"This stiff-necked island..."

Britain, the Anglo-Saxons and you.

This island, stiff-necked and stubborn-minded, from the time of its being first inhabited, ungratefully rebels, sometimes against God, sometimes against her own citizens, and frequently, also, against foreign kings and their subjects.

Gildas, On the Ruin of Britain (c. AD 540), getting it all in one.

The difference between America and England is that Americans think 100 years is a long time, while the English think 100 miles is a long way.

Earle Hitchner

What’s with the British history stuff, you may be asking?

First, it’s interesting. Really, really interesting. Starting with the daunting realization that there is so much we will never know for sure about the early centuries. Second, while I am utterly American, a rural Michigander steeped in the legendary of my nation, America is a child of the British Isles. A large, brash, and too-often-ignorant child, but one nonetheless, for worse and for better. And the stream of immigrants from the Sceptred Isle has never quite ceased. Thus, we come by many of our faults honestly, learned at the feet of our national parent as well as Dad and Mom. Though in some respects, America has deliberately tried to be different, and with some notable successes.

[Nota bene to contemporary Britons wondering where their heritage of liberty went: next time, write the really important stuff down.]

But the heritage of England before the American Founding is still the heritage of America. So knowledge of the British Isles is necessary to understand our own home. As the late Archbishop Tawil foresaw, we have to witness to our faith in an authentically American voice. And that voice will be inevitably English, however seasoned with words that the mother tongue seizes like the lexicological kleptomaniac and hoarder she is. There is a direct line from seasick Angles, Saxons, Jutes getting their land legs back again in the 5th century to their screen-dazed descendants scattered across the world of the 21st.

Finally, there is the essential fact that the era offers up the witness of many Saints and martyrs of the undivided Church. From the reluctant Augustine of Canterbury who tried to pull a Jonah at the last minute, to stalwart monk-bishops like Aidan and Cuthbert, the incomparable Father and historian Bede, fiery evangelists like Boniface, kings like Edmund the Martyr and St. Edward the Confessor…a veritable Anglo-Saxon cloud, and too little-known. Given the Melkite clamor for unity, this heritage is something East and West should gather around.

Shorter justification: it’s a story worth sharing, so I will.

And the best possible overview of the era, one that I cannot over-praise, is Marc Morris’ The Anglo-Saxons: A History of the Beginnings of England, 400-1066. Published in 2021, it is the first book you should consult. It is truly excellent, and revisionist in the best sense of the term. Morris takes down wrongheaded notions embedded in the popular imagination from 19th Century Saxonmania and also slaps aside the kind of recent corrosive revisionism which has devastated the humanities.

The Victorians created such myths as the Anglo-Saxons as Free Men with Liberty in Their Very Souls! Which the Normans, French as they were, ruined, imposing feudalism, serfdom and servile manners until True England was reborn with the Magna Carta, Chaucer, etc. Victorian scholars also came up with ideas such as a recognized Heptarchy of Anglo-Saxon kingdoms and the notion that the title “bretwalda” was something akin to an imperial office. There’s no evidence that the Anglo-Saxons thought in terms of (or that there even were at any one time) Seven Kingdoms, and bretwalda was a neat-sounding title intermittently claimed by hopped-up successful kings. But both ideas have proven extremely difficult to eradicate.

As to the Stout Saxon Yeoman, gazing across his farming freehold…alas, not really. Yes, it happened—on the fringes of settlement, far away from grasping kings. Morris notes that the Anglo-Saxons developed feudalism on their own, thank you, though it was less evenly-spread than would be seen in the High Middle Ages. And the Anglo-Saxons were just fine with slavery and selling their own into bondage to the Norse and other places east. It was the Normans who put an immediate end to the slave trade, and then to slavery itself within a half century. The Norman lords of Britain were feudal enthusiasts (God’s Will or Just Common Sense? as the joke goes), so serfdom was fine. But for whatever reason, they had a dim view of slavery per se.

Morris also finds windows through which to toss out modern revisionism. Sadly, that revisionism is so beholden to Current Things that there is a somewhat-successful effort among English historians to stop using the term "Anglo-Saxon" because Bad People have (mis-?) used it. Somehow. Morris disposes of the idiocy in a tart paragraph with an irrefutable point: it's what the people of the 6th-11th Centuries started calling themselves. To ban it is anachronistic stupidity—my formulation, not his. But I doubt he would loudly object. He also comes to reasoned conclusions on disputed issues that modern scholars really should no longer dispute—e.g., who was buried at Sutton Hoo?

With that background, Morris is an excellent guide to the era, both its highs (also belting the revisionists, Alfred is Still Great) and lows (from Aethelred until Hastings).

Morris highlights the role of religion throughout, because the history cannot be told without looking at British Christianity, Germanic paganism, and the Christianization of the Anglo-Saxons (and later the Norse pagans the Anglo-Saxons absorbed). Bede is a frequent source, as is the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle compiled by the Christians. The limitations of both are frankly acknowledged, but so is their value. The reader is introduced to Augustine (of Canterbury), Aidan, Cuthbert, and others, as well as taken to Lindisfarne. Below is the 7th Century pectoral cross of Saint Cuthbert, worn by the reluctant bishop who would have been happier as a hermit, but who was an excellent shepherd of souls.

I love this one so much that I have a gold-plated pewter reproduction with red enamel substituting for the garnets. The original, like the Saint’s remains, barely survived the shrine-destroying, iconoclastic insanities of the Reformation. Hidden in a casket buried in the wall of Durham Cathedral, both were discovered in 1827, and can be seen today at the Cathedral.

The shrine cannot.

[And no, fellow RPGers, I have no idea how Gary Gygax derived the Greyhawk deity Saint Cuthbert of the Cudgel from the actual Saint. Saint Cuthbert of the English was a peaceable fellow who led by word and example—most definitely Lawful Good, not Lawful Neutral. Perhaps Gygax was trying to head-canon a Saint who returned to clout those who destroyed his shrine? Gygax had some familiarity with Aquinas…]

Morris does not romanticize the ledgers of paganism or Christianity. In looking at the scanty early literature, he discusses Beowulf. In an interesting aside, he notes that Tolkien was a top-notch Beowulf scholar, and the work influenced The Lord of the Rings in places. However, Morris notes that, unlike LOTR, the influence of Christianity in Beowulf is purely superficial. The world of Beowulf is devoid of Christian virtues such as pity and forgiveness. Instead, the quest for earthly renown and becoming an earthly lord with loyal men is what is celebrated. And so it was with the Germanic pagans who settled Britain before the Gospel reached them. And if they destroyed the peaceable and enslaved their own on the path to kingship, too bad for the losers.

And reaching the Germans was touch and go at first—as a later Anglo-Saxon named Boniface learned firsthand. A pagan king might be interested in the Faith, but there was no guarantee his successor would be. So it went with the kingdom of Kent, evangelized by Augustine, which then backslid into paganism for a stretch. And some temporized—the 7th Century Raedwald of East Anglia being a prime example recorded by Bede. Raedwald was baptized, but also had a pagan temple right next to his Christian chapel, and worshiped in both. Bede was understandably appalled, but ironically it worked out for the Faith of the people of East Anglia. Raedwald the Trimmer installed a puppet king in Northumbria, a devout Christian named Edwin. After Raedwald died, his pagan son assumed the throne, and was persuaded to accept the Faith—and only the Faith—by Edwin.

Also, I rather like Raedwald because he is the king who was buried with his ship at Sutton Hoo. For some reason this is still debated, but Morris sides with the Raedwald thesis, and it makes the most sense. The grave objects there are rightly described as the finest craftsmanship in Europe at the time. You have certainly seen the helmet, but the gold belt buckle is the one I’d like to get.

Nor does Morris portray Christianity as a cavalcade of sanctity: Saint Wilfrid is one of the more unlikeable churchmen I have ever stumbled across, not without some virtues, but an ambitious clerical prince with a posse to match. Not to mention a man whose evangelistic endeavors encouraged one of the last pagan lords of Wessex “to take the Christian God for a test-drive” via conquest, to quote Morris. Wilfrid’s hagiographer had his work cut out for him, and despite strenuous efforts is less than convincing. Bede himself, who had the hagiography to hand, describes Wilfrid without the flowery apologetic, and apparently with de mortuis nil nisi bonum firmly in mind.

Nevertheless, by means edifying and less so, by the end of the eighth century Christianity was seemingly secure in all of Britain, even if the Christian Anglo-Saxons still loathed the Christian Britons to their west. So, as if to prove that history can rhyme, the Christian peoples of Britain were struck with another pagan storm from the sea, the fury of the Northmen. Lindisfarne was hit by the first of the raids in 795, and would be continue to be a target until the monks finally moved to a safer place inland.

Morris poetically describes it as the Anglo-Saxons being faced with the demons of their own past, as the pagan Norse did to them what the pagan Anglo-Saxons had done to Roman Britain. Anglo-Saxon clerics re-discovered Gildas and cited him to excoriate their people for their own sins.

Like a tsunami, the Danes (as the Norse/Vikings were called) did not stop. They kept coming, and with the endless surges, another English kingdom would fall, with either the king dead or a puppet installed for as long as the Danes had use for him. The Danes began to stay. Certainly, they would leave to loot France if the pickings looked better there, but inexorably, they would return. By 870, only one kingdom was left: Wessex, led by Alfred, the canny last son of the House of Cerdic. And at one point, he was driven from his capital and fighting a guerilla war from an island in the marshes.

And then in 878 he rallied his people, summoning them to battle and smashed the Danish host. Instead of obliterating the survivors, he had them baptised, confirmed and stood as godfather to his Danish nemesis, Guthrum. Alfred also set the boundary between the pagans and what started to be called the English, along the old Roman road called Watling Street. Naturally, one expected to see Guthrum wait for the right opportunity to renounce his treaty and raid Alfred’s domain. For many of the Danes, it wasn’t their first Christian washing, and they had abided by negotiated peace treaties for exactly as long as it suited them.

Guthrum never did. Other waves of Danes would pass through “the Danelaw” and strike at Wessex, but Guthrum was content with what he had and died at least a nominal Christian. As did increasing numbers of the settled Danes on the other side of Watling Street. Land was enough, and better than what they had in the gloomier north of Scandinavia.

No doubt Alfred’s tactical innovations—fortifications that were always manned and alert for raiders, as well as increasingly-successful interceptions at sea—were effective deterrents. But Alfred’s example of mercy proved to have practical applications, and the Danes accepted missionaries. In the pagan mind, a man refusing to admit defeat, getting his people off the mat and then beating your ass over and over again no doubt made them more interested in his god as well.

And so, gradually, the peoples slowly fused into an overtly-English identity, with Alfred’s descendants uniting most of what is now England. And the English language getting words from the Danes like sky, egg, law, knife—too many to list here.

Unfortunately, triumphant Anglo-Saxon England would be undone. Not by the Conqueror but rather by the reigns of Kings Aethelred and Cnut (Canute). Aethelred belongs with Kings John and Henry VIII in the Worst Kings tier. In his case, he was indecisive, inflexible, fearful, mean-spirited and ever-more reliant on higher taxes. Danish raids began again under his 11th Century reign, and instead of pulling an Alfred and defending the kingdom with its own resources, he hired Danish mercenaries to do the job.

This provoked a second wave led by King Swein who invaded England to punish the massacre of Danish mercenaries on Aethelred’s order. That’s Aethelred: contracting out protection of his realm to Danes and then slaughtering them when he thought it would make him popular with his overtaxed subjects. So he got the outraged Swein, who stormed England while Aethelred fled to the Continent. Swein ruled only briefly before dying of natural causes, and was succeeded by his son Cnut.

Cnut, last of the successful Danish invaders, albeit genuinely Christian(1), treated England as a secondary province in his greater empire. This led to the moral decay of the ruling classes of the kingdom. Web-spinning lickspittles is not unfair. The last sixty years of Anglo-Saxon history are an unpleasant read, with Convenient Deaths, outright massacres and false oaths abounding. King Saint Edward the Confessor was the unwilling puppet of the House of Godwin, whose founder was emblematic of that moral decay. Godwin, the Earl of Essex (and father of Harold), had been an effective trimmer under Cnut, and became the eminence grise during the kingdom’s sunset.

Materially, the kingdom enjoyed material prosperity even as the self-dealing of the upper classes demands us of the term “vipers.” Edward, chafing under Godwin’s choke chain, refused to sire an heir. He briefly broke free of the Godwins for a year, exiling them, but they returned and resumed power. Godwin died, and his able son Harold took his place as the power behind the throne. In the meantime, Edward chose Duke William of Normandy as his heir. Thus, William had the best claim, morally and legally, to the throne.

Harold made a fateful visit to William to secure the release of two close relatives, one being Harold’s brother Wulfnoth. William partially complied, but refused to turn over Wulfnoth. Before Harold returned to England, William made him swear over holy relics to back William’s claim to the throne. Harold did so, making him a blasphemous oathbreaker when he took the throne after Edward’s death in the fateful year 1066.

Thus does Morris slyly set up the reader for his earlier work on the Conquest. He also takes down some other myths about the Normans, namely that they were unusually bloodthirsty. While it is true that William gave the boot to almost every Anglo-Saxon leader in his new domain, it’s hard to blame him after the previous three generations of backstabbing and conspiring among the native leadership class. But he did so largely without blood—at least at first.

In addition to putting paid to the slave trade, the Normans were a pretty civilized bunch who only chose ultraviolence when faced with rebellion.(2) It was to the great misfortune of those in the lands of rebellion that there were several of them under the Conqueror’s reign, and the death toll likely exceeded 100,000. Nevertheless, and unlike the Anglo-Saxons themselves, they quickly fused with the locals. By the mid-1100s, England had an Anglo-Norman aristocracy and clerical class of mixed parentage, and by the reign of Edward III (1312-1377), even the king spoke English for official business. Albeit a much different English that was a soup sandwich with French doublets and a slew of loan words mucking up everything, but still English and no longer French.(3)

But that’s a story outside of the range of Morris’ book.

Which, I hope with this lengthy summary you now consider a must-read even if you're only slightly interested in the era.

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(1) That this wave was more Christian can be seen in the nature of the looting and treatment of clergy. Books were not casually burned, as had repeatedly happened at Lindisfarne with every raid. And the much-beloved pagan sport of cleric-killing had since come to an end amongst the later Danes.

When one of Cnut’s annoyed Danes clouted an English bishop on the head, accidentally killing him, there was genuine shock and remorse amongst the Danes. They cleaned and dressed his body, bearing it reverently on a bier to his church for burial, and I believe weregild was paid for his death. Concussing the bishop would have been his fault, but killing one was right out.

(2) It is noteworthy that despite the fact he was a hostage for the good behavior of his family, William did not execute Wulfnoth for his brother’s perfidy. Wulfnoth died of old age under reasonably comfortable house arrest.

(3) Fun facts: the United States of America still uses Anglo-Norman for the opening of courts of law. The endurance of doublets of old English and French is seen in official formulas for wills and bequests such as “I give [Anglo-Saxon English] and devise [Norman French].” Also, American English sometimes preserves older French terms, e.g., faucet instead of the British English tap. The French themselves now call it a robinet. Probably just to be difficult, as the French are wont to be.