The Great Harrying of the North, 1069

Harrying of the North by Patrick Nicolle

After the trauma of Stamford Bridge, the northerners were remarkably absent (though expected) at the battle of Hastings.  To say the warriors were exhausted would surely be an understatement, but I wonder, also, if they thought events on the southern coast of England were just too far away to concern them.  After all, the populace was predominately Norse in origin, and many did not even speak a common language with the southerners.

And indeed, after Hastings maybe it seemed like life could go on as before.  William the Conqueror was certainly busy putting down any resistance in the south, and aside from a change in leadership not much happened for two years.  But peace wasn’t meant to be.  York and Durham were just too important to be ignored, and in 1068 Eadgar Aetheling, the last surviving heir to the Saxon crown, made his bid for the throne. He was joined by Edwin, Earl of Mercia, Morcar, former Earl of Northumbria, and Cospatric, current Earl of Northumbria who purchased the earldom from William. King William was quick to respond, and the rebellion was crushed immediately.

Eadgar Aetheling fled to Scotland with his family, and Malcolm III, King of the Scots eventually married his sister Margaret.  Given support from his new brother-in-law, Eadgar returned to England in response to a new Northumbrian uprising in early 1069. In January, Northumbrian rebels converged on Durham, killing William’s new appointee Robert de Comines and all but two of the Normans in the garrison.  Drunk with success, the combined forces continued south and captured York.

There’s a lot of disagreement as to the sequence of events, but ultimately much of York was burned to the ground and the Norman garrison destroyed. Eadgar Aetheling and his supporters joined a large fleet led by the sons of Svein Estrithson, King of Denmark; the Danes were apparently welcomed in the north and became a focus for more revolts in Dorset and Somerset.  Unfortunately for Eadgar, his army was an unruly force and he was more of a figurehead than a leader, so no attempt was made to force his claim or even declare Northumbria’s independence.

King William immediately marched north, causing the Danes to withdraw before him, and made his way to York, devastating the countryside in his path.  By Christmas 1069, he entered the ruined city and celebrated the Nativity in what was left of the cathedral.


What transpired next was on a scale so devastating that even contemporaries, not unused to a scorched earth policy, were shocked.  Deciding to make an example of Yorkshire, William systematically plundered, burned and murdered every living creature between York and Durham. It was said that the bodies of inhabitants lay scattered across the countryside, unburied and rotting, and that starving exiles made their way south, either to die on the road or to sell themselves into slavery for food.  Ten years later, there wasn’t a single inhabited town between York and Durham.

According to Orderic Vitalis, more than 100,000 perished of hunger that year. There were reports of cannibalism, and it was said that William salted the earth to destroy its productivity. This may or may not be true, but even 17 years later, the Domesday book is noted with page after page of the word “waste”, and it is estimated that in 1086 only 25% of the original population lived in Yorkshire.

Eadgar Aetheling fled to refuge in Scotland, and once again the Danes were paid off, just like in the days of Aethelred. King William burnt his way west to Chester before deciding that he had made his point, and spent Easter of 1070 in Winchester, convinced that there would be no more rebellion in Northumbria.  And indeed he was right.  He had bought peace at the cost of much future revenue – not to mention his reputation.

 

What was the Tanist Succession?

The Tanist (or Tannist) is an interesting concept, and not much has been written about it.  In its simplest terms, a Tanist was a royal successor.  Tanistry seems to be Celtic in origin, and appears to have been imported into Scotland from Ireland in the fifth century.  In the earliest days, the Tanist was not necessarily directly related to the king, or even the same branch of the royal family; however they would share a common ancestor.  In fact, during the early middle ages, the King was elected by the noble princely families, and the Tanist was elected as well.  It was a lifetime post.

In theory, the Tanist would have been an ambitious and capable successor, “without blemish”, able to take on the rulership in a time when a chieftain’s life expectancy often did not allow for his sons to achieve manhood.  The Tanist Succession would encourage rotation between branches of a family, and was considered a fair way to keep balance. However, more often than not, it led to dynastic infighting.

Malcolm II, in 1005, was the first Scottish monarch to introduce hereditary monarchy and female-line succession at the same time, since his heir, Duncan II, was descended from his eldest daughter.  This innovation caused great conflict and he had to spend many years clearing the way to the throne for his grandson.

In fact, Grouch (known as Lady Macbeth) was descended from the rightful King Kenenth III, who was killed by Malcolm II.  Then Grouch’s father, Boede, recognized as the logical Tanist of his branch, was also killed by Malcolm II.  In 1032 Grouch’s first husband Gillecomgain was killed by Malcolm II in an attempt to get rid of her, but she was elsewhere when her husband and 50 men were burnt to death in his fortress.  No wonder Lady Macbeth urged her second husband to kill Duncan!

So the concepts of Tanist Succession and Patrilinear Succession bumped into each other and wreaked havoc for centuries until Tanistry was abolished by James I (James VI of Scotland).  The system lingered in a diminished form in Ireland until the mid-19th century.

Alain le Roux, Count of Brittany (Earl of Richmond)

source: Wikipedia

Alain le Roux (c. 1040–1094) is one of my favorite historical characters who seems to have been important in his time, but nobody seems to have heard of him.  Why do I like him so much?  Well, as I see it he went with the flow (so to speak), amassed an incredible fortune (according to Wikipedia, at the time of his death he was worth around $166.9 billion, the equivalent of 7% of England’s national income.  Forbes placed him 9th in the list of most wealthy historical figures) and modestly did his thing, managing to keep King William happy as well as historians.

Alain – called le Roux because of his red beard – hits the historical stage around the time of the Norman Conquest.  He was in charge of the Breton contingent, a sizeable part of William’s invasion force.  If you recall, the Breton wing of the Norman army at the Battle of Hastings nearly lost the day: they were the first to panic and flee from the ferocity of the Saxons.  For a moment all was in chaos, then many of the inexperienced Saxon fyrd broke the shield wall and pursued the Bretons.  However, William rallied his men and cut off the Saxons from the rest of the army, wiping them out to a man.  Seeing the success of the maneuver, William instructed the Bretons to do it a couple of times more throughout the battle, with great success.

After William become king he rewarded his supporters with grants of land and titles.  Alain was created the first Earl of Richmond, and a Norman keep stands on the site of his original castle overlooking the River Swale. In 1069, during the great Harrying of the North after the insurrection of Durham, Alain was the man William appointed to do the job.  By the end of his career, he had amassed over 250,000 acres in land grants.  Yet he is said to have died childless and his estate was inherited by his brother Alain le Noir (so-called because of his black beard).

Early in my research for my novel, “Heir to a Prophecy” I unearthed a story that my protagonist Walter actually went to Brittany and married Alain’s daughter, later taking her to Scotland and the court of Malcolm III where he was a favorite.  Although this is probably apocryphal, I did recently find an anecdote that makes me wonder if it could be true.

Just the other day I was reading the book “The House of Godwine: The History of a Dynasty” (by Emma Mason) which was written in 2005.  Four pages from the end, the author states that King Malcolm planned to marry his daughter Edith to Count Alan the Red in 1093 (she was in the Wilton nunnery at the time), and King William Rufus forbade the union, causing Malcolm to storm out of the royal court. Now, why would Malcolm care about Alain unless there was some sort of connection between them (Walter)?

Even more interesting (to me, that is), instead of Malcolm’s daughter, Alain actually took a fancy to another important novice at Wilton: Gunhild, daughter of Harold Godwineson and Edith Swanneck.  At the same time Malcolm took his daughter out of Wilton, Alain removed Gunhild (by then well into her 30s) and brought her to live with him…on the very estates he had taken over from her wealthy mother after Hastings.  When Alain died around 1094, Gunhild stayed and became the partner of Alain’s brother Le Noir, who succeeded to the estates.  What did she have to lose, after all?

 

Aelfgar, Earl of Mercia

Lady Godiva by Jules Joseph Lefèbvre Source: Wikipedia

Remember Lady Godiva, who is legendary for riding around town naked on a horse, long hair covering her body, to protest her husband’s high taxes? Well, she was not a myth, and was known as the mother of Aelfgar, Earl of Mercia.  His father was the great Leofric of Mercia, powerful Earl and counter-balance to Godwine’s influence.

Aelfgar had an illustrious heritage, although he is remembered more for his troublemaking than for any great deeds he might have done.  He was contemporary with Harold Godwineson, and much of his life, Aelfgar was frustrated by the apparent favoritism shown to Godwine’s brood at his expense.

His first opportunity arose when Godwine and family were exiled in 1051 and he was given Harold’s earldom of East Anglia.  This only lasted a year or so, because upon Godwine’s successful return, Harold was restored to his old earldom.  No mention is made of Aelfgar’s reaction to this demotion, and indeed he received East Anglia again in 1053 when Godwine died and Harold moved up to the earldom of Wessex, leaving an opening which Aelfgar promptly filled.

All was well until 1055, when Siward Earl of Northumbria died.  Because Siward’s only surviving son was still a child, King Edward awarded the earldom to Harold’s inexperienced brother Tostig.  It appears that Aelfgar thought that he was next in line to Northumbria and vociferously contested this appointment, because in the same council he was declared traitor and sent into exile.

This was a big setback, but Aelfgar had earl Harold’s example to follow: in 1051 when Godwine and family were outlawed, Harold had made his way to Ireland and enlisted the aid of the Irish king, who willingly lent  him several ships of mercenaries with which to raid the coast of England.  In 1055 Aelfgar did the same, and returned with 18 ships.  More importantly, he joined forces with Gruffydd ap Llewelyn, Prince of Wales – a mutually beneficial partnership that came in handy every time there was trouble on the borders.

City of Hereford in flames 1055, image by Enok Sweetland

Aelfgar is said to have used his mercenaries to help the Welsh prince eliminate his rival to the South and make Gruffydd ap Llewellyn King of all Wales.  They then turned their attention to Herefordshire and defeated a Saxon force led by Earl Ralph, nephew to King Edward (allegedly the first—unsuccessful—attempted use of cavalry on English soil). Hereford was sacked and even the Bishop was killed while trying to defend his church. This direct attack on English soil prompted Edward to send Harold Godwineson to Hereford so he could deal with the recalcitrant Aelfgar.  After an aborted foray over the Welsh border, Harold opted to negotiate, and offered to give Aelfgar back his earldom, provided that Aelfgar accept Tostig’s appointment.  The Earl of East Anglia jumped at the chance, and for the moment peace was achieved.

In 1057 Earl Leofric died and the earldom of Mercia passed to Aelfgar; East Anglia was given to yet another of Godwine’s sons.  It is said at Aelfgar was beginning to feel threatened by the power of Godwine’s family, and decided to protect himself by giving his daughter Ealdgyth to Gruffydd ap Llewelyn.  This alliance was considered treason, and King Edward banished Aelfgar a second time, who immediately took refuge with Gruffydd.

Once again, the same tactics were used, and the mercenary/Welsh harassment prompted yet another negotiated settlement.  Aelfgar got his earldom back, and his alliance with Gruffydd kept the opposing forces at bay at least until 1062.  At Christmas this fateful year, Harold made a lightning strike at Gryffudd’s court in Rhuddlan, nearly catching the King of Wales at his palace and forcing him to flee by sea. Gryffydd got away but Harold burned his palace to the ground.


It is thought that Aelfgar must have died just days before this raid.  There’s a good chance that Harold heard the news at Christmas court and decided to strike at once before Gryffydd knew of his ally’s death.  None of this is certain…but it follows!  Plagued by the sons of Godwine for his whole life, wouldn’t it be ironic that Aelfgar’s plans would be foiled even after his death. You can read more about Aelfgar in THE SONS OF GODWINE.

Edmund Ironside, Hero or fool?

Combat between Canute the Dane and Edmund Ironside, Matthew Paris, Chronica Maiora, Cambridge, Corpus Chrisit, 26, f. 160
Combat between Canute the Dane and Edmund Ironside, Matthew Paris, Chronica Maiora, Cambridge, Corpus Chrisit, 26, f. 160

Edmund Ironside’s foray into written history was as dynamic as it was brief. 1016 was a pivotal year for England, as we see the death of two kings and an awful lot of Danish activity. By the time King Aethelred the Unready died in April of that year, Canute was entrenched in Wessex, with London as his aim. Edmund was declared Aethelred’s successor and immediately set about to bring Wessex back to fold, so to speak. He was generally successful in both finding men willing to fight for him, and giving Canute a run for his money.

Things might have gone very well for Edmund except for his uncanny adhesion to the infamous Eadric of Mercia, or Eadric Streona, also known as Eadric the Grasper and the most rascally traitor in Anglo-Saxon history. Eadric was famous for changing sides at the most critical moment, usually with dire consequences. Why Edmund kept forgiving him and trusting him remains a mystery—unless it’s because Eadric was married to his sister.

In October, the Battle of Assandun was the turning point. Up to that time, Edmund had won a couple of bloody battles against Canute, but at Assandun, Eadric is said to have cut off the head of a man who looked like the king and held it up, throwing the army into confusion and turning the battle against the English. Most historians believe that Eadric was in the pay of Canute at this time.

Edmund Ironside was soon on the run, and the Danes followed him up the Bristol channel into the Severn, where both sides paused at Olney Island. Legend has it that Eadric, once again at the side of King Edmund, suggested that both chieftains resolve their dispute by single combat. Edmund, by far the larger and more powerful man, agreed as did Canute, who could not afford to lose face.

We can only assume that Eadric managed to secretly communicate his plan to Canute, as its result bore the hallmark of the wily man’s tactics. For, as one would have expected, King Edmund was the stronger fighter and soon hammered the Dane, breaking his shield and beating him down when Canute called a stop to the fight.  “Bravest of youths,” he cried out, “why should either of us risk his life for the sake of a crown?”  Edmund paused, considering.  “Let us be brothers by adoption,” the Dane continued, “and divide the kingdom, governing so that I may rule your affairs, and you mine.” (this came from Florence of Worcester)

And so it was.  Whether it happened by single combat or not, in the end Edmund Ironside agreed to partition the kingdom between them, with the understanding that one of them would inherit the whole on the other’s death.  No mention was made of Edmund’s heirs (remember Eadgar Aetheling?).  Canute got the Danelaw and Edmund held Wessex.

Unfortunately for Edmund Ironside, he did not survive the winter.  Canute had taken up residence in London and the Saxon king died  a couple of months later – some said from exhaustion, or from wounds taken in battle.  But others declared that he was killed by Eadric Streona, who hid in the king’s privy and drove a hot poker through his nether regions (sounds like propaganda). The story goes that Canute, on hearing of Eadric’s despicable murder, ordered his execution on the spot.

Canute was certainly finished with the traitor. Got rid of him, I reckon.

 

The Battle of Hastings did not take place at Hastings

On my first trip to England I was terribly excited to tour the battlefield of Hastings, and we headed to the town of that name in our rented car.  Mind you, this was in the early ’90s, before the internet and easy access to unlimited information.  I had all my sketches of the battle itself, but I was kind of unclear as to exactly where it was fought.  I figured I’d see signs pointing the way, or something…actually, I’m not sure just what I expected to find!  What I didn’t expect was to find the town of Hastings, and no mention of a battlefield anywhere.  What a panic!

Luckily, Brits and Americans DO share a common language, and a kind soul pointed us in the right direction. We eventually found our way to the town of Battle, a little over 6 miles to the northwest of Hastings.  Needless to say, it’s called Battle for a reason!  There is an abbey ruin on the site, aptly named Battle Abbey, the altar of which was built on the very spot that Harold Godwineson was killed (as per King William’s instructions).  And behind the abbey we found the battlefield, appropriately marked with signboards depicting the stages of the battle.

When Duke William landed his fleet on the shores of Britain, he chose the bay of Pevensey, which was a welcoming haven with an old Roman fort, improved by Harold Godwineson and just recently vacated when the Saxon army marched north to Stamfordbridge. However, Pevensey was surrounded by marshland and could not support the army, so William moved his army east to Hastings. There he erected one of his portable (prefabricated) fortifications near the little harbor. Intending to alarm the Saxons as well as live off the land, he laid waste to southeast England. After a couple of weeks he progressed northward toward London, where he was confronted by the exhausted Saxons in their last stand.

Why is it called the battle of Hastings?  Well, as recently as the 19th century the battle was referred to as the Battle of Senlac; apparently, the venerable historian Edward A. Freeman created quite a controversy by using (or inventing?) this name, which translates to lake of blood. The town of Battle would have been built around the abbey, so it didn’t exist in 1066; Hastings was probably the closest village to the battlefield. Interestingly, no archaeological evidence has been found at the site for any kind of battle, and historians have speculated alternative locations. Even Tony Robbins did a Time Team episode, and concluded that the battle may have been fought right in the middle of the town rather than the traditional field site.

Right Location, Different Era

Rhuddlan Castle

Rhuddlan Castle, Clwyd, North Wales.  Just rolls off the tongue!  On the coast of north Wales next to the river of the same name, Gruffydd ap Llewelyn had a fortress from which he could launch his raids into England.  He lost it to Harold Godwineson, who descended on his palace during Christmas festivities and nearly caught the Prince at home, but for a timely warning that sent all the inhabititants scurrying for safety to the Irish sea.  Harold burnt the Princely seat to the ground.   200 years later, Edward I built a castle very near the same spot, and this is a corner outpost of the great fortress, giving access to the river.  The emerald green view over the fields of Wales is quite unforgettable (even on a cloudy day).  It wasn’t difficult to imagine Prince Gruffydd standing on his wooden tower and looking at the same sight.