Trollheart

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.

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 more 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.

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Trollheart

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.

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 One. 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.

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.


(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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Trollheart

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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Trollheart

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.

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.


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.

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Ayn Marx

With a few modifications this series would make a miraculous school text. Why miraculous?
Ask any history teacher how hard it is to get young children interested in history these days.

Trollheart

Hey thanks. It is literally worth its weight in gold to get positive comments and praise for these journals. I spend a lot of time on them (the last month almost writing and researching the beginnings of the Golden Age of Animation, for one) and always try to put my own personal, somewhat irreverent stamp on them if I can, which I hope makes them more interesting. It's cliche, I know, but your kind words are really appreciated more than you could know. Thanks from the base of the thing where the ventricles and aorta hang out!

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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.

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 and said “fuck it, the kid will 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.

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.

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.

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 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!

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.

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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.

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.


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.

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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 **** 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.

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 abdication of a British monarch. George then became king.

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 decided among themselves and then went to the palace to get her royal seal, but the deal was done long before they walked through the royal gates.

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.


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, 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.

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Trollheart: Signature-free since April 2018

Trollheart

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 enemy shores of France. Few men even considered the possibility of an attack by the old enemy. 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 I: Under the French Heel, Part One
Ruled Britannia: The Third, and Final, Conquest of Britain

If there is one date, or at lest 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.

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 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.

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), 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 fuckers. 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.

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Trollheart: Signature-free since April 2018