HistoryExtrahttps://www.historyextra.comHome of Britain’s bestselling history magazine and award-winning podcast2026-01-16T15:22:31.000Zhourly12000-01-01T12:00+00:00We often refer to countries as 'female' – so why has history excluded women from nation-building?https://www.historyextra.com/membership/we-often-refer-to-countries-as-female-so-why-has-history-excluded-women-from-nation-building/2025-12-15T09:00:09.000ZDanny Bird: What was the genesis of Legenda? Was there a moment when you knew you had to write this book?
Janina Ramirez: From the start of my academic career, I learned from [Palestinian-American literary critic and activist] Edward Said and others the value of acknowledging one’s perspective: being transparent about who you are, rather than claiming some sense of neutral empirical truth.
For me, identity rests on three pillars. First, I am a woman. Second, class: I come from an immigrant, working-class background. Third, heritage: Polish-Irish, born in Dubai, raised in the UK, married to a Spanish-Scot, with a distinctly European sense of self. With all that, I wasn’t going to get away without a Catholic upbringing: convent school, just very Roman Catholic foundations. I’m not practising now, but it gave me empathy for faith and an understanding of belief.
These roots inevitably shape my work. When I published The Private Lives of the Saints [in 2015], my aunt, a Franciscan missionary, told me how proud she was. I had to laugh because the book dismantled saintly myths rather than celebrating them. Yet she was right: I was still that Catholic schoolgirl, writing about religious figures, even as I reframed them.
Questions of nationality also ran through my research. My first book required careful choices of terms: ‘Irish’, ‘Welsh’, ‘Scottish’, ‘British Isles’ – each politically charged. By Femina [2022], the pattern was striking: nations everywhere reclaiming heritage, from Scandinavia’s Vikings to France’s Cathars. The focus of my latest book crystallised while writing about [queen and saint] Jadwiga of Poland. My grandmother, who owned a bronze of Pope John Paul II, reminded me how faith and identity intertwine. In my lifetime, that pope canonised women I now study, using them to shape national narratives. So the direction of this new book was clear even as I finished the last one.
You explore how women such as Joan of Arc and Isabella of Castile became symbols of national identity. Do you think their stories continue to shape how nations see themselves today?
I open the book with one of [French far-right nationalist politician] Jean-Marie Le Pen’s impassioned rallies at the statue of Joan of Arc on the Place des Pyramides in Paris. So yes, her story remains relevant – mocked or taken seriously, but still shaping France’s political landscape.
After being expelled from the [far-right anti-immigrant] National Front, Le Pen founded an even harder-right party, naming it after Joan of Arc and making her its emblem. That’s how potent her image remains to French nationalists.
Similarly, Isabella of Castile’s influence endures. When I speak with Spanish friends, they describe how the Castilian dialect is still seen as the benchmark [rather than regional dialects such as Catalan or Galician] – much like in Britain, where London can feel like a ‘brain drain’ and doesn’t reflect life in the north, Cornwall or Kent. That sense of central dominance ties directly back to Isabella and the way she imposed her vision of Spain.
And that’s the heart of it: attempts to impose a single collective identity on diverse peoples – peoples with different regions, traditions and faiths – inevitably crack. Even in Isabella’s lifetime, that imposed single national identity fractured and was repeatedly reinforced, layer upon layer. We see the same dynamics now in places such as Catalonia, the Basque Country and Scotland. These identities don’t simply vanish; they resist, reassert themselves and continue to challenge imposed unity.
I’d love to explore how nations so often personify themselves as women – from Britannia to Marianne – embodying a strange mix of maternal or nurturing spirit, virginal purity, even martial strength. What do you think is going on there?
Brilliant question! I’m very fortunate to be a colleague in Oxford of Marina Warner, the doyenne of this subject. She has written on Joan of Arc, but also a wonderful book called Monuments and Maidens, which speaks directly to this point.
She shows how nations embody themselves in female form: the Statue of Liberty, Marianne in the Panthéon, Britannia looming in St Paul’s Cathedral. And you’re absolutely right: there’s a deep frustration here. The nation is imagined as a woman, yet women themselves had little to no role in building nations.
It’s a profound injustice: in virtually every revolutionary moment, women were excluded from shaping national identity. In France, ‘Liberty, equality, fraternity’ – that emphasis on brotherhood – was about raising up men, not women. Think of how the Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen [1789] prompted the Declaration of the Rights of Woman and of the Female Citizen [1791] in response; the author of that second declaration, Olympe de Gouges, was executed for it. Revolutions don’t work for women; they offer no place for us.
Yet the most powerful symbol to unite people is often ‘the mother’. That universal image, both compelling and emotionally resonant, becomes propaganda: to serve king and country is to serve one’s motherland. Men are called to die for their ‘mother’, while real women are denied participation in politics, philosophy, architecture or law. That’s the deep irony you’ve identified: women are entirely excluded from nation-building, yet the ultimate emblem of the nation is a woman.
Several of the women you write about pushed back against the expectations of their time. Why do you think some have become celebrated as heroines whereas others have been condemned?
We are still enthralled by the charismatic, the extreme, the outspoken. I don’t understand why certain celebrities and influencers command such attention while thoughtful, rational voices struggle to be heard. We must be cautious about whom we choose to celebrate as heroes, both today and in the past. The figures who endure often do so because their stories are condensed into simple, powerful images that can be reproduced and instantly recognised.
Take Agustina of Aragón, for example. Many women fought in Zaragoza [against invading French forces] during the Peninsular War from 1808, yet she became iconic because painters such as Goya fixed her image: a small figure on a pile of bodies, lighting a cannon’s fuse. That lodged itself in the public imagination – this is how legend works. When I began the book, I also considered including men such as Robin Hood or Alfred the Great, whose myths have likewise been reshaped into soundbites.
People prefer statues, posters and slogans to complex truths. They want heroes they can identify at a glance without grappling with the full picture. That’s why I wrote the book: to question the stories we take as fact. Consider the Lady Godiva legend [in which the 11th-century noblewoman of Mercia rode naked through the streets of Coventry in order to win respite for its people from oppressive taxation by her husband, the earl]. The only factual link between the historical Godgifu and the tale we know is Coventry itself. Everything else is invention. I love stories, and I open each chapter with one, but my aim is to dig beneath them – to be forensic about who these figures really were. In doing so, they become more complex, more fascinating and ultimately more thrilling than the legends that have simplified them.
Were there any unexpected objects or sources that illuminated the roles of women featured in your book?
Yes – particularly while researching the chapter on Greece, one of the hardest to write. The 1821 Greek revolt is often downplayed in accounts of nationhood. Because it was a rebellion against the Ottoman empire – against ‘the east’, rather than against monarchies in western Europe – it can feel like a different story from the Belgian, German or French struggles for democracy, and tends to be pushed to the margins. I wanted to foreground it. What struck me most was how this perspective connects to broader debates about Eurocentrism. Recently, at the Gloucester History Festival, I listened to Peter Frankopan, 10 years on from the publication of his book The Silk Roads, urging us not to be so western-focused, and Vince Cable, who echoed the same point in relation to China, India and Japan today.
I wanted to shift the narrative away from the familiar classical thread linking Europe to Rome and ancient Greece, and instead emphasise that, for much of medieval history, Constantinople (now Istanbul) was the true hub of civilisation and power. London and the north of Europe were seen as barbaric backwaters.
Greek identity in the 19th century was not just a Byronesque, romantic appeal to ancient culture. For Greeks, it was about reclaiming the legacy of Constantinople, which had fallen to the Ottomans in the 15th century.
Researching the role of women in Constantinople, I was struck by the extraordinary survival of coins, enamels, jewelled crosses – objects that in most revolutions would have been melted down, yet remained intact because the Ottomans largely ignored them. Among them are coins depicting the 11th-century sisters Zoe and Theodora (left) ruling with the male title ‘emperor’ of Byzantium, rather than ‘empress’.
Their images, along with artefacts carried to places such as Georgia when it was ruled by Queen Tamar (reigned 1184–1213), are stark reminders that women could and did rule empires. Indeed, at the same time as Charlemagne was trying to construct a Holy Roman Empire [at the turn of the ninth century], Empress Irene was ruling in Constantinople, viewing the Franks as peasants on the fringes of civilisation.
That chapter forced me to question western national narratives and to reflect on the cycles of rise and fall in world history. It also highlighted the need for humility in how we see our place in a global story that has always been in flux, and the importance of asking where women feature in that.
You also discuss the intersection where religious devotion and politics meet, through women such as Catherine of Siena. Today, would their faith make them seem radical or reactionary?
Catherine of Siena [14th-century mystic and letter-writer] is a fascinating and difficult figure to grasp. I suspect that she would now be seen as a radical extremist. Her influence grew rapidly from local notoriety to involvement in politics, family disputes and the affairs of the nobility. Rejecting the cloistered life of a nun, which she deemed too modest and hidden, she instead exploited the opportunities of the Dominican Third Order, which allowed women to live partly within the rhythms of monastic life while remaining active in the world – able to marry, raise families and pursue public roles.
Even this was too restrictive for Catherine. She craved visibility and seized every chance to place herself centre stage. Behind her was a group that recognised her potential and promoted her as a kind of spiritual influencer. With their support, she was propelled onto ever larger platforms, becoming more reactionary and extreme as her fame grew. Eventually, she had the ear of the pope and played a part in global politics.
It was a meteoric but tragic rise. Catherine’s regime of intense self-mortification, involving starvation and other severe practices, destroyed her health and she died young [aged just 33, in 1380]. Ironically, in the medieval world, some of the very behaviours officially condemned – such as fasting and self-harm – often brought fame and were celebrated as marks of sanctity. Extreme acts, such as plunging into frozen rivers or enduring brutal beatings, drew attention, enhanced reputations and opened the way to influence. For women, especially, punishing the body was often the only route to power and legacy.
This pattern was not confined to women; men pursued similar paths. Nor is it a relic of the past. Even today, religious devotion expressed through extreme bodily endurance persists – in India, for example, ascetics hold an arm aloft until it withers. We may think ourselves too rational, too secular, to be drawn into such practices, but self-punishment in the name of belief remains very much alive.
The temptation is to label such figures simply as fanatics, yet the reality is more complex. Were they extremists, or merely individuals desperately trying to stand out and make a difference? Religion, identity, politics, economics – all can be forces for good but, in the wrong hands and when driven by personal ambition, they become extreme. What emerges, in Catherine’s case and beyond, is the interplay between individual striving and wider social structures – why one person rises to prominence while others remain unheard.
In the end, you argue that reconnecting with these stories can help us resist division and manipulation. What do you think these women have to teach us about resilience and identity today?
In my conclusion, I write that Agustina lit the cannon, while Joan picked up the sword. What unites these women is their courage. In times of threat and change, they were brave – and my argument is that we must be brave, too. We need clarity of mind and sharpened intellects to face today’s challenges. We are not fighting on streets with swords, but against misinformation, propaganda and manipulation at the highest levels. We must be equipped to understand our place in the world and our communities.
The book begins and ends with women who had no concept of nations as we know them, yet shared the same land as us, walked the same paths and looked upon the same mountains. Their lives offer inspiration because they survived, thrived and achieved remarkable things in difficult circumstances. By connecting with their environments, we become part of their legacy.
I deeply believe in the power of local history and connecting with our surroundings – exploring archives, visiting museums, walking through graveyards. Engaging with objects and places allows us to connect with people of the past in a meaningful way. It reminds us that humans have always been complex and brilliant. We are not the pinnacle of progress, and the people of the past were not mere peasants living short, brutish lives. Their experiences are fascinating, and learning about them teaches us to be better citizens today.
In our modern world, we cannot control distant geopolitical events manipulated by the powerful. What we can control is our daily interactions with those around us, with the landscape and with our communities. Humanity has always found ways to coexist, collaborate and learn from one another across cultures and generations. That shared, everyday life that I see in my medieval figures still exists. We’ve just lost sight of it.
We need to reconnect with each other, with the land and with the tangible realities of life, rather than the digitised, ethereal existence of screens and texts. Humans have always lived alongside one another, and understanding those relationships is essential.
This article was first published in the December 2025 issue of BBC History Magazine
]]>HistoryExtra Women of the Middle Ages Masterclass: Hildegard of Bingen with Janina Ramirezhttps://www.historyextra.com/membership/historyextra-women-of-the-middle-ages-masterclass-hildegard-of-bingen-with-janina-ramirez/2022-09-08T16:33:40.000ZOur curated three-part virtual lecture series from historian and broadcaster Janina Ramirez offers a fresh look at the medieval world through the women usually written out of it. This second session considers how our modern understanding of terms such as ‘nun’ and ‘convent’ have shaped our understanding of the intellectual and creative capacities of medieval women. By focusing on the individual Hildegard of Bingen, uncover an environment in which men and women could become talented polymaths and change the world around them through education, writing and political activism.
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Who was Hildegard of Bingen?
Janina Ramirez introduces the ultimate Renaissance woman, Hildegard of Bingen
It’s often assumed that medieval women were denied education from childhood and kept from the resources they would need to match their male counterparts. Yet the achievements of Hildegard of Bingen – a writer, composer, philosopher, mystic and visionary who inspired a cultural renaissance from her Rhineland home in the 12th century – have long challenged that assumption.
High on a hilltop in a remote part of the German countryside, the abandoned medieval monastery of Disibodenberg is where we come closest to Hildegard of Bingen. In these evocative ruins 900 years ago she quietly and patiently grew her knowledge and range of talents to become one of the medieval world’s great polymaths.
- Listen | In 15 Minutes of Fame, Janina Ramirez explains why Hildegard of Bingen deserves more recognition
Medieval monasteries were distinctly gendered sites. At Disibodenberg, the monks dominated the buildings, from the church to the refectory. But on the northern edge was another small community who were separated out, yet able to benefit from this rich cultural environment – a group of young nuns. It was here, in a cell attached to a tiny church, that Hildegard came as a child and lived enclosed until she was in her forties.
When her mentor and abbess, Jutta, died in 1136 Hildegard came into her own. Fortunately, she would live a long life to the age of 81 and it was this longevity that has helped sear her name onto the pages of history. But it was also her charisma, passion and intelligence that got Hildegard recognised as the Sibyl of the Rhine and advisor to popes and emperors.
Even today it is remarkable for an author to have their collected works compiled in one volume. But that is what has survived in the Riesencodex, which was written around the time of her death. Nearly lost after the Second World War and only rescued due to the daring exploits of two women (Margarete Kühn and Caroline Walsh, who stole the Risencodex from postwar Soviet authorities and took it back to the nuns at Eibingen), this enormous manuscript shows the full scale of Hildegard’s achievements.
Building a female-centric world
Hildegard excelled in every area she turned her hand to. She wrote theological texts of huge mystical originality, based on the visions she had experienced since childhood. Her letters to the good and the great of the medieval world display her ability to influence the politics and opinions of her time at the highest level. Yet the intimacy of her personal correspondence with her adoring followers shows she could connect passionately with people on a human level. “Your divine absence has made me drunk on the wine of sorrow,” wrote one such follower, a nun called Gertrud, lamenting the fact that she was yet to meet Hildegard in person.
Hildegard’s scientific works, which range from natural history to the first description of a female orgasm, are based on decades of working in hospitals and tending to the particular needs of women. Her artistic abilities were showcased in the psychedelic illuminations of her texts, while her contributions to music were extraordinary. Unlike other composers of her time, Hildegard’s songs and style of singing leap across octaves in an attempt to capture the celestial through sound. She even invented her own language.
The female-centric world she built, particularly in the spiritual realm, showed the church as a nurturing mother and Love and Wisdom symbolically as women. But in the temporal realm, too, she ruled a powerful community of influential nuns at her convent in Bingen. Here art, music and education empowered the women around her to become ever more ambitious and play increasingly important roles in 12th-century Europe.
**Janina Ramirez is a cultural historian, broadcaster and author based at the University of Oxford. Her latest book is Femina: A New History of the Middle Ages, Through the Women Written Out of It (WH Allen, 2022)
This text first appeared in the September 2022 issue of BBC History Magazine
]]>HistoryExtra Women of the Middle Ages Masterclass: The Loftus Princess with Janina Ramirezhttps://www.historyextra.com/membership/loftus-princess-janina-ramirez/2022-09-08T15:50:21.000ZOur curated three-part virtual lecture series from historian and broadcaster Janina Ramirez offers a fresh look at the medieval world through the women usually written out of it. This first session addresses some of the big themes behind the book, including how history as a subject is changing, the kinds of people we should be looking for, and the tools that we need to uncover lost or hidden narratives. Janina also explores the example of the sixth-century Loftus Princess to reveal the central role played by women in the ideological revolutions of the early medieval period.
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Who was the Loftus Princess?
Janina Ramirez introduces the Loftus Princess, who left important legacies for those that came after...
A few beads and pendants were all they found. It wasn’t much to go on, but these diminutive treasures nestled in the soil threw up some tantalising clues about an influential woman who died in the seventh century. That woman lived during a period of huge cultural change in England.
Known as the Loftus Princess, her burial alongside a series of remarkable treasures, overlooking the cliffs of North Yorkshire, testifies that she was honoured by the people who placed her in the earth. The rest of her story – what she achieved, how she lived, who she encountered – can only be surmised.
Should we stop asking questions and dismiss the Loftus Princess as yet another lost woman from our medieval past? Or can we put her in context and build up a world around her using a range of evidence and approaches at our disposal? For all too long, the former option has prevailed.
- Read more | Kavita Puri's hidden histories: "There are other medieval women who we can bring to the foreground"
That we know that the Loftus Princess existed at all is down to archaeologist Steve Sherlock and his team, who in 2006 discovered an early medieval burial site cut into an ancient landscape near the town of Loftus. Among Iron Age barrows and Roman remains were 109 graves dating from the seventh century.
Acidic soil has claimed the bones, but at this point in English history the belief in Germanic gods and an active afterlife in Valhalla meant that individuals were placed in the grave with things they might need – weapons, jewellery and more. These grave goods allowed the team to build a picture of who was interred here and when. The site was clearly arranged with a focal point. There are entry and exit points which suggest people processed towards and past the main mound in the centre.
That mound is where the Loftus Princess was buried. Post holes show that two small wooden buildings had stood near her grave, one possibly serving as a chapel. The site is complicated: on the one hand the burials contain finds, which means they are part of centuries of pagan practices. On the other, all the graves point from east to west, which was common to Christian burials.
Sherlock and the team conclude that this is a site where new ideas from the continent were beginning to reveal themselves in the way people buried their dead. This certainly seems to have been the case with the Loftus Princess, who was lain with great ceremony in a bed. The iron cleats are all that survive, but burial in a bed seems to have been an honour reserved for a handful of prominent women at the moment Christianity was putting down roots in England.
Her jewellery tells a similar story. A gold and garnet cloisonné replicates pieces from Sutton Hoo and the Staffordshire Hoard. The gems have been reused from an older piece. But the central stone is one of a kind. A large garnet cut in the shape of a shell, it suggests that the woman wearing it was tying herself to the new religion that was making an impact in England around the arrival of St Augustine in AD 597. The shell is a Christian symbol connected to martyrdom and resurrection, later associated with St James and pilgrimage.
The Loftus Princess was living at a time when many women were choosing to engage with the ideological changes being introduced through the Christian church. These included Hild, who founded a double-monastery at Whitby, and Bertha, who brought literacy and church buildings to Canterbury. Christianity allowed English women power of a kind they had not had access to before.
**Janina Ramirez is a cultural historian, broadcaster and author based at the University of Oxford. Her latest book is Femina: A New History of the Middle Ages, Through the Women Written Out of It (WH Allen, 2022)
This text first appeared in the September 2022 issue of BBC History Magazine
]]>15 minutes of fame | Janina Ramirez chooses Hildegard of Bingenhttps://www.historyextra.com/membership/hildegard-bingen-who-life-why-important/2022-07-05T09:06:47.000ZWho was Hildegard of Bingen?
Hildegard of Bingen was born in the Rhineland in 1098, a time when a cultural and artistic renaissance was happening in and around Germany. Brought up in a monastery in Disibodenberg, Hildegard went on to be a highly influential polymath during her long life, dying at the age of 81.
Her long life is of great importance to historians, explains Ramirez. If she had died at the average age for the 12th century (in her 40s or 50s), we would not have much work to look at, “because Hildegard created the majority of her key works in later life”.
Hildegard of Bingen’s life
From an early age, perhaps as young as four or five, Hildegard had told people of the visions she had. When one seemingly came true – a calf was born that fit a description Hildegard had given prior to its birth – she was sent to be trained by Jutta von Sponheim, who, according to Ramirez, was the thought to be the brightest female mind of her time. Under Jutta’s guidance, Hildegard became a nun. Ramirez points out that ‘nun’ had different connotations in the 12th century to what we might think of now: nuns were creatives, artists, intellectuals. Convents were “powerhouses of these incredibly important people that were changing the climate of the time”, so Hildegard grew up in a very powerful place.
Her reported visions were widely known, but Hildegard did not write about them until they became more intense later in her life. In the mid 12th century (c1151/1152) she published an illustrated work called Scivias, created with her confidante Richardis and a scribe, Volmar. This book detailed her visions, as she tried to describe what was considered indescribable.
Another surviving piece of material is the Riesencodex, a collection of Hildegard’s work, written towards the end of her life/after her death. It is a great source, explains Ramirez, for Hildegard’s thoughts and opinions of a variety of topics, from science to politics.
Hildegard of Bingen’s historical importance is not just based on her own achievements, but on those around her, says Ramirez. Surrounding Hildegard was a group of extraordinary women, including Elisabeth of Schönau and Herrad of Landsberg, who are not well-remembered due to lack of source material. Ramirez believes that Hildegard was a beacon for these women, showing the potential of others through her work. Hildegard and her female intellectual companions can help historians to challenge assumptions about the subjugation of women of this time, Janina explains, as they are examples of “women in the medieval period who have agency that is equivalent to, if not exceeding, those of their male counterparts”
Why does Hildegard of Bingen deserve her 15 minutes of fame?
“She is everything,” says Ramirez. “She is an intellectual. She is a musician, an artist, a scientist. Just a powerful human being.” Hildegard brought communities of women together, voiced her opinions about important scientific theories and political issues, and was responsible for the building, organising and running of two abbeys in her lifetime. “I cannot think of anyone now who could do any of the range that Hildegard did,” says Ramirez, and for this reason, she deserves to be celebrated.
Dr Janina Ramirez is a historian, author and broadcaster, who has hosted several history documentaries for television and radio. Her latest book is Femina: A New History of the Middle Ages, Through the Women Written Out of It, published in July 2022 by WH Allen
Listen to the full interview and find more episodes in our 15 minutes of fame podcast series
Article compiled by Isabel King
]]>15 minutes of fame: Hildegard of Bingen, medieval polymathhttps://www.historyextra.com/membership/15-minutes-fame-podcast-hildegard-bingen/2022-06-27T14:52:29.000ZIt’s the HistoryExtra podcast’s 15th birthday! To celebrate, we’ve asked 15 historians to nominate a figure from history they think deserves their ‘15 minutes of fame’. In this episode, Dr Janina Ramirez nominates Hildegard of Bingen. Speaking with Emily Briffett, she explains why this 12th-century abbess, composer, scientist, writer and saint deserves to be better remembered today.
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]]>Aethelflaed, Lady of the Mercians: the warrior queen who crushed the Vikingshttps://www.historyextra.com/period/anglo-saxon/aethelflaed-aethelflaed-woman-who-vikings-anglo-saxon-england/2022-03-11T16:58:00.000ZListen to a version of this article:
There are only a handful of warrior women from the past who have captured imaginations for centuries. The most famous are Boudicca, her chariot complete with spiked wheels, and the armoured teenager, Joan of Arc. These were the exceptions – women in a man’s world who men followed into battle.
But there is one warrior woman who is less celebrated. Eleven centuries ago, Æthelflæd, Lady of the Mercians, died and was buried in Gloucester. She was exceptional for many reasons. She is one of the few known women who not only held a role within the household as mother and lady – and within the court, as daughter and wife to kings – but also wielded power on the battlefield.
What’s more, she is the only queen in English history to have passed her reign directly to her daughter. She is a medieval marvel, but she has been overshadowed by the men who surrounded her in life – her father, Alfred the Great; her husband, Æthelred of Mercia (a kingdom in what is now central England); and her ultimate successor, her nephew, Æthelstan, ‘the king of the whole of Britain’. Yet Michael Wood has argued that “without her England might never have happened”.
In the 12th century, the historian Henry of Huntingdon declared Æthelflæd to be “so powerful that in praise and exaltation of her wonderful gifts, some call her not only lady, but even king”. He praised her as “worthy of a man’s name” and “more illustrious than Caesar”. So why do we not know more about the Lady of the Mercians, and is it finally her time to shine?
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Æthelflæd's early life
It is difficult to know when Æthelflæd was born. Her parents were married in AD 868 and she is thought to have been their first-born child. The time at which she came screaming into the world was one of turmoil. Just three years earlier, a Great Viking Army had launched a massive assault on East Anglia. Then, over more than a decade, a coalition of Norse warriors took land in all the major Anglo-Saxon kingdoms – except Wessex, which had so far managed to defy them.
The Vikings' purpose was to conquer the kingdoms completely, yet the battle of Edington in 878 stemmed the tide and a tentative alliance was drawn up, splitting the country in two between English-ruled territory and lands administered by the Danes (the Danelaw). It was on to this tumultuous stage that Æthelflæd stepped.
There is little information on her childhood, and she first appears in the historical record as a fully grown adult. By this time she is married to Æthelred of Mercia. She is mentioned in Alfred’s will, where he leaves her an estate plus 100 pounds, while her husband is bequeathed a precious sword.
- Read more | Æthelwold: Alfred the Great's rebel nephew
Æthelflæd and Æthelred
As a wife, however, Æthelflæd’s story is all too familiar in terms of royal dynastic marriages. Daughter of the king of Wessex and his wife (a Mercian noble, possibly royal, woman), Æthelflæd was a precious commodity.
Her marriage to the much older Æthelred, who had served Alfred as a loyal lieutenant, bound together the English-speaking kingdoms of Wessex and the newly reclaimed Mercia.
Theirs was an entirely political union, designed to strengthen the two kingdoms against Danish and Norwegian incursions in the north. She could have faded from the records at this point, content to support her husband within the court and bear him many offspring.
Yet Æthelflæd wasn’t about to be overshadowed by her husband. Instead, records report that she was signing diplomatic documents and presiding over provincial courts in place of Æthelred.
As he became increasingly ill she assumed more of his responsibilities, including arranging diplomatic agreements and refurbishing many of the towns. Concerned by the relocation of Viking settlers from the Irish coast to the northwest, Æthelflæd made two plans: on the one hand, she offered land for the Vikings to settle in the Wirral, and on the other instructed that the ancient Roman city of Chester be refortified in case they decided to press southwards into Mercia.
Her caution was rewarded when in that same year, 907, the Wirral Vikings attacked Chester but failed to breach its walls. Æthelflæd’s reputation as a canny ruler extended, not only through the English-speaking world, but over the waters, reaching the ears of her Viking foes. She was developing a name as a keen diplomat, an engaged ruler and a military strategist.
While Æthelred’s health deteriorated, Æthelflæd took more responsibility for the military activities of Mercia. She understood the importance of aligning herself with other powerful rulers and supported her brother, Edward the Elder, in his reconquest of Mercian territories in the Danelaw.
Æthelflæd becomes the Lady of the Mercians
When Æthelred died in 911, his wife was declared ‘Lady of the Mercians’ and took over control of the kingdom. In Wessex, the role of royal women was one of subservience: Æthelflæd’s mother had only ever held the title of ‘wife of the king’ and signed no charters with her husband. Æthelflæd took advantage of a tradition that granted women in Mercia greater rights.
To secure power in Anglo-Saxon England, you first needed the support of ‘ealdormen’ (high-ranking royal officials). It is telling that, rather than hand the kingdom to a male heir or succumb to Wessex, the ealdormen of Mercia chose Æthelflæd as their leader.
Their choice was wise, since she secured some of the greatest victories in battle of the early 10th century. In 917 her troops reconquered the Viking city of Derby, a critical victory as this had been one of the ‘Five Boroughs of the Danelaw’. The next year she secured Leicester, and from there made her way towards the prestigious Viking-held city of York. As the Danes were ready to offer her their submission, she died (possibly of dysentery) on 12 June 918 and was taken to be buried with her husband at St Oswald’s Priory in Gloucester.
Securing the fealty of the Danes of York would have been Æthelflæd’s ultimate achievement. Instead, it was the battle of Tettenhall (in modern-day Wolverhampton) eight years earlier in 910 that secured her image as victorious warrior queen.
Back then, in retaliation for Æthelflæd and Edward’s successful campaigns in the Danelaw, Viking troops had laid waste to large parts of Mercia, carrying off plunder and destroying the land. A joint Anglo-Saxon army headed them off at Tettenhall and massacred them there. Three Viking kings were reported to have been killed, and as a result, the image of Æthelflæd, warrior queen, bearing three royal swords was born.
- Read more | Why is Edward of Wessex called Edward the Elder?
As well as being a formidable warrior, Æthelflæd was also a shrewd ruler who set about extending the work of her father, Alfred, by strengthening his fortifications at Tamworth, Stafford and Warwick. Many of these cities owe their existence to her efforts.
Like her father, she believed that the recently rejuvenated Anglo-Saxon kingdoms depended on the church and its divine favour to secure their reputation as worthy opponents to the Danish pagans. She invested in church buildings throughout Mercia, particularly in Gloucester, which she transformed from a derelict backwater to a vibrant town.
She brought extra prestige to her newly founded church there by securing a most precious relic: the body of the kingly Saint Oswald. His relics had languished in Viking-held Bardney in Lincolnshire, but Æthelflæd managed to return them to Mercia. Their arrival was accompanied by lavish ceremonies, and the Mercian Register credits Æthelflæd with returning this holy royal saint to English-held land.
Was Æthelflæd a good ruler?
There is a wealth of evidence to support the contention that Mercia was a force to be reckoned with in the Anglo-Saxon period. Although difficult to date precisely, the Staffordshire Hoard (which in 2009 became the largest cache of Anglo-Saxon gold ever discovered) is testament to Mercian hegemony in the eighth century. The power of bishoprics, like that at Lichfield, is attested to in the remarkable Gospel Book that survives from there and in the carved angel discovered in 2003: just a fragment of what would have been a lush and vibrant environment. While other kingdoms were ravaged by Viking incursions in the ninth century, parts of Mercia, like Worcester, remained strong and affluent.
Æthelflæd, like her father, sought to strengthen the prestige of her kingdom by investing extensively in urban renewal, education (through the monasteries) and in the arts. She was also aware that her legacy would be protected by those who came after her. She ensured her daughter, Ælfwynn, would succeed her, but also fostered her brother’s son, who would become the great unifier of England, King Æthelstan.
Æthelflæd was not content to be simply a bearer of heirs. She gave her husband one daughter, but William of Malmesbury suggests she shied away from “marital obligations” because of the risks she knew it posed her life. He records that she declined to have sex after bearing a daughter because it was “unbecoming of the daughter of a king to give way to a delight which, after a time, produced such painful consequences”.
Æthelflæd's legacy
Why do we not know more about Æthelflæd? For a start, it could be that her own brother had her largely written out of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle so as not to promote separatism between Wessex and Mercia. However, she maintained a celebrated reputation – particularly, and surprisingly, under the Normans – with chroniclers going out of their way to laud her military achievements.
Yet, in the end, it was Boudicca who would come to captivate as ‘warrior woman’ under Elizabeth I, possibly because of their legendary shared red hair. Æthelflæd’s name languished over the following centuries, but was revived in 1913 with a statue in Tamworth erected to commemorate her achievements. Even so, she would constantly pale next to the name of her father, Alfred the Great, who English historians continued to celebrate as scourge of the Danes and saviour of England.
Æthelflæd is as important now as she was more than a millennium ago. She is a rallying point to all those searching for strong female role models. She was a product of her age, constrained by her time, yet she achieved so much. It is now that she should be remembered as mother, diplomat, warrior and queen. Now she should be celebrated in the words of William of Malmesbury, as a “woman of enlarged soul”.
Dr Janina Ramirez cultural historian, broadcaster and author, and president of Gloucester History Festival
This article was first published in the June 2018 edition of BBC History Magazine
]]>"Vikings didn't wear horned helmets," plus 7 more Viking myths bustedhttps://www.historyextra.com/period/viking/historical-fact-check-vikings-myths-busted-did-wear-horned-helmets-violent-barbarians/2021-11-15T19:30:01.000ZWhat were the Vikings really like? Popular TV and film portrayals of Vikings would have us believe that they are fierce, battle-hardened people who wore horned helmets and ruthlessly conquered any land they came across. Discover the truth behind eight common myths about the Vikings, as historian Janina Ramirez separates fact from fiction...
Myth 1: Vikings wore horned helmets
Let’s get this out of the way straight off. There is no evidence that the Vikings wore horned helmets, and nothing like this has ever been discovered in any archaeological dig. They certainly wore helmets but they would have been simple skullcaps, designed to protect the head from impact. Having a pair of horns on your head in battle would not have been helpful if warriors were striking at you with clubs, swords or axes.
The helmet plaques from Sutton Hoo and Vendel suggest that god-like warriors donned helmets with protruding ‘horns’ (although these are actually hook-beaked birds), but the Viking raiders and traders did not.
The modern idea of Vikings in horned helmets originated in the 19th century, but it was Richard Wagner’s The Ring Cycle [a cycle of four operas by the German composer based loosely on characters from the Norse sagas] that seared it into the modern imagination. Costume designer Carl Emil Doepler (1824–1905) created horned helmets in the 1870s for the Viking characters, and so the myth was born. Numerous cartoonists, filmmakers and artists have continued this fantasy right up to the present day.
- Listen | Acclaimed screenwriter and producer Michael Hirst talks about his work on Vikings and the secrets of making great history drama
Myth 2: They were a defined group – ‘the Vikings’
The term ‘Viking’ comes from Old Icelandic ‘Viking-r, a creek-dweller’. The Viken was the primary mercantile region of Norway, so it is possible that this apparently homogenous group of people got their name from the extensive trading they undertook out of their busy ports. The word ‘Viking’ later becomes synonymous with ‘naval raids/naval expeditions’ and begins to function more as a verb. Individuals or groups would go ‘a-Viking’, which would mean they would leave their native lands during the warmer summer months, travelling in longboats to regions where they could trade and raid.
Contemporary writers don’t use the term ‘Viking’ to speak of a group of people. Instead they referred to Norse Men, people from the North, or simply pagans (remember, those recording events were usually Christian scribes). What’s more misleading still is that ‘Viking’ has been used to denote the entire Scandinavian region, including Denmark, Norway and Sweden. Each of these regions was governed by different leaders and they would have seen themselves as distinct from one another.
These were also very varied landscapes. The more northern regions, particularly the mountainous areas of Norway, were difficult to farm because of hostile weather, while southern parts, in the plains of Denmark, were more fertile. There were occasions when Scandinavian rulers combined their forces for greater military might, but the term ‘Viking’ is like describing all ‘Northern Europeans’ as the same.
- Leif Erikson’s voyage to Vinland
Myth 3: Vikings were extremely violent
The Vikings earned a place in history due to their protracted raids on often vulnerable monastic sites. Populated by literate scribes, these were the worst places to attack if you wanted a good record in Christian historical documents. Alcuin of York wrote to Bishop Higbald, declaring: “Never before has such terror appeared in Britain as we have now suffered from a pagan race. . . .The heathens poured out the blood of saints around the altar, and trampled on the bodies of saints in the temple of God, like dung in the streets.”
There is certainly evidence of the violent means Vikings used to suppress people, particularly in Britain. Many skeletons have been found with the instruments of their death still wedged in their bones. A skeleton in the North Hertfordshire Museum has a Viking spear head stuck in its neck. However, while some Vikings clearly deserved their reputation as ‘wolves of war’, others lived peaceful existences – farming, trading and integrating across the four continents that they settled.
What’s more, these were violent times, and the Vikings’ aggression was matched or exceeded by other groups during this period. One of the most famous names of the early medieval period, Emperor Charlemagne, carried out a form of genocide on people in Saxony. In the ‘Massacre of Verden’ in AD 782 his army murdered more than 4,500 Saxons who had been given to him by an ally. This was violence at its most stark. And yet, because Charlemagne had a Christian biographer writing a favorable account of his life, was killing pagans and was seen as ‘father of the church’, his place in history was secure.
Myth 4: Vikings took what they wanted and sailed away
Finds from Scandinavia do indicate that many Vikings pillaged the places they reached, bringing back coins from across the known world to be buried in hoards back in their homelands. However, many chose to remain in the lands they encountered, establishing lasting and important settlements.
One of the earliest and most extensive Viking settlements was Dublin, established by AD 841. Dublin grew into an industrially strong city with a thriving port and a mint where the first Irish coins were made. It wasn’t just Dublin that changed and developed under the Vikings. In York, the Anglo-Saxon city was relocated further towards the mouth of the river and settled by Vikings as a new and vibrant town – Jorvik. Iceland owes its settlement almost entirely to Vikings, under Ingólfr Arnanson in AD 874.
Normandy is another example of how Viking settlement could grow from violence into peaceful settlement. The Normans got their name from being ‘north-men’, yet they were given land in the north of France by king Charles III (aka Charles the Simple, 879–929) in an attempt to keep further Viking attacks at bay. Charles even gave his daughter to the Norwegian chieftain Rollo [who gained Normandy from Charles the Simple] in marriage, and the Viking settlers soon embraced French language and culture to develop into a new breed of conquerors.
Myth 5: Vikings were godless pagans
They say history is written by the victors, but in the case of the Vikings, history is written by Christians. This meant that while few accounts of Viking religion survive, there are many documents written by Christian scribes that describe them as pagan and godless. This is not supported by the information we can glean from archaeology and later Scandinavian texts.
Viking religion was structured, hierarchical and based on a number of established narratives. It was not a religion of the book, and the mythology was transmitted orally.
The Vikings didn’t practise their religion in temples but rather, like the ancient Celts, held places like groves and rivers sacred. It seems that priests were involved in religious ceremonies, and these were drawn from the heads of families. Priestly office was one of the honours bestowed on kings. The priest would perform sacrifices, either of objects, animals or people.
Viking cosmology differentiated between life on Earth – Midgard – and other spiritual realms. The Norse gods were thought to inhabit Asgard, while the sacred tree Ysgadrill stretched its roots to the lands of the gods, giants and the dead. There were at least six realms, with a special place reserved for warriors – Valhalla.
- Listen | Bernard Cornwell on The Last Kingdom
Myth 6: Vikings were ignorant and illiterate barbarians
The Vikings were not the ignorant and illiterate barbarians that Christian writers of the time believed them to be. While they didn’t write long texts like the Sagas until later in the Viking Age, they had developed a complex script – runes – that was loaded with symbolism. Each letter in the runic alphabet was also connected with a word; the ‘f’ rune was called ‘feoh’, which meant ‘wealth’ or ‘cattle’ – this makes sense within a barter society, as cattle hides were a way of measuring wealth.
Runes could carry spiritual meaning too, and texts record how certain runes were connected with specific gods or goddesses. Rune stones included lengthy dedications and personal names. Smaller inscriptions survive on personal items like combs and weapons.
Far from illiterate barbarians, the Vikings were some of the greatest naval engineers and travellers the world had seen. Prehistoric carvings and stone ships testify to the importance of boats within prehistoric Scandinavian society and religion. By the ninth century they had developed advanced ships that could traverse the hostile Northern Atlantic Ocean. They travelled further than any single race before the modern age, and took huge risks whenever they set out on a voyage.
Myth 7: Vikings treated their women badly
Viking society was mainly governed by ‘jarls’, the most important of whom could become kings. It was a largely military society, in which strength at arms was prized, yet wise and learned men and women could also wield power.
Women played an important role in Viking society. They were guardians of the keys to both property and wealth, particularly when their menfolk were abroad. There is evidence that some were trained to be military leaders too, with shield-maidens described throughout the mythology. Women were held in high esteem, with two buried within the famous Oseberg ship.
One of the most venerated characters in the Germanic pantheon was Freyja, goddess of sex, beauty, gold and death. She rides a chariot pulled by two cats and is accompanied by the boar Hildisvini.
Women did seem to have spiritual roles within Viking society, with wands discovered in many female graves. Furthermore, they had significantly better legal rights than their Christian counterparts and could divorce their husbands if they were violent or disrespectful towards them.
Myth 8: Vikings were beardy and unkempt
Far from unkempt barbarians, Viking men and women were quite vain. Many finds like tweezers, combs and razors have been discovered, and it seems they went to great pains over their appearance.
They didn’t live in dark, dirty huts, but often in large and luxurious halls, like the magnificent ‘Heorot’ recorded in the epic poem Beowulf, which was the setting for lavish feasts, gifts of gold and display of skills at arms.
The Vikings also had a good diet, which included a lot of fish – unsurprising given that most settlements were near to the coast. Evidence of Viking latrines shows they feasted on elk, bear, puffin, salmon and trout.
Dr Janina Ramirez is a British art and cultural historian and television presenter. She presented a BBC documentary on Icelandic literature, The Viking Sagas, and is author of The Private Lives of the Saints: Power, Passion and Politics in Anglo-Saxon England. To find out more, visit www.janinaramirez.co.uk
This article was first published on HistoryExtra in August 2015
]]>Julian of Norwich: Janina Ramirez hails 'the female Chaucer'https://www.historyextra.com/membership/julian-norwich-who-female-chaucer-janina-ramirez/2020-04-13T10:01:49.000ZHistory is largely dominated by men. Kings, popes, bishops, monks, knights… they have defined the course of history, and they have written history. Despite the valiant attempts of feminists in the past century, writing women into history is a difficult process. Individuals who managed to break the mould are now widely celebrated: Joan of Arc, Æthelflæd, Elizabeth I. Yet for every one woman written into history there are many hundreds of men that drown out their achievements.
And so it is with literature. The canonical texts of the past two millennia are largely written by male authors. We read Shakespeare, Milton, Keats, Joyce. The father of English literature is Chaucer. But who is the mother? The first known woman to write a book in English is an obscure anchoress from Norwich, whose very name has been given a masculine twist: Julian.
The word ‘anchoress’ comes from the Greek meaning ‘to retire’, and anchoresses gave up their lives on Earth to be walled up in a cell until death. They would be witnesses at their own funerals, receiving the last rites, and have the door to their room sealed or bricked up. They could not leave again on pain of excommunication.
Julian most probably took her name from the church in which she was walled up for decades, St Julian’s Church off King’s Street. She wrote a mystical text in the late 14th century entitled Revelations of Divine Love, but it is virtually unheard of. Certainly students don’t have a copy of it propped up next to The Canterbury Tales as they learn about the birth of English literature.
Yet it is one of the most stunning literary achievements of the medieval period. This book could have been written in any time, any place, by a male or a female writer, and it would still be considered an incredible work. The fact that it was written during one of the most turbulent times in European history, simply adds to its mystery.
Who was Julian of Norwich?
Julian was born in 1343, and died around 1416. Her life encompassed a period in which the wheels were coming off church and state, with disease, corruption, war and fear rife.
Many of the wider problems of this period were triggered in 1349 when the Black Death reached British shores. It decimated the population of Julian’s hometown, with figures suggesting that 7,000 of 12,000 occupants died. Norwich was probably worse hit than most cities because of the regular stream of ships from Flanders, with which they had very close trade links.
- Read more about the Black Death here, with your guide to “the worst catastrophe in recorded history”
Norwich was a vibrant mercantile city, the second largest after London at this point, but the effect of the Black Death and subsequent plagues would have lasting repercussions for its social and economic stability.
The ancient feudal system of medieval England was under threat, as a smaller number of peasants were able to demand better pay and rights to continue to work.
Then, when Edward III relaunched the Hundred Years’ War – and took much of the nobility across the English Channel to fight with him in France – many towns and villages were left leaderless, as both temporal and spiritual guidance was hard to come by.
Tensions that had been rising for decades spilled over in 1381 with the Peasants’ Revolt. Julian would have witnessed the riots in Norwich, where Geoffrey Litster, ‘The King of the Commoners’, and his followers took the castle, raiding houses, monasteries and churches across the city.
Litster was ultimately defeated at the battle of North Walsham, suppressed by Julian’s own bishop, the tyrannical Henry Despenser, known as ‘The Fighting Bishop’. Once he had led his troops against the rebels in Norwich, he personally supervised while Litster was tortured, hanged, drawn and quartered. He imposed some stability back on the city with an iron fist, but then unsettled it once again by taking the warriors on an ultimately futile crusade. His mission was prompted by the other major event rocking late 14th-century Europe: the Great Western Schism.
The great schism
From 1378 to 1417, so through most of Julian’s adult life, there was a divide in Christendom as two or more popes claimed the papacy.
The Schism was triggered when Gregory XI returned the papacy to Rome from Avignon, where it had been established from the turn of the century. This led to rival popes in the two sees, and men, including Bishop Despenser and the citizens of Norwich, were called to fight in support of one or other claimant. The schism would have been felt among Christians in Norwich, as they could not clearly designate their prayers to one pope or another while the international church warred within itself.
The community was also looking inwards, as heretics became increasingly persecuted following the death of John Wycliffe in 1384. He had called for a transformation of the church, with no relics or pilgrimage, no payment for indulgences, and access to the Scriptures through translation into English. Those who followed his teachings (known as Lollards) were rounded up and executed. The Lollards’ Pit was close to Julian’s cell on King’s Street, and she would have been acutely aware that any whiff of heresy would be sniffed out and punished.
So Julian lived through a time when the church was divided, communities were imploding and death was indiscriminate. Yet in the midst of this chaos she wrote a calm, optimistic and loving book. In it she stresses that God sees no sin, he is both mother and father, and that love is the root of everything.
“The greatest honour we can give Almighty God is to live gladly because of the knowledge of his love,” she writes. In another section, she declares: “God loved us before he made us; and his love has never diminished and never shall.”
The meaning of love
At a time when the Last Judgment loomed heavy over church doorways, Julian argued that a loving God could not condemn those he loves to damnation for sin. In the ‘Parable of the Lord and Servant’ she describes how sin is the gateway through which a fallen person can understand what it means to be loved; to be picked up, dusted down and held close.
Julian does not frenetically encourage her readers to look to their souls in imminent belief of an End of Days. Instead, she sees a longer narrative, in which ultimately “all shall be well” for we are loved. In one vision she sees the universe in a hazelnut, which she holds in the palm of her hand. It remains safe, and humanity continues to persevere, because it is part of a bigger scheme held together by love. This is radical stuff.
Dressed as a nun
We know virtually nothing about Julian’s early life, but she does provide a few clues in the Revelations. Although she is often depicted dressed as a nun, she was more probably a pious laywoman who chose to become an anchoress around the age of 40. Before this she could have had one or more husbands, and even children, which is suggested by the homely comparisons she makes throughout her book. One suggestion is that she was Julian of Erpingham, sister of an Agincourt knight and member of a wealthy family in Norfolk.
But whether we identify her with an individual or not, we do know what happened to her at one important moment. On 8 May 1373 she was lying on her deathbed, and received the last rites. She may have been afflicted by one of the later plagues that swept through Norwich. She thought she was going to die, was paralysed and could hardly move her eyes. The curate held a crucifix in front of her, and this triggered a set of 16 revelations that would form the basis of her meditations for the rest of her life.
Her visions could be explained as hallucinations brought about through fever, but to Julian they were real and they were a gift from God. She recovered from her sickness, but some years later took the decision to become an anchoress.
It was a drastic decision, but there were benefits for Julian. She was in her forties by the time she became an anchoress, and would have had enough independent wealth to sustain her and a maid who would look after her daily needs. She would not have to marry again or undertake the potentially deadly procedure of medieval childbirth, and she would have the time and freedom to meditate, read and write. Women could not attend university – they couldn’t even get a decent education – so becoming an anchoress meant that, although she was physically restricted, her intellect could be free.
The Protestant Reformation led to the destruction of many Catholic texts. Julian’s was just the sort of mystical literature targeted by reformers, who felt all knowledge should be drawn directly from the Scriptures. Yet while many texts like Julian’s have no doubt been lost to the flames, hers was guarded by a group of brave young Catholics.
Gertrude More, granddaughter of Thomas More, played a particularly important role, as did a Scottish Presbyterian woman Grace Warrack, who was responsible for the printed version of Revelations of Divine Love, which only appeared at the turn of the 20th century.
Julian’s text is enjoying an incredible revival. Her work recently inspired the pope, and the Queen has her words on a stained glass window in front of her when she prays at the Chapel Royal.
Revelations of Divine Love is now available in a wonderful new translation, and her ideas are spreading around the world, influencing Christians and non-Christians alike. Her most famous phrase is something we all need to hear today: “All shall be well, all shall be well and all manner of things shall be well.”
Dr Janina Ramirez is a historian and TV presenter.
Medieval women with a hotline to God
Julian wasn’t the only woman to experience visions in the Middle Ages...
Hildegard of Bingen
Born in 1098, Hildegard of Bingen was a German Benedictine abbess known for her work in music, astrology, linguistics, natural history and medicine. She received numerous visions that she wrote up in a series of powerful books.
Marie of Oignies
Marie of Oignies (1177–1213) was born in Nivelles in modern-day Belgium, and was the founder of the Beguines, a group of pious laywomen who cared for the sick. Her life was recorded by her male confessor, and in it he charts the miracles she performed and visions she experienced.
Margery Kempe
Born in Bishop’s Lynn around 1373, Margery Kempe visited Julian in her cell when she was 30 and the anchoress was approaching the end of her life. She was married and had 14 children, but her husband agreed to a celibate relationship. Her visions of Christ were highly sensual and she was afflicted with uncontrollable tears, which made her a problem for the established church.
Brigid of Sweden
Brigid of Sweden is now one of the six patron saints of Europe, and lived from 1303–73. She was the daughter of a famous knight, married and had eight children. When she was 10 she received the first of her visions, and she went on to found the Bridgettine Order.
This article was first published in the September 2016 issue of BBC History Magazine
]]>Books interview with Janina Ramirez: the private lives of the saintshttps://www.historyextra.com/membership/the-private-lives-of-the-saints/2015-07-23T11:33:48.000ZThis interview was first published in the August 2015 issue of BBC History Magazine
In context
The litany of saints in the Anglo-Saxon period, often regarded as running from 600 to 1066, features some of the era’s most famous names. Many, such as Bede, Hilda and Cuthbert (all of whom lived in the seventh century) were monks or religious figures; others were members of royal families. These saints came to occupy a huge role in the public imagination, with shrines being set up in their honour and stories told about their actions.
What role would the saints have played in Anglo-Saxon England?
One of the inspirations for writing this book was flicking through The Sun and seeing famous people who are part of the zeitgeist – arguably celebrities are more recognisable than politicians – and thinking that, if there had been such a thing as an Anglo-Saxon tabloid newspaper, it would have featured people such as Saint Cuthbert or Saint Hilda. The stories would have been about the latest martyr or strange hermit who had taken themselves off to the Fens and had been seen battling demons in the middle of the night. These would be the people that the populus wanted to know about.
It’s important to remember that the Anglo-Saxon period was a time of great religious and imaginative transition. The pagan world had been inhabited by local deities, gods of the river or glen, and household deities that people thought about inside their houses. The saints took over both of those roles, and people would pray to little icons or statues of them instead. So saints became the intermediary between the earthly and the divine, but they were also part of the environment. People would wake up and think about them.
What do we mean when we talk about ‘saints’ in this context?
Our modern conception is that saints have to prove themselves by going through a long period of canonisation, decided by a particular branch of the Vatican. But that wasn’t the case in the Anglo-Saxon period: what made you a saint was notoriety and celebrity. If your stories were well known you could become a saint – individuals sometimes started work on building a cult around themselves before they died – or you could be crafted into one after your death.
The murder in 1170 of Thomas Becket, archbishop of Canterbury, may be somewhat later than other examples I write about in my book, but it’s still a very good example of the benefits for particular locations of someone becoming a saint. Canterbury Cathedral got completely rebuilt and became a tourist hub – the Disneyland of the medieval period. People flocked there: Geoffrey Chaucer wrote The Canterbury Tales about this constant stream of tourists going to be near Becket’s relics in the hope of miracles.
On a more local level, if a monastery had been corrupt, or a royal family wanted to prop up a new monastic estate, attaching a saint’s identity to it could help them do so. That would then mean that they could invest in beautiful manuscripts, wonderful reliquaries and all the trappings of sanctity to support the cult of that particular saint.
Anglo-Saxon saints were often very different from the pious image of selflessness and helping others that we have today. None of that was required: in fact, some saints were selfish, bloodthirsty and tyrannical. They show all the shades of human failings as well as human achievement.
So they weren’t the heavenly figures we sometimes think of them as being?
Absolutely not. I want to get over the idea of the one-dimensional mass of the blessed, the hundreds of interchangeable homogenous-looking saints of painted friezes. That’s not what the Anglo-Saxon saints are about: each one is unique and has their own story. We’re particularly fortunate with the Northumbrian saints, because we have the writings of the monk Bede – the Alastair Campbell of his time – that give us a very clear insight into their lives and identities.
Yet researching the saints does require a lot of detective work, because you have to selectively piece together what little evidence there is – and have a good understanding of the broader historical period. Sometimes I may have got it wrong, and I may have missed some things, but I want to start a dialogue, and for others to start looking at these people afresh.
How did the saints get their power?
There’s a mixture of those who were less powerful and had a subtle, spiritual role, and the big names who were incredibly powerful. Wilfrid was one such saint: a power-hungry man who built up a group of monks that was almost like a standing army. He had a lot of power within the church and was made bishop of York, and he negotiated on an international level. He even had the ear of the pope, and his influence and power meant that he was a threat to the king.
Saints seem to have transcended a lot of other hierarchies because the church had such a presence among the people. This meant that they could assume huge amounts of power.
What did these saints desire?
We tend to wear rose-tinted spectacles when it comes to looking to the past. We like to think about fancy costumes and wooden huts and everything being frightfully alien and different. But going back into the past would not be that different to going to another part of the world that you don’t know about. In terms of shared human concerns, people from ‘the past’ were exactly the same as us, and had exactly the same concerns: they wanted wealth, power, security, and to look after their families.
Some of the power-hungry saints wanted authority – to be listened to – as well as wealth and comfort. Other saints, such as Bede, wanted to grow intellectually, and to have access to the finest research available. Others still, such as the seventh-century Northumbrian saint Cuthbert, seemed to want to inhabit both worlds: the spiritual realm and the real one. What makes saints fascinating is that no two are the same.
Their desires come through very strongly when you start to think about them as real three-dimensional human beings.
Some powerful saints were women, which we wouldn’t perhaps expect in this period. Do any stand out for you?
The seventh-century saint Hilda of Whitby is a heroine of mine. There’s this window in history, around the time that Christianity was established among the Anglo-Saxons in approximately 600 or 700 AD, in which women had a power that they then don’t have again for centuries. Hilda is a great example of that: she spent half her life as a princess in the Northumbrian kingdom, and then acquired a plot of land up on the cliff at Whitby and built a huge double monastery. She was made abbess of a dual community: a group of monks and a group of nuns, and she ruled over all of them.
She also had other monastic communities elsewhere, like the CEO of a multinational business, but she still maintained her links to a powerful royal family and had the ears of all the leaders of the church. It’s extraordinary to see that kind of influence.
Saints seem to have been pioneers who shaped the world by force of their personality. How did this change?
As the Viking army came to England in the 800s onwards, Anglo-Saxon identity was under threat. Their world was almost entirely subsumed beneath the Viking one. The process was halted somewhat by Alfred the Great, but with Alfred there started to be a sense that sanctity could be harnessed to the political needs of ‘the nation’.
In the face of pagan Vikings, the Anglo-Saxon royal family became holier than thou: they pumped funds into the church and sponsored education on a spiritual level. So there was an investment in the church and in saints that the Anglo-Saxons came to regard as a way of setting themselves apart.
The change was even greater than that, though. One of the claims that I make in the book is that we should be thinking about the end of the Anglo-Saxon period not coming in 1066 but earlier, in 1016. I really feel that the changes brought about by the Norman Conquest were the evolution of change that was well and truly underway by the turn of the millennium. In 1016 a Danish king, Cnut, was king of England and of Denmark. There was no longer an Anglo-Saxon kingdom; Anglo-Saxon England and its saints had been subsumed beneath Viking and Danish culture. The Norman Conquest was the ultimate climax to centuries of being pressed in by the Viking world.
Are there any modern figures who you think would have been saints?
I feel that, had Princess Diana been born a thousand years earlier, in the Anglo-Saxon period, there is no doubt that she would have been made a saint and a cult would have grown up around her. She was the mother of kings; she was a celebrity; she was notorious; she did good things in her life and achieved a lot. And, as with all of the saints in this book, she was a complex mix of virtue and vice.
She was also strongly associated with a particular location. When she died in 1997 we saw a mass outpouring of grief – people turning up to Kensington Palace and laying out those flowers. They were drawing towards a cult centre, being pulled together, and what would have happened in the Anglo-Saxon period is that a church would have gone up there and the flow of tourists would have been perpetuated. Diana would have been hijacked for the purposes of that locale and would have been made a saint, without doubt.
I think that Princess Diana embodies the complexity of the Anglo-Saxon saints. If we can think of them as being as complex as she was, then we’ll start to get closer to who these people really were. They weren’t cutout figures, icons with no depth. They are full of depth.
Following degrees at St Anne’s College, University of Oxford and the Centre for Medieval Studies in York, Ramirez is now a course director in the history of art at Oxford. She has presented BBC TV series on subjects including Vikings and medieval kings, and will be speaking in York and Malmesbury for this year’s BBC History Magazine History Weekend. See historyweekend.com for details
Further reading
The Private Lives of the Saints: Power, Passion and Politics in Anglo-Saxon England by Janina Ramirez (WH Allen, 352 pages, £20)
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