On the coast of Northumberland, the grey sea waters lap at long, wet beaches. Above, rocky outcrops and small cliffs border the land and snake down the north-east of England past the city of York. Black crows wheel above the beaches, and nest in the rocks. Other birds inhabit these coastal skies, and inland too, but the crows are special. In the days of Middle-earth, they were believed to communicate with wizards, and were ominous harbingers of danger and doom.
Even today, the seven distinct but closely related members of the crow family that live in Britain are regarded as unusual. They are among the most intelligent of birds. The magpie and larger jackdaw are drawn by the glint of bright objects, and will ‘thieve’ from people’s window ledges shiny trivia and jewellery for their nests. But their hunting habits have brought them into real conflict with humans – most crows can still legally be shot all the year round in Britain. Rooks and carrion crows upset the farmer by pecking at seed; jays, crows and magpies take young birds as prey; and ravens – largest of the crows and often over 2 feet from bill tip to tail – will even hunt weakling lambs.
In the real Middle-earth, crows were known as carrion birds. They were observed picking and tearing at the flesh of corpses on battlefields, and this gave them a dark reputation. ‘The raven screamed aloft, black and greedy for corpses … The raven rejoiced in the work,’ says the Anglo-Saxon poem ‘Elene’, and another called ‘Judith’ speaks of ‘the dark raven, the bird greedy for slaughter’. The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle entry for the year 937 records the victory of King Athelstan at the battle of Brunanburgh and reports that the carrion eaters on the battlefield were ravens (Corvus corax) and white-tailed sea eagles (Haliætus albicilla). And in Celtic mythology, the goddesses of war, Babd and Morrigu, transformed themselves into crows and ravens when they followed the march of armies or hovered over a battlefield.
But ravens and crows were equally known as magical messengers. The triple ‘kaah, kaah, kaah’ of the carrion crow has sounded a warning for people for centuries – even today, folklore says the sightings of magpies have a messenger significance, with ‘one for sorrow, two for joy’.
During much of the thousand years of Middle-earth, the weather was warmer than it is now in Britain, with drier summers. Birds which today migrate south to avoid the cold, stayed on the island through the winter. And since a small human population of between only one and two million interfered little with the natural order of things compared with today, those times must have been idyllic for wildlife. As a result, the bird population was more varied than now, and probably huge in numbers. And they played a dynamic part in Middle-earth magic – especially as messengers.
Language of the Birds
In the historical Middle-earth, wizards were believed to understand the language of birds. A Celtic folk story from the Scottish Highlands tells of a youth called Alasdair, who was sent to the Isle of Birds to learn the language of the birds. To know their ‘speech’ was evidence that the boy had acquired magical knowledge from the spirit world. After three years’ tuition, the boy’s parents were not much impressed by his riddling interpretation of birds’ language, especially when he interpreted for them the message of a chaffinch which prophesied that Alasdair’s father and mother would humble themselves to their son. The father ordered the boy’s death, but he escaped to the Isle of Birds and took the drastic step of quickly killing and eating the birds, the faster to assimilate what they had to tell him.
Gregory of Tours, writing in the sixth century of the early Germanic tribes, refers to observation of birds for prophetic signs as a custom of the Franks. They apparently watched their flight patterns, noted whether they appeared alone or in a flock, on the ground or in a tree, and at what point in the sun, moon, or seasonal cycle they arrived.
Judging from the popularity of amulets for protection of persons and property, and the dire warnings in The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle about the meanings of storms and lightning, it seems that omens frightened the ordinary people of ancient Europe. They believed them to be the predictions of events that were bound to happen. But the wizards appear to have had a more complex point of view. They read omens as pattern-pointers in the flow of events. They likened the sequential unfolding of events to the flowing of a stream, with ripples from each event. No event was repeated in exactly the same way. The wizard could open up to the pattern of the flow of events by observing the ripples. When he heard birdsong, or saw the flight pattern of birds, he believed he could follow the ripples into future time and foresee events yet to happen.
In ancient Norse legend, Odin, god of the wizards, had two ravens. They were named Huginn and Muninn, which means ‘thought’ and ‘memory’. They perched on his shoulders, and according to Snorri Sturluson, ‘They whisper into his ears every scrap of news which they see or hear tell of. At crack of dawn he pushes them off to flap all around the world and they return in time for second breakfast. This is the source of much of his information, and the reason why men call him the Raven god.’ Tolkien used this idea in The Lord of the Rings, when Gandalf sends an eagle, called Gwahir the Windlord, to watch the river and gather information and news which he can being back to him. And in The Hobbit Balin explained that the ravens are special, because they used to be close friends of the people of Thror, and often imparted news which otherwise was secret.
In the real Middle-earth such birds were believed to bring important messages from the spirit world to those who could understand them. And one such crow became a central character in the destiny of a famous seventh-century king. This story takes us back to Northumbria.
King Edwin Converts
Inland from the Northumbrian coast lies the site of a fabulous Anglo-Saxon timber castle called Yeavering, nestling in a valley to the north of the Cheviot Hills, near the present border with Scotland. It was discovered by archaeologists in 1956, and the excavations revealed an extraordinary array of buildings. The massive timber hall, other unusual buildings and even a sports grandstand suggest that for the people of those times, this may have been the most impressive English castle of its day. The castle has been dated to the court of Edwin, king of Northumbria from AD 617 until he was killed in battle in 633. The story of this king encapsulates the power politics of religions, and culminates in an act of magic with a messenger crow – which seals the fate of the king.
Early in his kingship, Edwin’s mentor, the powerful King Redwald of East Anglia, died. Redwald’s dominance had engendered subservience and resentment among other chieftains, but also a degree of political stability in the country. His death resulted in a scramble of negotiations as lesser kings sought alliances with others to consolidate their positions. Edwin was as eager as anyone, and was pleased to form an alliance with King Eadbald of Kent. He must have valued this compact highly, for he confirmed it by marrying the Kentish king’s sister Aethelburgh, thus creating a family bond with his ally.
But this is where the subtext of Edwin’s story begins to materialize. Edwin had not, like some kings, converted to the new religion of Christianity. In fact, in religious terms, he had been committed to the old ways – his first wife had been the sister of Penda, the heathen king of Mercia. But his new ally, Eadbald of Kent, was Christian. And so the terms of marriage to his sister Princess Aethelburgh allowed her the freedom to practise her own religion, and to have her own priest in her royal household in Northumbria. We do not know the fate of Edwin’s first wife. We do know that he still declined to be baptized himself.
Aethelburgh took an Italian priest with her to Northumbria. Called Paulinus, he had been based in Canterbury as a missionary. At that time he was probably in his fifties – an advanced age for those times – and experienced in the politics of religion and kings.
Edwin’s colourful life exploded into action again on Easter Sunday of 626. An assassin sent by the West Saxon king Cuichelm insinuated himself into Edwin’s court. He loitered and lingered, waiting for his opportunity – and then lunged at the king with a poisoned knife. Lilla, one of the king’s bodyguards, hurled himself in front of the knife, and was killed by the stabbing blade. Edwin was wounded by the assassin, but survived. Queen Aethelburgh, Edwin’s pregnant wife, was so shocked by the bloody attack that she went into labour, and their daughter Eanfleada was born during the following night. Edwin gave thanks to his gods. Paulinus gave thanks to Christ, saying that it was through His intervention that the Queen’s life had been spared during the sudden birth.
Edwin, as wily as Paulinus, resisted the moral pressure to convert to Christianity. But he added another hook. He said that he would seek revenge against King Cuichelm, and if the Christian God would gain victory for him, and also enable him to recover fully from his wound, he would agree to be baptized. Edwin led his army right to the south of England, and defeated his enemy.
Edwin’s pride swelled. His position as king was strengthened by his military victory, for wealth began to flow into the kingdom as tribute from those for whom he was now overlord. He could dispense gold rings and expensive gifts to his greatest warriors and warlords. But still he stalled plans to take instruction, and be baptized. We do not know whether this was to avoid creating enemies of heathen kings such as Penda, or whether he was personally repelled by Christianity. But his reluctance caused alarm among the power brokers across Christian Europe. Pope Boniface in Rome sent Aethelburgh gifts of a silver looking-glass and an ivory gilt comb, along with a letter urging her to continue to try to persuade her husband to become Christian.
Finally, Edwin agreed to convene a council to discuss the matter of Christian conversion. Famously reported by Bede, a debate was held in the King’s council in the winter of 626–7 at which Paulinus made his case. At the conclusion, Edwin arranged to accept the Christian case, and his chief wizard of the Old Religion, Coifi, desecrated and destroyed his shrines by performing the symbolic act of throwing a spear into them. Edwin and his thegns agreed to accept Christianity.
Edwin and his court were baptized the following Easter Day AD 627, in a new wooden church at York. The populace of Northumbria were ordered to follow suit, and Paulinus carried out mass baptisms in the rivers. How seriously this was taken by the populace is doubtful, still steeped as they were in the magical world view of their ancestors. And as we shall see, the crow incident confirmed their scepticism.
Edwin replaced Coifi, his previous spiritual advisers and wizards, from his court. Christian priests were appointed by Paulinus who was, of course, committed to replacing the old ways of Middle-earth with his ‘new’ religion.
The Crow’s Omen
In the Life of St Gregory, written between AD 680 and 714 by an anonymous monk of Whitby, and one of the very earliest pieces of literature in England, it is narrated that one Sunday, some time after converting to Christianity and dismissing his wizards, Edwin strode down the street to Church accompanied by Bishop Paulinus and his retinue. This may well have been down a street in seventh-century York, where he had hurriedly built a little church. Suddenly, reports the ancient manuscript, a crow landed in a tree nearby and ‘sang with an evil omen’. The whole company stopped and stared at the bird, transfixed.
In Middle-earth belief, birds were sensitive to the ebb and flow of events, and could therefore be harbingers of the future. Crows and ravens, in particular, delivered messages which could be interpreted only by wizards who understood their language. Often they warned of impending death.
Edwin and his retinue, only recently baptized, must still have been saturated with these assumptions, traditions and beliefs. They would have been terrified by the ominous presence of a singing crow. After all, it was well known that when Hermigisel, King of the Warni (a tribe closely related to the Angles) in Germany, was out riding, he noticed a bird perched in a branch above his head. The king interpreted the croaking as a warning that he would die within forty days. Tantalizingly, we do not know whether the prophecy came true. We know only that on his deathbed, in around AD 500, he advised his son Radger to follow the custom of their ancestors and to marry Hermigisel’s wife, Radger’s stepmother.
The crows had significance for the Celts too, especially with regard to death. In Ireland, in a legend about the hero Cu Chulainn, a goddess of war called Babd came in the form of a crow to the top of the house where Cu Chulainn was staying and uttered the magic words that were to lead the hero to his downfall. Then, when he had fallen and she wanted to make sure he was really dead, she approached the hero’s corpse in the form of a crow, sweeping down from the highest reaches of the heavens to utter three cries over him, then settled in the foliage of a hawthorn opposite, so that thicket in the plain of Muirthemne is known as the ‘hawthorn of the crow’.
This crow-goddess also appeared in human form, her appearance reflecting her bird-spirit. A description of her appears in the story of ‘Da Choca’s Hostel’:
Now when they were there they saw coming to them towards the hostel, a big-mouthed black swift sooty woman, lame and squinting with her left eye. She wore a threadbare dingy cloak. Dark as the back of a stag-beetle was every joint of her, from the top of her head to the ground. Her filleted grey hair fell back over her shoulder. She leant her shoulder against the doorpost and began prophesying evil to the host, and to utter ill words … then the Badb went from them.
Edwin was faced with a singing crow, but no longer had a wizard to interpret the message, and advise him how to profit from the bird’s warning. The bishop was galvanized into action by the petrified faces of Edwin and his entourage. It was imperative that he regain control of the situation. ‘Shoot an arrow carefully into the bird’ he ordered. One of the king’s bodyguards cocked his bow and fired. The arrow pierced the crow and it fell dead from the tree. Grasping the arrow, the bishop took the dead bird to the church hall, and there brandished it in the air in front of a probably sceptical congregation who had been ordered to show up for Christian instruction. Paulinus proclaimed that this ‘proved that they should know by so clear a sign that the ancient evil of idolatry was worthless to anybody’, since the bird ‘did not know that it sang of death for itself’ and so could not prophesy anything for those ‘baptized in the image of God’. In other words, a bird which could not even foretell its own imminent death could not prophesy anything at all. Clearly Paulinus knew that the congregation would believe that a crow or raven had the gift of foretelling the future – it was one of the cursed ‘idolatries’ which he was trying to stamp out.
Of course, this is a Christian story, presumbly slanted by its monkish author to show the wonders of that faith, and illustrate how misguided the pagan beliefs were. But Middle-earth wizards would have reckoned the bishop to have made a serious mistake. He had assumed that if the crow had known it was going to be shot, it would have tried to save its life by flying away. But prophetic animals were not merely mortal creatures. This crow was a ‘spirit messenger’. It would not, in Middle-earth belief, have been afraid of ‘death’ in the material world. So the intervention of the bishop probably did not convince the congregation. And certainly the crow’s message was not interpreted for King Edwin.
Edwin perhaps took extra precautions, especially since he had already survived one assassination attempt. We do not know how long he survived after the crow incident, because we do not have a date for it. But when the end came, it was devastating. Edwin had been concentrating on the threats to his kingdom from various princely pretenders to the throne around whom ambitious warlords in the North were gathering. But instead, the fateful conclusion came from an alliance of the Mercian king Penda and the Welsh king Cadwallon. Penda was still a powerful and feared heathen warrior, brother of Edwin’s first, pagan wife. They killed Edwin in battle in 633 in the fenlands at Hatfield, near Doncaster. Queen Aethelburgh fled back to Kent with her children, accompanied by Bishop Paulinus. The kingdom of Northumbria was ravaged and burned by the invaders.
Yeavering Castle was apparently abandoned after Edwin’s death. Another site was established a short distance away at Millfield, where a new hall was built. Historians reckon it was abandoned because it had been damaged in Mercian raids, or because it was associated with a particular branch of the Northumbrian dynasty. Much more likely is that it was abandoned because the awesome unfolding of Wyrd had brought down Edwin’s glorious sixteen-year reign – just as the Roman villas were avoided by the incoming Saxons 200 years earlier. He had been baptized a Christian for his own political ends, and paid the price. Could the crow have been warning him against Penda?
The Raven Banner
Germanic and Norse war leaders sometimes attempted to exert power over ravens and to accommodate their magical powers to their cause. Certainly for their opponents, the appearance of the ravens on the side of the enemy would have been terrifying, given their significance as messengers of death. In Celtic legend, a leader called Owein is described in The Dream of Rhonabury, dating to the thirteenth century in its present form, but containing pagan elements which show that it had existed for centuries as an oral tale. Owein is playing a board game called ‘wooden wisdom’ with another leader called Arthur, when a squire approaches them and informs Owein that Arthur’s men are attacking and molesting his ravens. Owein asks Arthur to call his men off the ravens. Arthur ignores his request and simply says, ‘Play your game.’ This happens three times, until the last message reports that the ravens are almost massacred, the most famous raven slain and the others so weak with loss of blood that they can barely rise into the air.
Owein commands the messenger to return to the scene of the conflict and raise aloft the raven banner. This is done, and immediately the birds are revived.
Having recovered their strength and their magic powers, in rage and exaltation they straightway swooped upon the men who had earlier inflicted hurt and injury and loss upon them. Of some, they were carrying off the heads, of others the eyes, of others the ears and of others the arms; and they were raising them up in the air, and there was a great commotion in the air, what with the fluttering of the ravens and their croaking, and another great commotion what with the cries of the men being gashed.
So banners depicting the raven carried with them a magical power, a sense of indestructibility.
As ever, many of the bloody battles between warlords, chieftains and kings were over wealth, power and honour. Some were about rival religions, and involved the power of Rome and Europe-wide politics. Essentially it was a struggle for control of the magic. The wizards and seeresses practised with the blessings and energies of the enchanted landscape and the spirit world, whereas the Christian missionaries wanted those powers to be mediated exclusively through the Church. Most of them sincerely believed this was the way of truth, although some of it was undoubtedly a human need for power and prestige. This struggle for power, and the story of the crow, has an epilogue. It is in a chronicle written by William Ramsey in the twelfth century.
He recounts how, a hundred years earlier, the Earl of Northumbria, Siward the Stout, felt drawn to walk along his coastline. He was a famed and important supporter of King Cnut, Overlord of England. Siward’s bodyguards were kept at a distance. The crows wheeled above the gleaming beach as the tide drew in. And there on the beach, he saw the cloaked figure of an old man. They met. The old man prophesied Siward’s future, and gave him advice. Then he reached into his tunic, and pulled out a banner, called Ravenlandeye. It had on it the image of a raven – the emblem of Odin, god of the wizards, who had the ravens Huginn and Muninn as his messengers. Some historians reckon that the old man with the magical gift of prophecy and the raven-banner of Odin was the god himself, even though the twelfth-century Christian chronicler of Crowland who has given us this account did not know what underlay his tale.
The raven banner was given by the earl to the city of York, where it was placed in St Mary’s Church. The translation of Odin’s banner into a venerated possession of Old St Mary’s in York was one of the symbols of the passing of Middle-earth, and the beginning of the next thousand years, one of Christian and secular sentiments. But in the times of Middle-earth, people were aware of the passing of aeons, and the beginning of the new. The raven would also have known that at the end of that thousand years, another would begin – one in which the magic of Middle-earth would arise again.