The Brad Bognor Show

Here's an interview I did about the Norman Conquest back in October.

Swein Forkbeard's 1000th Anniversary?

Lots of people tweeting and posting today that Swein Forkbeard was crowned king on Christmas Day 1013. E.g. http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-lincolnshire-25341754

But is it true? I couldn't recall having seen this date before, and it's not in my research notes for The Norman Conquest. Nor is Christmas Day 1013 mentioned in Swein's entry in the Oxford Dictionary of National Biography.

The only contemporary narrative source for Swein's reign is the E version of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle. It says [my paraphrase] that in 1013 Swein landed at Sandwich in Kent 'before the month of August', went round East Anglia to the Humber, then up the Trent to Gainsborough, where the people of that region submitted. Later he went south to Oxford, where there were more submissions, and then east to London, where he besieged the English king Ethelred the Unready. Swein then went back north to his ships, 'and the whole nation accepted him as their undisputed king'.

Then London submitted... Then Swein demanded tribute and supplies for the winter... Then for a time Ethelred was with his fleet in London, and his wife Emma crossed the sea to Normandy.

'Then at Christmas the king [i.e. Ethelred] left the fleet for the Isle of Wight, and remained there for that festival, afterwards crossing the sea.'

In other words, Swein seems to have been accepted as king well before Christmas, and there's no mention of a coronation.

Anyone have any evidence to the contrary?

PS It's not in Adam of Bremen or John of Worcester, I've checked. My working hypothesis is that the belief Swein became king on Christmas day arises from a lazy misreading by some later historian of the section of the ASC discussed above.

Top Posts of 2013

In the past year I blogged forty-six times. These were the five most popular posts, in reverse order.

5. Earliest Description of a Traitor's Fate (517 views).

On 5 November - Guy Fawkes's night - Dan Snow asked his twitter followers if they knew any other good stories of punishment for regicide and treason. This was my response.

4. Killer Question: How Did Harold Die? (627 views)

Seemed appropriate on 14 October, the anniversary of the Battle of Hastings.

3. Queen Matilda was NOT a Dwarf (971 views)

Every so often I see a tweet that claims William the Conqueror's wife was only 4'2" tall. She wasn't - it's a modern myth.

4. Time Team: Battle of Hastings (2242 views)

On 1 December a Time Team Special claimed to have found a new site for the Battle of Hastings. I found the argument unconvincing.

5. A Letter to Terry Deary (20475 views)

The winner by a considerable margin. In February Terry Deary, author of the bestselling Horrible Histories, declared himself in favour of closing libraries, so I wrote him a short letter.

The Lady Edith

'And the Lady Edith passed away in Winchester seven days before Christmas. And the king [William the Conqueror] had her brought to Westminster with great honour, and laid her with King Edward, her lord.' Anglo-Saxon Chronicle E, 1075.

[On this day in 1075, Edith, the widowed queen of Edward the Confessor, died. Edith was the daughter of Earl Godwine (and the sister of Harold Godwineson). She had married Edward 30 years earlier, in January 1045. Their marriage was famously childless – had they had any children, there would have been no Norman Conquest...]

We know a reasonable amount about Edith because several decades later she commissioned one of the most important sources for her husband’s reign, a text known as the Life of King Edward. Unsurprisingly the anonymous author is fulsome in praise of his patron’s appearance, character and accomplishments. Edith, we are assured, was ‘inferior to none, superior to all . . . recommended by the distinction of her family and the ineffable beauty of her surpassing youth’. Educated by the nuns of Wilton in Wiltshire, she was also apparently quite the bluestocking, fluent in four languages, and so learned and talented that she was famous for her own poems, prose, needlework and painting. Dignified and reserved, serious and modest, affectionate, generous and honest: Edith was clearly ‘a wife worthy of so great a husband’. She and Edward were married at an unknown location on 23 January 1045.

But did Edward really have an alternative? Any assessment of his relationship with Godwine has to take into account the fundamental weakness of the king’s position at the start of his reign. Although he was fast approaching forty, he had not lived in England since his childhood; for a quarter of a century he had been living the life of an exile in Normandy. This meant that on his arrival in 1041 Edward had exceedingly few friends and allies – his only real confidants were the handful of Continental supporters who accompanied him from Normandy, many of whom were clerics. Godwine, by contrast, had been the principal force in English politics for almost all of the same twenty-five-year period. His lands and wealth, great as they were, could not quite rival those of the king; but in terms of lordship, the earl greatly outclassed Edward, with scores of followers in almost every shire in southern England, all ready to do his bidding. Events suggest that his will was all but irresistible. In 1040 he had supported Harthacnut, but the following year he had changed his mind and given his backing to Edward. What if he changed his mind again, and switched his support to another candidate – Magnus, for example, or perhaps Swein Estrithson? The reality was that, if Edward wanted to survive, he had little choice other than to do what Godwine suggested – and probably no say at all in choosing his own bride. As the author of the Life of King Edward explains with surprising candour, ‘Edward agreed all the more readily to contract this marriage because he knew that, with the advice and help of Godwine, he would have a firmer hold on his hereditary rights in England.

The corollary of this statement is pretty clear: had Edward refused, he would probably have found himself out of a job.

The suspicion, borne out by later events, is that Edward never forgave Godwine for Alfred’s murder, and merely went through the motions in marrying Edith. It is a suspicion reinforced by the fact that the match never produced any children. Later chroniclers insisted that this was because it was never consummated; most modern commentators, by contrast, ascribe it to sheer bad luck, and point to infertility as the more likely cause. Yet according to Edith’s own testimony (i.e. the Life of King Edward), the reason there were no children was because Edward had lived ‘a celibate life’; indeed, ‘he preserved with holy chastity the dignity of his consecration, and lived his whole life dedicated in true innocence’. This testimony deserves to be taken seriously; after all (as one modern historian has observed), had the reality been different, the Life would have been a laughing stock. More importantly, subsequent events do not support the idea that Edward was anxious to beget an heir. The reasonable conclusion remains that Edward agreed to marry Edith for purely political reasons and resisted her extensively chronicled charms.

The Norman Conquest, pp. 63-4.

The Bayeux Tapestry: Edith weeps at Edward's deathbed.

Llywelyn the Last

[As the year 1282 drew to a close, King Edward I of England was preparing a final assault that would complete his conquest of Wales, and remove its native prince, Llywelyn ap Gruffudd...]

Llywelyn and his allies could not afford to wait for this to happen. At present they were encircled but, with the respite granted by their recent victory, they might open up new fronts. Already in the second half of November there were fresh risings in South and West Wales, perhaps fomented by the presence of the prince himself in those areas. It was in the middle March, however, that Llywelyn was hoping for the greatest gains. There, on 26 November, Roger Mortimer, not only the king’s commander in the region but also the most powerful lord in his own right, had died of natural causes. (‘His long and praiseworthy services’, wrote Edward to Mortimer’s namesake son, ‘recur frequently and spontaneously to our memory’). The old warrior’s passing had led to immediate fears of an English collapse in central Wales: within weeks, the sheriff of Shropshire was reporting that Mortimer’s ‘fickle and haughty’ tenants were ‘on the point of leaving the king’s peace’. In Edward’s second set-back that autumn, Llywelyn saw his best opportunity. Leaving Dafydd in charge of Snowdonia, the prince took his army and struck out in the direction of Builth.

He arrived there on 11 December to find the might of the entire middle March ranged ready to meet him. Coincidence or conspiracy? There is circumstantial evidence to suggest that the Welsh leader had been lured into a trap devised by Mortimer’s sons, and perhaps by some of his own men too. Whatever the truth, it is clear enough what happened next. On the high ground to the west of Builth, at a place called Cilmeri, a substantial battle took place between the English and Welsh forces, and in the course of the fighting the prince of Wales fell. Most accounts agree that he somehow became separated from his men, and was killed unrecognized by his English assailant. It was only when the battle was over, and the bodies examined, that his corpse was identified.

‘Know, Sire’, wrote Roger Lestrange, captain of the English forces, to his royal master, ‘that Llywelyn ap Gruffudd is dead, his army broken, and the flower of his men killed’. Accompanying the letter as proof was the prince’s severed head. Edward had it sent on to Anglesey to cheer his other troops, and from there dispatched to London, where its arrival was greeted with a fanfare of trumpets and horns. Carried through the city’s streets on the end of a lance, it was finally placed on a iron spike above the Tower of London, and crowned with a mockery of ivy. The prophecy that a Welshmen would one day wear a crown in London was in this grisly way seen to have been fulfilled.

While the English rejoiced, Wales despaired. ‘See you not that the world is ending?’ asked one Welsh poet. ‘Ah, God, that the sea would cover the land!'

A Great and Terrible King, pp. 185-6

Time Team: Battle of Hastings

Gosh, where to start with tonight's Time Team about the Battle of Hastings? (If you missed it, you can watch it here. I'm in it for a few minutes at the beginning and at the end).

We were repeatedly told  – and it’s true – that no archaeological evidence has been found for the Battle of Hastings. ‘From an archaeological point of view’, says presenter Tony Robinson [at about 4mins10secs], ‘it’s as if the fighting never took place at all.’

But that’s also true for almost every other medieval battle. Consider, for example, the Battle of Falkirk, fought between Edward I and William Wallace in 1298. We know, from surviving English payrolls, that Edward I mustered some 28,000 men for this decisive engagement. It was one of the biggest battles ever fought on British soil. But we don’t know precisely where it was fought – not so much as an arrowhead has been unearthed.

In the case of Hastings, we are invited to consider two principal locations: Battle Abbey, which has been the accepted site for the past nine centuries, and Caldbec Hill, proposed by John Grehan in 2012.

So what’s the evidence for Caldbec Hill?

Answer: there isn’t any. John Grehan, interviewed in the programme, simply notes that contemporary accounts of the battle mention that the ground was steep, and observes that Caldbec is a steeper hill than the one on which the abbey stands. He also contends that Caldbec is where Harold mustered his men. On what basis?

Cut to Dr Laura Ashe of Oxford, examining the D version of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle for 1066 – a good, contemporary source, written in Old English, for the events of that year. It says that Harold ‘gathered together a great host, and came to oppose him [William] at the grey apple tree’.

Notice it doesn’t say ‘came to oppose him at Caldbec Hill’. The notion that ‘the grey apple tree’ stood on top of Caldbec Hill was an idea first put forward by a local Sussex historian in the 1960s. It is, of course, an unprovable assumption. Who can say where a tree stood in 1066?

Nevertheless, the assumption hardens into fact as the programme progresses. ‘Most historians think that Harold’s weary army assembled at a place called Caldbec Hill’ says Tony Robinson [about 5.15]. I’d dispute that. I don’t think that, for starters. Nor does Ken Lawson, who wrote a great big comprehensive book about Hastings in 2002. ‘The assumption of some writers that Caldbec Hill was Harold’s rendezvous point does not have much to recommend it.’ (Lawson, Battle of Hastings, p. 202. Note his use of the word ‘assumption’).

So what of the claim for the traditional site at Battle Abbey? According to Tony Robinson at the top of the programme [about 1.10], it rests on ‘legend’. A few minutes later [4.00], ‘Legend says the Normans built the high altar exactly where Harold died.’

Back to Laura Ashe, who is looking at the Chronicle of Battle Abbey with Tony in the British Library. Tony correctly says that it was written ‘more than 100 years after Hastings’. Laura points out the line that says that the abbey’s altar was precisely where King Harold fell, but goes on to say that, alas, the chronicle is ‘not trustworthy’.

Now, it’s true that the Chronicle of Battle Abbey is in places demonstrably unreliable. It is on this basis that John Grehan, in his book, rules its testimony out of court.

Which would be fair enough – if the Chronicle of Battle Abbey were our only witness.

But it isn’t. Far from it: at least half-a-dozen earlier sources say exactly the same thing. Take, for example, John of Worcester, an English monk who wrote in the period 1124x1140. The Conqueror’s abbey, he says, was ‘founded and erected on the site of his battle in England. The church’s altar was placed where the body of Harold (slain for the love of his country) was found.’

Similarly, William of Malmesbury, half-English, half-Norman, one of the most important of all medieval historians, writing in the 1120s: ‘It is called Battle Abbey because the principal church is to be seen on the very spot where, according to tradition, among the piled heaps of corpses Harold was found.’

But we don’t have to stop there. We also have the testimony of the E version of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle – a supremely well-informed source, demonstrably written before 1100. Writing his obituary of William the Conqueror for 1087, its anonymous author says he will ‘write of him as we have known him, as we ourselves have seen him, and at one time dwelt at his court’. A few lines later he says:

‘On the very spot [On ðam ilcan steode] where God granted him the conquest of England he caused a great abbey to be built.’

To emphasize: that’s a contemporary witness – an English witness – from the time of William the Conqueror himself.

So the claim that Battle Abbey was built to mark the site of the battle is not ‘legend has it’, nor is it a claim that rests only on a late and unreliable source (i.e. the Chronicle of Battle Abbey). It’s a very strong, continuous historical tradition – one which stretches right back to the time of William the Conqueror.

There is also, of course, the evidence of the Abbey itself. As English Heritage’s Roy Porter pointed out in the programme, by looking at the dormitory building, ridiculously located on the side of a hill, it is a bonkers place to build an abbey. Unless William the Conqueror insisted that’s where he wanted it, exactly as the monks of Battle Abbey would later claim he did.

None of the historical evidence for the battle’s location, of course, was unpacked or even mentioned in the Time Team programme. According to Tony Robinson, ‘only archaeology can prove where it took place.’ [c. 18.00].

But, unsurprisingly – as with most medieval battles – archaeology fails to come up with anything. So the programme settles for a topographical survey, which shows where the high ground is, and where the low ground is. Time Team regulars Stewart Ainsworth and Alex Langlands look at the results and decide (one hesitates to use the word ‘speculate’) that the epicentre of the battle must have been some 600 feet to the east of the Abbey. Hilariously, especially for headline writers, the site is now occupied by a mini-roundabout! A former British Army commander is wheeled out to say that it looks like a good position to him. And, after all, an axe head, which may well have been a weapon, and certainly dates before 1600, was found near this site - according to local legend.

By this stage, I confess, I’m thinking (a bit unfairly) of that awesome David Mitchell line: ‘Let us enjoy the full majesty of your uninformed, ad hoc reckon’.

Perhaps one day they will build some new houses in Battle, or knock down some old ones, and discover a grave-pit with several hundred bodies, datable to the mid eleventh century. This happened at Lewes in the early nineteenth century, and is good grounds for locating – roughly – the site of the famous battle that took place there in 1264.

Until that happens, I’ll stick with testimony of the man who lived at the court of William the Conqueror.

(Incidentally, there was an attempt to locate the battlefield at Falkirk in 2002 – by flying Uri Geller over it in a helicopter. But due to bad weather, the helicopter couldn’t take off. I’m not making this up. http://www.scotsman.com/news/scotland/top-stories/rain-blinds-psychic-to-falkirk-battle-site-1-626179)

A Surfeit of Lampreys

On this day in 1135 King Henry I died at the ripe old age of 66 (good innings for a medieval monarch). The youngest son of William the Conqueror, Henry had succeeded his elder brother William Rufus in 1100. A contemporary chronicler, Henry of Huntingdon, describes how the king met his end:

‘He had been hunting, and when he came back to Saint-Denis in the Forest of Lyons [Lyons-la-Foret, Normandy], he ate the flesh of lampreys, which always made him ill, though he always loved them. When a doctor forbade him to eat the dish, the king did not take this salutary advice. As it is said, ‘We always strive for what is forbidden and long for what is refused.’ So this meal brought on a most destructive humour, and violently stimulated similar symptoms, producing a deadly chill in his aged body, and a sudden and extreme convulsion. Against this, nature reacted by stirring up an acute fever to dissolve the inflammation with very heavy sweating. But when all power of resistance failed, the great king departed on the first day of December [1135], when he had reigned for thirty-five years and three months.

Henry of Huntingdon, The History of the English People, 1000-1154 (OUP, 2002), p. 64.

The trouble is they taste too good.