Shield walls, feuding kingdoms and Vikings: England was born in a bloodbath

Between the end of Roman rule in Britain and the Norman conquest of England, many things occurred. Among them was the emergence of England itself — a turbulent birth amid a wall of shields (the characteristic military formation of those warlike times) — kingdoms at odds with each other, Vikings, and fascinating characters enveloped in the aura of legends from wild and bloody times, from which we hear the echo of the continuous clash of swords.

The renowned and media-savvy British medievalist Marc Morris, 51, dedicates his latest book, The Anglo-Saxons: A History of the Beginnings of England (2021), to telling this complex yet fascinating story of “the ethnogenesis of the English.” In the story he narrates, brutal warlords with a Tolkienian flavor pass through with their rings, swords, and helmets. There’s King Rædwald of East Anglia, who was buried on the Sutton Hoo ship, and Penda of Mercia. There are also self-sacrificing religious men and saints, as well as ambitious and corrupt bishops, like Winfrid. There are great kings like Æthelbald of Wessex, Offer of Mercia (who is associated with the defensive wall known as “Offa’s Dyke”), or Alfred the Great. The latter unleashed “Alfredmania” on the field of medieval studies yet Morris points out (with very British humor) that the king suffered from hemorrhoids and that the oldest monument in Wessex dedicated to the monarch is a pub, which was built in 1763.

The book also has Vikings… and lots of them. They turned the Anglo-Saxon world upside down. Had they prevailed (although some would argue that they did, via their Norman relatives), they would have aborted the England we know today. Among these Vikings was Ivar the Boneless — the son of the legendary Ragnar Lodbrok, well known today thanks to the Vikings TV series — and Halfdan, who settled in Northumbria; Guthrum, who was baptized by Alfred himself, alongside his warrior chiefs; Svein Splitbeard and his son, Canute, who became king of England after defeating Edmund Ironside at the Battle of Assandun (1016); or Harald Hardrade — the Thunderbolt of the North — who had to be content with six feet of English soil after being killed in the battle of Stamford Bridge. His warriors lost for having declined to wear chain mail because of the heat.

Morris’s story — with each chapter focusing more or less on a particular character — begins with the legions of the northernmost provinces of the Roman Empire. The military forces of Roman Britain abandoned it in 383 AD, to march in support of their general, whom they had proclaimed emperor, Magnus Maximus. It was the beginning of dark times in Britain, when Roman civilization vanished. The year 410 AD marked the definitive end of Roman rule on the island, when Emperor Honorius answered the desperate plea for help from the Roman Britons in the face of Germanic invasions, mainly from the Angles and the Saxons, led by the legendary Hengist and Horsa (although Morris points out that it’s as unlikely that these barbarian brothers existed as that Romulus and Remus did). Honorius told them that they would have to fend for themselves, since he was already bogged down with Alaric, the Visigoth leader.

The author of Anglo-Saxons describes how Roman civilization disappeared: “Towns and cities crumbled and fell into ruin, coins ceased to be minted and the most basic products disappeared.” Britain went into a tailspin and society collapsed. Morris traces the arc of his narrative between that desperate moment and another cataclysm: the Norman invasion by William the Conqueror’s army and the defeat at Hastings (1066) of his rival, Harold II Godwinsson, the cursed king. According to legends — as the Bayeux Tapestry seems to show — Godwinsson was killed when an arrow hit him in the eye. While Morris disputes this, the defeat marked the twilight of the Anglo-Saxon elite that built the first England.

“Seven centuries later, we see the rise of a galaxy of small Saxon kingdoms, whose unification gave rise to England,” Morris writes. His book details the fratricidal struggle between these kingdoms, mainly Wessex, Mercia, Northumbria, and East Anglia. At the same time, from 793 AD onwards, they faced the continuous threat of the Vikings. When one kingdom managed to impose itself, such as King Alfred’s Wessex, a large invading Viking army upset the whole game once again. It seemed that the Saxons were going to follow the fate of the Britons, until Alfred — returning triumphant from the marshes of Somerset — managed to reverse the situation.

Later, with the reign of Canute the Great of Denmark — another Viking — England became part of a Scandinavian empire. And it seemed that it would remain that way. “Canute — whose conquest [of England] in 1016 was brutal — died in 1035, at the age of 40. Had he lived longer, there would have been no Edward the Confessor, nor a Norman invasion,” Morris notes.

In his journey, Morris debunks various clichés, including the existence of King Arthur — the supposed nemesis of the Anglo-Saxons — the nickname of Harold Harefoot (actually a misreading), or that Edward the Confessor (undoubtedly pious) was a pacifist or a coward. He praises King Alfred as “brave, resolute and [a man with vision],” but stresses that, in reality, although he’s commonly regarded as the founder of England and promoter of the English language (and founder of the Royal Navy), he expanded his kingdom in a modest way and was perhaps not so great, nor literary. He also suffered poor health, which perhaps also included Crohn’s disease, and anxiety… something that made sense, given his turbulent situation.

There seemed nothing inevitable about an eventual triumph of the Anglo-Saxons over the reactionary Danish warlords. The historian points out that Athelstan, Alfred’s son and successor, was the first to be crowned king of the English, only in 925 AD. Morris shows a certain soft spot for Bishop Winfrid, who — while certainly iconic — was “a pain in the ass for many people.”

One thing that the author doesn’t consider to be a cliché is the Dark Ages. “The term must be used with knowledge… but it’s undeniable that, from the 5th century onwards, there was a destruction, an acculturation and a degree of violence that justifies [the term]. Everything collapsed.”

Regarding the constant warfare of the era, he reflects that there are few detailed descriptions regarding how battles were fought in practice, unlike the sources we have access to from Roman or late-medieval warfare. “You have to turn to the archeology of weapons, or to some literary source such as Beowulf. [Although it’s] a fictional poem, it shows us that world of warlords. [And it isn’t] surprising that it sounds so much like Tolkien to us, given that he was a professor of Anglo-Saxon (Old English).” We have, he recalls, a source for the bloody Battle of Brunanburh (937 AD), the great clash in which Athelstan destroyed a huge Viking army led by the king of Dublin: the warriors faced each other while “cleaving the shield wall, [slipping through the boards] with hammered steel swords.”

The Vikings — first as raiders and then as colonizers (settled in the Danelaw, a region of England that was very politically divided) — appear again and again in this Cainite process of all against all. “Their impact was violent and profound: they were catalysts for the transformation of England into a single state. They helped to create it… although, at the same time, they destroyed a lot.”

Was the Norman invasion the final and definitive Viking invasion? “Their name — ‘northmen’ — reflects their origins, but the Normans had been settled in France for some time, in what was called Normandy by them. [They] had absorbed its culture. Just as when they settled in England, they became English. When they arrived in England, they were already Franks, not Scandinavians, although they had their own characteristics. They had lost Viking seamanship and were more concerned with land warfare and cavalry tactics.”

Among those praising Anglo-Saxons is none other than Bernard Cornwell, the novelist who wrote The Saxon Stories, an extremely popular series of 13 novels about the unification of England. They were brought to the screen by Netflix in The Last Kingdom. Morris appreciates Cornwell’s fascination with the Anglo-Saxons, but he hasn’t read the novels, nor does he give them much thought.

“I don’t read historical fiction, or watch movies, or [consume] any fiction at all,” Morris notes. “I don’t disapprove of this as a concept, I’m just not a reader or viewer of that genre. Although I recognize that it’s beneficial in developing an interest in history.”

He’s also aware that much of what ordinary people know about England’s Dark Ages and their aftermath comes largely from works of fiction, such as the novels by Cornwell or the Vikings series, as well as old films, such as Alfred the Great (1969), which stars David Hemmings (Alfred), Michael York (Guthrum the Viking), and Ian McKellen.

To steer the reader onto the path of historical orthodoxy, Morris tries to be entertaining, although he remains strictly in the realm of fact. When it comes to the Anglo-Saxons, he uses subtle humor to highlight things such as King Eadred’s bad table manners — “which turned the stomachs of fellow diners” — or that Æthelred the Unready (who reigned for 38 years) interrupted his baptism “by going to the bathroom.”

“I try to entertain the reader — you have to tell [them] a lot [of information] and the material is sometimes very difficult — but when you [tap into] the sources, there’s room to use a sense of humor, in moderation. That doesn’t mean I’m aiming for a second career as a comedian… it’s just about helping [the reader] get through the great human tragedy of that period.”

Unexpectedly, there’s a lot of sex in The Anglo-Saxons. Take the case of King Eadwig, described by sources as having been addicted to debauchery. He allegedly had a threesome with the noblewoman Æthelgifu and her daughter. On the day of his coronation, Archbishop Oda noticed that the king had disappeared and was found “in flagrante delicto” with the two women. “In defence of the Anglo-Saxons — and of myself — I have to say that this seems to be a rare case,” Morris cautions.

Morris regrets that the Anglo-Saxons appear so little in British school curricula today, when they were so appreciated in other times, such as the Victorian era. He acknowledges that the torrent of dates and events, the complexity of the sources, and the difficulty of the names make this a particularly complex period for a layman. He encourages non-Brits by emphasizing that the names of the Saxon kings are as difficult for British readers as for foreign ones. “They’re also unfamiliar to us,” he laments.

Regarding the controversy over the use of the term “Anglo-Saxon” — as it’s understood today as a synonym for “white” and to praise supposed racial superiority — he stresses that this may be the case in the United States, “but not in [the UK].” He emphasizes that the historical term doesn’t have the supremacist undertone. In fact, King Alfred himself used it: he called himself king of the Anglo-Saxons. “We must avoid its perverse use, but in certain historical contexts, it’s essential to use it. It’s like the word ‘crusade.’ In George W. Bush’s mouth, it meant something else entirely.”

Morris has been criticized for the fact that there are relatively few women in his book. “There are some very strong female characters — and I speak of several — but we have few biographical sources for women in this period, 95% of which are just short anecdotes about them. In any case, in the book, I highlight some very interesting ones, such as Cynethryth, King Offa’s wife; Ethelfleda, Alfred’s eldest daughter, or the “Lady of the Mercians,” who fought against the Vikings; Emma, the only one who married two kings (Æthelred the Unready and, when she was widowed, Canute), or Edith the Fair (or Edith Swanneck), who — after Harold’s death at Hastings, given the intimacy they had (she was his concubine) — was called to identify the corpse and did so by the marks on his private parts. “This implies that the fallen king could not be recognized by his face, because of how battered he was,” Morris points out.

In addition to another book on the Norman conquest of England, Morris has also written brilliant biographies of John Lackland — whom he compares to the Anglo-Saxon Æthelred — and Edward I. Regarding the latter, the villain in the film Braveheart, he says that he was more important than the much-popularized William Wallace (played by Mel Gibson), who, in the end, “died quickly.”

Quickly? “Well,” the historian laughs, “not really. It’s true that his death — he was executed for high treason — was deliberately very slow and tortuous. But Edward I is a very interesting king, who [took part in] the Crusades, built great castles, conquered Wales, faced dynastic problems and was poor by the standards of the monarchies of the time.”

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