HistoryExtrahttps://www.historyextra.comHome of Britain’s bestselling history magazine and award-winning podcast2024-09-09T14:24:18.000Zhourly12000-01-01T12:00+00:00"A Viking wedding involved a bed and eight people", plus four other facts about the Vikings you might not know...https://www.historyextra.com/membership/viking-surprising-facts/2024-03-05T17:18:24.000Z 

A Viking wedding involved a bed and eight people

The people of medieval Iceland are best known for their sagas – vivid stories written about their Viking ancestors. Yet they also possessed a lawcode, and these laws reveal a curious marriage custom that shines a light on gender relations in Icelandic society.

For a marriage to be legitimate, a groom had to be seen by six witnesses entering the same bed as his new wife, “without concealment”. The idea that marriage was witnessed ensured that children from the union were seen as legitimate – an important matter for the descent of property and for family honour. After all, the keeping of mistresses was far from uncommon and the sexual mistreatment of female slaves so widespread it appears that it was barely worth recording in sagas.

All this is worth bearing in mind when considering the Viking cemetery in Birka, Sweden – in which a skeleton buried with an array of weapons turned out to be biologically female. Many Viking women enjoyed greater freedoms than their counterparts across Europe. But there were still limits to their power. Did the person buried at Birka express their identity like that of a male warrior because of such limits?

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Vikings converted to Christianity earlier than we thought

In c965 AD, King Harald Bluetooth made a bold – and striking – claim.

On a runestone erected at Jelling on the Jutland peninsula, the Danish monarch declared that he had “made all the Danes Christian”. It was the earliest ‘official’ statement on Christianity made in Viking Scandinavia.

So does that mean that Christianity didn’t gain much traction in the Viking lands until the late 10th century? Perhaps not. For, in 2016, on the Danish island of Funen, a metal detectorist discovered a Scandinavian gold crucifix pendant from the early 10th century.

Two centuries before that, in the early 800s, the Frankish bishop St Anskar led a mission to Scandinavia that, tradition has it, met with little success. The Aunslev crucifix shows that perhaps Anskar’s efforts – or, maybe, the influence of Vikings returning home from Christian lands – bore some fruit after all.

 

Harald Bluetooth was no friend of the Vikings

Harald Bluetooth is one of the most famous Danish kings of the Viking Age. But it seems that he was anything but a Viking himself. The king – who was named ‘Bluetooth by a 12th-century chronicler, perhaps on account of a bad tooth – never took part in a Viking expedition and ordered no raiding expeditions.

In fact, Harald projected himself as a king of a united Denmark through a series of massive building projects that were designed to repel Viking raiders. These included a network of circular ring fortresses (known as Trelleborg fortresses, after the first such one to be discovered) that could house many hundreds of soldiers.

Designated by Unesco as world heritage sites in 2023, Trelleborg fortresses were constructed across the territories of Denmark, probably with the aim of bringing the Danish kingdom together – something that Harald Bluetooth claimed on the Jelling runestone.

With such fortresses, as with the Anglo-Saxon burhs of Wessex and Mercia a generation or so earlier, any marauding Vikings could be prevented from wreaking havoc within Harald’s realm.

 

The legend of William Tell may derive from a Viking story

Harald Bluetooth’s massive building projects were costly, straining relations between the king and his nobles. Saxo Grammaticus, a 12th–13th-century Danish writer, tells that on hearing one of his nobles boast that he was a deadshot with a bow, Harald ordered the man, Toki, to prove it in a way that tested his loyalty to the limits. And so Toki displayed that loyalty by shooting an apple from his son’s head. When Harald asked Toki why he had brought more arrows from his quiver, Toki replied that, had he missed the apple, he would not have missed the king.

Whether or not we choose to believe Saxo, his tale reveals to us that saga-like storytelling traditions didn’t only hail from Iceland. And Saxo hadn’t finished with Harald quite yet. The Danish writer tells us that the king was driven out of his kingdom by his rebellious son, Swein Forkbeard. Harald’s attempt to claim back a foothold in Denmark was, Saxo writes, scuppered when, in a quiet moment in a battle, he headed off into a wood to answer the call of nature. Watching him was Toki, again ready with his bow. Naturally, he did not miss.

 

The Viking Age began before the Lindisfarne raids

“Who could have known that such an inroad from the sea could be made?” lamented the Northumbrian churchman Alcuin on hearing the news of the Viking raid on the island monastery of Lindisfarne. That terrible attack, in 793, is widely believed to have fired the starting gun on the Viking Age. But some historians now argue that this era in medieval history may have been under way earlier than that.

The most compelling evidence for this arrived in the early 2000s with the discover- ies of two war boats with skeletons at Salme on the Estonian island of Saaremaa. These finds date from around 750.

Archaeologists remain puzzled by the finds, which include Scandinavian weapons, dogs and hawks. Many of the skeletons have revealed extensive evidence of injuries. Was this a diplomatic mission gone wrong (with dogs and hawks intended as gifts?), the fate of unsuccessful raiders, or the burial of a group of would-be settlers? Whatever the case, there’s little doubt that, almost a millennium after it drew to a close, the Viking Age continues to throw up surprises.

]]>Daily life, with Professor Ryan Lavellehttps://www.historyextra.com/membership/week-three-daily-life-with-professor-ryan-lavelle/2024-02-19T14:11:11.000ZView Green Video on the source website

Discover more learning from week three of the HistoryExtra Academy Vikings course

What was life like for Viking women? – reading time 7 mins Inside the Viking mind – reading time 10 mins Viking gods, goddesses & tricksters: 12 figures from Norse mythology – reading time 8 mins Podcast: What Norse poetry reveals about the Viking Age – listening time 48 mins Viking women: raiders, traders and settlers – reading time 7 mins How England rode the Viking storm – reading time 12 mins Viking ‘warrior women’ – reading time 3 mins

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Explore more content from week two of the HistoryExtra Academy Vikings course:

The Vikings at home – reading time 17 mins How the Vikings ruled the waves – reading time 15 mins Russia, North America and the Middle East: where did the Vikings visit to trade and raid? – reading time 13 mins Alternate history: what if the Vikings had never left their homelands? – reading time 5 mins Podcast: The Vikings’ global connections – listening time 42 mins Leif Erikson’s voyage to Vinland – reading time 12 mins Video: Cat Jarman on the Vikings from Scandinavia to the Silk Road – watching time 1hr, 8 mins The amazing life of a great female Viking explorer – reading time 4 mins

]]>Viking raiders, with Professor Ryan Lavellehttps://www.historyextra.com/membership/viking-raiders-with-professor-ryan-lavelle/2024-02-01T16:43:58.000ZIn the first mini-lecture of the HistoryExtra Academy Vikings course, Professor Ryan Lavelle introduces us to the Viking Age, and explores the Vikings' reputation as fearsome raiders

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Fighting the Vikings – read time 13 mins History explorer: Alfred and the Vikings – read time 13 mins Your guide to the Viking raid of Lindisfarne – read time 3 mins The great Viking terror: how Norse warriors conquered the Anglo-Saxons – read time 12 mins Slaves in the Viking Age: how prevalent were enslaved people in Viking societies – read time 3 mins Why did the Vikings' violent raids begin? – read time 12 mins

Viking ships: 5 lesser-known facts – read time 6 mins

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]]>Ælfweard and Æthelstan: were they rivals for the throne of Wessex?https://www.historyextra.com/period/anglo-saxon/aelfweard-aethelstan-succession-crisis/2023-04-14T16:30:35.000ZSeven Kings Must Die, the eagerly awaited successor film to The Last Kingdom, sees conflicted hero Uhtred of Bebbanburg encountering a new generation of England’s history.

It begins with King Edward the Elder’s death, a character whose somewhat tempestuous relationship with Uhtred dominated season 5 of the show, allowing the focus to shift to the reign of Aethelstan.

The film depicts Æthelstan as rightful heir to the thrones of his father, whose first concern is fending off a challenge from his “traitor” half-brother and rival claimant Ælfweard. In the show, Æthelstan is the presumed and rightful king, and that Ælfweard’s claim is that of an upstart. Real history, though, suggests that the succession might not have been quite so clear cut. Might Edward have wanted to carve up his dominions between his eldest sons?

How did Edward of Wessex die?

It is the fallout from Edward’s death – off-screen, in the opening minutes of the film – that reverberates through Seven Kings Must Die, though no detail is given as to how he meets his end.

Real history offers us a few clues, but not many. Edward is known to have died in July AD 924 near Chester, during or shortly after fighting a Mercian rebellion. He was buried in New Minster in Winchester – a monastery he himself had commissioned – close to his father, Alfred the Great, and mother, Ealhswith.

Ælfweard and Æthelstan: who were the candidates to succeed Edward the Elder?

The real Æthelstan (ruled AD 924-39) has been hailed by some historians as the first king who could credibly claim to rule ‘England’. He was Edward’s eldest son, born to Ecgwynn around AD 894.

From his father’s ‘Kingdom of the Anglo-Saxons’, Æthelstan conquered Northumbria and pushed his authority across the island of Britain. He proved able to match the political aspirations that are so famous in the writings associated with Alfred with a political reality of a kingship of ‘the English’.

The historical legacy of King Æthelstan is given a helping hand by the 12th-century historian William of Malmesbury. From William’s writings, Æthelstan’s reign and the continuation of the story of the dynasty of Wessex appears like the natural next step from the reigns of his father Edward the Elder and his grandfather Alfred the Great.

According to William, who claimed to have drawn from a certain old book, Alfred had bestowed upon the young boy a cloak, belt and sword; symbols of future aspirations for Edward’s eldest son. Æthelstan, then, was a successful king building on a strong inheritance, and his burial in Malmesbury meant that William had a vested interest in keeping this memory alive.

Meanwhile there was Ælfweard: Edward’s second son, and the eldest born to his second wife Ælfflæd.

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Was Ælfweard ever king?

An altogether different tradition of Æthelstan’s succession seems to have emerged in Winchester, and it shows that we need to be wary of narratives of smooth continuity.

In a remarkable manuscript, the Liber Vitae (Book of Life) of Winchester’s New Minster, the names and deaths of the great and good of Anglo-Saxon England are recorded in such a way that their souls might be regularly prayed for and their Christian salvation assured. New Minster was the foundation of King Edward and this was as close to an official record as it was possible to get, at least from a Winchester perspective.

In a passage that is likely to record a late 10th-century tradition, the Liber Vitae noted that Edward the Elder was laid to rest by the high altar of the church, close to his father and mother. Alongside Edward, a certain Ælfweard, ‘crowned with kingly badges’, was buried.

Ælfweard died very soon after his father – and, if the Liber Vitae is to be believed, was interred with a certain degree of royal pomp.

Was this the fate of a lost king of Wessex? According to the 12th-century manuscript known as the Textus Roffensis, Ælfweard only ruled in Wessex for a matter of weeks, but he seems to have ruled there all the same, and Æthelstan’s succession was not initially to Wessex but to the neighbouring kingdom of Mercia.

Could it have been Edward’s plan for the second of his sons, Ælfweard, to be his sole successor, disinheriting Æthelstan of any political authority?

It is possible. In his later years, Edward had two principal kingdoms, Wessex and Mercia, which made up the ‘Kingdom of the Anglo-Saxons’. That Edward had gone himself to fight a Mercian rebellion shows how important Mercia was when he died.

A charter issued in the first full year of Æthelstan’s reign, AD 925, suggests that Æthelstan considered himself initially in terms of his rule of Mercia and during his reign he appears to have spent more time outside Wessex than any of the other pre-Conquest king of England.

Therefore, although we really only have William of Malmesbury’s word for it, the claim that Æthelstan was brought up in Mercia at the court of his aunt, the Lady Æthelflaed, seems a reasonable one.

There is no historical evidence that the young Æthelstan was trained by anyone called Uhtred, but it doesn’t seem unreasonable that it was in Mercia that Æthelstan learnt how to wage war. For an adult son to be expected to be the ruler of a second kingdom was a common political strategy in Europe at this time.

Did Æthelstan and Ælfweard fight a succession war?

In these circumstances it is also possible that Ælfweard, the second son, was seen by Edward as his successor in Wessex, despite the fact that Wessex was the kingdom of his father and his paternal line. Perhaps in the days after Edward’s death in the summer of AD 924, the two sons were planning to come to some sort of agreement, but fate intervened.

There is no evidence of foul play in the historical record of Ælfweard’s death, but that doesn’t mean to say that everyone was satisfied, particularly in Wessex.

The bishop of Winchester is conspicuous by his absence in many of the events of Æthelstan’s reign and a later plot, explained by William of Malmesbury (who liked a good story) by rumours of Æthelstan’s illegitimacy, seems to have had real historical foundation.

Would a succession war have been unusual?

This was the concern that contemporaries and later writers tried to cover over: succession was a messy business, and with the right support it could easily be contested.

A generation earlier, Edward’s cousin Æthelwold was aided by Viking allies in his attempts to seize power following Alfred’s death in AD 899. In the middle of the 10th century, Edward’s grandson Eadwig (ruled AD 955-59) saw his English realm shrink to Wessex alone when the nobility of Mercia and Northumbria supported the claim of his brother Edgar to rule over them.

Because Eadwig died soon after his brother’s actions, the split in the kingdom lasted only two years and is often hardly noticed from afar but these events go to show that an English kingdom was not a done deal in the tenth century.

Splitting territory according to the interests of particular groups in particular circumstances was quite normal and it would be unsurprising if in the case of Æthelstan and Ælfweard the two royal brothers and their supporters – or indeed their father – hadn’t considered it as an option.

In the world of Seven Kings Must Die, this all plays out very differently: Æethelstan in presented as the rightful king of Wessex and Mercia, whose position is challenged by the upstart “traitor” Ælfweard. A full-blown succession war is only avoided thanks to the guile of Uhtred – and it still ends bloodily when Æthelstan murders his surrendering half-brother.

The team behind the series have some scope to play around with history where historical evidence is lacking, allowing imagination to take us on a journey of possibilities, where the messy business of succession could get very messy indeed.

Seven Kings Must Die alludes to destiny in its title, and its story goes far beyond the question of the succession of Edward the Elder. But like the rest of the Last Kingdom series, the film reminds us that uncertainties and our attempts to negotiate them are a common thread of humanity that binds us to the distant past.

Seven Kings Must Die is available to stream on Netflix now

Ryan Lavelle is professor of early medieval history at the University of Winchester, and worked as historical consultant for The Last Kingdom and Seven Kings Must Die

]]>The real Uhtred of Bebbanburg: the historical inspirations for The Last Kingdom’s herohttps://www.historyextra.com/period/anglo-saxon/uhtred-bebbanburg-real-historical-figure/2022-03-09T14:07:43.000ZUhtred of Bebbanburg, the hero of Netflix’s The Last Kingdom and it's fimale film Seven Kings Must Die (not to mention Bernard Cornwell’s novels of the same name) is a fierce and cunning warrior.

Born a Saxon and raised a Dane, “Uhtred, son of Uhtred” (so the show calls him) is a man of conflicting loyalties, bound by the many (often inadvisable) oaths he makes, and driven by a desire to regain his lost birth right – the Northumbrian coastal fortress of Bebbanburg. It’s a real place: today we know Bebbanburg better by its medieval name, Bamburgh Castle.

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Uhtred’s adventures in The Last Kingdom are set against the great events of the Viking Age. Through him, we’ve witnessed the bloody activities of the 9th-century Great Heathen Army, the defence of the kingdom of Wessex under Alfred the Great (who reigned from AD 871 to AD 899), and the political turbulence in the different kingdoms across England following Alfred’s death. We’ve seen the ascension of Edward the Elder in Wessex, the triumphs of Æthelflæd in Mercia, the failed rebellion of Alfred’s nephew, Æthelwold, and now, in Seven Kings Must Die, the rise of the man to fulfil Alfred's dream of England, Æthelstan

Though this fictional Uhtred moves deftly throughout these events, even in exile from Bebbanburg he remains linked to the great fortress, to Northumbria at large, and to the Vikings who settled in northern England. His interests sometimes lie with Wessex and Mercia, but Uhtred’s loyalties remain conflicted throughout the series, and it is often in these conflicts, including within Uhtred himself, that the heart of the drama lies.

Is Uhtred of Bebbanburg real?

Sadly, there is no ‘Uhtred, son of Uhtred’ amongst the Northumbrian royalty or nobility in the early Middle Ages, but there was more than one Uhtred associated with Bamburgh who was important enough to be remembered in historical records.

One was the son of a certain Eadwulf, Lord of Bamburgh; this Uhtred was simply named in passing in an episode recorded in a Northumbrian work known as the History of St Cuthbert.

Intriguingly, he was referred to as the brother of a figure who was a ‘favourite’ of King Edward the Elder of Wessex (Alfred the Great’s son), who ruled from AD 899 to AD 924). This is not a million miles away from the events in The Last Kingdom, then, even if the fictional Uhtred probably would have edged away from being described as favoured by the southern king.

Timothy Innes as King Edward and Alexander Dreymon as Uhtred

The second historical Uhtred, again linked with Bamburgh, is far more prominent in a range of sources: he was active during the Viking Age and his reputation suggests that he was held in high regard, at least in parts of Northumbria.

This Uhtred was not a contemporary of Alfred the Great and his descendants in the 9th and 10th centuries, but can be found in the early 11th century.

This was a time when the realisation of Alfred’s dream of a united England was threatening to unravel during the tribulations of the Viking attacks under the rule (some would say the misrule) of Æthelred the Unready (who reigned from AD 978 until 1013, and then again from 1014 to 1016).

With little guarantee of the loyalty of lords to their king and defences quickly crumbling in the face of massive Viking onslaughts, it is little wonder that individual successes could capture the imagination of contemporaries.

What did the real Uhtred do?

The real Uhtred of the 11th century is a fascinating figure. Manuscripts from the period show the name ‘Uhtred’ in the lists of witnesses to the charters of King Æthelred, the earliest of these being from 1009, recorded as a dux. Dux was a Latin word for someone with the regional governor office of ealdorman or, in Uhtred’s case, the title of earl (from the Scandinavian jarl).

Alexander Dreymon as Uhtred in season 4 of 'The Last Kingdom'

As charters recorded those who came to the royal courts of the period, forming the ‘witan’ of the advisors of the king, this Uhtred was evidently a prominent person within the English kingdom – so prominent, indeed, that in the last years of his reign, King Æthelred gave him the hand of his daughter, Ælfgifu, in marriage.

There is evidence of Earl Uhtred as a man of action. It exists in a description of a defence of the city-fortress of Durham against attacking Scots that probably took place in 1006, when Uhtred’s father (whose name was Waltheof, not Uhtred), remained in Bamburgh. When that battle was over, a particularly lurid source relates that Uhtred had the heads of the dead Scots displayed on poles around the walls of the city.

Though the account was written down some years after the battle occurred, such macabre displays of victory weren’t uncommon in early medieval warfare, and the episode could have reflected Uhtred’s new authority in the wake of a successful defence.

What was Uhtred’s relationship with Northumbria?

Uhtred probably earned recognition as the earl of the Northumbrians at this point, even though his father was still alive for a short time afterwards. Earl Uhtred’s lordship seemingly extended from the northern realm dominated by Bamburgh to the whole Northumbrian region – probably also including the former Viking kingdom of York, which formed the southern part of Northumbria.

Despite being at the heart of the ‘Land of the English’, made famous as early as the 8th century by the ecclesiastical historian Bede, there was no guarantee that Northumbria would end up as part of the English kingdom that emerged in the early 10th century. But there is evidence of Anglo-Scottish hostilities, and the evidence of Uhtred’s marriage to Æthelred’s daughter suggests that under Uhtred, Northumbria was moving towards the orbit of an English kingdom.

Many Viking attacks on England at this time were visited upon the south, so it is likely that Uhtred’s activities were mainly focused upon countering Scottish pressure in the north of England. This may even have included leading a force against the Scots at Carham on the River Tweed in 1018, two years after the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle reports Uhtred’s death: historians disagree over which account to believe (in fact both might be correct), but less contentious is the suggestion that Uhtred’s dominance of York helped to maintain its place within an English kingdom at a time of great political stress.

How does Uhtred of Bebbanburg die?

There is an air of pragmatism to Uhtred’s actions during the final years of Æthelred’s first period of rule. He is recorded by the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle as submitting to Danish king Sweyn Forkbeard in 1013, along with “all the Northumbrians” and the inhabitants of Lincolnshire.

It was this event that led to Sweyn’s brief kingship of England and Æthelred’s exile to Normandy. Like the fictional Uhtred of The Last Kingdom, the historical Uhtred’s position was determined by the need to balance out different interests in the face of changing political circumstances.

Sweyn’s rule did not last – he died in early 1014 – and Æthelred returned as king, but a political balancing act came into play again. This time, Uhtred joined forces with Æthelred’s son, Edmund Ironside, attacking areas around the West Midlands as a way of countering the notorious ealdorman Eadric Streona, who had sided with another Danish invader, Cnut (Sweyn Forkbeard’s son).

Cnut responded by ravaging Uhtred’s Northumbrian lands, forcing Uhtred to come to a truce, in which hostages were handed over. Whether Uhtred’s historical death came at the orders of Cnut shortly afterwards, as the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle has it, or some years later in the aftermath of the battle of Carham, there can be no doubt that one tradition of Uhtred’s death was straight out of the world of Norse saga.

As Uhtred came into Cnut’s presence under cover of a truce, the Danish king’s soldiers were hidden behind a curtain. Stepping out, they ambushed the Uhtred, slaughtering him, along with 40 of his men. The 12th-century tract De Obsessione Dunelmi appoints this act not to Cnut directly, but through “a powerful king's thegn named Thurbrand, known as Hold”.

Who did Bernard Cornwell base Uhtred of Bebbanburg on?

There are clear parallels in the figure of a Northumbrian warrior, drawn into the various politics of different parts of Viking Age England.

Bernard Cornwell, the historical novelist behind The Last Kingdom books, has never claimed his Uhtred to be anything other than a work of fiction, but there remains a personal note that sounds across a millennium. When he first turned his hand to the Viking Age in The Last Kingdom, first published in 2004, Cornwell’s imagination was fired by the discovery the family name of his biological father, Oughtred, and the links that this gave him to Northumbria.

Cornwell may not be able to lay claim to a lost birth right in the form of Bebbanburg, but his sense of personal connections adds to a story that resounds through the ages.

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]]>How England rode the Viking stormhttps://www.historyextra.com/membership/how-england-rode-viking-storm-last-kingdom-alfred-great-uhtred-bernard-cornwell-series-three-netflix/2020-04-23T08:30:10.000ZAn early scene in series one of the BBC TV series The Last Kingdom sees the hero (or anti-hero) Uhtred, dispossessed claimant to the Northumbrian fortress of Bamburgh, entering the city of Winchester for the first time. Uhtred and his companion, both raised in a Danish household and in many ways more habituated to Danish customs than Anglo-Saxon ones, gain rapid access to the royal court of King Alfred of Wessex. At the heart of the court, the pagan Uhtred is granted an audience with the Christian prince – and their discussions range from knowledge of the world to military strategies. From this, we get an insight into Alfred’s relationship with Uhtred, how each sees the other – and, crucially, how each intends to use the other.

Could such a scene have played out in ninth-century Winchester? Why was a prince of the West Saxons extending the hand of friendship to a pagan – a Dane, no less – at some point in the early 870s? The stereotypes dictate that a Danish Viking was too intent on pillaging to engage in any communication but violence. Received opinion also has it that the West Saxons were far too pious to accept Scandinavians as anything but the scourge of God, to be resisted by warriors and suffered by holy men.

Viking onslaught

In many ways, the West Saxons’ attempts to defend their realm in the face of the Viking onslaught – particularly under Alfred ‘the Great’ in the final decades of the ninth century – is a story of conflict, of battles and stratagems, peace treaties made and broken, and of military leaders straining for victory in the direst of circumstances.

The Last Kingdom: everything you need to know

Find out how and where to watch season 5 of The Last Kingdom, catch-up on seasons 1–4, and explore the real history that underpins the fictional adventures of Uhtred, son of Uhtred | Read more

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According to the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle and Life of King Alfred – the West Saxons’ main courtly products telling the story of these years – that military leadership was provided by Alfred himself. But no matter whether Alfred can really be personally credited with the successes of the West Saxon kingdom in repelling the Viking threat, there is more to the story than conflict and the imposition of a West Saxon peace. Compromise, trust and understanding between the two peoples – as portrayed by the fictional Uhtred and Alfred in The Last Kingdom – was also at the heart of what it meant to be English in the 9th and early 10th centuries.

Where early medieval ‘Englishness’ was once regarded as binary – either you were English or you weren’t – and the West Saxons’ defence against the Vikings was seen as a part of the making of that Englishness, there is now room for a more nuanced story. The Vikings who came to England in the ninth century were woven into this story in a way that made them so much more than the pagan ‘other’.

That is not to say that Danes did not represent an existential threat to Anglo-Saxon rulers and their kingdoms, particularly Wessex. During the later part of the ninth century, the West Saxon kingdom was defined by its difference to the Danish-held territories – and the need to defend themselves against the Danish threat drove much of the West Saxons’ policy forward. The Danes launched numerous attacks on Wessex, and the kingdom itself was almost lost to at least one well-organised incursion.

From the introduction of military service to the building of ‘burhs’ (fortifications), the character of the West Saxon kingdom was determined by a Scandinavian threat outside it.

One of the terms that Christian writers most often employed to describe the pirates who exploded upon the western European scene in the late eighth and early ninth centuries was ‘Northmen’, a word that, while (mostly) being more geographically accurate, recalled the apocalyptic idea, trumpeted in the Book of Jeremiah, that evil would come from the north. To many religious writers, it must have seemed that these ‘Northmen’ indeed did herald the end-time. But by the late ninth century, we see fewer ‘Northmen’ in Anglo-Saxon sources, as the term gave way to ‘Dane’. And the reason for this may lie in the increasing representation of Vikings as people who you could do business with.

Vikings course

Want to read more reviews of season 4 and know even more about the real events from history that inspired the drama? Read more from the experts at our curated page on The Last Kingdom

Magnus Bruun as Cnut in 'The Last Kingdom' season 4

Danes and Northmen

It seems that this was a meaningful distinction – and one that may have been reflected in the pages of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle. While an early English text had labelled the instigators of an attack on Dorset in c789 as ‘Northmen’, a later account of the very same incident in the Chronicle refers to the aggressors as ‘Danes’. It was perhaps a telling editorial modification.

This important, if tentative, change in attitude was reflected in the growing number of peace agreements that the two sides signed in the late ninth century. The most important of these was the ‘Alfred-Guthrum’ treaty, sealed following Alfred’s 878 victory at the battle of Ethandun (Edington, Wiltshire) which shattered the Vikings’ ambition of conquering Wessex . The surviving document that records Alfred’s triumph probably represents a renegotiation of the territory between the two leaders.

In many ways, this treaty recognised how ‘Danes’ and ‘Englishmen’ were separated and subjected to different legal systems. However, the fact that both groups were subject to the same law – which was agreed by two sets of leaders, “confirmed with oaths, for themselves and for their subjects, both for the living and for the unborn” – created a sort of unified identity that had not before existed in the area that is now referred to as England.

“I became a historical helpline”

Being the historical advisor on The Last Kingdom meant working fast and remembering that the story comes first, says Ryan Lavelle... I have been a fan of Bernard Cornwell’s books on early medieval England since my student days, so it was a great pleasure – and an honour – to work with Carnival Films on The Last Kingdom, their adaptation of his Saxon novels. Cornwell often uses an outsider to tell a story, like his famous Napoleonic creation, the working-class British Army officer Sharpe. In The Last Kingdom, it is the Saxon Uhtred, whose Danish upbringing creates a conflict of identity that propels the storyline. It’s been fascinating to witness the production developing as the book’s first-person narrative and biographical storyline has had to pick up a pace for a series of TV episodes. While I would love to take some credit for that, my own role meant leaving the storytelling to the experts, and simply being available to respond when needed to provide some costume advice, comment on scripts, and make occasional set visits. In many ways I became a historical helpline, getting questions like “tell us how a marriage would be arranged”, “what could happen at a coronation?”, “how should this name be spelt/pronounced in Old English?” To answer such questions meant putting what I’ve learned about the early Middle Ages beyond rarefied academia into a ‘real’ world of creative imagination populated by such real historical characters as Alfred ‘the Great’ (not always a likeable fellow, it appears). I’ve had to avoid the historian’s temptation to respond to questions with a list of footnotes and caveats leading into a range of other possibilities based on the slimness of the surviving evidence. That sort of thing cuts no ice in a multi-million-pound production. I quickly learned that, because what happens in one version of the script can change quickly – and change again a dozen times before it is shot – clear and concise answers are essential. I have also had to keep reminding myself that The Last Kingdom is not a historical documentary series. The overriding principle has always been to drive the story forward, but I’ve constantly had to think: “Is this possible – does it work on screen?” What the team came up with didn’t always match my interpretation of Anglo-Saxon history, but that usually needs footnotes! However, the production is a valid interpretation: it’s entertaining, interesting and, for me as a historian of the period, it’s thought-provoking. To that end, I couldn’t have asked for more.

That sense of peace was important. The Venerable Bede, the eighth-century Northumbrian author of a work long recognised as providing Alfred’s ‘blueprint’ for the idea of an Angelcynn (English realm), had reported that an early Anglo-Saxon king, Edwin, had provided the conditions in which a woman could travel with a newborn child from sea to sea without fear. Whether the conditions in late ninth-century England really allowed for such journeys is immaterial. Alfred’s allusion to those “unborn” might have been intended with Bede’s sense of peace in mind; a king who provided peace for an Angelcynn was one who recognised ‘Danes’ as potential subjects. There was precedent to be followed here, but it was not an English precedent. Instead it came from across the Channel, in the land of the Franks (roughly equivalent to modern-day France).

Historians have largely debunked the old myth of there being a great chasm between the dealings of the Western Franks and Alfred with the Vikings – the former traditionally damned as a failure; the latter hailed as a spectacular success. In fact, Frankish treaties with Vikings not only worked but also enhanced the standing of a number of rulers – these were not embarrassing episodes of compromise but moments to be celebrated. And they may have influenced Alfred – who had visited the court of Charles the Bald in West Francia as a young boy in the 850s – for he, too, was aware of the value of bringing Vikings into the Christian fold.

Although not particularly successful in the long term, the baptism by Charles the Bald’s father, Emperor Louis the Pious, of the Danish ruler Harald Klak in 826 had been a seminal event in the Carolingian court. Here we might trace the transformation from ‘Northmen’ to ‘Danes’, as Frankish authors took the event to their hearts as a means of depicting the imperial idea of Frankish kingship.

Around this time, Frankish writers started to take a serious interest in who ‘Danes’ were, and, given the Anglo-Saxons’ preoccupation with Frankish affairs, it is perhaps not surprising that this is echoed in England a generation or two later. Charles the Bald had been a young boy at the ceremony and it evidently had a major effect on him, just as Alfred’s visit to the Frankish court had an impact on the Anglo-Saxon ruler’s life.

Everything you need to know about the Anglo-Saxons

Moment of triumph

An example of how a spirit of compromise had permeated Alfred’s Wessex is provided by the fact that Vikings were serving in the community of the Somerset monastery of Athelney, a site founded to celebrate Alfred’s great moment of triumph in 878. The famous biographer of Alfred’s life, Asser of St David’s, described them as “pagans” (pagani). Yet clearly they were not really pagans in the religious sense – they were, after all, part of a Christian community.

Around the same time, Alfred received the Scandinavian sea captain, Óttarr (Anglicised as Ohthere), at court. Óttarr is described in an Old English text as “most northern of the North-men”. Just as the fictional Uhtred comes to the West Saxon court in The Last Kingdom, this ninth-century view of Alfred has the king using Óttarr to discover more about the lands and peoples of Scandinavia. This provides further evidence that, though the Viking threat had by no means disappeared, these ‘North-men’ were very different from those who had perpetrated the apocalyptic attacks of a few decades earlier.

The lands they lived in were no longer mysterious. The understanding of them was more subtle, more complex, and far more human. Indeed, an object similar to the so-called ‘Alfred Jewel’, an artefact described by an Old English text as an æstel, has been found during excavations of a chieftain’s complex at Borg on the Lofoten Islands in northern Norway. Did Óttarr carry the ‘Borg Æstel’ back home after his stay at the West Saxon court? If so, it showed that a symbol of Alfred’s lordship – these objects were, after all, closely linked with Alfred’s court – had huge resonance in Scandinavia.

Óttarr was not an ‘Englishman’ but in some respects his relationship with “his lord Alfred” demonstrates that relationships between peoples were about more than just ties of blood and clearly-defined nationhood.

This remained the case well into the 10th century. For though the West Saxons’ expansion in the early 900s saw English Christians forcing Danes and other Vikings into submission through strongarm tactics, ‘Danes’ and ‘English’ continued to make agreements and negotiate over territory in a way that mirrored their predecessors’ diplomacy.

In fact, the descendants of ninth-century Scandinavian lords became the ‘men’ of English rulers – particularly Edward the Elder (899–924) and Æthelstan (924–39) – who allowed their new subjects to keep their lands in return for a submission to lordship.

So this was not purely a story of nationhood or of the triumph of one group over another. Instead, the Vikings’ role in the making of ‘England’ demonstrated that different peoples’ dealings with one another needed to be defined by flexibility as much as by factionalism and conflict.

Ryan Lavelle is professor of early medieval history at the University of Winchester and historical consultant on The Last Kindgom.

Living in the shadow of the Vikings

From Cornish rebellions to puppet kings, our map shows how the Norsemen’s raids impacted on the kingdoms of Britain in the ninth century…

Strathclyde
A Welsh (‘British’) kingdom whose territory ranged across modern-day Scotland and Cumbria in north-western England, it was dealt a blow when Dumbarton Rock was besieged by Dublin Vikings in 870. With Govan (now in Glasgow) as its likely religious centre, Strathclyde still continued as a political force well into the 10th century.

Welsh kingdoms
A range of kings with a variety of extents of power and layers of lordship appears to have been the order in early Wales, with Gwynedd in the north-west coming to the fore. Although Rhodri Mawr (‘the Great’) suffered at Viking and English hands, probably killed by Mercians in 878, his successors asserted dominance over many of the neighbouring kingdoms, making alliances with Vikings and Anglo-Saxons according to circumstances.

Cornwall
Cornwall was coming under the West Saxons’ direct control in the ninth century. At least some Cornishmen resisted, including allying with Vikings in 838. The death of the last known Cornish king is recorded in a Welsh annal in 875 but the survival of Celtic place-names in Cornwall shows how the old kingdom never became a full part of the Anglo-Saxon world.

Alba
By the late ninth century, the areas controlled by kings of the Picts and Scots were beginning to be referred to as Alba, the Gaelic word for ‘Britain’, suggesting change was in the air. The kingdom of Alba was controlled by a line of rulers, of the house of Alpín, who emerged during the ninth-century upheaval of Viking attacks to assert domination over large swathes of territory which would form the core of a later Scottish kingdom.

Northumbria and the Kingdom of York
The kingdom of the Northumbrians had been created by the merging of the southern kingdom of Deira, focused on York, and the northern kingdom of Bernicia. Vikings controlled York from the 860s and settled soon after, while Bamburgh remained a seat of continuing Anglo-Saxon power in the north.

Mercia
Kings of Mercia had held overlordship over other Anglo-Saxon kingdoms during the eighth century, but remained a force to be reckoned with in the ninth. Years of hard campaigning led to the replacement of the Mercians’ king in 874 by a ruler who may have been a Viking ‘puppet’, then by Æthelred, an ealdorman (governor) likely to have been subordinate to King Alfred.

East Anglia
The last independent Anglo-Saxon king of the East Angles was killed by Vikings in 869 and is remembered as St Edmund. East Anglia became a Viking kingdom under the control of Guthrum, christened Æthelstan in 878. A decade of peace led to control by other Vikings after Guthrum’s death, but their coins bearing the name of St Edmund reveal how they ‘bought into’ Anglo-Saxon politics.

Wessex
Ruled by the descendants of Ecgberht, who had seized power at the start of the ninth century, the West Saxon kingdom controlled much of the south of England by the time of Alfred the Great (reigned 871–99), who managed to hold onto his throne in the face of Viking attacks.

This article was first published in the November 2015 issue of BBC History Magazine

Read more about The Last Kingdom here

Discover more learning from week three of the HistoryExtra Academy Vikings course

Video: Daily life, with Professor Ryan Lavelle – watching time 19 mins What was life like for Viking women? – reading time 7 mins Inside the Viking mind – reading time 10 mins Viking gods, goddesses & tricksters: 12 figures from Norse mythology – reading time 8 mins Podcast: What Norse poetry reveals about the Viking Age – listening time 48 mins Viking women: raiders, traders and settlers – reading time 7 mins Viking ‘warrior women’ – reading time 3 mins

HEXAcademy Viking Vod thumbnail WK 3 SQ

]]>Fighting the Vikingshttps://www.historyextra.com/membership/fighting-the-vikings/2011-01-19T16:42:50.000ZThe Old English (Anglo-Saxon) poem known as The Battle of Maldon is perhaps the most famous account of warfare before the Norman Conquest known to an Englishspeaking audience. It gives us a taste of the drama of a battle fought outside the town of Maldon, Essex, against a Viking army in August 991. The tension builds as the leader of the English force, Ealdorman Byrhtnoth, orders his warriors to dismount ready for battle, instructing them to hold their shields firmly against their enemies, then takes his place in the line with his best men. Determination is in the air: the Vikings' messenger is told that their demand for tribute will be met, not in silver but as spears and swords, delivered with hard blows.

The poem conveys the blood and fury of the ensuing battle. Many warriors’ wooden shields hold fast against iron weapons; others, including Byrhtnoth, are less lucky. Some of the English then turn to flee; the more loyal, the poem tells us, remain. The poem reports the speeches of those who, having seen that their leader was dead and all hope of victory lost, declare that they will fight on.

These images of warfare are justly well known. The poetry of the Anglo-Saxons is powerfully evocative and it remains a useful source to understand the attitudes and expectations in the last years of the tenth century, a period that saw the violent arrival of Viking raiders and a series of wars fought against different groups of Vikings. But did battles really happen as the poem tells it? Did warfare in Viking Age Britain always take the form of battle?

Vikings course

To consider these questions, we can turn to other contemporary sources. The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle was begun during the reign of Alfred the Great of Wessex (871–99) and the manuscripts were added periodically until long after the Norman Conquest. The Chronicle records bursts of warfare against Vikings and other peoples during the 9th, 10th and 11th centuries, a time when an English kingdom was formed. Campaigns are recorded, with especially detailed accounts of defensive campaigns fought against Vikings in southern England during the reign of Alfred, and shorter – but no less important – records of campaigns of conquest fought in the part of the Midland kingdom of Mercia held by Vikings. Also covered are Scotland, Wales and northern England during the reigns of Alfred's successors, Edward the Elder (899–924) and his sons Athelstan (924–39) and Edmund (939–46).

The Chronicle records individual battles, too. A poem under the annal for 937 is not dissimilar from its Maldon equivalent in its depiction of battle. However, in relating Athelstan's defeat of a combined force of Scots, Strathclyde Britons, Welsh, and Northumbrian and Irish Vikings in the battle of Brunanburh, it is far more triumphalist. (Incidentally, the battlefield of Brunanburh remains unidentified – though Bromborough in the Wirral seems a likely candidate).

The campaign led by Alfred, which ranged across Wessex in 878, was similarly important. Alfred used prestigious places such as the royal estates as sites of assembly in order to reassert his authority, before defeating his pagan Viking adversaries at the battle of Edington in Wiltshire. From the Chronicle we can see that, with the notable exception of a period during the reign of King Edgar 'the Peaceable' (957–75), members of every generation had experience of fighting in some sort of military campaign during their lifetimes.

Military obligations

Charters recording grants of land show how landholding was integral to Anglo-Saxon warfare. Clauses recording the duty of landholders to provide army service, work on bridges (important for the mobility of armies) and on fortifications, had been in English charters since the eighth century. Such records have led scholars to consider the sense of obligation in Anglo-Saxon military forces and to debate the extent to which landholders – or those who actually worked the land – contributed to those military services.

In some cases obligations may have taken the form of payments which could then be used to employ others, including Viking mercenaries, who after all had much in common with Anglo-Saxon warriors. But such obligations are not the whole story. Many charters also include lists of those present at assemblies, which were often convened by rulers for the purposes of demonstrating their position at different places around the kingdom. While many such assemblies may have been concerned with the day-to-day business of the kingdom as well as high politics – from the granting of land to a church to agreeing a law-code – they were also where the army came together to go on campaign. Some assemblies even took place during campaigns.

Those who attended were the Anglo-Saxon aristocracy, drawn together by the shared warrior values of the male elite. We should forget the image of an army of peace-loving ‘Saxon’ farmers, driven reluctantly to defend their homeland by bloodthirsty Viking raiders, so beloved in popular culture from the Victorian age to recent years.

Attendance of an assembly gave access to the king and, if status depended on the ability to fight – or at least being seen as able to fight – mustering with the great and the good with the intention of going on campaign lay at the very heart of a warrior aristocrat’s reason for being. Such participation can be seen in two charters from the reign of Athelstan, dating from May and June 934, the same year in which Athelstan launched a campaign into Scotland with a land and naval force. One charter, from the end of May, records the nobles, from archbishop to thegn (a kind of early knight), at an assembly in Winchester. A few days later, another charter tells us that many of the same people were present in Nottingham in northern Mercia, near the edge of the territory under the direct control of the English crown. The next we hear of Athelstan’s force it is campaigning in Scotland. Evidently they did not ride particularly hard to travel the 130 miles between Winchester and Nottingham as the journey had taken just under ten days, but on this occasion (as opposed to, perhaps, the more famous example of Harold Godwinson’s marches between southern England and Stamford Bridge in 1066) strategic surprise wasn’t the point.

In 934, as at other times in the ninth and tenth centuries, warfare was a demonstration of status, of power, by a state harbouring imperial ambitions. A ruler could feed his followers en route in a succession of overnight sojourns as a means of cementing their loyalty. If the followers who made up the retinue, including bishops, in turn fed and rewarded those in their own retinues – who might include the less wealthy or well-armed of the warriors – so much the better. Many historians of the Middle Ages have recognised that warfare was about much more than battle: much of the evidence for Anglo-Saxon England bears that out.

Colourful language

But warfare was not all about eating, drinking, treasure and posturing. The experience of warfare for the vast majority of the population is difficult to ascertain, given the focus of most sources. Monastic chroniclers wrote of the innocent victims of Vikings, often men and women of the church, in colourful language. Yet that language often became more colourful the further the author was from the events that were recorded.

Many such accounts are stereotyped but that does not mean that warfare did not affect ordinary people. Much early medieval warfare was waged with the aim of destroying buildings and seizing crops – especially from estate centres at harvest times. For those who worked the land the seizure of those crops, which they had rendered to a distant estate centre, might not immediately affect their lives but they would have to make up for their lords’ losses in later years.

And we should not forget that seizing slaves was part of early medieval warfare. Such actions were not solely the preserve of rampaging Viking armies: indeed, the economy of late Anglo-Saxon England relied on slavery. Until the middle of the tenth century the Wessex-based English kingdom undertook violent actions against territory in the Midlands and north of England in a type of warfare similar to that of the pre-Viking ‘Heptarchy’ (the name given to the seven main Anglo-Saxon kingdoms across Britain) so famously evidenced by the Staffordshire Hoard. After that time, too, when a unified English kingdom often found itself on a defensive footing against Viking attacks, English warriors launched raids into the territory of neighbouring kingdoms.

And you didn’t have to belong to the thegnly class to experience military service. Many members of the lower classes were obliged to serve in the baggage trains of campaigning armies.

An early tenth-century administrative document known as the Burghal Hidage – which records land assigned to fortifications in southern England – suggests that large numbers of people were obliged to work on fortifications, a duty that appears to have included manning the ramparts. It's difficult to ascertain whether this also included manning look-out points connected with beacon-fires kept ready for signalling. However, there is evidence that networks of men performed watch and beacon duties – a vital role when Viking forces arrived and moved around in fleets of ships.

The extent to which the defenders were ready to act varied greatly over two centuries. To keep a network functioning effectively would have been onerous and expensive and, for many, the experience of Anglo-Saxon warfare would have included long periods of shivering wakefulness and boredom.

But what of the experience of battle? The details provided by the Maldon poem are not the whole story. We can fill in some of the rest if we consider that a ‘battle’ could actually be comparatively small and short, consisting of a few hundred men – as may have been the case in some of the clashes fought by the West Saxon kingdom during the ninth century. Or it could be a hard slog lasting a day, with thousands of men in the front line, as we see in that final battle of the Anglo-Saxon kingdom, at Hastings in 1066.

In the ninth-century, what may have defined a battle was whether a king participated in it, and how it was adjudged in the aftermath. But there do seem to have been an almost ritualised set of expectations. Whether that included the practice of sending away horses so that the warriors could stand and fight on foot is still open to debate. Perhaps this took place at Maldon – it certainly did at Hastings – but, as Guy Halsall, professor of history at the University of York, recognised in his recent study of early medieval warfare, standing to fight on foot was a means of making a defiant statement that one would not countenance retreat, appropriate to the circumstances of Maldon and Hastings.

Not all battles were fought from such a defensive footing, and there is some evidence that English warriors fought from horseback when the circumstances were appropriate. This was, after all, an age when the status of a warrior was demonstrated by his horse and its adornments, and even if the sort of distinctions between ‘infantry’ and ‘cavalry’ made by military historians were rarely used by the Anglo-Saxons, horses were treated as weapons in the wills of the nobility. In that respect, the Normans at Hastings may have had more in common with their Anglo-Saxon foes than Norman chroniclers would have cared to admit.

A sense of empathy across a millennium should tell us that the Maldon poet got the sense of tension right. A battle started before the first spear was thrown or arrow shot. A battle was about who could best hold their nerve, to translate that nerve into success in the shock of contact or to endure what could quickly become a long and bloody slogging match with hand-held weapons.

In the tension before a battle in the early years of the 11th century, the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle refers to an English leader pretending to wretch to vomit. The writer of the Chronicle, obsessed at this time with the idea of treachery among the nobility of the kingdom, records this as a cunning ruse. It seems far more likely that the small detail of one man's actions gives us a glimpse of the stark realities of combat in the Viking Age.

Facing the threat of invasion

Tactics the Anglo-Saxons adopted to cope with successive waves of Viking attacks

Historians and archaeologists increasingly recognise the fact that many fortifications and fortified towns – known in Old English as burhs – existed in the Anglo-Saxon kingdom of Mercia during the Viking age. They may have successfully checked Viking mobility at times but it was in Wessex where such defences were employed to their fullest effect.

A network of burhs ensured that no part of the kingdom was more than half a day’s travel from a fortification. Coupled with a mobile army, this meant that small raiding parties could no longer operate as they wished. However, the system was expensive and, during the tenth century, many smaller fortifications fell into disuse. Meanwhile, many towns became thriving centres of commerce, to the detriment of their defences as suburban areas flourished.

Nonetheless, when Viking attacks on the English kingdom resumed during the late tenth and early 11th centuries, towns still played a role in the defence of the English kingdom, even if no longer as a system of fortifications.

But why did the Anglo-Saxons not take the fight to the homelands of the Vikings? After all, Anglo-Saxon ship technology was highly developed, as was the military organisation of the kingdoms. However, we should put aside modern strategic concerns. In the early Viking age, Anglo-Saxon kingdoms were in no position to attack Scandinavia because they were not united – and, for that matter, neither were the Vikings.

Indeed, some of the early Viking fleets were just that: fleets which coalesced while they shared a common goal, then dispersed. When Viking armies established themselves in territories, whether for a winter or for longer, they became vulnerable to a more conventional attack of the sort made by one early medieval kingdom against another. This was something which the English kingdom under the West Saxon dynasty was particularly successful at, and although the famous longships specially built for Alfred seem to have been an expensive failure, the English kingdom’s ability to use ships around the British Isles often gave it a crucial advantage in attack.

No part of Wessex was more than half a day’s travel from a fortification

If all else failed, there were other ways of seeing off Vikings. Money was one means – as seen in the infamous 'Danegeld', which was so characteristic of the sense of failure during the reign of Æthelred the Unready (978–1016). The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle records huge sums paid to the Vikings between 991 and 1018 – from £10,000 to £72,000 – and, though the figures may be exaggerated, they were substantial enough to ensure that large numbers of coins from Æthelred's reign survive in Scandinavia.

But geld was for more than paying Vikings to go away. Contemporary sources record the payments as ‘here-geld’, meaning army payment or tax and – judging by the fact that many Vikings undertook service for Anglo-Saxon rulers – this could be a successful means of defending the kingdom.

And one should not forget that early medieval warriors could – and did – turn to God. Barefoot penance, to win back God’s favour in the eyes of contemporaries, could be just as important as any spear.

Timeline: Wars against the Vikings

793: First blood

Vikings attack (though do not destroy) the Northumbrian monastery of Lindisfarne, causing a sense of shock and outrage in the Christian west.

855: Bed and breakfast

A Viking force winters for the first time in England, remaining on the Isle of Sheppey, Kent (in territory subject to the kingdom of Wessex).

878: Alfred's nadir

Vikings dispossess King Alfred of his West Saxon kingdom, after taking over the kingdoms of Northumbria, East Anglia and Mercia during the previous decade. Alfred remains at large, emerging to rally his forces and defeat a Viking army at Edington in Wiltshire.

911: Sword queen

The daughter of Alfred, Æthelflæd, rules Mercia after the death of her husband. She leads a successful campaign against the Vikings in Mercia.

937: Major victory

The battle of Brunanburh between Anglo-Saxon forces led by King Athelstan and an alliance of Scots, Strathclyde Britons, Welsh, and Northumbrian and Irish Vikings, results in Anglo-Saxon victory.

980: Next wave

The Vikings launch their first recorded raids of the ‘Second Viking Age’, on Southampton, Thanet and Cheshire, during the reign of Æthelred II, ‘the Unready’.

991: Paid off

An English force led by Ealdorman Byrhtnoth at Maldon (Essex) is defeated by a Viking fleet ravaging south-eastern England. The English make the first of a series of large geld payments.

1066: One out of two

A succession dispute leads to two invasions, one from Norway, and the other from Normandy. After a victory at Stamford Bridge, the English force is defeated by the Normans at Hastings.

Britain at war

Why the Viking raids changed Britain – and the Vikings themselves – for good

The Viking Age saw great upheavals in the kingdoms of early medieval Britain, especially during the ninth century. When Viking raids gave way to the co-ordinated campaigns of ‘great armies’, ruling dynasties were extinguished in the early kingdoms of Britain. Other dynasties, such as the royal house of Ecgbert in Wessex or that claiming descent from Cináed mac Alpin (Kenneth Macalpine) in Scotland, took full advantage of the opportunities presented to them, making war and alliances with Viking leaders as circumstances suited.

The life of the early church was disrupted, too. For example, there are very few records of early charters from religious houses north of the river Thames in England, perhaps indicating the effect of Viking activities and settlement in the ninth and tenth centuries. Viking armies were evidently large and, using ships, mobile enough to have a significant impact. But then such circumstances were not unique to the Viking age. Before the arrival of Vikings in Britain, ruling dynasties had emerged, fought each other, and grew stronger or died out as their fortunes waxed or waned, and the possessions and personnel of the church had not been immune from such politics.

And Vikings did not always remain pagan. The stone crosses of the ‘Danelaw’ – the name given to the area of northern England where Vikings settled – such as that at Gosforth in Cumbria, attest to the adoption and adaptation of Christianity by an aristocratic society which was becoming ‘Anglo-Scandinavian’. This society held interests and ambitions similar to those expressed in Northumbria in the centuries before the Viking raids. Yet Viking ‘settlement’ was not necessarily the result of a Viking warrior giving up his sword and taking up the plough, but of new lords seizing estates and the existing structures of power.

More content from week one of the HistoryExtra Academy Vikings course:

Viking raiders, with Professor Ryan Lavelle – watch time 18 mins History explorer: Alfred and the Vikings – read time 13 mins Your guide to the Viking raid of Lindisfarne – read time 3 mins The great Viking terror: how Norse warriors conquered the Anglo-Saxons – read time 12 mins Slaves in the Viking Age: how prevalent were enslaved people in Viking societies – read time 3 mins Why did the Vikings' violent raids begin? – read time 12 mins Viking ships: 5 lesser-known facts – read time 6 mins      

HEXA Social VikingsSQ

This article was first published in the January 2011 edition of BBC History Magazine

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