The written word was not set in linguistic stone. The very fact that there are traces that Angles settled in the 470s in the once Roman stronghold of Caerwent (Venta Silurum) suggests that the language even at this stage was mixing dialects and origins that were Celtic and Roman, as well as the Germanic tongues. There are fifth-century Anglo-Saxon inscriptions that give an idea of the style of language and the regional variations. Up to the ninth-century invasions of the Vikings the Northumbrian dialects dominated English culture. Within another hundred years West-Saxon English, both written and spoken, seems to have become the official language of the islands although dialects did not disappear and use of the Scandinavian alphabet, the Runic or Younger Futhark, dates from c.AD 750 to 1500. By the time of the Battle of Hastings (1066) Old English was a mix of Anglo-Saxon, Norse, Danish and Latin. In fact, when English exasperates non-English speakers because of the same word having slightly different meanings, then the inconvenience may be traced to this early, Old English concoction. With the Norman Invasion and the introduction of Norman French, the language became more complex. Some Germanic plurals survived (e.g. feet, teeth) but the French style of adding an ‘s’ for a plural was to dominate and, of course, further confuse with, for example, the French ‘qu’ replacing ‘cw’ and so on. Thus, with such a collection of dialects and languages, by the time of the Norman invasion the die was cast that one day (as now) English would become the language with the biggest vocabulary in the world.
With the invasion, Norman French became the language of the court and cultured classes, and this remained so for 150 years. In fact, Henry IV (1367–1413) was the first monarch of England since the Conquest whose first language was English. By then Old English (c.700–c.1066) had become Middle English and the dialect of Chaucer et al., spoken in and about the capital, London, had replaced West-Saxon as the ‘official’ language. By Shakespeare’s time (he invented some 1,600 words) Middle English was giving way to what we would more easily recognize as Modern English. The great periods of exploration and global reconnaissance culminating in the 1700s meant that Modern English was taking in words from all over the world to such an extent that it is difficult to imagine a sentence uttered today on any subject that does not include a couple of words with foreign origins. Moreover, the common language that we saw at the start of this chapter, with its origins in the tongues of invaders, did not remain in these islands. Apart from Chinese, more people speak, write and officially communicate in English than any other language. Equally, spot the number of words in that sentence with foreign origins. Even Bede had no ‘pure’ form of his language.
The Venerable Bede was taken into a monastery in Jarrow in the late seventh century, probably just before his tenth birthday, and it was in this monastery in the north-east of Britain that he wrote that book on which much of our knowledge of early England relies: the aforementioned Historia Ecclesiastica Gentis Anglorum or The Ecclesiastical History of the English People.
In the year 449, Marcian being made emperor with Valentinian, ruled the empire for seven years. The nation of the Angles, or Saxons, being invited by the aforesaid king, arrived in Britain . . . those who came over were of the three most powerful nations of Germany: Saxons, Angles, and Jutes. From the Jutes are descended the people of Kent and the Isle of Wight, and those in the province of the West-Saxons who are to this day called Jutes, seated opposite the Isle of Wight. From the Saxons, that is the country which is now called Old Saxony, came the East-Saxons, the South-Saxons and West-Saxons. From the Angles, that is the country which is called Anglia, are descended the East-Angles, the Middle-Angles, the Mercians, all the races of the Northumbrians, that is, of those nations that dwell on the north side of the river Humber, and the other nations of the English. The first two commanders are said to have been Hengist and Horsa.
According to Bede, Ælle was the ‘bretwalda’, or ruler, of Britain. ‘Bret’ means Britain; ‘Walda’ means ruler. So Ælle was the first of seven kings who claimed the kingdoms south of the Humber, probably in the final quarter of the fifth century. The concept of kings and kingdoms was not new, but from whence came the migrant warriors, there were no kings. These same warriors in England claimed heritage from fantastical gods and gradually by wealth or success in battle or both they attracted the finest followers. But how would these men at arms be rewarded? The kings had no money so they promised or gave the only honour and reward they could: land. By sword they could take land or if there was no need to take it, then they could declare it in the king’s name. That land they gave to the loyalist, bravest and most reliable followers. Here we have the seeds of what we now call the landed gentry – mighty men, close to the monarch with titles to land given by the monarch. Everything those men had, including their titles and positions, were owed to the monarch. Here were the beginnings of aristocracy as we know it today. But there was more than one king because, geographically, there had to be. There were limitations on the way fifth- and sixth-century people could travel. Also, no one now had an army that could be structured to subjugate the whole island race and the Saxons were migrating, not enlarging an existing empire. Nevertheless, it is warfare that propels nations, however fragmented. And it was war in the year 577 that expanded the hold of the Saxons over the defending Britons.
In the 570s and 580s, the southern Britons had been subjugated by the English – those who lived in the southern counties as they are now called – who made up the Sutangli, or Southern Angles, or Southern English. And this north–south divide affected the history of this island race. As the historian, Sir Frank Stenton, points out, ‘From the age of the migrations down to the Danish wars of the ninth century, the peoples south of the Humber were normally subject to the authority of a common overlord.’ The term ‘common overlord’ means that different parts were ruled by a sort of underlord or lesser king. Here we have an idea of the development of British rule and ruled: kingship. In return for allegiance, the king would give and protect so it was hardly fanciful that the Pope understood what was happening in this once provincial holding of Rome. The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle tells us that in the year 595, ‘Pope Gregory sent Augustine to Britain with very many monks who preached God’s word to the English nation.’ But they were nervous. They thought the land of the Britons thoroughly barbarous and that none of their lives would be spared. They were still on the other side of the Channel when Augustine and his evangelists decided to go no further. But Pope Gregory wrote to Augustine and his brethren.
Gregory, the servant of the servants of God, to the servants of our Lord. For as much as it had been better not to begin a good work than to think of desisting from that which has been begun, it behoves you, my beloved sons, to fulfil the good work which by the help of our Lord, you have undertaken. Let not, therefore, the toil of the journey nor the tongues of evil speaking men, deter you; but with all possible earnestness and zeal perform that which, by God’s direction you have undertaken; God keep you in safety my most beloved sons.
Pope Gregory’s letter worked. Augustine and his nervous monks trudged on and eventually crossed to the Isle of Thanet. But what they needed was protection and that could only come from the local king. The king was Æthelberht. ‘Æthel’ means, more or less, nobly born. Æthelberht was not a Christian. We would not expect him to have been. He worshipped Thor, the god of thunder. He had thought of converting, not because he felt any spiritual need, but for a political reason. His wife, a Frankish princess, whose name was Bertha, was a Christian. Kent, recognized by the Romans as the most civilized part of the land of the Britons, was the one place where a Christian revival would be most likely to take hold. Æthelberht sensed that it might not be such a bad idea to go with the mood of the people. And so Æthelberht became the first ‘English’ king to convert to Christianity. For Augustine it was, perhaps, a heaven-sent opportunity. It was not wasted. He converted Æthelberht (Ethelbert) who was overlord (not king) of the southern regions that extended to the West Country. By conversion, Æthelberht hoped to use
that influence with other converted chiefs to extend his lordship over more of England. There was no king of England at this time.
To consolidate his position, in fact both their positions, Æthelberht and Augustine called a conference of the Christian bishops. It was doomed from the start, partly because the bishops did not like to be told what to and especially because Augustine displayed a tactless self-assurance, maybe arrogance. There was a second conference. It failed as the first had. Worse than that, the gathering broke up with Augustine threatening war and making sure that the lot of Rome would be thrown behind Æthelberht and the English. Of course, there was no war. It was never likely, but Augustine achieved the development of Christian belief in these islands. And he began training a clergy who would go out and achieve many of the things that this arrogant messenger from Rome had hoped for himself. As to some extent heathenism declined and Christianity prospered there rose the question of whose version of Christianity should rule – Augustine’s or the northern Celtic. The issues were quite basic: how should Easter be observed? Should the tonsure – a symbol of church doctrine – be worn? It was symbolism that would continue in other regions – including 500 years later in Ireland – where the Catholic Church as then it was felt its authority threatened.
In today’s world of headlines and superlatives, the matter of the tonsure would be described as splitting public opinion. In the seventh-century British Isles, the issue was one of authority rather than for the people. Authority at that time was the king, the bretwalda, of the East Angles, Redwald. We know little of Redwald other than he was the son Tytila and died in or about 627 and may have been the bretwalda in the Sutton Hoo ship-burial. It is also thought that he killed Æthelfrid, bretwalda of Northumbria, in 616 and so returned the throne to Edwin (616–32). Edwin was the overlord of the realm of England with the exception of Kent and so the mightiest king the region had seen. It was Edwin’s generalship and persuasion that set the map that was to become England and over which the Wessex kings would one day rule. There is a further aspect of Edwin’s rule that we should note: he was an atheist but he married a Christian princess from Kent. When his princess left Canterbury for York, there travelled with her Paulinus who, by making that journey, would become the first missionary of Rome to northern England. Edwin worshipped idols. That meant he had courtiers, henchmen and priests who did the same. Paulinus converted Edwin – or at least he baptized him. However, for the King to say, ‘I give my life to Christ’, is one thing; to carry with him these vital allies towards a religion that was relatively new in the kingdom was not only an act of faith, in early England it was also a political decision. He had to carry his realm with him. And that’s exactly what he did.
The other princes and bretwaldas did not send cards. After all, Edwin’s new alliance with Kent was a destabilizing factor in the fierce world of tribal and national politics. For example, in 633 Penda, the heathen King of Mercia, connived an alliance with Cadwallon of north Wales (himself a declared Christian). The task was to unseat Edwin and the increasingly powerful kingdom of Northumbria. Penda may have had little in religious common with Cadwallon, but they had similar interests towards Edwin. At a treacherous battle of Doncaster, the mighty Edwin was slain and his head displayed above the ramparts of York. The Christian and Saxon warriors mourned Edwin and wished fury brought down on his killers. Oswald became leader of the Christian warriors. In just twelve months he had marched on and destroyed Cadwallon in what would become the last battle between Saxons and Britons.
In these times, there were no deciding battles – only settled scores. The fundamental issues were about Christianity and which version to adopt persisted. And, at this time in the island’s history, any prolonging of differences could mean war. What might be done to settle, not military outrages, but matters of high faith and constitutional (in seventh-century terms) ambitions? The answer was the Synod of Whitby in 663. The question put was simplicity itself: should what had become the British version of Christianity follow what we may now call Rome, or should the expression of Christianity be found in the monastic orders in these islands? All matters religious are, and have been, a collection of compromises. The Church of Northumbria was to follow Rome. It was inevitable that Mercia would follow suit as the kings of Mercia now ruled England south of the Humber (as opposed to north of the Humber – Northumbria). That is how it remained for eighty years.
Æthelbald, King of Mercia from 716, called himself ‘rex Britanniae’, which was the Latin for the Saxon English title, bretwalda, ruler of Britain. But this wasn’t an idle boast. The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle tells us that he was fighting, and winning, as far away as Somerton in Somerset. That meant that Æthelbald controlled a huge chunk of Wessex. One indication of that control was that he could buy and sell land as he wished. He was the strongest figure in southern Britain. In spite of his confessions of faith, he was barbaric and everyone, including the Church, knew that and could do little about it. No other king had ruled so masterfully and for so long. But then it came to an end. In 757, after forty-one years on his throne, Æthelbald was murdered by his own bodyguard. The result was a civil war in the Midlands. It didn’t last a full year and when it was done the new king of the Mercians was Offa (750?–96), one of the most famous names of this period and a contemporary of Charlemagne (741–814).
Charlemagne was the most celebrated of the Frankish rulers. The Franks were the post-Roman barbarians of what we now know as Belgium, France, Germany, the Netherlands and Switzerland. It was Charlemagne who inspired the rethinking of kingship, whereby in return for allegiance the leader protects those who follow him or her. His extension of this thought was better called the right to rule. It was his belief that the monarch could not rule by half measure and therefore should rule both his State and the Church within that State. Here was the basis for the contest between State and Church that would continue long after his empire’s passing. Although barbaric and indeed largely illiterate, Charlemagne inspired learning and such a close relationship with Rome that, on Christmas Day 800, Pope Leo III crowned Charlemagne emperor of what would become the Holy Roman Empire. Given that Leo III had called for Charlemagne’s help the previous year when he was in danger of being usurped, the coronation was the least gift of the Holy Father. Given the power and the uncompromising ambition of Charlemagne, the relationship with the king of the English (not of England) tells us much about the importance of Offa. Charlemagne had wanted one of his sons to marry one of the daughters of Offa. Offa’s reaction was that the process of diplomatic relations had to be two-way. If he was to take Charlemagne’s son as an in-law, then one his Offa’s sons should marry one of Charlemagne’s daughters. If this seems petty diplomacy, it was not. The marriage of sons and daughters among monarchs was a powerful symbol of diplomatic relations if not lasting unity.
Offa could not live in peace; few monarchs of any sort did. After all, he came by the throne because his predecessor, his cousin Æthelbald, was murdered. Symeon of Durham, albeit writing in the early twelfth century, noted in his Historia Regum that in 771, Offa ‘subdued by arms the people of the Hestingi’. Hestingi was modern Hastings and the final battle in that bloody campaign against the Hestingi took place at Otford close by what is modern Sevenoaks. Offa’s power certainly spread beyond these island shores even if they were less recognized north of the Humber. Also, we must remember that Offa was of the time when declarations of religious faith had more than pious symbolism: he saw himself as the defender of the faith. And it was here that a single incident that marked Offa as particularly relevant to our history occurred. Offa had his son anointed as King of Mercia and consecrated – this was probably the first time that an English king had been consecrated and, therefore, it was the moment that marked a religious dimension to the English throne.
Offa remains famous for one great work, his earthwork: the dyke. His battles against the Welsh eventually claimed parts of Powys and it was to build an obvious and presumably recognizable (to both Welsh and Engl
ish) border that Offa constructed his monument. Yet we should recognize the force of this monarch who held Mercian power throughout south England and certainly had a direct influence in the northern parts. Moreover, we can tell something of Offa’s reputation beyond the British shores when we remember that Pope Adrian I described Offa as the King of the English – not of England as a land or State, but of the people. Also, Offa negotiated treaties on equal terms with Charlemagne who would become emperor. Therefore Offa’s reputation must go far beyond the creation of a dyke.
By AD 796 Offa was dead and the Vikings were about to arrive. The Romans had begun to leave early in the fifth century and the Angles, the Jutes and the Saxons together became the English after the Romans left. At the end of the 700s the Vikings arrived from Scandinavia: the Swedes, Norwegians and Danes. Imagine for a moment the confusion of their arrival. There was not huge invasion – just three vessels. Their purpose, we should think, would be apparent. But three ships? Surely they had no strength in numbers nor evil purpose. There were too few for that. The reeve (sheriff) should have been confused. What was he expected to think of these strangers? The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle tells us – and what happened next. The year was AD 789.
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