Amazing & Extraordinary Facts About Kings & Queens (4 page)

I
n 1939 an archaeological dig unearthed a burial of extraordinary magnificence. Beneath the windswept mound that stood like the English version of an ancient Egyptian pyramid near the coast of Suffolk, an excavation revealed the outline of a huge boat – 27 metres (90 feet) in length, 4 metres (14 feet) across – together with a host of precious artefacts. This amazingly rich find suddenly threw open a window on a world of Anglo-Saxon civilisation previously unknown.

The original timber structure had all but disintegrated, but what remained to indicate the shape of the boat were perfectly preserved rows of rivets. In the centre was a chamber with a helmet, sword of gold and garnet fittings, spears, battle-axes, a shield with bird and dragon figures, bowls, silver spoons, a lyre, chess set, several pieces of beautifully crafted jewellery and forty Merovingian coins from the continent. The collection taken together pointed to one conclusion: an elaborate funeral had been performed in the form of a ship-burial. Just as Egyptian pharaohs were launched into the next world when interred in a pyramid, an important figure had received similar treatment in an Anglo-Saxon context. But who? A king, a druid?

First royal sceptre

One problem immediately emerged after the discovery: there was no body. No skeleton even. It was said that Henry VIII’s men had dug here for treasure and indeed Elizabethan diggers’ snacks and a tool had been found. Nearby, towards the end of the 17th century, a gold crown was unearthed too, but was sold and melted down.

The location of the burial was a known centre of East Anglian royal power. The Merovingian coins found in a purse have been dated c.625 CE, the period given by the Anglo-Saxon historian Bede for the death of King Redwald. Anglo-Saxon society was a loose confederation of kingdoms and on that premise alone many kings could be candidates. But one king alone had the title ‘Bretwalda’, or Overlord, and at the time of Sutton Hoo it was Redwald.

The grave-goods were undoubtedly of supreme quality, and the regalia found may well have belonged to the Bretwalda. But one item in particular shone out as pointing to a figure of Redwald’s status. This was the whetstone, a finely crafted sceptre made of the hardest stone. It is decorated with mysterious male faces and topped by a black disc surmounted by a stag with fine arcing antlers. Stags were symbols of royalty. Whetstones were found in Swedish graves of this period, but none as large as this one, two feet long. One eminent archaeologist described it as ‘monstrous, a unique savage thing; and inexplicable except as a symbol proper to the king himself.’

So if it was indeed King Redwald’s funeral, why no trace of a body? Some say the ship was only a cenotaph (monument of the dead), and that a pyre nearby would have cremated the body. Even forensic experts could find no human remains. However, what was discovered was a complete set of iron coffin fittings. These formed a perfect rectangular outline of a wooden coffin around which the grave goods were neatly arranged. A scientific explanation for the missing body maintains that acid sand in which the boat lay could have gradually rotted away the bones, even the teeth.

Romantic speculation about Sutton Hoo is further fuelled by the poem
Beowulf
, written much later but which perhaps preserves some of the memories of such a momentous event. A great pyre was built and after the body and weapons were consumed in flames,

Little is known about the life of Redwald. Bede says he converted to Christianity in Kent but on his return to East Anglia reverted to his old pagan worship. Perhaps his burial combined elements of both faiths.

A
fter the collapse of Rome as a political power, Britain became a two-sided society: on the one hand there were the Romano-British people who clung to the institutions and culture that had evolved over the last 500 years, and on the other hand there were the Anglo-Saxon settlers who exerted control over the land. With the latter came their pagan beliefs and customs. The Anglo-Saxon world of the sixth century was one of dragons and witches, and its kings all claimed descent from the Germanic god Woden with all his magical power.

At about the same time, across the Channel, Gaul had been taken over by a barbarian people, the Franks, who spoke a similar language to the Saxons, coming as they did from Germany. But the culture which prevailed in the land which took their name, France, was a good deal more refined than its Anglo-Saxon counterpart, and more powerful too, having quickly expanded into an empire. Much of the Gallic tradition continued to be observed by the people, including its Christian faith.

Now Anglo-Saxon kings did not have much status in Europe, and Ethelbert, though bretwalda, was envious of the Franks’ success. He wished not only to establish a strong reign in his own land but also to extend his influence abroad. With this in mind, he married the Frankish princess Bertha. But part of the condition of that union, imposed by her family, was that Ethelbert become a Christian like his wife. And here Ethelbert saw a political opportunity.

It was put to Pope Gregory the Great that the English were willing to be baptised, and to this end he dispatched a mission led by Augustine in 597. Now Ethelbert was a cautious man, as well as shrewd. On their arrival he held the missionaries on the Island of Thanet in Kent while he assessed this new faith. Not wanting to risk being overpowered by its god and priests, he made them present themselves in the open air, so that any magic spell they might try to cast would disperse the more easily.

Ethelbert was impressed by the ceremony, with its elaborate dress, symbols and music. Knowing how much the Franks had benefited from having Roman Christian subjects, he duly allowed the papal envoys to go about their business. It is said, they baptised 10,000 new converts in Kent over Christmas. And Ethelbert could see the willingness with which his English subjects embraced their new religion.

Much about the Roman Church appealed to Ethelbert, steeped as he was in crude Anglo-Saxon paganism: its law, its Latin liturgy, its massive churches built of stone, and perhaps most of all the absolute supremacy of its leader.

If only Ethelbert himself would convert, Augustine beseeched, all this would be available to him, as king of Christian England. A wry smile must have graced Ethelbert’s face as he finally took the oath of allegiance.

Indeed so enthusiastic did Ethelbert’s support of the Church become that he commissioned the first cathedral of St Paul’s to be built (alas destroyed by fire in the tenth century).

He is also thought to have written the first ever document in English, in the oldest form of the language we have. Almost immediately after converting, Ethelbert insisted on issuing a code of laws in a language his people could understand. Augustine (who would become the first Archbishop of Canterbury) no doubt helped him draft the form of it, but its content is undoubtedly Anglo-Saxon.

K
ing Offa of Mercia must go down in English history as one of the most feared monarchs of the Dark Ages:

Offa is best known today for his dyke that stretches from the Irish Sea to the Bristol Channel. Yet in his day no record was made of it. In fact the extract above, written by Bishop Asser, was the first written record, put down some 100 years later. Even by today’s standards the enterprise – part ditch, part rampart – is hugely impressive. It still stands six metres (20 feet) high in places and forms most of the border between Wales and England. But historians disagree about why it was built. Did it mark an agreed frontier? Or was it a fortification to be used as a Mercian command base from which to attack the Welsh?

The organization and labour involved must have been colossal. In a concerted programme, thousands of Anglo-Saxon peasants, perhaps drawn from different regions, would have assembled on the border country. They brought with them their horses and carts, tents, spades, axes, hammers, weapons, and set to work digging a ditch eight metres (25 feet) deep and 20 metres (65 feet) wide. Oxen hauled heavy ploughs to help turn up the earth. Everything they excavated was heaped up to form a huge rampart.

Throughout the spring, summer and probably the autumn, in about 787 CE, gangs of workmen would have been assigned piecemeal right along the 135 miles of dyke, camping out at night and labouring by day, like the railway navvies of the 19th century. Where the topography made alignment difficult, large beacons were set up on hilltops to ensure a continuous line. With a visibility range of up to 20 miles, these miniature lighthouses acted as a warning system against Welsh raids; indeed the system continued in use up to Elizabethan times when it served to alert the nation of the approaching Spanish Armada.

Running along the top of the dyke was a wooden palisade, with stone bastions, the entire length broken only by occasional gateways for traders to pass through. Marshalls on horseback would have monitored progress, and sometimes among them figured the fearsome King Offa. Only someone with the regal clout he clearly possessed could have ensured such a project was completed. And completed it was within the year.

Although the whole enterprise is shrouded somewhat in mystery, we know something of the man who envisioned this extraordinary feat. Offa was a single-minded and determined leader. He was quite capable of seeing off any rival or obstruction that might bar his way, casually applying as much brutality as necessary.

For example, he had designs on Kent because of its trading gateway to the continent. The Church had considerable power in this region through its possession of the see of Canterbury. But Offa did not let this stand in his way and devised a suitable stunt. Two papal legates were invited to a Council of the English Church. After some intense debate Offa won the day and had Lichfield, located in the heartland of Mercia, raised to an archbishopric whose incumbent would bound to support his elector.

Another indication of the king’s megalomania was the coinage minted in his day. Offa had the silver penny enlarged and upgraded. His image appears to be modelled on the form of King David of ancient Israel. Following the tradition established there of ordained kingship, Offa had his son anointed as a divinely approved heir. Vast quantities of his coinage were struck and used to trade with the expanding economy of France – monetary inflation had never been so rampant.

Perhaps Offa’s ploy was essentially one of safeguarding his border with the turbulent Welsh so that he could concentrate his energies on spreading his influence across the Channel.