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

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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?

 

Excerpt from “Thou Shalt ‘Get Kings”

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This excerpt from my novel is about the Christmas attack made by Harold Godwineson on the Welsh palace of Gruffydd ap Llewelyn in 1062, who was mysteriously warned at the last minute and barely managed to escape by sea:

     Ealdgyth took Walter’s vague warning seriously.  Sensing that they had little time, she hurried back to the feast hall.  She slipped into the room unnoticed, and hurried to her husband.
     Gruffydd was emptying a large goblet when his wife bent over his shoulder.
     “Oh, there you are,” he said, grabbing her around the waist.  “And why did you desert me, without a by-your-leave?”  Smiling, he pulled her onto his lap.
     Ealdgyth allowed the frivolity, because it would bring her closer to his ear.  “My husband,” she whispered, “we are in grave danger.”
     “Eh?”  He pulled back, looking at her face.  “What is it you say?”
     “Tonight I received a warning to leave this place.  I think we should heed a message given by such a source.”
     Gruffydd shook the muddle from his head.  “Stop, woman, with your riddles.  Speak plainly.  Who has given you this warning?”
     “Nesta’s son.”
     “Pah.  The bastard seeks a reward.”
     “Will you stop it?  Can’t you see, he came to save his mother?   He didn’t know she was dead.”
     “So why would he warn us?”
     “I followed him.”  Ealdgyth looked around, half-expecting the doors to burst open.  “For once in your life, give the boy credit.  He is already gone; he wouldn’t take a reward from your hands.”
     “Wife, I think this is foolish, but I can’t afford to take any chances.  Let me up.”
     Sobered by Ealdgyth’s words, Gruffydd stood; the room immediately quieted.
     “The festivities are over,” the Prince announced.  Hearing groans of disappointment, he became angry.  “You will do as I say!   We have been given a warning: there is a threat to our safety this night.  We can either stand and fight, or flee.  But since we are ill prepared to fight, I suggest you leave this place.  We don’t know the extent of the danger.  Gather your families and go.  Now.”
     Motioning for some of his favorites to follow, the Prince gave orders to ready the boats.
     It took very little time to load the boats, always ready docked below the archway of the palace.  Gruffydd didn’t take the strange warning too seriously; though nervous enough to suspect treachery at every turn, he little expected to be attacked during the most sacred holy festival.  But he trusted his wife’s good sense and intuition, which had helped him in the past.  And she was so certain that something was amiss.
     They launched the little vessels, making their way to the mouth of the Clwyd and into the sea.  The cold wind blasted into their faces, and Gruffydd silently agreed with the grumbling of those who regretted leaving the warmth of the feast hall.
     “This is colder than a witch’s teat,” one man mumbled, pulling a blanket around his shoulders.  The boat pitched, nearly throwing him overboard.  “Damn it, man!” he shouted at the rowers.  “Can’t you control this thing any better?”
     “They’re doing the best they can,” the man’s wife retorted. “The poor men are no more sober than you are, never expecting to be dragged away from their drinks in the middle of the night.”
     “Aye, and for what?” someone else shouted over the wind.  “Are we to be startled into flight at the least rumor of trouble?”
     That was enough to get a reaction from Gruffydd.  He turned angrily.  “If I say as much, you will jump into the river on my command!”  He was about to add more but he hesitated, confused.  No one was looking at him; rather, they were staring over his shoulder.  He turned back, following their gaze.
     At first, Gruffydd could only distinguish a reddish glare on the shore – the kind of glow that meant only one thing.  He watched, frozen like the rest of them, while the glare turned into distinct flames.  He listened as the silence of his friends gave way to cries of horror.
     Perhaps, amongst them all, Gruffydd’s mute grief was the most bitter.  He watched his splendid palace burn, and saw the last beacons of violence light the sky from the remainder of his precious fleet.  They were still close enough to hear the screams of his peasants, murdered in their homes.
     Gruffydd sat motionless in the stern of his boat, his mind’s eye seeing Harold pacing disappointedly back and forth before his pillaging troops.  He, Gruffydd ap Llewelyn ap Seisylt, had been outsmarted by this cursed Saxon.  He had barely escaped, thanks to the timely warning from his bastard grandson.
     But the Earl was having his revenge.  The Prince of Wales would never see his beloved Rhuddlan again.

Tostig in Exile

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Battle of Fulford from The Life of King Edward the Confessor by Matthew Paris Source: Wikimedia

After the 1065 rebellion that sent Tostig into exile, the Northumbrians apparently felt that the Tostig issue was resolved.  No such luck!  Tostig was busy running around Europe looking for support to re-establish his claim to the earldom.  His first stop was Flanders, where he  brought his family for refuge to the court of his wife’s brother, Count Baldwin V. He was treated honorably in Flanders and spent the winter at St.Omer.

As stated in my last post about Tostig, King Edward died shortly after he was forced to leave the country. This means that Harold was already on the throne when Tostig went to Normandy and paid a visit to William the Conqueror.  I can’t image what he could have offered the Duke aside from a small fleet supplied by his father-in-law, but it does seem like the most onerous insult he could have offered Harold.

In May of 1066, Tostig landed on the Isle of Wight with his little fleet, and I wonder if William encouraged him to cross as a kind of forward movement?  By May, William certainly had been well into his preparations to cross the channel.  Did the Norman Duke try to get rid of him?  Tostig gathered supplies on the Isle of Wight and is said to have forced many of the local seamen to join him with ships. He proceeded to plunder eastward around the coast as far as Sandwich.  This means he would have passed his hometown Bosham; I wonder if he paused to say hello to his mother?

Just after Tostig reached Sandwich, Harold approached with naval and land forces to protect the coast (from Tostig, or from William?).  Tostig withdrew, and moved north to ravage parts of East Anglia; some say he unsuccessfully attempted to draw his brother Gyrth (Earl of East Anglia) into his argument. By the time Tostig reached Lindesey in Northumbria with 60 ships, Earls Eadwine and Morcar – his old rivals – drove him away and Tostig was abandoned by most of his followers.

Reduced to 10 small vessels, Tostig took refuge with his good friend and sworn brother Malcolm Canmore of Scotland.  Always happy to cause trouble on his southern border, Malcolm offered Tostig his protection for the whole summer of 1066.

It’s uncertain whether Tostig went in person to consult with Harald Hardrada. The venerable Edward A. Freeman conjectured that this scenario did not give Tostig enough time to sail to Denmark and try to persuade his cousin Swegn to come and claim Canute’s crown (Swegn is said to have offered Tostig a Danish earldom instead). Nor would he have had the time to sail to Norway.  King Harald wouldn’t have had enough time to raise an army at that late date, so Dr. Freeman felt there was a very good likelihood that Hardrada had planned the invasion on his own many months before, and that he fell in with Tostig after he already made his move. Perhaps they had communicated by messenger while Tostig was in Scotland. I’ve read elsewhere that Tostig visited both Swegn and Hardrada during the winter, which I assume could have been possible if he had taken ship and hugged the coast. Snorri Sturluson gave us a lively account of Tostig persuading Harald to take what is his by right. Regardless, after Hardrada landed in the Orkneys and left his wife there he made his way south and joined Tostig at the mouth of the Tyne.  The stage was set for the battle of Stamfordbridge…almost.

Bosham, home of the Godwine clan

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A visit to Bosham reveals a very pretty coastal town with firm connections to the Godwine clan.  In an earlier post, I conjectured that Earl Godwine may have used Bosham as one of his main residences.  It makes sense, since it is one of the only places in England actually drawn in the Bayeux Tapestry; Harold departed from Bosham before his fateful visit to Normandy.

The Holy Trinity church is said to date back to the 10th century on the site of a Roman Basilica, and there is a gravestone under the Anglo-Saxon arch marking the spot believed to hold the bones of an unnamed daughter of Canute who drowned in the millstream. There is no proof that the child’s skeleton belonged to Canute’s daughter, but the position of importance in the church combined with local legends makes a strong case. I find the Canute connection very interesting, since he and Godwine were close throughout Canute’s reign.  It is thought that Canute actually had a residence in Bosham as well, and may have built it on the foundations of Emperor Vespasian’s palace; tradition has it that the Romans established an encampment there. Oh, and this is the place where Canute allegedly tried to Command the Tide, to demonstrate to his followers that even the king’s powers were limited compared to the supreme power of God.

Canute’s daughter’s marker

Even more interesting, in 1954 an unmarked coffin was discovered under the floor stones, just a few feet from the royal princess.  Although the skeleton was not intact, they did identify the “thigh and pelvic bones of a powerfully built man of about 5 ft 6 in. in height aged over 60 years with traces of arthritis” (see John Pollock, “Is King Harold II buried in Bosham Church?”). Its proximity to the princess denotes a person of importance, and local tradition has long believed that the bones belonged to Earl Godwine himself.  However, the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle states that Godwine was buried in Winchester, and John Pollock believes that the bones could have belonged to Harold Godwineson. A headless one-legged skeleton would certainly be consistent with the condition of poor Harold after he was hacked to pieces at the Battle of Hastings! Also, it was said that William the Conqueror wanted to make sure that Harold’s resting place would not become a shrine, and he insisted that his conquered foe would be interred somewhere in secret. He even promised to bury him on the seashore, overlooking the land he tried to defend. Hence, the unmarked grave? Godwine’s manor was reportedly the only territory William took possession of in Sussex.

Although I couldn’t find a “Harold Slept  Here” marker, it was clear that Bosham claimed him as one of their own, and were very proud of their heritage.

Canute’s Grave Sites

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source: Wikipedia

Winchester Cathedral is breathtakingly beautiful and formidable at first sight. Knowing that Canute is said to be buried there, I gazed at the stone foundations of the non-existent Anglo-Saxon Minster with some trepidation. The footprint of the Old Minster butts up against the cathedral, and I wondered what happened to all the bones of saints and kings who resided there before it was demolished in 1093.

Inside, I had to ask three guides before I found one who knew Canute’s name.  “Come, I’ll show you” said a nice elderly gentleman, who was surprised we were American.  Usually only Danish visitors asked about Canute, he said.  I was glad we asked for help; hundreds of people are interred in the cathedral, and he walked us most the way to the back of the building, to the medieval-era chapel whose inside walls only reached three-quarters of the way to the vaulted ceiling.

Our guide pointed to a painted wooden chest sitting on a shelf atop the wall, 15 feet above our heads. “He’s there,” the gentlemen said, then pointed to another chest across the chapel, “and he’s there,” he said, then pointed to a third painted chest, “and he’s probably there.”  I just blinked at him, speechless (this rarely happens to me).

Mortuary Chest. Source: Wikipedia

It turns out that during the English civil war, Parliamentary forces vandalized Winchester Cathedral and scattered the ashes of our Anglo-Saxon and Norman kings and bishops all over the floor.  There were originally eight Mortuary Chests, as they are called, and now only six remain.  So the survivors swept up the bones, hopelessly mixed up, and deposited them carefully into the six chests, where Canute keeps company with his wife Emma, son Harthacnut, Bishop Stigand, King Egbert, King Ethelwulf, King William Rufus, and quite a few others going back to the seventh century (even Godwine of Wessex, I trust).

(I keep thinking of someone sweeping up a pile of bones and powder with a broom and a dustpan.)  Anyway, it looks like the chests were actually housed in (now empty) cubicles on the other side of the walls, and perhaps the chests were placed high on the shelves for safekeeping?  Either way, it was certainly not what I was expecting!

That was many years ago. Since then, a team of archaeologists and anthropologists from the University of Bristol were given permission to actually remove the chests and analyze the bones, using DNA evidence and radiocarbon dating. They have yet to determine the identity of the 23 partial skeletons—if that’s ever going to be possible—but they have concluded that the single female skeleton most likely belonged to Queen Emma, wife of Aethelred the Unready and later Canute the Dane.

Tostig, Earl of Northumbria

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Tostig fighting Harold in front of Edward, Cambridge University Library MS. Ee.iii.59
Tostig fighting Harold in front of Edward, Cambridge University Library MS. Ee.iii.59

When Siward, Earl of Northumbria died in 1055, his only surviving son was still a child, and King Edward awarded the earldom to Harold’s inexperienced brother Tostig.  Although the King was no fan of of the late Earl Godwine, there is evidence that Godwine’s third son was a favorite at court.  Since he was half Danish, Tostig didn’t seem like a bad choice for the region inhabited by Norsemen, and he served as Earl of Northumbria for ten years before he had serious trouble.

Although he was accused of being overzealous in enforcing law and order, tempers did not rise to the boiling point until he imposed a new substantial tax burden – possibly to help pay for the Welsh campaign he had just waged with Harold in 1063.  Suddenly, all the Northumbrian thegns united against him.  On October 3, 1065, while Tostig was hunting with the King, the rebels descended on York and raided the treasury, killing two housecarls and more than 200 officials.  They declared Tostig outlaw and sent for Morcar, younger son of Aelfgar  who represented the most powerful rival of Godwine’s family (Morcar’s elder brother Edwin was already Earl of Mercia).  Then they sent to the King to confirm their decision and rampaged their way south, gaining support along the way.

Harold Godwineson was chosen to mediate, and met the rebels at Northampton; he had the backing of the King and of Tostig, who had every reason to believe that he would get his earldom back one way or the other.  Alas, Harold was in a big predicament.  He soon learned that Tostig had lost all support in Northumbria; in fact, the only way the Northumbrians could be compelled to accept Tostig back was by force.

Still plundering the area around Northampton, the rebels sent Harold back to the King along with their own envoys, demanding the election of Morcar and outlawry of Tostig.  Harold reluctantly complied, and advised the King against using military force.   Everyone was shocked, and an irate Tostig accused Harold of complicity.


Although Edward initially sought to raise the fyrd against the northerners, his subjects had a horror of civil war – especially for a lost cause – and the King met so much resistance he was soon obliged to accept the rebels’ terms.  He reluctantly sent Harold back with orders to depose Tostig and elect Morcar, pardoning the thegns and reinstituting the laws of Canute.

Swearing vengeance, Tostig went into voluntary exile and Edward’s health slipped into decline the following month, possibly in grief and shock at his loss of authority.  The natural allegiance of Harold and Tostig was broken forever, and the next time they were to meet would be on the battlefield.

 

Aelfgar, Earl of Mercia

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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?

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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.

 

Where did Earl Godwine Live?

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These great pre-Conquest Earls, who owned hundreds of estates all over England, must have favored a house or two.  I keep wondering whether a farmer’s field, or a parking lot might be the very site of a lord’s favorite retreat in the country (in the city it would have been better defined).  They had to live somewhere, and since stone castles came later, I guess they must have lived in big wooden structures which of course left no trace.

We know that Earl Godwine was probably the richest man in England after the king (or was he richer than the king?).  But where did he live?  Research about Godwine and Harold II keeps bringing up the name of Bosham, which is a town in West Sussex not far from Portsmouth and apparently their mainstay.

It is said that King Canute even had a house in Bosham (after all, he was friendly with Godwine), and that one of his daughters may have drowned in the mill race at Bosham and was buried in the Cathedral.  It is said that Harold Godwineson’s body was buried there (though most people think he was buried at Waltham).  Godwine’s eldest son Swegn murdered his cousin Beorn at Bosham, and Harold is said to have sailed from Bosham on his fateful trip to Normandy, when he fell into the clutches of Duke William.  The Saxon church is depicted in the Bayeux Tapestry.

So there are certainly a lot of associations with Bosham.  I was surprised to find, in A History of the County of Sussex: Volume 4 by L.F. Salzman, that the author was able to trace the Manor of Bosham all the way from the Norman Conquest to the Earl of Iveagh, who owned it when the book was written in 1953. Even William Marshall and clan had a hand in it.

And today, there is still a Manor of Bosham and a Manor of Bosham House, which allegedly stands on the spot of Canute’s residence.  A visit here might be the closest we will get to Godwine’s stomping-grounds, although first you have to get through all the touristy references to Canute Trying to Command the Tide…yep, I forgot to mention that one!

The Battle of Hastings did not take place at Hastings

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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.