves rather than be converted, and the fathers began to kill the mothers and children. Once this was done, the rabbi set fire to the tower, so that those who did not kill themselves died in the flames, other than some who escaped and were murdered by the mob. So you would have to say, given that information, that the vast majority of the Jews killed in the York massacre were in fact killed by their own people.

Back to the newly-crowned Richard the Lionheart. He had religious fervour and wanted to go on the Third Crusade, as his father had not, and to support this Henry II had levied a huge tax on the English people, called the Saladin Tithe: This year each man shall give in alms a tenth of his revenues and movables with the exception of the arms, horses and garments of the knights, and likewise with the exception of the horses, books, garments and vestments, and all appurtenances of whatever sort used by clerks in divine service, and the precious stones belonging to both clerks and laymen." Significantly, anyone who joined the crusade was exempt from the tax, which encouraged some hitherto-undiscovered piety in a lot of people. In the end, it seems this money was frittered away by Henry on his war with Philip of France, but Richard collected more, and that summer set off for the Holy Land. I'm sure the people of London would have been gratified indeed to hear his claim that he would have sold the capital city to finance the crusade, had he been able to find a buyer.
(https://media.gettyimages.com/id/154944726/photo/house-flat-for-sale-sign.jpg?s=612x612&w=gi&k=20&c=IqF9UKXcK2dTaRFtNPgzyiBowwfepyguje5Ji6urAyA=)
And so, from 1190 to 1194 Richard disappears from English history. This is, of course, not remotely true, but for the purposes of my journal, it is. He spent his time in various European locations, and then of course in the Holy Land, where, though he distinguished himself and took the towns of Acre and Jaffa, and fought against the famous Muslim leader Saladin, he was actually unable to take Jerusalem, the whole point, surely, of the damned crusade? As it happens, I watched a series on the Crusades very recently, and it turns out the Richard could have taken the Holy City, as Saladin was preparing to withdraw, but neither knew the plans of the other, and so a golden opportunity to win himself perhaps even a place in Heaven (if you believe in such things) and be the Pope's golden boy was passed up, and Richard headed for home, managing to be captured and imprisoned along the way, first by Duke Leopold of Austria and then handed over to the Holy Roman Emperor, Henry VI.

I say all this because I want it to be clear that I am not ignoring the most famous period of the Lionheart's rule, but properly speaking it does not as such impact upon the history of England, and as I said, I'm trying to avoid any foreign entanglements or adventures that do not specifically involve or affect that story. So really, we need to look more at the reign of his brother, who, though certainly not yet a king, ruled as one in all but name, and was the arch-enemy of the man who would go down in English folklore as perhaps the first real legend the country spawned. Richard, for his part, would never again set foot in England after being re-crowned at Westminster in 1194, nor would he see the thirteenth century dawn. He immediately set off for France, where he waged war until a crossbow bolt brought him down, the wound turning gangrenous, and he died and was buried in various parts of France (his heart at Rouen, his entrails where he died at Châlus and the rest of his body interred with Henry II at Anjou).

Which brings us, as I say, to John.

You might say that everything Richard the Lionheart was, his younger brother was not. You would not, for instance, find Prince John heading off to the Holy Land to do battle with saracens and heathens for the glory of God. He had no sense of justice or mercy, was cruel and grasping, and had no military strategic sense at all.
(https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/4/41/Jan_tomb.jpg)
John (1166 - 1216)

Much of what we - well. I - know about Prince/King John comes from the story of Robin Hood, so it will be interesting to see if that stacks up, or if it's again all TV producers and Hollywood taking liberties with the truth. Certainly, from an early age it does seem John was the favourite son of King Henry II, though that could simply be a case of his being "the baby". We've already heard how his dad taking three castles from Henry the Young King did not go down well with the expected future ruler of England, but perhaps the then-king was trying to make up for the fact that his youngest son had been given no territories, castles or domains to inherit, leading Henry II to refer to him as "John Lackland", a tag that would stick with him through his life, even when he became king on the death of his brother, Richard.
(https://img.freepik.com/premium-vector/cartoon-drawing-king-with-crown-crown-cartoon-king-with-scepter-with-gems_851674-86767.jpg)
To give him what credit he is due, John was said to be a great reader, fond of music and a connoisseur of jewels, as well as wine, and like probably most of the men who sat in the big chair, he had his good and bad points, being described variously as "genial, witty, generous and hospitable" and "jealous, over-sensitive and prone to fits of rage." Despite having no lands, John does not appear to have joined in the Great Revolt when his brothers Richard, Henry and Geoffrey rose against their father. Perhaps as a reward for his loyalty, the king began to find lands and territories to give to John. It's also probable, of course, that John being a mere seven years old at the time of the Great Revolt, he could hardly have been expected to have joined his brothers, but maybe it's the thought that counts. He was certainly made Lord of Ireland at the tender age of ten.
(https://historiesandcastles.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/11/Eleanor-of-Aquitaine.jpg)
His attempts to have him crowned King of Ireland however ran into serious opposition from Pope Lucius II (and presumably the Irish weren't too gone on the idea either!) and in fact he quickly made enemies of the Irish lords, laughing at their appearance. He was eighteen at this stage, so really should have known better. Nevertheless, perhaps seeing an opportunity, Eleanor, the now-released late King Henry's wife, John's mother, convinced her kingly son to allow John to rule in his stead while he was away converting heathens - converting them into piles of bones, that is - and England's sorrow began. Hmm. Actually, the political situation in England, and the matter of who was in charge, is a little more complicated than that. John would have been, let's see, 24 by the time the king left for the Holy Land, but either Richard didn't trust him or trusted others more, as he left two bishops and an earl in charge. Still, as is often the case when power-sharing is initiated, struggles for supremacy broke out, and when the earl, with staggeringly bad timing, died almost before the king's sails were out of sight over the horizon, one bishop refused to work with the other, and so John was able to exploit this divide to his own ends.

Securing the fealty of the city of London he was recognised as Richard's heir, and regent, and then basically king in all but name, though he dared not take the title of course, and remained, until his brother's death, Prince John. As the years wound on though and his brother did not return, John began putting about the idea (and no doubt harboured the hope) that Richard had been killed in the Holy Land, pushing himself closer to being recognised as king. At this point, the Lionheart was probably languishing in one cell or another, and hoping for a ransom to be paid to get him released. Just in case it was, and he was (it was, and he was) John thought he might just pop over to France and see if the king fancied an alliance against Richard, which he certainly did. And so in effect, though not exactly, John kicked off a new civil war in England, as his supporters fought those of Richard.

It was about this time, of course, that the man in green steps into the picture.
(https://i.natgeofe.com/n/9c2df0cf-07e4-4d38-b8a6-1938cdae8605/14-robin-hood.jpg)
Robin Hood, Robin of Loxley or Just Robbin' the Rich? History or Legend?

It's easy to say that in times of crisis, a hero will either spring up or be invented. It's seldom that legends are born when there is peace and prosperity; people usually need someone to appeal to, someone to, as it were, answer their prayers, someone to take on their oppressors and fight for them, fight for right, fight for truth, fight for justice, and possibly (though not in England obviously) the American way. Whether this is a comic-book hero, a fairy tale, a quasi-historical figure like Prester John or someone who may have existed, kind of really doesn't matter. As long as the idea is there, the man (or woman) is seen to have existed, and that's fine for those who are suffering under whatever particular yoke they're suffering under at the time. But for us amateur historians and journal writers, we do actually need to sort the fact from the fantasy, the legend from the logic, and the real from the unreal.

So let's try to do that.

With not exactly much in the way of the chronicling of his deeds (the Normans, as rulers, were hardly likely to, as it were, give an enemy column inches, and they pretty much wrote anything that was to be written around this time) we have to rely on one of the oldest delivery systems of news or events, the ballad. Around this time, the only way many people would have of getting information was from travelling singers called troubadours or minstrels, who would sing of events and to perhaps some degree act as a strolling, more musical town crier. It's from one of these that we have the first mention of the outlaw, in the ballad "Robin Hood and the Monk". This is, then, of course, the first time we hear the name that would be given to the famous wolfshead. It's believed to have been penned around 1450, so nearly two and a half centuries after the rule of Prince John (and the life of the eponymous outlaw) and it contains already many of the ingredients of the tale which would go forward into his mythology.
(https://i0.wp.com/reynolds-news.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/01/harding151.jpg?resize=360%2C333&ssl=1)
Little John is there, as is the Sheriff of Nottingham, and Much, the son of the miller. As it's written, the ballad is of course an adventure, in which Robin is taken prisoner and his men have to free him, but not by force of arms; they use trickery, fooling the Sheriff and thereby setting the seal on the relationship between him and the outlaw for all time. The whole text isn't shown, but a synopsis tells me that Robin fights well before being captured (as you'd expect) but with a sword rather than his traditional longbow. This might be not too surprising, as if he was fighting a close quarters, perhaps Errol Flynn-like, Robin would not be able to use his bow and a sword would make much more sense. Whereas this is a single story, A Gest of Robyn Hode seems to be the first collected anthology of all the tales about the outlaw. Though the text is believed to date from about 1400 (and therefore predates "Robin Hood and the Monk") it appears to be set not in the twelfth but the thirteenth century, during the reign of King Edward I. This could, I suppose, be an instance of writer's licence, the author transposing the hero into a time that better suits his style, maybe like The War of the Worlds being moved to 1950s America, or Sherlock Holmes existing in a more modern era.

Much more of a building block to the legend than the ballad, this collection codifies many of the tropes we now associate with Robin Hood, including his being a "good" outlaw, his opposition to the Sheriff of Nottingham, Little John being his loyal right-hand man, his devotion to the Virgin Mary (it says here), and of course, his robbing the rich and giving to the poor. It also sets down for the first time the story about Robin winning the archery contest, his contempt for the corrupt Norman clergy, his on/off relationship with the king (loyal to the crown but always a wild outlaw) and his eventual betrayal and death. In many ways, this seems like it could also be titled The Life and Death of Robin Hood, and it seems everything you need to know about the young outlaw is here.

Yes, yes, Trollheart you old bore, I hear you say (well, some word beginning with "b" anyway), we all know the stories. What we want to know - and what you promised us you would tell us - is whether or not the guy existed? And before you think of it, don't start with that "the opinion of historians is divided" guff! You did say guff, didn't you? Well anyway, sorry to disappoint you, but it's actually the case. See, the thing is, both names were very common back in the Middle Ages - Robin as a first (Christian) name was everywhere, apparently, being a diminutive of Robert, one of the favourite names brought by the Normans from their native country,  and Hood, well, that just referred to anyone who wore or made hoods. So, like, car mechanics, yeah? Well no: I mean actual hoods, like the type you wear on your head. Back then, people were named after what they did, so if you made barrels you were Cooper, if you made arrows you were Fletcher and if you thatched cottages you were a heartless bitch with no soul who hated the poor. You get the idea. So since there were no such things as umbrellas, and England being prone to the odd spot of rain, those who made hoods were always in demand, so plenty of Hood, Hoode, Hode and so forth.

Where historians first start when they trace what they call, with astonishing lack of originality, the historicity of someone or something - i.e., did they/he/she/it actually exist - is through the name, and of course with, as we have seen, such predictability in naming people (witness the many many Matildas, few of whom may have actually waltzed, the Henrys, Williams and Edwards in English history) often makes it hard to know if this is the right person we're talking about, or if he just happens to have the same name. But in Robin Hood's case, there are far too many men who could have had that name, for entirely legitimate and occupational reasons, who never set foot in a forest, never mind Sherwood, that pinning down a real, live historical figure is about as easy as nailing jelly to the wall.

Robert Hood and Robin Hood do come up in historical records - and some of these men are recorded as having been on the wrong side of the law - but there's no way to know for sure if we're talking about the famous one, if he even existed. And as if that wasn't confusing enough, there are those who believe the very word hood itself is a mistranslation, and should be wood. Which, if you think about it, makes more sense. Robin is noted, in "Robin Hood and the Monk", as doffing his hood, but that may not mean what we think it means, and if the outlaw used Sherwood as his base, then Robin Wood would fit better. And of course, wouldn't you know it, this time period is crawling with Robin Woods, any of whom could be, or may not be, our man.

(https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/c/c8/Robin_shoots_with_sir_Guy_by_Louis_Rhead_1912.png)

(I'm not entirely sure why Robin appears to be shooting with, rather than at, a man in an animal costume in the above picture - which is titled "Robin Shoots with Sir Guy", presumably referring to his other arch-nemesis, Guy de Gisborne - perhaps the earliest version of a furry?)

Whether they refer to him or not, the earliest mentions of Robin Hood come from court records, where they're used as a kind of a description of criminals and outlaws. I guess something similar to if someone were to call every train robber a Jesse James or a Ronnie Biggs. But the first real (or possibly real) historical mention of Robin Hood comes to us from about the right time we would expect it to, the thirteenth century, and though the name is not the same, the historical work The Scotichronicon (sounds like a native of Aberdeen with itchy balls to me!) mentions him as having fought on the side of Simon de Montfort, sixth Earl of Leicester, who led the revolt against King Henry III.

Roger Godberd (123? - 129?)

First point in his favour, other than his inconveniently being named Roger and not Robert, is that he was an outlaw, or seen as one. He travelled the country committing crimes with a bunch of men - though history does not record whether or not they could be characterised as merry - and he lived in the thirteenth century, though he did live in Leicestershire and not Nottinghamshire. Still, they appear quite close to each other (about thirty miles) and these days a bus ride of less than an hour will take you between the two. One thing against his being Robin Hood is that he is said to have been a travelling outlaw, not basing himself anywhere, certainly not in a forest. Interestingly though he was linked with Nottingham, serving in the garrison at Nottingham Castle, which may have provided some of the tales of his struggle against the Sheriff, though it does seem as if, conversely, Roger worked for him, not against him. Well, let's see.

He did fall foul of the law and absconded, and there are suggestions (based on what, I don't know, perhaps only wish-fulfilment) that he settled in Sherwood Forest with his men. He was captured by the sheriff and imprisoned in Nottingham Castle, and helped escape by a knight, Sir Richard Foliot, who sounds rather like Sir Richard, the "Sorrowful Knight" in one of the tales collected in that anthology, who did help the mythic figure. Godberd did attack at least one abbey, in keeping with the legendary figure's contempt for the Norman Church. He is said to have been pardoned by King Edward I, returning from crusade, which mirrors the supposed pardon given Robin Hood by the returning King Richard I - though conflicting accounts of his life also have him dying in Newgate Prison.

Personally, I would say that yes, there are some factors here which line up with the legend of Robin Hood, but there are also some differences, such as his propensity to wander, his working at the castle and no mention of his helping the poor folk. Not really a skeleton, more a few random bones collected and assembled in a sort of haphazard manner. It's 1521 before John Major (not that one!) mentions his aversion to violence and his desire to help the underprivileged. What evidence he offers for this, I don't know, but Major also has Robin living in the era we best know him for, the time of King Richard and Prince (later King) John. Another writer, Richard Grafton, mentions him as being a member of the gentry and raised to the status of an earl.

But if we're looking for an actual Robin Hood, then Robert Hod comes close, and he was an outlaw. In 1227 he became known as Hobbehod and also Robert Hood, so we could be getting closer. His goods were confiscated in 1226 as part of a debt he owed the Abbey, so that could also explain in part why the historical/legendary Robin Hood had such a problem with the Church. Apart from the fact that they had outlawed and decimated his own religion. There's also John and Robert Deyville, who, again, fought for Simon de Montfort. When Henry III defeated him, John was pardoned but it seems his brother was not, and he lived, coincidentally or not, at Hood Hill. There's even a grave for a man who may never have existed, at Kirklees Abbey in West Yorkshire, supposedly the place the dying Robin wished to be buried, having shot an arrow into the air, and it having landed there. On the inscription carved on the grave it mentions "Robert, Earl of Huntingdon... and people called Robin Hood"
(https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/d/dc/Robin_Hood%27s_Grave_-_geograph.org.uk_-_271586.jpg/440px-Robin_Hood%27s_Grave_-_geograph.org.uk_-_271586.jpg)
Which opens up a whole new can of worms.

My name is not Earl: Robert of Huntingdon, W.ne

You probably never saw those letters after anyone's name before, and there's a very good reason for that: I just made them up. They stand for "Who Never Existed", and here's the deal. There never was a Robert, Earl of Huntingdon. Oh, there were Earls of Huntingdon, all right: more earls than you can count, earls for all occasions, wall-to-wall earls. But no Roberts. Around the time of Richard I and King John's reign, the earl was David, and he lived till 1219, (so popped his clogs just after lunch) and was succeeded by his son, John, who kicked around till his thirtieth birthday, joining daddy in the great hereafter in 1239. Incidentally, David was married to yet another fucking Matilda!

David, Earl of Huntingdon (where the hell is that anyway? I'll check) spent, it seems, all of his life in Scotland wrestling with the things Scottish nobility wrestle with, and probably wouldn't be able to find Nottingham on a map, never mind Sherwood Forest. He did in fact have a son called Robert, but he died too young (doesn't say what age, just "died young", so I assume as a child) to be able to be romping around forests merrily or otherwise. Like any noble worth his salt, the earl was not particular with his affections, and had three bastards, but neither of the two male ones were named Robert: two Henrys. As for his son, John, well as I say he died aged 30, and while that would still qualify him to some degree as being able to fill Robin Hood's shoes, there's no historical record of his ever being in England, the closest he seems to have come, like his father, being Chester, where he married his wife, thankfully not another Matilda.

So, far from being the grave of Robin Hood, this can't even be the grave of Robert, Earl of Huntingdon, as he never existed. As for the place? Okay well it's in Cambridgeshire, a long way from Chester and a much longer way from Scotland, and in fact over 70 miles from Nottingham, so I'm not sure why there would be any sort of claim for its earl being a candidate for the true identity of Robin Hood, assuming he existed. Right, well apparently it was down to artistic licence, when a playwright called Anthony Munday wrote a play called The Downfall of Robert, Earl of Huntingdon in 1598, while a researcher and clergyman called William Stuka Dive-Bomber sorry William Stukely decided to try to all but create the myth of Robert, never willing to let the facts get in the way, and here's how he did it.

According to our Bill, there were in fact two Earls of Huntingdon, or at least, two claimants for the title, the other being a descendant of Waltheof, of whom we've heard before (think he was a bishop? Not important really) and was called Robert Fitztooth. According to Billy, this meant that the second part of his name (bear with me) "tooth" got corrupted over time into "ooth" then "Odo" and then, somehow "Hood". Not only is this a bit of a reach, to say the least, but Bill claims this lad lived to the extremely ripe old age of 87! This at a time when kings were dropping like flies, young men met their end almost every Friday night down the local hunt, and disease, poor hygiene, bad eating habits and, oh yes, wars, meant most men were lucky to see their fifties.

Let's do a little check. Richard I we know died abroad at the age of 41, his brother John outlasted him by a mere 8 years, missing my arbitrary cut-off point of 50 (and he hadn't even been to war), Henry II lasted just past that limit, turning up his toes at 56, the start of the Plantagenet line, Geoffrey of Anjou, never even got to his forties, dying at age 38, and the granddaddy of them all, the man who started it all off, William the Conqueror, almost made it into his sixties, an old, old man when he died at 59.
(https://media.istockphoto.com/id/521090256/vector/old-father-time.jpg?s=612x612&w=0&k=20&c=C8-gy4JQhaR_3-0IznKj_P3YYiohJEcMAriRZSIdWxA=)
Nowhere can I see, in a quick scan obviously, any man living into his eighties. Even now, people don't often live that long. And to suggest that someone pursuing the less-than-safe occupation of outlaw could not only outwit and stay one step ahead of the authorities, but end up retiring with a grey beard is stretching the bounds of credulity to almost breaking point. I mean, if you're going to invent someone, at least have them die at a generally accepted age for the time.

At any rate, this idea was then picked up by an English novelist, Sir Pierce Egan the Younger, nearly two hundred and fifty years after Munday and a century after Stukely had both more or less created this character out of thin air, and he elaborated on the reasons why Robert of Huntingdon should or could have existed, if only for literary and fictional purposes. He postulated that Robert Fitztooth's rightful claim to the earldom had been thwarted by his granduncle Philip, who wanted the position for himself, and labelled Robert a bastard, whereafter he was raised by Gilbert Whitehand, who is apparently referred to in the tales of Robin Hood, but who never survived into the folklore as one of the Merry Men.

Well, whatever, before we get too bogged down with fictional characters, let's just draw a line under the possibility of Robert Earl of Huntingdon having been the model for Robin Hood, as he clearly did not exist.

But did the outlaw? Well, as I think we probably all knew from the beginning, that's not a question we can answer definitively, if indeed at all. What is striking is that his legend, as such, seems to have begun at what could be described as England's greatest time of need. Richard I may have been a good king, he may not (I suspect the latter, as I already mentioned, his fame and exploits based on his adventures in the Holy Land) but what's certainly true is that he left his realm in the hands of a real, to use the English term, rotter. Nobody liked King John - his nobles feared and distrusted him (and in private probably mocked him), hating to have to serve a prince as all but a king while their sire was out teaching the heathens a thing or two about Norman justice. The Anglo-Saxons really hated him, though I would question why, if they did, that Robin Hood the legendary figure is always portrayed as being loyal to King Richard? He was a Norman too, a Frenchman, and surely then Robin should have been as much against him, as an unwelcome invader in a long line of invaders of his country, but he seems to have been well-disposed towards him, Richard always held up as the "good king" while John is the archetypal "bad king".
(https://i.guim.co.uk/img/static/sys-images/Guardian/About/General/2009/12/29/1262094010491/Crusades--001.jpg?width=465&dpr=1&s=none&crop=none)
From what I can read, Richard spent a total of maybe half a year of his total ten-year reign in England, and didn't seem to care much for it, as I noted earlier, quite happy to sell London to finance his crusade. Whether that's an actual quote or something anecdotal I can't say, but if true, it shows how little England meant to him. It's quite possible that, had he died in obscurity on the crusade and won no victories, he would just be remembered by history as an absentee king. John, of course, is known for his mismanagement and bungling of the royal finances, eventually losing all the Angevin territories, and for his mistreatment of the Anglo-Saxons. I suppose the lesser of two evils, but I still find it hard to see how Richard gets such a whitewash job. After all, he abandoned his responsibilities as English king (if he ever accepted them or paid them any mind) to head off and kill for Christ in a foreign land, leaving the realm at the mercy of his younger brother.

Be all that as it may, England under John was, as the movies would have it, crying out for a hero. With their king gone to do God's work in the Holy Land, there was nobody to fight their corner (assuming Richard would have done so, had he been there, but maybe they created an idealised image of the absentee monarch) and so it's possible they just had to invent one. As I noted before, heroes and saviours don't appear in a time of peace and plenty - they're not needed then. It's when men and women are at their lowest, when death and deprivation stalk the land like two giant stalking things, that heroes rise. If they don't exist, they can be created.
(https://cdn.britannica.com/04/84704-050-7E762815/Basil-Rathbone-movies-Arthur-Conan-Doyle-one.jpg)
There's great comfort in the idea that someone out there is fighting for you, even if they're just stories, and as we all know, stories have a way of taking on a life all of their own, and people who never existed, or perhaps even did so but only on a written page, become real. Witness the many readers in England who wrote letters, not to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, but to Sherlock Holmes, believing the character to be real. Once people have an idea fixed in their minds, it's hard to change that mindset. So through ballads and plays and songs and word of mouth, the exploits of Robin Hood, real or imagined or even fictionalised to try to give the people of the time something to cling onto, spread the legend, and in later centuries, when there was really no pressing need for such a hero, he passed into the realm of legend and people still wrote about him. Today, he's probably the most famous outlaw in history, and everyone knows his name.

While there is no mention, so far as I can see, in the ones I've read anyway, of the practice, now endemic to the Robin Hood legend, of his robbing the rich and then giving to the poor, it seems this is a concept that only originated as late as the end of the eighteenth century, when Joseph Ritson published a collection of all the tales, but added his own political slant on it, thereby creating Robin's sense of philanthropy and his identification with, and sympathy for the poor. We can probably, then, take it as read that in the original legends this was not something Robin Hood was said to do, and that it was completely an invention of Ritson's, used, it seems from his response to the question as to who gave Robin Hood licence to do such things, as a way of showing how unfair and unbalanced the idea of levying taxes on people was by kings and queens: "That same power which authorises kings to take it where it can be worst spared, and give it where it is least wanted."

Ritson also held that Robin Hood had been real, and more, was a revolutionary and a radical, his (Ritson's) views seen through the prism of the French Revolution, of which he was a supporter. He seems to have latched onto Stukely's idea of Robin being the Earl of Huntingdon, and living to an age of 87, however unlikely that was. Although he's still seen as an important scholar on the Robin Hood legend, it seems to me that all he was doing was retreading and rehashing the fictional narratives and outright lies about the outlaw's supposed heritage, while clearly ignoring the facts, i.e., that there was no Robert, Earl of Huntingdon in history.

And then, there's Sir Walter Scott.

This comes as something of a surprise to me, but it appears that, other than the Sheriff of Nottingham (and presumably also Guy of Gisburne) and the Norman clergy, the original tales and ballads did not pit Anglo-Saxon against Norman. This was mostly fictionalised by the great novelist in his greatest novel, Ivanhoe, published in 1818. Scott makes Robin Hood into a cheerful, principled and lovable rogue who fights on behalf of the dispossessed Anglo-Saxon people against the occupying Normans, and, as with all great works of fiction, once an idea is planted it is taken up. This version of Robin Hood, along with that touted by Ritson, became the model for Hollywood and the modern version of the wolfshead on television, in movies and in books. According to those eminent historians, and providing quite the kick in the pants for me, there was actually no strained relationship between the Anglo-Saxons and the Normans by the time of Richard (and John)'s reigns, that they had all kissed and made up - literally, intermarrying - and that everyone thought of themselves as English only. So the Hollywood and TV tales of Robin Hood we all grew up on are about, it would seem, as dependable and as accurate a depiction of the times as is, say, Braveheart or just about any movie about the Wild West. That's me told, then.

As for his Merry Men? Well, we have this perhaps to thank for that.
(https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/e/e6/1883_decorative_title_page.jpg/440px-1883_decorative_title_page.jpg)
The first story published about the outlaw for children, The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood of Great Renown in Nottinghamshire hit the shelves in 1883, and was written by, of all things, an American. Howard Pyle was an illustrator and author who took the tales of Robin Hood laid out in the ballads and scripted them into a fine adventure story for kids. He introduced modern audiences, especially children (and, possibly, their parents, as one assumes these were read to them) to the tale of Robin's contest with Little John above the river with staffs, his being bested by Friar Tuck, and other stories now consistent with what we know of Robin Hood.

What about the others though? His so-called Merry Men (and one woman)? The core group seems to consist of the two most famous, Little John and Friar Tuck, his love interest Marian (often referred to as Maid Marian). To these are added Will Scarlet, Much, Nasir and Allan-a-Dale, but did any of these people exist? Is there any historical evidence for their having been real people, and if so, can they be tied to the outlaw as part of his band? The original tales only mention specifically three people, one of whom you would expect, as he has gone down in legend as the outlaw's right-hand man.
(https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/7/76/Robin_Hood_and_Little_John%2C_by_Louis_Rhead_1912.png)

Little John

Though later adaptations tried to make out that his name was in fact backwards, and that his name was John Little (which actually makes sense) there is no historical evidence for this. It does, however, give me an opening to annoy you with yet another Black Adder reference. In a scene evoking the recruitment of the Magnificent Seven or Seven Samurai, Edmund Blackadder puts together a band of the most evil and despicable men in the land, to try to take the throne from his father. One of these is a midget, called Jack Large. Over a few tankards of ale, Edmund tells him "I shall call you Large Jack." The midget frowns. "Why?" he asks. Edmund explains with a grin "Because you are so little." His brow clouding further, Jack asks "Then, why not Little Jack?" Becoming slightly uncomfortable now, Edmund says "Well, because it is so much funnier." Jack frowns, looks around. "Is it?" he warns, asking for opinions from his companions, who all kind of shrug and look away - Jack Large is known to be, well, a bit of a psycho. Edmund, seeing he is on his own, gives in. "Very well!" he agrees. "Little Jack it is!" And promptly finds a dagger held at his throat, as Jack rumbles "You making fun of my size?"

I guess, again, you had to be there, but it does show how John Little could easily have evolved into Little John, the irony being the size of the man. However contemporary accounts (always got to refer to those contemporary accounts) seem to suggest he was in fact called Reynold Greenlefe - which you have to admit, is a hell of an appropriate name for someone who is going to spend most of his life hiding in, and striking from, a forest!

Even so, there is again no historical evidence that such a man ever lived, or if he did, that he lived at that time or had anything to do with Robin Hood. There is a grave, supposedly his, in Hathersage in Derbyshire, but that doesn't prove anything. It helps the tourism of the area, I'm sure, but anyone can say anyone is buried anywhere, and after eight hundred years, even if the grave was exhumed you're not getting any DNA from those remains!
(https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/3/36/Tomb_of_Little_John_14-04-06.jpg/400px-Tomb_of_Little_John_14-04-06.jpg)
The general agreed characteristics of Little John, prevalent in most if not all of the stories, is that he was said to be huge, about seven feet tall, very brave, dedicated to his wife and to Robin Hood, and fought with a quarterstaff, his weapon when he first challenges Robin on the bridge at their first meeting. He is also said to be the only one of the band present when his leader is supposed to have died.

Much, the miller's son

Although I believed, rather angrily (oh, you know me) that he had been an unnecessary addition to the band in the series Robin of Sherwood, as I had never heard of him in any other tale I had watched about the outlaw, Much, also called Moche or Midge, is in fact one of the early Merry Men. However in that series he is said to be Robin's brother, or half-brother, and well, as he never existed, what does it matter? The idea of his having been a miller's son might be, I would suggest, to show that even the lowliest worker could rise up against the tyranny of the Norman Prince John and fight for freedom.
(https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/0/0c/Will_Scarlett.PNG)
Will Scarlet

He has many names - Scathelock, Scadlock, Shacklock, Scarlock, Padlock (okay, not the last) - and is the third of the band who appears to have been there from the start. He's one of the few who have a generally agreed origin story, where Robin comes across him shooting deer in Sherwood Forest, and asks him to join his band. As you do, they fight first, but eventually they become friends and Scarlet joins up. Although apparently originally called Young Gemmwel, he is renamed due to his penchant for wearing red silk and for his fiery temper. He is said to be the best swordsman in the band, and is believed to be buried in Blidworth in Nottinghamshire, though again there is no evidence he ever existed.
(https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/5/5a/The_friar_took_Robin_on_his_back_by_Louis_Rhead_1912.png)

Friar Tuck

It's tempting to think Tuck was only introduced in the legends as a way of telling people that God was on the side of the outlaws, that the Norman bishops and monks who were part of the apparatus of the oppression of England were the bad guys, and that the honest and somewhat slightly irreverent Friar Tuck was a sign of God's blessing on the enterprise. In reality though, wandering monks or friars were not at all common in England at this time, and would not have left the monastery or abbey unaccompanied. Friar Tuck seems to have evolved from the tradition of May Games that were practiced in Anglo-Saxon England (and no doubt frowned upon by the Norman clergy as "heathen pastimes" - look, I know what it said about them all being buddies by now, but I can't imagine there weren't, if not some enmities, then at least a sense of supercilious superiority and moral disdain for these games, which after all were pagan in origin), however there is a historical record of a man with that name. It's believed he may have taken it from the tales, but Robert Stafford, a chaplain serving in Sussex, took the name in 1417, though he spelled it "Frere Tuk".

(https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/6/61/Robin_Hood_and_Maid_Marian.JPG)
Maid Marian

Every good hero needs his love interest, and so we have Marian (also, for the love of all that's holy, save me, known as Matilda!) who originated again in the May Games. She does not appear in the original ballads, and seems only to have been added in the 17th century, probably because, as Ade Edmondson put it in Bottom, "Ya got to have somethin' for the birds, don't ya?" When the tales began making their way into plays, naturally the women wanted to have someone to cheer, and Marian was the figure around which the female interest coalesced (those who weren't making moon eyes at Robin, that is). Long before this, though, there is a Marian, though she's of French origin and appears in a tale with her lover Robin, both of them sheep-herders. There's no actual evidence for it, but it's possible that Marion (spelled with an "o") of the French tale and her Robin got mixed up with the figures in the May games (the Marian there supposed to have been a representation of the Virgin Mary, which opens up all sorts of ethical questions to me) and the two then linked in the legend of Robin Hood.

Although we've checked him out as a possible source for the legend, but not proven it (as if we could), Robert Hood did marry a woman called (sigh) Matilda, who then changed her name to Marian when she joined him in Barnsdale Forest (hey, close enough!) in 1322. That, of course, puts both of them long beyond the time of Richard I or John, both of whom were by that time dead over two hundred years, but most accounts prefer to place Robin Hood in the time of one of the Edwards, take your pick, all of which ruled in the 14th century, so he could be closer to being our man, and it's vaguely possible that she existed, which makes her the first of the band to attain that honour.

The upshot then of all this is that, rather unsurprisingly, and with the possible exception of Marian if Robert Hood is anything to do with the outlaw, none of the Merry Men ever lived, or can be proved to have done so. Most came into the story through the old ballads, some from the May Games and others, such as Nasir or any Moor or Saracen, were added with absolutely no historical or even fictional basis, perhaps as a kind of affirmative action on the part of producers and writers, what with everyone else being white. The term merry man, for the record, was not coined by Howard Pyle (though used by him) but was a title given to anyone who joined a band of men, followed a knight or outlaw. Not exactly sure why they were called merry, but it may have had a different meaning back then to what it does now.

The spelling of Friar Tuck caused all sorts of problems over the years..

Was the Sceptred Isle going so badly that you decided to change your avatar into Everton or Ipswich colours?  :laughing:

Not quite. A) I got tired of looking at Trump's ugly mush and B) I saw that painting on the telly last night and just loved it. What do you see when you look at it? The answer will surprise and shock you...

(https://knightstemplar.co/wp-content/uploads/2023/10/galileus2505_Unraveling_the_Impact_of_Papal_Interdict_in_Histor_8b10da4d-05b3-4240-864f-ce6da688d383.jpg)
No friend to Rome either, King John may have been the first English king to have been excommunicated, though I can't find out right now. He had a problem with what he saw as the rights of choice of nomination of the Archbishop of Canterbury being usurped by the Pope, and His Holiness appointed a man with whom he disagreed so strongly that he actually refused him entry to England. He also seized his lands and, for good measure, any papal territory he could get his hands on. The pope raised his hands and said "Hey, I'm Innocent, man!" And so he was. Pope Innocent II then decided to prohibit services in England, in what is or was known as an interdict; priests were not allowed to hold masses, apart from baptisms (can't have these babies being heathens now can we?), confessions (but only for those on their death bed) and last rites. Where that left funerals and marriage, I don't know, but this lasted from 1208 to around 1213.

John, in his typical restrained fashion, took this as a declaration of war by Rome, and proceeded to do what he normally did in a fit of pique, he seized lands. Those of the pope himself, those of clergy who obeyed the interdict - and thereby were seen to be siding with Rome against him - and those of the clergy who had fled the country. When he saw the king was digging his heels in and would not obey, Innocent excommunicated him. It looks as if this was the biggest weapon in the papal arsenal, but John, being not all that bothered about this God stuff, took it somewhat in his stride, until he found out His Holiness had a plan to replace him by supporting the French King Philip II. That was a weapon he couldn't survive, with his popularity already in the toilet, so he made peace and accepted the pope's terms, whereupon Innocent presumably sent hot-foot messengers to the French king to advise him the invasion was off. "Non, non, votre majestie! Nous sommes tout amis maintenant!" Or something. Anyway, without papal backing - in fact, with Rome directly now set against an invasion of England, Philip had to sigh "Put zem back in zair box, mes amis," and perhaps wonder if Spain or Holland was due a good bout of invading.

Having kissed and made up with the pope, though, John was now free to turn the tables on Philip and invade France, free to try to get back his ancestral lands, the territories of the Angevin kings, and, it turned out, free to fail utterly and lose them all. His problems with his own barons, who had risen against him in 1212, and the local Angevin nobles, who probably didn't like him much either, and thought he spent far too much time in England than was good for a Norman king, left John isolated when he tried to retake Normandy. Now, before anyone gets on my back about it, I know I said I wouldn't go into foreign entanglements unless they directly affected the history of England, but here they very definitely do. John would be the last of the line of Angevin kings, losing all their lands, and leading to the demarcation between the Plantagenet kings who were also Angevins, and those who, after John, were not.
(https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/a/a6/Map_France_1180-fr.svg/660px-Map_France_1180-fr.svg.png)
If nothing else, the loss of the Angevin lands shows John up, not so much for being a shit commander, which he kind of was, but as a rather nasty case of chickens coming home to roost. Had he cultivated favour among his barons and nobles, dealt with them fairly and not tried to browbeat, tax and landgrab them into submission, he might have had a better chance of winning his war. As it was, they seem to have seen it as a chance both to humiliate him and to make a statement about how they had been treated. Remember, a king is nothing without his nobles; they in effect make and can very easily break him, a lesson John perhaps ignored until it was too late. His entire campaign lasted less than eight months, and he returned to England dejected and beaten.
(https://media.tenor.com/s7qZEzpR2TUAAAAM/french-shoo.gif)
And worse was to come.

On his return, and with his failed enterprise, John ran into a full-scale revolt by the barons, who quickly and decisively took London, Lincoln and Exeter, and John was forced to sue for peace terms, as Pope Innocent II's successor, the imaginatively named Pope Innocent III, couldn't be bothered to get off his arse and support the English king, at least not before he had finished his tiffin. After all, despite John's declaration (sincere or not) to join one of the crusades, the English Crown had not been a friend to Rome during his predecessor's time, as we've seen. While he waited for support from the Holy City, John was forced to sign what has become known in history as almost the English version of the American Constitution or the Bill of Rights.

Fanfare for the common man: Magna Carta is signed

Supposedly removing the divine rights of kings, through which the monarch basically ruled through the grace of God, and let nobody stand in his way, Magna Carta (the Great Charter) was really not as far-ranging as it may have seemed at the time, but it was the first time the rights of ordinary folk were codified in a legal document. Essentially a peace treaty between John and the barons, it ensure the protection of the rights of the Church, promised none of the barons would be imprisoned without cause, guaranteed swift and impartial justice and limited feudal payments to the Crown.

Like most treaties, it was largely ignored or subverted, as it served the interests of neither party, and was, literally, just a piece of paper, as useful as the one a British Prime Minister would enthusiastically wave around at an airport seven hundred years later as he bleated about peace in our time. What Magna Carta attempted - unsuccessfully, for the most part - to do was to show that even kings were not above the law, that there was a way for them to be held accountable, and to this end there was a virtual "25th Amendment" included, which said that if the king did not comply with the terms of the charter, a council of barons were authorised to seize his lands and properties until he had done the right thing. If nothing else, what Magna Carta sought to do was place limits on what we might term today executive power; the monarch now had to obtain permission/acceptance by the council before he could levy new taxes, and the rights of free men and serfs were for the first time delineated.

Magna Carta, for all its flaws, is looked upon as the first real assertion of the rights of men in Europe, perhaps the world, and is seen as a turning point in English history, when the unrestricted rule of the king was  challenged. It would be referred to - accurately or not - and used in legal arguments for the next five hundred years, until finally abolished in the nineteenth century. Magna Carta is seen as a flash point in English history, where a sitting king was forced by his nobles to sign a treaty he did not want, but which persisted - despite hardly any of it being adhered to by either side - well into the modern age. In many ways, two of the most significant dates in English history are 1066 and 1215, two seismic events that shook the course of England and reverberated throughout Europe and beyond.

The Pope was none too pleased. He had no love for John, but the charter impinged on his rights to control the English king, and he weren't having that. "To Hell with you all!" he shouted, and fired off a round of excommunications at the barons, and war were declared.

The First Barons' War

It had been inevitable anyway; as I say, neither side had any real intention of abiding by the rules of the charter, and when the barons refused to give London back by the specified date, possibly sticking their tongues out and crowing "Come and take it if you think you're hard enough, Lackland!" John did just that. Or tried to anyway. Mere months after returning, shagged-out from being roundly beaten by the French, the unhappy and unpopular king was at war again.

And of course, it was with them damn frogs again.

Unpopular he may have been, and a defeated king returning with his royal tail between his legs, but John still paid the soldiers' salary and so the army was his to command. In addition, perhaps, Innocent III's warning that anyone who abided by Magna Carta was looking to get themselves excommunicated would have kept the army loyal to the king, if only for the sake of their souls, and possibly their wallets too. No matter how many barons you have, and how many men each baron has, it was never going to be enough against the English army plus some mercenaries John had tucked away for a rainy day as he began to see which way the wind was blowing, so as ever, his enemies turned to his enemy, so to speak, and the French Louis VIII was only too happy to lend his aid to the rebels, no doubt remembering how his dad had smarted when Pope Innocent II had put the kibosh on his plans to invade England a couple of years ago. Broke the old man's heart, it had, but his son, the heir apparent, was ready to go where daddy had not been allowed by His Holiness.

When John saw a host of ships appear on the horizon hoisting the Fleur-de-lis, he did what any smart ruler would have done in his position, and fucked off to Winchester, leaving London, still in the hands of the barons, open to the advancing French troops, who hardly had to leave any bodies along the streets of London before their leader was proclaimed King of England. The Scots, seeing an opportunity to stick it to the English, did not waste the chance, Alexander II rumbling "Ah, sure ye ma' be a dirty garlic-eatin' frog an' all, but ye're a gang sight better than yer mawn John, so ye are! Ye've got mah vote!" John's supporters, loyal as a pack of jackals, switched sides to be on what they saw as the winning one, and swore fealty to the new king, mais non?

Louis, declaring June 6 as D-Day possibly, set off from London to capture John, and set the seal on his great victory. But when he reached Winchester, trailing barons of all colours and stripes as well as hangers-on, erstwhile John cheerleaders and the odd Scot who had probably tagged along just for the fun of it, he found to his considerable annoyance that
(https://img.gifglobe.com/grabs/montypython/MontyPythonAndTheHolyGrail/gif/fSOBJWIvCcJ0.gif)

Yes, the youngest brother of Richard the Lionheart had taken to his heels, and of King John there was no sign. Moving on to Dover Castle (taunted, for some reason, by his father, go figure: you'd think the old man would have been proud of his son, but there you go. Frenchies, eh?) Louis encountered the first stiff resistance since he had arrived, and had to place the castle under siege. After three months of getting nowhere, Louis decided "Fuck zis for ze game of soldiaires! I am for London, mes braves!" And back he went to the stronghold of the barons, possibly wondering if there was a crown going spare that he could borrow? One does have to keep up appearances, you know, and a king without a crown is, well, just a man proclaimed king. Not the same thing at all.

John, it turned out, was not long for this world, and, holed up in Newark Castle (which is nowhere near Jersey and is in fact in Nottinghamshire) died a hero's death, a bout of dysentery doing for him at the ripe old age of 49. With him went most of the grievances of the barons, who now suddenly began looking suspiciously at Louis. The heir to the French throne had seemed a good bet when they were trying to take down John, but now his nine-year-old son Henry was in line for the English one, and what harm could a kid do, unless he broke a castle window with his slingshot or pushed someone into a river? So the child seemed the better choice (always preferable to have an english arse on the throne than a French one, they thought, conveniently forgetting that both John and Richard, and now John's son, were all technically French too, being of Norman stock) and the barons began to muster support against the man who had helped them rid England of King John.

In times of crisis, even Englishmen fighting each other come together if there's a common enemy, especially if he's French, and so most of Louis' support began to melt away as Henry was crowned King Henry III of England. Too young to officially rule, power was handed to his regent, William Marshall, 1st Earl of Pembroke, and it was he who led the battle against Louis. After two years of this, the heir apparent to the French throne realised that what he needed more than anything was more Frenchmen on his side, and so he legged it back across the channel to pick up a few boatfulls of troops who would fight for him. Dover Castle again stood in his way. It had not fallen the first time by siege, and this time a trap had been laid for his fleet and it got kind of burned a little, Louis expending so much of his forces on the second siege that he lost Lincoln Castle and was soon to lose his capital as rebels (well, maybe you'd call them loyalists now? I mean, who were they rebelling against?) marched on London.

After having a sandwich, sorry, losing most of his fleet in the ensuing Battle of Sandwich and Battle of Dover, it was all over for Louis, who had to sue for peace, shrug to his allies in Scotland and Wales that "It's all over lads, lay them weapons down now, there's good fellas" and fuck off back to France, undertaking never to invade England again. Oh, and we'll have that crown while we're at it. What? You don't have a crown? Fair enough then: hoppit, before we decide we like the look of Calais and do some invading of our own. Bon voyage and all that bollocks.

So ended the reign of King John, in pretty much what you'd have to describe as ignominy and defeat. He had, in his time, in addition to becoming one of the most hated and incompetent Kings of England, lost his people's ancestral lands in Anjou, kicked off a civil war, risked losing his crown to a French prince, and been forced to sign a document that would guide English monarchs for the next few centuries. His reign ended, as it had begun, deep in shit, and his reputation has never recovered from that tarnishment, with him being described by some historians as "the worst king to ever rule England."

Before I close, a humorous note (well, I find it funny): John's wife, Isabella, kept in prison during his reign, was released in 1214 and remarried twice before dying three years later! I mean, I understand her desire to squeeze all she could of out life after having been in pokey for so long (can't find out exactly how long, but I reckon about 14 years), but two husbands in three years! You've also got to feel sorry for her: only three years out of the slammer and she's dead. What an anti-climax. Well, not with two more hubbies, but you know what I mean. Mind you, all that time in a cell couldn't be good for your health, especially in the not-exactly-hygienic 13th century.

I will give John points: he "set aside" Isabella of Gloucester in order to marry his second wife, Isabella of Angouleme. Well, it sorts out the problem of accidentally calling out the name of the first wife when making love, doesn't it? Smart man, in that if nothing else. 

Oh, and that promise to become a crusader? Like the end of his life, turned out to be a crock of shit.