BIRTH AND CHILDHOOD
The court of King Edgar, c. 966 × 9–75
We know remarkably little about the earliest years of Æthelred’s life. He was the son of King Edgar ‘the Peacemaker’ (957/9–78) with his third wife, Ælfthryth. We know neither the date nor the precise circumstances of his birth: he cannot have been born before 966, since he is not included in the witness-list of the New Minster refoundation charter (which otherwise covers all immediate members of the royal family as of that year), but must have been alive by 969, when he is listed amongst the royal offspring in a genealogical tract.1 That we do not know more is partly a product of the slim source base for these years: the only continuous narrative, that furnished by the various versions of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, is extremely laconic, and the information supplied by other sources does little to fill the gaps, at least where the young prince is concerned. But even if we were to have richer sources, we would not necessarily expect to hear much more about Æthelred’s early years; detailed knowledge about a royal youth is the exception, not the rule, in the earlier Middle Ages. This is partly down to differing attitudes towards birth and childhood: death dates were more important than birth dates, since these determined when masses and prayers were said for one’s soul.2 High rates of infant mortality also had a part to play: one could rarely be sure that any given son would live to succeed his father (at least one of Æthelred’s elder brothers, Edmund, was indeed to predecease Edgar). It was, therefore, only as teens that princes started to become noteworthy individuals, around the time when according to Isidore of Seville (d. 636), the great medieval encyclopaedist, boyhood ( pueritia, covering the ages seven to fourteen) gave way to adolescence (adolescentia, ranging from fourteen to twenty-eight).3 However, while there may be little we can say about the specific circumstances of Æthelred’s birth and youth, there is much to be said about the period into which he was born.
In what follows we shall first examine the historical background to Edgar’s reign, considering the kingdom he inherited; then we will discuss three core themes in these years, all of which were to have a significant bearing on Æthelred’s upbringing and subsequent reign: administrative and institutional centralization; monastic reform; and the development of the office of queen.
England between Alfred the Great and Edgar ‘the Peacemaker’ (871–957/9)
Æthelred was born at an eventful time, both for England and for the rest of western Europe. As mentioned, he was the third son of Edgar, the great-grandson of Alfred the Great (871–99). The period between Alfred’s accession in the late ninth century and Æthelred’s birth in the mid-tenth had seen striking and enduring changes in England’s political landscape. Before Alfred’s time the region had been divided into many different kingdoms of varying size and influence, the most important being Wessex to the south and west of the Thames (Alfred’s own realm), Kent in the south-east (incorporated into Wessex by Alfred’s immediate predecessors), Mercia in the Midlands, East Anglia to the east and Northumbria in the north (Map 1). Although in the eighth and ninth centuries there had been a trend towards larger and more powerful realms which could exert a degree of influence over their immediate neighbours, there was no attempt to unify all (or even most) of the English-speaking peoples.4 This all changed upon the arrival of the major viking force known as the ‘Great Army’ (Old English: micel here) in 865. Although Scandinavian raiders had been making their influence felt in the British Isles for some time, this army was something new: larger and better organized than earlier forces, it represented a different kind of threat.5 It overran Northumbria (867), East Anglia (869–70) and much of Mercia (874) in quick succession; and, though Wessex under Alfred was able to halt its advance, the political geography of southern Britain had been indelibly changed as a result. When, following a decisive victory at Edington in 878, the West Saxons went on the offensive, the number of potential rivals had been significantly reduced: Mercia was but a shadow of its former self (and now dependent on its West Saxon allies), while the new Scandinavian rulers to the east and north, dangerous though they might be, seem to have operated on a smaller scale than had their Anglo-Saxon predecessors. The exception, the powerful viking kingdom of York, lay a safe distance away from Alfred and his successors in Wessex. Moreover, its rulers maintained active interests in Dublin, which often served to distract them from more southerly affairs.6 The years between Alfred the Great’s accession and Æthelred’s birth can thus be characterized as ones of steady – though not inexorable – expansion. The first move came soon after the victory at Edington, when Alfred incorporated Mercia into his realm, establishing the local nobleman Æthelred as ealdorman – that is, a royal functionary, rather like a continental count or duke – to rule the region on his behalf. This sudden expansion is reflected in the king’s titles: whereas his predecessors had styled themselves ‘king of the West Saxons’ or ‘king of the West Saxons and men of Kent’, Alfred is henceforth called ‘king of the Angles and Saxons’ or ‘king of the Anglo-Saxons’ (rex Anglorum et Saxonum or rex Angulsaxonum), titles which give expression to the new union between the Saxon kingdom of Wessex and its Anglian neighbours to the north in Mercia.7 This new ‘Anglo-Saxon’ identity was fostered at court and works such as the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle bear witness to it, illustrating the common heritage of the English-speaking peoples in their common tongue.8 Alfred’s son, Edward the Elder (899–924), inherited this ‘Kingdom of the Anglo-Saxons’ and expanded it further, incorporating East Anglia and the ‘Five Boroughs’ of the northern Midlands (Leicester, Stamford, Derby, Nottingham and Lincoln). Edward also took over direct control of Mercia, which had hitherto been ruled by the quasi-regal Æthelred (c. 881–911) and his wife and successor Æthelflæd (911–18).9 More fundamental change, however, was first to come under Edward’s son, Æthelstan (924–39). Although in his earliest years Æthelstan too was styled ‘king of the Anglo-Saxons’, after his conquest of York in 927 he consistently bears more ambitious titles, generally variations on ‘king of the English’ (rex Anglorum) or ‘king of all Britain’ (rex totius Britanniae). This change in styles reflects a sea change in how the realm was conceived: whereas the ‘Kingdom of the Anglo-Saxons’ was a product of a West Saxon–Mercian alliance, this now gave way to a more unified vision of the kingdom as being constituted by a single people, ‘the English’ (Angli).10
However, if it was at Æthelstan’s court that the concept of a coherent ‘Kingdom of the English’ was born, it was his successors’ reigns which saw this idea transformed into reality. Following Æthelstan’s death most of his and his father’s gains in the Midlands and East Anglia – those regions later known as the ‘Danelaw’ after Scandinavian settlement there – were lost to Olaf Guthfrithson, the leader of the York (and Dublin) vikings. The fortuitous death of Olaf in 941 allowed Æthelstan’s half-brother and successor Edmund (939–46) to re-establish the ‘Kingdom of the English’; however, York remained something of a sticking point and it was only in 954 that Eadred (946–55), Edmund’s brother and successor, definitively integrated this region into the English realm. Following the death of Eadred and accession of Eadwig (955–9), the elder son of Edmund, what had been a story of conquest became one of consolidation. Eadwig’s reign saw the division of the kingdom between the king and his younger brother, Edgar, who took up rule north of the Thames in 957. Although this move has earned Eadwig censure from medieval and modern commentators alike, there may have been good grounds for it. Fraternal succession was fairly common in this period and dividing the realm was an expedient way of ensuring that Edgar had sufficient experience of rule before his own accession. Such a division was not without precedent: when Alfred the Great’s father, Æthelwulf, departed to Rome in 855, he divided the West Saxon kingdom between his two eldest sons, one of whom took over Wessex proper while the other was established in Kent; and following the death of Edward the Elder in 924 the realm seems to have been temporarily divided between Æthelstan north of the Thames and his half-brother Ælfweard to the south (though whether this had been planned is not entirely clear).11 The benefit of such a division in 957 presumably lay in pleasing local sentiment: it made for a more accessible ruler in the north, where the inhabitants of Mercia and the Danelaw still harboured memories of earlier glories. Indeed, it is probably no accident that Edgar, who had been fostered by the powerful ealdorman of East Anglia, Æthelstan Half-King, was the one appointed to these regions.12 In any case, the arrangement was not to last long, since Eadwig died in 959, leaving the entire kingdom in the hands of his younger brother.
The reign of King Edgar: administrative consolidation
Edgar’s reign presents something of a paradox. We know that important developments were afoot, but we are often ill-informed as to their course and nature, a fact which famously led Sir Frank Stenton to assert that ‘it is a sign of Edgar’s competence as ruler that his reign is singularly devoid of recorded incident.’13 This was a key moment in the formation of a consolidated realm, during which the aspirations of Edgar’s predecessors started to become something approximating reality. These developments were no doubt in part a product of the period’s famed peacefulness; with the Scandinavian rulers of Dublin otherwise occupied, the integration of York, first attempted in 927 (and finally settled in 954), could step up apace. Signs of greater interest in the region can already be seen during Edgar’s reign north of the Thames (957–9), during which a number of figures bearing Scandinavian names appear as witnesses to his charters.14 Later on these individuals largely disappear from sight, but the officer charged with overseeing York (whose title is generally ‘earl’ rather than ‘ealdorman’, as was common further south) remains a regular presence. Edgar’s involvement in the affairs of the northern parts of his realm is also reflected in the ordinances issued at Wihtbordesstan (precise location unknown), known as IV Edgar, in which he became the first ruler to acknowledge the different legal customs governing the region.15
Edgar’s reign is also significant from an administrative standpoint. Although under Alfred, Edward and Æthelstan we have hints of important institutional developments, these first come fully to light under Edgar.16 The key challenge faced by these rulers was how to govern a rapidly expanding realm: Alfred the Great’s ‘Kingdom of the Anglo-Saxons’ was already almost twice the size of his father’s ‘Kingdom of the West Saxons’, while Æthelstan’s ‘Kingdom of the English’ was more than twice that of Alfred’s again. In order to overcome this challenge, kings delegated greater authority to local representatives while also seeking to create new administrative networks in which these figures could operate. The most important and enduring of the resulting divisions was the shire (or county), which remains the cornerstone of British local government to this day. The early history of the shire is hard to trace. Already in the ninth century it seems to have been the core administrative division within Wessex. Originally each shire was overseen by an ealdorman, who was charged with raising levies and perhaps also overseeing the local court (though the evidence is scant on the latter point). At the heart of the shire lay the local assembly (the ‘shire court’), at which such business was conducted. As the kingdom grew, it became necessary to entrust ever larger areas to ealdormen, however, severing the link between these officers and the shire. The expanding realm also posed other problems: since the shire was a West Saxon phenomenon, it had to be instituted in newly conquered regions in order to ensure that justice could be administered there in the same manner.17 As a part of this process we start to see a new kind of royal officer appear: the shire reeve (or sheriff, as he would later be known), who plugged the gap between the ealdorman and shire, taking over partial responsibility for local administration (though ealdormen continued to play a role here). How swiftly this process proceeded is a matter of debate: traditionally the shiring of England is thought to have been the work of Edward the Elder and Æthelstan, and the appearance of the shire reeve is placed somewhat later; but recent work suggests that developments may have been more gradual, with shiring first becoming systematic under Edgar and his successors and the shire reeve emerging as part of this process.18
It is not only shires and shire reeves that begin to appear at this point. Tougher to trace, but no less important, are two smaller administrative divisions: the hundred and the tithing. Like the shire, the origins of the hundred lie in earlier governmental arrangements. As it appears in the later Anglo-Saxon period, however, the hundred is a product of tenth-century developments. It is, in essence, a subdivision of the shire, designed to allow access to justice at a more local level. The hundred – or wapentake (Old Norse vápnatak, referring to the taking of weapons), as its northern Danelaw equivalent was known – was administered by the local leading men and, like its larger counterpart, was characterized by assemblies: each hundred had one or more meeting sites, at which various legal and administrative matters were overseen. This was the forum to which most people would appeal in cases of wrongdoing – the shire court was only to be consulted if it proved impossible to find justice here.19 The tithing, on the other hand, sat alongside the hundred. It took the form of a group of ten (or possibly as many as twelve or more) free men who swore not to undertake any act of theft and to accept mutual responsibility for the others if they were to do so.20 The tithing thus made local communities responsible for the acts of their own malefactors. Since tithings and hundreds operated on a smaller scale and a more local level than shires, it is harder to trace their evolution and operation. Nevertheless, as with the shire, there are both tantalizing hints of early developments (particularly in the reign of Æthelstan), and signs that these first started to become systematic under Edgar. Thus, while the first reference to a hundred comes from decrees in the name of Edmund, the first works to discuss the operation of the hundred court in any detail date from Edgar’s reign. These ordinances are also amongst the first to discuss tithings, illustrating the close relationship between the two.21
Similar developments toward a greater standardization can be seen in the coinage of the period. Since the pioneering work of Michael Dolley and David Metcalf, it has become clear that Edgar oversaw an important overhaul of the monetary system towards the end of his reign (probably c. 973).22 Whereas the coins of earlier tenth-century rulers reveal various signs of regionalization – different types were minted in different areas and circulated largely (though not exclusively) within these – Edgar for the first time established that only one type would be in circulation at a time throughout his realm. Subsequently it became common to have recoinages every six or seven years, in which the previous type would be recalled and replaced by a new one. Whether this was the plan from the start, as Dolley believed, is doubtful, however, and the impression is that variation was the order of the day in these early years – certain basic principles were observed, but the approach was more experimental than systematic.23 Such measures certainly presuppose a high degree of royal oversight and it is not without reason that Edgar’s reform has been seen as one of the crowning achievements of late Anglo-Saxon kingship. Nevertheless, the reform built on a long-standing tradition of royal control over coinage and more recent work has relativized some of the more extreme claims of Dolley and others.24 Indeed, though the degree of standardization achieved by Edgar is impressive, there continued to be regional variation in die-cutting and it is unlikely that a strict scheme of recoinages every six years was ever enforced (if, indeed, this had been the intention).
Edgar thus took existing traditions forward in novel and important fashions. Yet as important as these pragmatic measures was the ideological contribution of his reign. As George Molyneaux notes, it was in this period that English rulers finally settled on ‘king of the English’ as their standard title, dropping the claims to dominion over all Britain which had been a periodic feature of royal titulature since the time of Æthelstan. Molyneaux argues that this was a product of the administrative developments sketched above: as kingship became more intensive within the English realm, the distinction between this direct form of rule and the loose overlordship exerted over the other regions of Britain became unmistakable; for Edgar or Æthelred to claim to rule Wales and northern Britain in the same manner as they did Wessex or Mercia was no longer possible. Though claims to broader insular domination were not dropped as swiftly as Molyneaux implies – both Edgar and Æthelred were often styled rulers of ‘all Britain’ or ‘Albion’ – there is certainly something to these arguments, which explain why later rulers are generally known as ‘kings of the English’ (or even ‘of England’), even when, as was frequently the case, they continued to exert a degree of influence over their immediate neighbours.25
Perhaps the most classic expression of Edgar’s power and influence came in 973, when the king underwent a second coronation at Bath at Pentecost, followed by a meeting with the rulers of Wales and northern Britain at Chester. This was clearly a show of strength: Bath’s Roman ruins and waters – the latter perhaps reminiscent of Aachen, the symbolic centre of the Carolingian realms on the continent – were redolent of ‘imperial’ status, while the presence of the neighbouring Welsh and northern British rulers at Chester (on English ground, that is) served to underline Edgar’s claims to insular dominion further.26 This act reveals an important further aspect of Edgar’s regime: the role of pomp and ceremony. Though his predecessors were clearly alive to the political potential of ritual and display, Edgar’s reign also seems to represent something of a watershed here: accounts of the period are replete with descriptions of ritualized activity, much of which is associated with the royal court.27 Edgar was probably learning lessons from his continental counterparts: such ceremonial played a central role at the Ottonian court in Germany (and northern Italy), where it began to take on new dimensions following the imperial coronation of Otto I in 962, while in France too a heightened interest in demonstrative behaviour can be seen in these years (perhaps in response to developments east of the Rhine).28 The importance of ritual and display lay above all in its ability to project an image of the king and his regime; as the realm expanded, it helped bridge the gap between monarch and people. There was a religious undertone to much of this symbolic activity and it sat alongside other efforts to emphasize the sacrality and inviolability of royal office in these years. Indeed, there is reason to believe that much of this interest in pomp and show was cultivated within the circles of monastic reform, and it is to this that we must turn if we are to gain a fuller understanding of Edgar’s regime.
King Edgar and the church: monastic reform
One of the most striking features of Edgar’s reign was the king’s support for monastic reform. This movement – or more accurately: series of movements – swept across Europe in the tenth century and the English took inspiration here from their continental neighbours. In order to appreciate the importance of these events, we must, however, briefly consider the broader history of monasticism.
Although born in the deserts of Egypt in the third and fourth centuries, by the fifth and sixth monasticism had spread throughout the provinces and former provinces of the Roman Empire. The original holy men of North Africa and the Middle East had lived a solitary life as hermits, but it was communal (or coenobitic) monasticism which was to prove popular in the Latin-speaking west. The model was provided by Martin of Tours (d. 397), the Roman soldier-cum-bishop (and monk) who was instrumental in bringing monastic life to the west. Early communal tendencies derived further impetus from the rules for monastic life drawn up in the sixth century, the most influential being that of Benedict of Nursia (the so-called Benedictine Rule), which places great emphasis on community and stability, singling out monks who lead a peripatetic lifestyle (‘gyro-vagues’) for particular censure.29 However, while the basic principle of coenobitic life came to be accepted across the former Western Empire, variety continued to characterize monasticism. Indeed, though Benedict’s Rule circulated widely, there was little attempt to apply it beyond the abbot’s own foundation at Monte Cassino; other houses tended to follow ‘mixed rules’, which combined elements of various authoritative texts (of which Benedict’s was but one) with local traditions.30 Under such circumstances the very distinction between monastic and clerical life often blurred and the Latin term monasterium (‘monastery’) could be used to describe what we would now call cathedral chapters or houses of canons, a fact which has left its mark on Modern English usage, in which ‘minster’ – derived from monasterium – can describe any important church.31
The first serious attempts to impose greater unity came in the ninth century, when, under the influence of Benedict of Aniane (whose vocational name was a conscious homage to Benedict of Nursia), Louis the Pious (814–40) set out to impose Benedictine observance throughout the monasteries of his empire, which stretched across much of modern France, Switzerland and the Low Countries, as well as large parts of Italy, Germany and Austria. In order to achieve this, Louis called together a series of reforming councils at Aachen (816–19), at which he and Benedict called for greater standardization of monastic practice in line with the Rule. These efforts built on the initiatives of Louis’s father, the great Frankish ruler Charlemagne (768–814), who had sought to achieve greater consistency in other aspects of religious life; what was new was the specifically monastic focus. Behind these endeavours stood a new imperial ideology, one which took the monastery as a model for empire: just as Louis ruled over only one realm, so too there was to be only one form of monastic observance within this.32 Although the emperor’s calls for conformity were never fully realized and a degree of variety was always accepted in practice, they left a strong legacy and would be echoed by many later reformers. Indeed, by establishing the Benedictine Rule as the ultimate measure of monastic practice, Louis created a yardstick for judging the successes and (more often) failings of individual monastic houses.
The reform movements of the tenth century in many respects represent a continuation of those of the ninth; they hark back to the efforts of Louis and Benedict, and in a number of cases direct lines of continuity can be traced. Traditionally, these new undertakings have been seen as a reaction against abuses within once reformed centres, which had crept in during the later ninth century when viking, Muslim and Magyar (Hungarian) raids wreaked havoc across large swathes of the Carolingian empire. However, more recent studies have significantly modified this picture, demonstrating that though monastic life suffered notably in some places, in many others there are signs of continuity and even vitality throughout this period, which belie the later tales of destruction and negligence painted by the reformers.33 We are not, therefore, dealing with a sharp break, but a gradual development out of the ninth century. To understand why we see such ‘waves’ of reform we must appreciate the rhetoric employed by the reformers. Benedict of Aniane and his associates called upon a deep-seated sense of decline within the Christian tradition – decline since man had been expelled from the Garden of Eden, decline since Christ and his apostles had set an example for the gentiles, and decline since the time of the desert fathers and Benedict of Nursia, when monasticism had first been placed on a firm footing.34 The reformers thus looked back to a semi-mythical past and in doing so set the bar impossibly high; since perfection could neither be achieved nor maintained, there was always room for improvement (or, as a senior colleague once remarked, ‘monks are always in need of reform!’). This is what gave monasticism its ‘volcanic’ character, explaining why from the ninth century to the fifteenth (and, indeed, beyond) there is scarcely a period of European history which did not witness the eruption of some form of monastic reform or another.35 A modern parallel is perhaps offered by debates about educational reform, which periodically make headlines across the western world: these too feed upon a deep-set perception that standards are slipping (education ‘is not what it used to be’). Thus, medieval monks – like many modern educational reformers – were striving for the unobtainable, seeking to re-establish an ideal that never was. The contribution of the Carolingians was not so much this mind-set, as the establishment of the Rule of St Benedict as the means by which to measure it. Hence when, within the span of a single generation in the 930s and 940s, reform once again became the order of the day across much of the former Carolingian empire, it was to the Rule and texts produced by Louis and Benedict which reformers turned.36
It is against this background that the English and continental reforms of the period must be judged. Although it was once common to speak of ‘monastic reform’ in the singular, it has become clear that there was great variety amongst these movements. Nevertheless, the reformers shared certain characteristics, some of which may be the result of direct contact and mutual influence, but many of which are a product of common traditions (above all a shared Carolingian heritage). The central ambition of these movements was to improve monastic life through a stricter dedication to the Rule. Particular causes for concern were secular influence on monastic life and (in particular) the election of abbots; the loss of church lands (often related to such secular interference); and laxity in monastic observance (itself frequently a consequence of the former issues). Reform sprang up largely independently in a number of different centres in France, Germany and the Low Countries and spread outward from these. The most important in this respect were Cluny in Burgundy; Fleury in the Loire Valley (which had been reformed by Odo of Cluny); the circles of Gerard of Brogne in the Low Countries (centred on Brogne itself and St-Peter’s, Ghent); and the ‘Gorzian’ houses of the Rhineland, particularly Gorze and St-Maximin in Trier.37 Although each of these movements displays certain distinctive features – ‘Gorzian’ reform, for example, is often held to have been more open to secular influence – they were far from homogenous and the labels used to designate them (‘Cluniac’, ‘Fleuriac’ and ‘Gorzian’) are but modern terms of convenience. Indeed, if there was a single common denominator behind them it tended to be the activity of one or more charismatic leaders.
From the very earliest days of these reforms such ideas began to make themselves felt in England. In the 930s Æthelstan’s court acted as a magnet for political, cultural and religious contacts with continental Europe: Dunstan and Æthelwold, two of the leading later reformers, met there, and their mentors Bishop Ælfheah ‘the Bald’ of Winchester and Bishop Coenwald of Worcester helped open the way for such influences.38 Ideas about monastic renewal could call upon existing traditions in England: already Alfred the Great had shown an interest in improving religious standards, fostering a tradition of royally sponsored piety which can be traced through the tenth century. In the years following Æthelstan’s reign reforming ideals started to take firmer root: under Edmund and Eadred a number of grants was made to ‘religious women’, which David Dumville sees as a sign of growing interest in religious life amongst the laity.39 It was in these years too that Oda, a relative of the later reformer Oswald and another early patron of reforming ideals, was appointed archbishop of Canterbury (941–58).40 Eadred himself is reported to have held Dunstan in high esteem, charging him with important administrative duties (apparently including the production of royal charters) during his later years, when the king was incapacitated by illness.41 Of more lasting importance was the emergence of the first reformed houses at Glastonbury and Abingdon. Glastonbury was entrusted to Dunstan by Edmund and, though secular clerics may have continued to live alongside monks there, its importance for the dissemination of ideas about reform is clear: it is here that many later reformers, including Æthelwold, are said to have received their training in monastic life, and it is through Glastonbury that many reforming texts seem to have been transmitted. At Abingdon, which Eadred granted to Æthelwold in order to prevent the holy man seeking his vocation on the continent, these developments were taken further: of all the reformers Æthelwold was to prove the strictest when it came to applying the stipulations of the Rule, and it was with monks trained at this centre that he was later able to spread reform to Winchester and beyond. Indeed, it may be at Abingdon that reforming ideals began to take on their characteristically monastic focus. Nevertheless, for all the signs that the material and intellectual foundations of the reform were laid in the reigns of Æthelstan, Edmund and Eadred (and perhaps also Eadwig, though he was later to receive something of a bad press at the hands of the reformers), it is important to emphasize the limits of these early initiatives: at the time of Edgar’s accession in 959 there were only two reformed houses and little sign that this number was likely to rise quickly. Moreover, while earlier tenth-century rulers took their religious duties seriously, there is no indication that monastic reform per se was a priority – indeed, when a group of clerics expelled from St-Bertin by the continental reformer Gerard of Brogne sought refuge in England in 944, they were welcomed with open arms and settled at Bath.42
When Edgar came to the throne the groundwork had thus been laid for a more thorough-going reform of English monasticism: there was a growing body of reform-minded monks at Glastonbury and (in particular) Abingdon, and there were figures such as Dunstan, Æthelwold and Oswald, who had an acquaintance with continental reforming traditions (in the former and latter cases at first hand) and were ready to take on the task of fronting the movement. Still, it was far from certain that reform would proceed as rapidly and successfully as it did. That within the span of little more than a decade it was implemented throughout much of England is thanks to the active support of Edgar, who showed a deep interest in and concern for monastic life. Already as king north of the Thames he had recalled Dunstan from exile (the latter having fallen foul of Eadwig and taken refuge at St-Peter’s, Ghent). Upon his return, Dunstan was immediately appointed bishop (957/8); for a brief time he may have operated as ‘bishop without portfolio’ (perhaps as a so-called chorepiscpous or ‘auxiliary bishop’), but upon the death of Coenwald of Worcester (958) he was appointed successor to this early proponent of reform. Shortly thereafter, he was promoted further, succeeding Brihthelm at the strategic see of London, which he may have held alongside Worcester.43 Yet Dunstan’s rise did not stop here: when Edgar took control of the south following Eadwig’s death in October 959, he drove the recently appointed Byrhthelm from Canterbury and installed Dunstan in his stead; whether the former had been formally anointed into his office or not is a moot point, but either way Dunstan’s instalment was evidently a matter of some urgency.44 Elsewhere Edgar proceeded more cautiously, but his priority was clearly to populate the most important sees of his kingdom with supporters of reform. Thus, when Worcester, the wealthiest diocese north of the Thames, became free in 961 the king appointed Oswald to this post (reportedly at Dunstan’s behest). As a relative of Oda of Canterbury, who had done much to pave the way for the later reform, Oswald was a natural choice; moreover, like Dunstan, he had first-hand experience of reformed monasticism on the continent, having spent time at Fleury in the earlier 950s.45 Two years later Winchester, the most important southern bishopric after Canterbury, became free, and this time it was Æthelwold who was appointed.
With these three bishoprics in the hands of reform-minded prelates, the way was open for more ambitious undertakings. Our accounts of the reform are all retrospective, in most cases written around the turn of the first millennium; nevertheless, it is clear that with royal support the movement was able to make rapid progress. Perhaps the most dramatic event came with the expulsion of secular clerics from the Old and New Minsters in Winchester – that is, the traditional chapter house and the adjacent monastery founded by Edward the Elder – undertaken by Æthelwold under royal fiat in 964.46 This was commemorated a few years later with the production of the lavish New Minster refoundation charter: probably drafted by Æthelwold and presented as a codex, rather than a single sheet of parchment, this is a programmatic statement of the reformers’ aims. It opens with a portrait of Edgar, flanked by St Mary and St Peter, granting the charter to Christ (Plate 1). The following text is written throughout in gold and begins with a lengthy preamble reflecting upon the origin of sin and Fall of Man (the expulsion of Adam and Eve from the Garden of Eden), likening this to the fate of monasticism in England, which has also fallen from earlier heights.47 The reformers’ role is thus presented as one of cleansing and purifying, restoring monastic life to its former glory.48 It was probably around this time (c. 966) that Edgar gave instructions to Æthelwold, Oswald and Dunstan to reform and refound monasteries throughout the rest of his realm.49 Æthelwold seems to have been the most active in this regard: in addition to Abingdon and the Old and New Minsters, he oversaw the reform (or refoundation) of Ely, Peterborough and Thorney in the east Midlands and East Anglia, and probably also Chertsey and Milton south of the Thames. Oswald, for his part, is reported to have introduced monks to Westbury-on-Trym, Winchcombe, Pershore and the cathedral chapter of Worcester within his own diocese, as well as Ramsey in the fenlands. Dunstan apparently introduced monastic observance to Glastonbury, Malmesbury and Westminster, and perhaps also Bath and centres in Kent (though the evidence here is slight). Many further houses were touched by reform, though the precise chronology and nature of developments is frequently unclear. The reformers took different approaches to their task: Æthelwold was reportedly the most stringent, tolerating nothing less than the strictest observance of the Rule; Oswald seems to have been more measured, allowing secular clerics to live alongside monks for a time at Worcester; while Dunstan was less actively involved – indeed, the degree of reforming activity undertaken at Canterbury and beyond is not entirely clear.
Reform was thus introduced by individuals with close contacts with the continent and one of its most striking contributions was the promotion of a new system of writing: Caroline minuscule, the script used elsewhere in Europe. Elements of Caroline writing may have been adopted earlier, but it was only in reformed houses that this came to be employed systematically.50 Another characteristic of reform was the popularization of the so-called ‘hermeneutic style’, a bombastic approach to Latin prose composition which had its roots in the writings of the Englishman Aldhelm of Malmesbury (d. 709/10), but was modelled more immediately on contemporary continental trends. Though this style too started to gain ground before the heyday of the reform, it was avidly adopted by the reformers and came to be something of a badge of pride amongst them.51 However, for all it owed to the continent, the English reform was distinctive in many respects. It not only drew on earlier traditions within the British Isles (above all the writings of the eighth-century Northumbrian scholar Bede, which presented an earlier ‘Golden Age’ to which the reformers could aspire), but also enjoyed more direct royal patronage; whereas elsewhere reform was driven primarily by local prelates and magnates, such as Count Arnulf of Flanders (d. 965), Bishop Adalbero of Metz (d. 962) and Duke Giselbert of Lotharingia (d. 939), in England it was the king who took the lead.52 This is not to say that lay aristocrats did not contribute to developments in England, nor that continental rulers were unreceptive to reforming impulses; the balance was simply different. In this respect, Edgar looks more like Louis the Pious than his immediate French and German counterparts, and it would be the early eleventh century before the latter started to take similar initiatives.53 The importance of such royal patronage is reflected in the place given to prayers for the king and queen in the Regularis concordia, the key document of the reform, promulgated at Edgar’s behest at the Council of Winchester in order to regularize monastic customs within the realm (probably c. 970).54
Related to more direct (and assertive) royal patronage is another distinctive feature of the English reform: the emphasis on unity of practice. As the Regularis concordia states, it was promulgated because the king had observed that English monks were ‘of one faith, but not of one manner of observance’ (una fide, non tamen uno consuetudinis usu) and therefore urged them to be ‘of one mind regarding the manner of observance’ (concordes aequali consuetudinis usu), settling on appropriate practices to be followed throughout the realm.55 Such sentiments owe much to the texts promulgated by Louis the Pious in the early ninth century, but find little immediate echo elsewhere in Europe. Indeed, though reformers on the continent valued unity of practice in conformity with the Rule (as the presence of monks from Ghent at the Council of Winchester demonstrates), this apparently came second to the restitution of lost estates and the resistance of lay lordship. To appreciate the full significance of such regularization and standardization to Edgar and his monastic advisers (above all Æthelwold), we must look not only to Carolingian precedent, but also to the context in which the English reforms were nurtured. Unlike West and East Francia, the English kingdom was a recent creation and in his youth Edgar had seen it divided between himself and his elder half-brother. Reform offered a blueprint for unity: it provided an ideological underpinning for administrative centralization, sending the powerful message – as it had under Louis the Pious – that within one realm there was to be only one form of monastic usage. Yet the potential of reform was not purely ideological: by removing monasteries from secular oversight (except, of course, that of king and queen), Edgar also secured greater influence over the religious houses of his realm, centres which thanks to royal patronage were now increasingly wealthy and politically active.56 That so many reformed houses lay in the fenlands of the East Midlands and East Anglia may therefore be significant; reform seems to have been part and parcel of how royal authority was asserted within the region.57
Still, one should not reduce Edgar’s aims to Realpolitik. More important than any immediate practical gains were the religious rewards which might accrue. Already Alfred the Great had expressed the conviction that the ravages of the viking ‘Great Army’ were a product of neglect for learning amongst the English, and this belief that the well-being of the realm depended upon national wisdom and piety was maintained and developed by his successors, whose active religious patronage forms a bridge between Alfredian educational renewal and Edgarian monastic reform.58 Indeed, the connection Alfred had drawn between the material well-being of the realm and the devotion of its ruler and people was taken to new heights by the tenth-century reformers. Æthelwold’s account of ‘Edgar’s Establishment of Monasteries’, which was written as a preface to his translation of the Rule of St Benedict (c. 966 × 970) – itself designed to make this work accessible ‘to laymen’ (woroldmonnum, a term also used for the secular clergy) – explicitly associates the king’s political success with his support for reform.59 A similar association between national well-being and royal piety had been drawn in the seventh-century Irish tract ‘The Twelve Abuses of the Age’ (De duodecim abusivis saeculi), which was popular in these years, especially within reforming circles.60 Edgar’s own decrees reveal that the king thought likewise: the Wihtbordesstan ordinances (IV Edgar), issued in the aftermath of a natural disaster (perhaps the ‘great mortality’ reported by the Chronicle under 962), frame themselves as an act of repentance, an attempt to restore order to the realm by returning to pious ways.61 (It may, incidentally, be more than a coincidence that Edgar’s first reforming acts came only two years after this plague, with the expulsion of clerics from the Old and New Minsters.)
Reform evidently sat well alongside Edgar’s other endeavours. He was a powerful monarch and his later epithet, pacificus, is best rendered ‘peace-maker’, not ‘the peaceable’ (as has become conventional): it implies the ability to ensure peace by means of force. At the same time, Edgar was a deeply religious king, who believed that his successes were owed in no small part to piety and support for reform. He bears comparison with the great Carolingian ruler Charlemagne, who dominated much of western Europe in the late eighth and early ninth centuries: a powerful, at times overbearing monarch, one who centralized administration but also patronized learning and renewed religion.62
Family and faction: Æthelred at the court of King Edgar
Edgar’s reign not only provides the context for Æthelred’s birth and youth, but also sets the scene for his later reign: administrative centralization and monastic reform were the order of the day and these must have informed the young prince’s understanding and expectations of royal rule. As noted, the English kingdom had been divided in the later 950s and it was only the chance death of Eadwig which enabled unity to be re-established in 959. While recent studies have done much to rehabilitate Eadwig’s brief reign, the division of the realm at this point reflects fundamental fault-lines within England’s ruling elite. Nowhere are these clearer than in the career of the later archbishop Dunstan, who was driven from Eadwig’s court in 956, only to be welcomed back with open arms by Edgar just over a year later. Further signs of tension come from the property transactions undertaken by Eadwig, many of which overturned acts of his predecessors; a changing of the guard was taking place, with new favourites emerging and being rewarded with the lands and rights of old associates.63 Edgar may have initially found support amongst the families of the dispossessed, but it would be misleading to see his accession in 959 as a simple return to the status quo ante; there is little evidence of direct hostility between Edgar and his elder brother, and most of the latter’s favourites found acceptance (and continued patronage) at Edgar’s court. Still, there can be little doubt that beneath the calm façade of Edgar’s reign lurked lingering tensions, tensions which found expression in part through the king’s complex marital politics.
Edgar is associated with at least three different women – Æthelflæd, Wulfthryth and Ælfthryth – and the reasons behind this serial monogamy have been the subject of much speculation.64 These matches were presumably contracted with political benefits in mind and it is noteworthy that they come towards the start of Edgar’s reign, when the king was in greatest need of support. Æthelflæd, who is thought to have been Edgar’s first consort, is reported by post-Conquest sources to have been the daughter ‘of the most powerful Ealdorman Ordmær’ (Ordmeri ducis potentissimi), apparently a man of some substance, perhaps in those regions first ruled by Edgar in 957–9.65 It has been suggested that this individual was an associate of Ealdorman Æthelstan Half-King and his family, who had enjoyed a dominant position in East Anglia since the 930s. An East Anglian nobleman of this name is indeed mentioned in the Libellus Æthelwoldi – a post-Conquest Latin text, based on an earlier vernacular work written in Ely (perhaps c. 986 × 996) – and this has been taken as confirmation of the identification.66 Plausible though this may be, it is not without problems: the Ordmær mentioned in the Libellus is clearly not an ealdorman, and it may be that later writers confused traditions relating to Æthelflæd with those concerning Edgar’s more famous third wife, Ælfthryth, whose father was indeed an ealdorman and bore the similar name Ordgar. In any case, Æthelflæd was certainly of noble stock and it was with her that Edgar’s first son, Edward, was born, probably in the late 950s or early 960s. What became of her is unclear: it is conceivable that Edgar dissolved the marriage in favour of a more advantageous match (perhaps soon after acceding to the southern part of the kingdom in 959); however, it is equally possible that she passed away in the early 960s (perhaps in childbirth, as Cyril Hart has suggested).67 Edgar’s other early consort, Wulfthryth, was raised at Wilton and later retired there. Her background is obscure, but her association with one of the kingdom’s most important nunneries indicates elevated status and it has been suggested that she belonged to a local noble family, perhaps that of the Wihtbord who makes an appearance in the Fonthill Letter, an earlier document pertaining to a dispute in the reign of Edward the Elder (c. 910).68 Wulfthryth certainly enjoyed close connections with Wilton, where her daughter with Edgar, Edith, went on to be abbess. How and when this match was contracted and broken off is unclear – indeed, it is not entirely certain that it constituted a formal marriage (certainly, later writers saw herein a stain upon the king).69 There would be nothing unusual in this: marriage was not yet a formal institution and it was common for noblemen to enter and dissolve matches swiftly.70 The political implications of marriage encouraged such serial monogamy; since unions amongst the nobility were political acts, they naturally shifted alongside other political constellations. This can be seen amongst Edgar’s continental counterparts: Henry I of East Francia (Germany) (919–36) famously repudiated his first wife once it became clear that he would be sole heir to his father (as a third son, there was little reason to anticipate this), meanwhile Robert the Pious of France (996–1031) went through no fewer than three wives in his quest for an heir.71 It may, therefore, be that as Edgar’s star began to rise his earlier matches were no longer deemed appropriate; certainly, his third wife, Ælfthryth, was cut from a different cloth.
That we know so much more about Ælfthryth is no accident: she was clearly a force to be reckoned with and her legacy casts a long shadow over Æthelred’s reign. Her family was amongst the most powerful in southern England. Her father, Ordgar, hailed from the south-west and appears as ealdorman of the region from 964 (a promotion he perhaps owed to his daughter’s marriage in this year). Ælfthryth herself had earlier been married to Ealdorman Æthelwold of East Anglia, the eldest son of the formidable Half-King, whose family enjoyed a key position in the eastern Danelaw.72 From the start Ælfthryth’s actions suggest a degree of confidence unusual in a royal wife and her reign has been identified as a decisive moment in the development of the office of queen.73 Before this, royal consorts had not wielded much power in England. Asser, the Welsh biographer of Alfred the Great, famously wrote of the ‘wrongful’ tradition of the West Saxons, according to which royal consorts were denied the title ‘queen’, being styled ‘the king’s wife’ (regis coniunx) instead. The reason was reportedly that the wife of Beorhtric, who had ruled Wessex in the late eighth century (786–802), had behaved tyrannically, eventually killing her own husband by mistake (the poison he imbibed was actually intended for another, who also died as a result of her machinations); his successors had therefore sought to curtail their wives’ influence in order to prevent a repeat. While this story contains legendary elements, it speaks volumes of the ambiguous position of the royal consort at Alfred’s court – she was not an office-holder in her own right and owed what influence she enjoyed to her husband.74 Indeed, as Pauline Stafford has shown, queenship was slow to evolve in England and throughout the ninth and early tenth centuries few royal spouses made a real mark on the historical record. The relatively low standing of these figures is reflected in the documentary record: they rarely appear as witnesses to royal diplomas, and when they do they are invariably styled the ‘king’s wife’ or ‘king’s mother’, titles which underline their dependence on male relatives.75 The partial exception, Eadgifu, the third wife of Edward the Elder, is telling: though she exerted great influence in the mid-tenth century, it was as a mother of kings, not as the wife of one – indeed, she may have owed much of her influence to her unusual longevity.76
As noted, Ælfthryth’s reign represents something of a watershed in this regard. Why this should be so is a good question. In part, she was building on existing foundations: Eadgifu had cut quite a figure in the first half of the tenth century and may have helped prepare the ground for her later granddaughter-in-law. At least as important, however, were changing attitudes towards marriage. So long as it was possible to marry and discard consorts more or less at will, it was hard for the queen to establish any real purchase at court; her position was simply too fragile. As church teachings about the indissolubility of marriage began to make themselves felt, however, this played into the hands of aspiring royal wives. This process can be seen on the continent in the ninth century, when Lothar II (855–69), the grandson of Louis the Pious, who ruled over the region later known as Lotharingia (‘the kingdom of Lothar’: regnum Hlotharii) (Map 2), ran into major difficulties in his attempt to leave a childless union with Theutberga in favour of a match with his previous mistress Waldrada (with whom he already had a son); despite many years of trying, Lothar failed to gain ecclesiastical approval and eventually died without an heir in 869. Lothar’s position was, admittedly, somewhat unusual, insofar as his uncles, who ruled the kingdoms to his immediate west and east, took every opportunity to undermine his position; nevertheless, his case illustrates how church regulations began to win ground, and how queens might benefit from this.77 It is probably no accident that the Ottonians, who ruled the remnants of Lothar’s realm from the 920s onwards, held themselves to higher standards in this respect: they avoided illicit unions and only allowed legitimate heirs to succeed to royal office.78 Their West Frankish (French) counterparts generally did likewise, though slightly more wiggle room remained here.79 In England, which was not directly touched by the Carolingian reforms of the eighth and ninth centuries, such teachings took longer to take root, but by the mid-tenth we see signs of them doing so. Edgar’s brother Eadwig had faced stern opposition to his marriage with the noblewoman Ælfgifu on grounds of consanguinity (that is, that the two were too closely related) and was eventually forced to give up the match.80 This was the first time that such regulations had been imposed upon an English monarch and it is significant that it was Dunstan and Oda, the two great reformers, who headed the opposition. Marriage regulations seem to have been a particular concern of these prelates: prohibitions on incest are included amongst the ‘Constitutions of Oda’, a short selection of church regulations drawn up by the archbishop, and Adelard of Ghent reports that during his later pontificate Dunstan excommunicated a leading nobleman for an illicit union.81 Such concepts thus seem to have come across the Channel along with reforming ideas. On the continent, queens and noblewomen had seen a steady rise in standing since the ninth century; tenth-century England was now moving in the same direction. We must, however, be wary of exaggerating the scale and pace of change; in his early years Edgar does not seem to have shied away from the serial monogamy characteristic of his West Saxon forebears, indicating that there was some way to go yet. Still, this flurry of marriages predates the reform’s greatest successes and it is probably no accident that Edgar’s successors were more restrained in their marital politics (the Danish conqueror Cnut notwithstanding).
Ælfthryth’s elevated position at court finds expression in a number of contemporary sources. Though neither of Edgar’s earlier consorts had appeared in his diplomas, already in 964 Ælfthryth surfaces as the recipient of an estate at Aston Upthorpe (Berks.). The charter recording this grant only survives in the thirteenth-century Abingdon cartulary, but there is no reason to doubt its authenticity: the text’s formulation finds broad parallels in other authentic acts of the period and there would have been little obvious reason to concoct such a document at a later date (it concerns a grant to a queen, not to Abingdon, and the estate in question is not listed amongst the abbey’s later holdings). Though Ælfthryth’s marriage is elsewhere placed in 965, this need not speak against the charter: the source in question is the ‘Northern Recension’ of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, which was drawn up in the early eleventh century at some remove from court.82 Moreover, John of Worcester places the match in 964 (on what authority, we know not) and the promotion of Ordgar to ealdorman in this year would also seem to speak in favour of the date.83 Indeed, the Aston Upthorpe charter is amongst the first – perhaps the first – which Ordgar attests in his new role, raising the possibility that his promotion coincided with the wedding itself. In any case, the diploma’s text opens with a unique preamble reflecting upon the transitory nature of life, then noting that the king has undertaken this grant ‘in praise of Christ, who said “they two shall be one flesh” [Matthew XIX.5, Mark X.8]’ (in laude Christi dicentis ‘Erunt duo in carne una’ ). This line is evidently an allusion to the couple’s married status and the quotation itself is taken from Christ’s meditation on the indissolubility of marriage (which itself echoes the language of Genesis II, the story of the making of Eve). In the main (or ‘dispositive’) section of the document Edgar then goes on to address Ælfthryth as ‘my consort’ (lateranea mea), referring to her as his ‘beloved’ (dilecta) and associating the grant with ‘my kingdom’ (regnum meum) – all unmistakable signs of favour.84 What is more, he emphasizes that he has undertaken this act ‘at the advice of my followers, bishops, ealdormen and thegns’ (meorum consilio satellitum, pontificum, comitum, militum); the new queen’s elevation is thus explicitly sanctioned by the kingdom’s great and good. It would not be going too far to see this diploma as a first expression of Ælfthryth’s new position at court, something of a material and documentary corollary to her marriage. The queen’s power and influence is revealed less by the grant itself (though the lands in question are not insignificant) than by the manner in which she is addressed: the biblical language of marriage frames the act, placing her legitimacy and association with the affairs of the realm beyond doubt.
There may be deeper resonances to this act. The charter’s most recent editor, Susan Kelly, notes how ‘appropriate’ the opening quotation from Matthew is, suggesting that it may have been issued on the very occasion of the wedding.85 This is a tempting proposition and it may be significant that a particularly large number of lay potentates attest the document, suggesting that it stems from an unusually large gathering. The biblical quotation with which it opens is, as noted, taken from Christ’s meditation on the indissolubility of marriage (Matthew XIX.3–9), a fact which can hardly have escaped the notice of our draftsman – even if, as Kelly suggests, he drew these details from Gregory the Great’s letter to Queen Bertha of Kent (as preserved in Bede’s Ecclesiastical History).86 Interestingly enough, the line in question is also found in Gregory’s treatment of incest in the ‘Little Book of Responses’ (Libellus responsionum) he sent to Augustine of Canterbury (d. 604), which is also preserved in Bede’s Ecclesiastical History (as well as independently) and was to form the basis of much early medieval canon (i.e. church) law on marriage.87 In the aftermath of Eadwig’s incestuous union, it would seem that such regulations were being more rigorously applied. What is more, given the diploma’s immediate context, issued on the occasion of (or soon after) the king’s third marriage in no more than five or six years (and the queen’s second marriage in the same timespan), it is hard not to see herein a veiled allusion to Edgar’s (and possibly also his new consort’s) previous liaisons. If so, the message could hardly have been clearer: this union really was to last, even if the king’s track record was not the best in this regard. It is hard to know whether to give credence to post-Conquest tales implicating Edgar in the death of Ælfthryth’s first husband, Ealdorman Æthelwold – these smack suspiciously of the biblical story of David and Uriah – but if these do preserve genuine traditions, then there would have been all the more reason to emphasize the union’s solemnity.88 Indeed, though we do not know the fate of Edgar’s first wife, his second was certainly still alive at this point and issues of legitimacy and indissolubility were therefore most topical. This diploma thus bears witness to a key moment in the development of the office of queen; it not only mirrors Ælfthryth’s rise, but may also have contributed to this. It is a powerful public affirmation of her new role at court.
Given what we have already observed, it is tempting to suggest that the leaders of the monastic reform played a part in Ælfthryth’s rise, and perhaps even lay behind this unique document. Simon MacLean argues that the queen and her associates derived some of their ideas about queenship from the continent, where since the 950s Gerberga had exerted a similar kind of influence in West Francia, above all as a patron of reform.89 A key player in this respect must have been Æthelwold of Winchester: although he is not amongst those known to have objected to Eadwig’s marriage, he had been Edgar’s tutor and was to be one of Ælfthryth’s closest associates. Æthelwold himself was in close contact with reformers elsewhere, including Abbot Womar of St-Peter’s, Ghent (953–80), who was an associate of Queen Gerberga. Another model may have been the Ottonian court, where Adelheid had risen to prominence in the 950s and enjoyed imperial consecration in Rome alongside her husband in 962, only two years before these events. Adelheid herself was in close contact with the continental reformers and her stepson Liudolf (d. 957) was Edgar’s cousin.90 It is, therefore, interesting to note that the document survives in the archive of Æthelwold’s first foundation, Abingdon, with which the bishop maintained close ties following his elevation to Winchester; if he had indeed had a hand in its production, it would make sense that it should later find its way to this centre (possibly along with the estate in question). In the diploma itself the queen is given the title lateranea, a rare variant of conlateranea (‘consort’), which may also point in this direction: such recherché vocabulary is characteristic of the hermeneutic style promoted by Æthelwold and the reformers and the term conlateranea is used to describe Eve in the so-called Orthodoxorum charters, a group of forgeries produced at Abingdon and related houses in the late tenth and early eleventh centuries.91 Æthelwold’s own first-person (or ‘subjective’) subscription to the charter, which immediately follows those of Edgar and Archbishop Dunstan, is suggestive of a particular involvement in the transaction, reinforcing the impression that he stands behind it.92 Though such indications hardly amount to certainty, they point tantalizingly towards Æthelwold and his circle. It would, therefore, not be surprising if this extraordinary document had been drawn up by someone with close ties to the prelate (though conceivably also in royal employ).
The first charter issued by the newly married Edgar thus sends a powerful message: it establishes Ælfthryth’s position at court beyond all doubt and distinguishes this implicitly (but unmistakably) from that of the king’s previous consorts. This is not the only evidence that Ælfthryth’s position differed from that of her predecessors. Alone of Edgar’s marriages this match warranted inclusion in the ‘Northern Recension’ of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, compiled some years later under the oversight of Wulfstan II of York. The provision for the consecration of a queen alongside the king in the revised version of the ‘Second English Ordo’, produced around this time and designed to provide instructions for royal coronations, suggests that Ælfthryth may have been the first royal consort anointed into her office (perhaps even on two separate occasions, like her husband).93 Indeed, given the close association between marriage and consecration where queens were concerned (the former frequently paved the way for the latter), it is tempting to suggest that Ælfthryth underwent these rites at this point. This might explain why whereas Edgar’s previous wives did not attest his diplomas, Ælfthryth does so quite often, frequently subscribing as ‘queen’ (regina) (rather than ‘the king’s wife’).94 Further signs of elevated standing come from her judicial activity: unlike most other royal consorts, Ælfthryth was active in the role of legal advocate (forespeca), intervening on behalf of associates and (in particular) noblewomen.95 Echoes of her new-found status can even be detected in the writings of Ælfric of Eynsham, who studied under Æthelwold at Winchester in these years: as Stacy Klein notes, the homilist shows a pronounced interest in queens and queenship.96
Ælfthryth’s power and influence was doubtless helped by the fact that she soon produced prospective heirs: by 966 at the latest she had born Edgar a first son, Edmund, and a second soon followed, Æthelred (966 × 969). Given the preference for fraternal succession in this period, it is likely that both were envisaged as throne-worthy heirs and their names suggest as much: the former received the name of his paternal grandfather, Edmund (939–46), while the latter was apparently named after Alfred the Great’s elder brother (and immediate predecessor), Æthelred I (866–71). There is, however, no mistaking the relative hierarchy: as the second son of this union (and Edgar’s third in all), Æthelred received the more obscure designation, that of a scion of the family which had lost out to Alfred and his heirs in the early tenth century. While male offspring may have strengthened the queen’s hand, they are likely to have intensified any tensions arising from her rise. Indeed, when medieval rulers married a second or third time, the offspring of previous unions often felt threatened, and understandably so; though their chances of succession were not immediately undermined, the existence of alternative heirs could weaken their position, as could the presence of an influential stepmother at court whose interests lay in the succession of her own children. The kind of difficulties which might result are revealed by Louis the Pious’s reign in the early ninth century: soon after his accession Louis took a second wife, Judith, with whom he went on to have a son, the future Charles the Bald (840–77). Yet when the emperor sought to carve out an inheritance for Charles, his other sons led a serious uprising and Louis’s final decade on the throne was dominated by speculation over the succession.97 Similar trends can be seen in the reign of Edgar’s East Frankish counterpart, Otto I (936–73). Otto first married an English princess, Eadgyth (Edith) c. 928/9, with whom he had a son, Liudolf; however, following the queen’s death in 946, Otto married the wealthy Burgundian heiress Adelheid (952), with whom he had another son, the future Otto II (973–83). Liudolf, who had been designated his father’s heir shortly before this marriage, clearly felt threatened by these developments – as well as by the rising star of his uncle, Duke Henry of Bavaria, who was an associate of Adelheid – and his response was to lead an uprising which shook the Ottonian realm to its very foundations.98 That Edgar’s eldest son, Edward (probably born c. 959 × 962), watched such developments with unease therefore stands to reason. He certainly had grounds for concern. As we have seen, Ælfthryth periodically attests her husband’s charters as regina, a title which may have been felt to convey a greater degree of legitimacy on her and her offspring. That in some eyes this was so is suggested by the New Minster refoundation charter of 966. The witness-list of this document, which as we have noted was probably drafted by Æthelwold, opens with the king, followed by Archbishop Dunstan and then the royal family: the young princes (or æthelings, to use the Old English term),99 followed by the queen and Edgar’s grandmother Eadgifu. This ordering is in itself interesting, since royal kin normally attest either above or below the archbishops and bishops (rather than between them). More significant, however, is the order of attestation within this group: Ælfthryth’s son, Edmund, subscribes first, ahead of his elder half-brother Edward; moreover, Edmund is styled ‘legitimate son of the aforementioned king’ (legitimus prefati regis filius), whereas Edward is simply said to be ‘begotten by the same king’ (eodem rege … procreatus). Ælfthryth’s own attestation, which immediately follows, is similarly revealing: she is styled ‘legitimate wife of the king’ (legitima prefati regis coniunx). The implied deficit in Edward’s lineage is palpable and his belittlement even takes on a visual guise: alone amongst the members of the royal family the gold cross next to Edward’s name is not filled in.100
The witness-list of the New Minster charter is thus suggestive of an ongoing effort to emphasize the legitimacy of Ælfthryth and her offspring to the detriment of Edward. In this respect, it is significant that the document is associated with Æthelwold, one of Ælfthryth’s closest allies.101 The prominence given to Ælfthryth in the Regularis concordia, another key document of the reform whose text has been attributed to Æthelwold, should be viewed in this light: here the queen is given oversight of all female monastic houses and the kingdom’s monks (and nuns) are requested to pray for her alongside her husband.102 The association between Æthelwold and the queen can also be seen in the Libellus Æthelwoldi, which records Ælfthryth making and petitioning a number of grants on Æthelwold’s and Ely’s behalf.103 That the queen was indeed seeking to pave the way for her sons’ accession may also be suggested by the will of Ealdorman Ælfheah of Wessex (the elder brother of Ælfhere of Mercia), which makes bequests to Edmund and Æthelred, but omits all reference to their elder half-brother.104 Though Æthelred was probably too young to have been entirely aware of these developments, the passing of Edmund in 971 or 972 would have changed this; it catapulted the young prince into consideration for the succession. Before this point he had been the king’s third son and at best second in line for the throne (after Edmund); now he was one of only two contenders, and one with a powerful backer at court at that. Æthelred would have been between two and six at this time and this may have been one of his formative memories: the moment the hopes and dreams of his mother came to rest on his shoulders alone. Certainly, Ælfthryth is unlikely to have given up her plans easily and, as we shall see, a party did indeed support Æthelred’s candidacy come 975. How the young prince felt about this is hard to say; perhaps he resented the pressure, perhaps he revelled in it. Either way, strong bonds were formed with his mother, bonds which would be of great moment in future years. Still, not all shared Ælfthryth’s vision for the future: Edward – whose name is also unmistakably royal, recalling that of his great-grandfather – is given precedence over his younger brothers in all other contemporary charters, suggesting that most – probably including the king – continued to see him as Edgar’s natural heir. The compiler of a royal genealogy in the later 960s clearly felt likewise, since he states baldly that ‘Edward and Edmund and Æthelred the æthelings are the sons of King Edgar’ (Eadweard 7 Eadmund 7 Æðelred æðelingas syndon Eadgares suna cyninges); here Edward is accorded precedence and no distinction is acknowledged between the two branches of the family.105
One imagines, therefore, that Edward had his own supporters. If later events are anything to go by, Dunstan is likely to have been amongst these, as may have been the sons of Æthelstan Half-King, who since the rise of Ælfhere of Mercia had been forced to take something of a back seat in national politics. Many of these factions go back to Eadwig’s reign, as Shashi Jayakumar notes: Ælfthryth was backed primarily by individuals who had risen to prominence under Eadwig, whereas Edward’s allies seem to have been recruited from amongst the ‘old guard’ which had run the realm under Edmund and Eadred.106 Thus, while some were busy advancing Æthelred’s cause, others stood against him, and one imagines that the atmosphere at court was tense during the prince’s early years: different groups were jostling for power and influence and no-one was certain which way the succession would go. We know nothing concrete about Æthelred’s relationship with his half-brother, but it must have been strained, and probably became more so with every passing year: the older Æthelred was, the more viable his candidacy. It would, however, be misleading to present the factions of this period in monolithic terms; although Dunstan’s and Æthelwold’s political allegiances were apparently at odds, their biographers present them as close friends and there is no reason to doubt this.107 Furthermore, Ælfthryth’s rise need not have been directly to the detriment of the family of the Half-King (as is often presumed) – while she was a close associate of Ælfhere of Mercia and his family, who in some respects replaced that of Æthelstan, her first husband had been a son of the East Anglian ealdorman and it may be that she remained on good terms with the family thereafter (whatever post-Conquest historians would have us believe). Even the evidence of tensions between Ælfhere and the sons of the Half-King, though suggestive, is hardly iron-clad, and we must allow for the possibility that these figures were sometimes on cordial or even amicable terms; factions were fluid and Edgarian politics were more than a story of two opposing camps.108 There was doubtless some speculation as to who would succeed Edgar, and Ælfthryth clearly tried to improve the chances of her sons whenever she could; nevertheless, there must often have been more pressing matters for which co-operation across factional lines was required. Indeed, Edgar acceded as a young man and there was every reason to believe that he would go on to enjoy a long and fruitful reign; his death in 975 at the age of only thirty-two must have come as something of an unpleasant surprise.
This was the world into which Æthelred was born. We hear little of the young prince in these early years – even the witness-lists of charters fall silent where he and his half-brother are concerned. As noted, this is not surprising: we have relatively few sources for this period, and in any case we scarcely know more about the youth of any other Anglo-Saxon monarch (save perhaps Alfred the Great, for whom we have the singular good fortune of possessing a contemporary biography). However, what we lack in certain knowledge can be compensated for with prudent speculation. We can be certain that Æthelred was influenced by the political and intellectual atmosphere at Edgar’s court. Monastic reform must have been a major factor here: as a movement supported by Æthelred’s father and mother, we can safely presume that the prince was raised to respect and value reformed monks. In fact, it is possible that he was tutored by Æthelwold of Winchester: as the leading reformer and a close associate of Ælfthryth, not to mention Edgar’s own sometime tutor, he would have been the ideal candidate.109 It was common for queens to take a leading role in their sons’ education – Alfred the Great was to remember his own mother fondly in this guise110 – and all indications are that Ælfthryth did likewise: the close, at times fraught relationship between her and Æthelred in future years speaks of genuine intimacy, one presumably borne of experiences in these early years. Æthelred would later entrust her with raising his own sons, a decision which further suggests that she played a part in his upbringing. Certainly, the young prince will have received a sound education and it stands to reason that he acquired some level of literacy in Old English and perhaps also Latin: there was a dynastic tradition where learning was concerned – Alfred the Great is said to have translated a number of works into Old English, and many of his successors are known to have owned or donated books – and we know that the nobleman (and royal relative) Æthelweard (d. 998) achieved an impressive command of the complex hermeneutic Latin preferred by the reformers in these years.111 His core education, however, will have taken place outside the classroom: as with other noblemen, training in arms, hunting and riding would have begun at a young age and continued into Æthelred’s teenage years. Where this education took place is hard to say. His earliest years would have been spent largely with his mother. They presumably spent much time at and around the royal court as it traversed the West Saxon heartlands of Wiltshire, Hampshire, Somerset and Dorset. Queens were, however, not always with their husbands, and there will have been periods of time which Ælfthryth and Æthelred spent apart from the king, probably on the queen’s own lands. Interestingly, Ælfthryth is later recorded as possessing a large estate called Æthelingadene, i.e. ‘the valley of the princes’ (probably now Dean in Sussex). This name suggests an association with royal offspring, and while the estate is generally identified as where Ælfthryth raised her grandchildren, the ‘princes’ in question could just as well have been Æthelred and his brother Edmund.112 In any case, as he grew older, Æthelred may have been fostered out to one of the kingdom’s leading noble families to complete his education (as his father had been to Æthelstan Half-King); in fact, it may be such a relationship that underpinned the alliance between his mother and the family of Ælfhere, whose brother Ælfheah is recorded as the queen’s ‘co-parent’ and may thus have been Æthelred’s or Edmund’s godfather.113
Other influences on the young Æthelred will have been more overtly ‘political’ in nature: the pomp and circumstance of Edgar’s court, particularly in its later years, must have made an impact on the boy, as too must the administrative developments of the age. The growing sense of Englishness which can be discerned from the time of Æthelstan onwards will also have had its part to play. Finally, we should imagine that the world of faction and intrigue traced over the last few pages left its mark. Indeed, though we should not exaggerate the degree of tension in these years, it would be equally foolish to deny it; medieval courts were places of intrigue and death often struck unexpectedly (none of Edgar’s immediate male relatives had lived past their early thirties). There was, therefore, all to play for and anything could happen once ‘the hungry athelings began to prowl’ (as Kenneth Harrison memorably put it).114
1S 745 (WinchNM 23); D.N. Dumville, ‘The Anglian Collection of Royal Genealogies and Regnal Lists’, ASE 5 (1976), 23–50, at 43.
2O.-G. Oexle, ‘Memoria und Memorialüberlieferung im früheren Mittelalter’, FMSt 10 (1976), 70–95; K. Schmid and J. Wollasch, ed., Memoria. Der geschichtliche Zeugniswert des liturgischen Gedenkens im Mittelalter (Munich, 1984). Specifically on England, see H. Foxhall Forbes, Heaven and Earth in Anglo-Saxon England: Theology and Society in an Age of Faith (Farnham, 2013), 201–64.
3Isidore of Seville, Etymologiae XI.2, ed. W.M. Linsay (Oxford, 1911) (unpaginated).
4S. Keynes, ‘England, 700–900’, in The New Cambridge Medieval History, II, c.700– c. 900, ed. R. McKitterick (Cambridge, 1995), 18–42, provides a good introductory sketch.
5N. Brooks, ‘England in the Ninth Century: The Crucible of Defeat’ (1978), repr. in and cited from his Communities and Warfare, 700–1400 (London, 2000), 48–68, esp. 48–59.
6A. Smyth, Scandinavian York and Dublin: The History and Archaeology of Two Related Viking Kingdoms, 2 vols. (Dublin, 1975–9); C. Downham, Viking Kings of Britain and Ireland: The Dynasty of Ívarr to A.D. 1014 (Edinburgh, 2007).
7S. Keynes, ‘King Alfred and the Mercians’, in Kings, Currency and Alliances: History and Coinage of Southern England in the Ninth Century, ed. M.A.S. Blackburn and D.N. Dumville (Woodbridge, 1998), 1–45.
8S. Foot, ‘The Making of Angelcynn: English Identity before the Norman Conquest’, TRHS 6th ser. 6 (1996), 25–49, esp. 35–6.
9S. Keynes, ‘Edward, King of the Anglo-Saxons’, in Edward the Elder, 899–924, ed. N.J. Higham and D.H. Hill (London, 2001), 40–66.
10S. Foot, Æthelstan: The First King of England (New Haven, CT, 2011), esp. 10–28.
11See J.L. Nelson, ‘Æthelwulf (d. 858)’, in ODNB, I, 438–41; and Foot, Æthelstan, 17–18.
12There is a parallel here to Æthelstan, who was raised in Mercia: P. Stafford, Unification and Conquest: A Political and Social History of the Tenth and Eleventh Centuries (London, 1989), 42–4.
13Stenton, Anglo-Saxon England, 368.
14L. Abrams, ‘King Edgar and the Men of the Danelaw’, in Edgar, King of the English 959–75: New Interpretations, ed. D. Scragg (Woodbridge, 2008), 171–91. See also D. Whitelock, ‘The Dealings of the Kings of England with Northumbria in the Tenth and Eleventh Centuries’ (1959), repr. in and cited from her History, Law and Literature in 10th–11th Century England (London, 1981), no. III.
15IV Eg 12, 15 (ed. Liebermann, I, 212–15); with Wormald, Making of English Law, 317–20.
16G. Molyneaux, The Formation of the English Kingdom in the Tenth Century (Oxford, 2015).
17S. Keynes, ‘Shire’, in The Wiley Blackwell Encyclopedia of Anglo-Saxon England, ed. M. Lapidge et al., 2nd edn (Chichester, 2013), 434–5.
18D.H. Hill, ‘The Shiring of Mercia – Again’, in Edward the Elder, 899–924, ed. N.J. Higham and D.H. Hill (London, 2001), 144–59; L. Marten, ‘The Shiring of East Anglia: An Alternative Hypothesis’, Historical Research 81 (2008), 1–27; Molyneaux, Formation, 155–72.
19H.R. Loyn, ‘The Hundred in England in the Tenth and Early Eleventh Centuries’ (1974), repr. in and cited from his Society and Peoples: Studies in the History of England and Wales, c. 600–1200 (London, 1992), 111–34; Molyneaux, Formation, 141–55.
20Pratt, ‘Written Law’; Molyneaux, Formation, 113–15, 150 and 195–7.
21Molyneaux, Formation, 143–6 and 166–7.
22R.H.M. Dolley and D.M. Metcalf, ‘The Reform of the English Coinage under Edgar’, in Anglo-Saxon Coins: Studies Presented to F.M. Stenton on the Occasion of his 80th Birthday, 17 May 1960, ed. R.H.M. Dolley (London, 1961), 136–68.
23P. Grierson, ‘Numismatics and the Historian’, NC 7th ser. 2 (1962), i–xiv, at viii–xiv; B.H.I.H. Stewart, ‘Coinage and Recoinage after Edgar’s Reform’, in Studies in Late Anglo-Saxon Coinage in Memory of Bror Emil Hildebrand, ed. K. Jonsson (Stockholm, 1990), 455–85.
24R. Naismith, ‘Prelude to Reform: Tenth-Century English Coinage in Perspective’, in Early Medieval Monetary History: Studies in Memory of Mark Blackburn, ed. M. Allen, R. Naismith and E. Screen (Farnham, 2014), 39–84; D.M. O’Gorman, ‘Unius regulae ac unius patriae: A Standardizing Process in Anglo-Saxon England’ (PhD diss., Loyola University, 2015), 68–136.
25G. Molyneaux, ‘Why were Some Tenth-Century English Kings Presented as Rulers of Britain?’, TRHS 6th ser. 21 (2011), 59–91.
26J.L. Nelson, ‘Inauguration Rituals’ (1977), repr. in and cited from her Politics and Ritual in Early Medieval Europe (London, 1986), 283–307, at 296–303; Keynes, ‘Edgar’, 48–51. For a different perspective: J. Barrow, ‘Chester’s Earliest Regatta? Edgar’s Dee-Rowing Revisited’, EME 10 (2001), 81–93; D.E. Thornton, ‘Edgar and the Eight Kings, AD 973: textus et dramatis personae’, EME 10 (2001), 49–79; and A. Williams, ‘An Outing on the Dee: King Edgar at Chester, A.D. 973’, Mediaeval Scandinavia 14 (2004), 229–43.
27Roach, Kingship and Consent, 161–211, esp. 202–8.
28K.J. Leyser, ‘Ritual, Ceremony and Gesture: Ottonian Germany’, in his Communications and Power in Medieval Europe, ed. T. Reuter, 2 vols. (London, 1994), I, 189–213; T. Reuter, ‘Regemque, quem in Francia pene perdidit, in patria magnifice recepit: Ottonian Ruler Representation in Synchronic and Diachronic Comparison’ (1998), repr. in and cited from his Medieval Polities and Modern Mentalities, ed. J.L. Nelson (Cambridge, 2006), 127–46; G. Koziol, Begging Pardon and Favor: Ritual and Political Order in Early Medieval France (Ithaca, NY, 1992), esp. 109–37.
29Regula Benedicti, ch. 1.10–11, ed. J. Neufville with notes and an introduction by A. de Vogüé, 2 pts, Sources Chrétiennes 181–2 (Paris, 1972), 438–40. In general, see M. Dunn, The Emergence of Monasticism: From the Desert Fathers to the Early Middle Ages (Oxford, 2003), 59–137.
30S. Foot, Monastic Life in Anglo-Saxon England, c. 600–900 (Cambridge, 2006), 48–60.
31S. Foot, ‘Anglo-Saxon Minsters: A Review of Terminology’, in Pastoral Care before the Parish, ed. J. Blair and R. Sharpe (Leicester, 1992), 212–25.
32T.F.X. Noble, ‘The Monastic Ideal as a Model for Empire: The Case of Louis the Pious’, Revue Bénédictine 86 (1976), 235–50. Cf. M. de Jong, ‘Carolingian Monasticism: The Power of Prayer’, in The New Cambridge Medieval History, II, c.700–c.900, ed. R. McKitterick (Cambridge, 1995), 622–53.
33A. Dierkens, Abbayes et chapitres entre Sambre et Meuse (VIIe–XIe siècles). Contribution à l’histoire religieuse des campagnes du Haut Moyen Âge (Sigmaringen, 1985); J. Nightingale, Monasteries and Patrons in the Gorze Reform: Lotharingia c. 850–1000 (Oxford, 2001); S. Vanderputten, Monastic Reform as Process: Realities and Representations in Medieval Flanders, 900–1100 (Ithaca, NY, 2013).
34Cf. R.A. Markus, The End of Ancient Christianity (Cambridge, 1990), 227–8.
35A. Murray, Reason and Society in the Middle Ages (Oxford, 1978), 7.
36J. Semmler, ‘Das Erbe der karolingischen Klosterreform im 10. Jahrhundert’, in Monastische Reformen im 9. und 10. Jahrhundert, ed. R. Kottje and H. Maurer (Sigmaringen, 1989), 29–77.
37See J. Wollasch, ‘The First Wave of Reform’, in The New Cambridge Medieval History, III, c. 900–1024, ed. T. Reuter (Cambridge, 1999), 163–85, for a synthesis.
38Foot, Æthelstan, 107–9; M. Gretsch, The Intellectual Foundations of the English Benedictine Reform (Cambridge, 1999). Cf. C. Cubitt, ‘The Tenth-Century Benedictine Reform in England’, EME 6 (1997), 77–94.
39D.N. Dumville, Wessex and England from Alfred to Edgar: Six Essays on Political, Cultural, and Ecclesiastical Revival (Woodbridge, 1992), 173–84. Cf. ibid., 185–205.
40C. Cubitt and M. Costambeys, ‘Oda (d. 958)’, in ODNB, XLI, 484–7.
41B., Vita S. Dunstani, ch. 20, ed. M. Winterbottom and M. Lapidge, The Early Lives of St Dunstan (Oxford, 2012), 64; with S. Keynes, ‘The “Dunstan B” Charters’, ASE 23 (1994), 165–93, esp. 185–6.
42Folcuin of St-Bertin, Gesta abbatum S. Bertini Sithiensium, ch. 107, ed. O. Holder-Egger, MGH: SS 13 (Hannover, 1881), 629; with D. Misonne, ‘Gérard de Brogne, moine et réformateur (†959)’ (1984), repr. in and cited from Revue Bénedictine 111 (2001), 25–49, at 34–6.
43N. Brooks, ‘The Career of St Dunstan’ (1992), repr. in and cited from his Anglo-Saxon Myths: State and Church 400–1066 (London, 2000), 154–80, at 177–8; S. Keynes, ‘Edgar, rex admirabilis’, in Edgar, King of the English 959–75: New Interpretations, ed. D. Scragg (Woodbridge, 2008), 1–58, at 8, n. 28. Cf. Early Lives, ed. Winterbottom and Lapidge, xxxv–xxxvii.
44D. Whitelock, ‘The Appointment of Dunstan as Archbishop of Canterbury’ (1973), repr. in and cited from her History, Law and Literature in 10th–11th Century England (London, 1981), no. IV; Early Lives, ed. Winterbottom and Lapidge, xxxvii–xxxviii.
45D.A. Bullough, ‘St Oswald: Monk, Bishop and Archbishop’, in St Oswald of Worcester: Life and Influence, ed. N. Brooks and C. Cubitt (London, 1996), 1–22.
46ASC 964 A (ed. Bately, 75–6); Wulfstan Cantor, Vita S. Æthelwoldi, ch. 16, ed. M. Lapidge and M. Winterbottom, Wulfstan of Winchester: Life of St Æthelwold (Oxford, 1991), 28–30.
47S 745 (WinchNM 23). See M. Lapidge, ‘Æthelwold as Scholar and Teacher’ (1988), repr. in and cited from his Anglo-Latin Literature 900–1066 (London, 1993), 183–211, at 189–90.
48J. Barrow, ‘The Ideology of the Tenth-Century English Benedictine “Reform”’, in Challenging the Boundaries of Medieval History: The Legacy of Timothy Reuter, ed. P. Skinner (Turnhout, 2009), 141–54.
49Byrhtferth of Ramsey, Vita S. Oswaldi III.9–12, ed. M. Lapidge, Byrhtferth of Ramsey: The Lives of St Oswald and St Ecgwine (Oxford, 2009), 70–80.
50R. Rushforth, ‘English Caroline Minuscule’, in The Cambridge History of the Book in Britain, I, c. 400–1100, ed. R. Gameson (Cambridge, 2012), 197–210. Important further work is to be anticipated from Julia Crick and Colleen Curran.
51M. Lapidge, ‘The Hermeneutic Style in Tenth-Century Anglo-Latin Literature’ (1975), repr. in and cited from his Anglo-Latin Literature 900–1066 (London, 1993), 105–49; R. Stephenson, ‘Scapegoating the Secular Clergy: The Hermeneutic Style as a Form of Monastic Self-Definition’, ASE 38 (2010), 101–36.
52P. Wormald, ‘Æthelwold and his Continental Counterparts: Contact, Comparison, Contrast’ (1988), repr. in and cited from his The Times of Bede: Studies in Early English Christian Society and its Historian, ed. S. Baxter (Oxford, 2006), 169–206; Nightingale, Monasteries and Patrons; F. Mazel, ‘Monachisme et aristocratie aux Xe–XIe siècles. Un regard sur l’historiographie récente’, in Ecclesia in medio nationis: Reflections on the Study of Monasticism in the Central Middle Ages, ed. S. Vanderputten and B. Meijns (Leuven, 2011), 47–75.
53See H. Hoffmann, Mönchskönig und rex idiota. Studien zur Kirchenpolitik Heinrichs II. und Konrads II., MGH: Studien und Texte 8 (Hannover, 1993); and G. Koziol, ‘The Conquest of Burgundy, the Peace of God, and the Diplomas of Robert the Pious’, French Historical Studies 37 (2014), 173–214.
54Regularis concordia, chs. 8, 17, 19, 21, 24, 31, 33–5, ed. T. Symons and S. Spath, Consuetudinem saeculi X/XI/XII monumenta non-cluniacensa, ed. K. Hallinger, Corpus Consuetudinum Monasticarum vii.3 (Siegburg, 1984), 74, 81–2, 83, 84, 86, 90, 91–2. See J. Barrow, ‘The Chronology of the Benedictine “Reform”’, in Edgar, King of the English 959–75: New Interpretations, ed. D. Scragg (Woodbridge, 2008), 211–23, who suggests an earlier date (c. 966); and D. Pratt, ‘The Voice of the King in “King Edgar’s Establishment of Monasteries”’, ASE 41 (2012), 145–204, at 170–2, for the reassertion of traditional orthodoxy.
55Regularis concordia, ch. 4 (ed. Symons and Spath, 70–1).
56N. Banton, ‘Monastic Reform and the Unification of Tenth-Century England’, SCH 18 (1982), 71–86; O’Gorman, ‘Standardizing Process’, 179–260. See also E. John, Orbis Britanniae and Other Studies (Leicester, 1966), 154–80; with the caveats of Cubitt, ‘Reform’, 85–6.
57T. Pestell, Landscapes of Monastic Foundation: The Establishment of Religious Houses in East Anglia, c. 650–1200 (Woodbridge, 2004), 127–31.
58Dumville, Wessex and England, 185–205. See also Pratt, ‘Voice of the King’, 153–4 and 162–8.
59‘Edgar’s Establishment of Monasteries’, ed. D. Whitelock, Councils and Synods with Other Documents Relating to the English Church, I, A.D. 871–1204, ed. D. Whitelock, M. Brett and C.N.L. Brooke (Oxford, 1981), no. 33, 143–54. See most recently Pratt, ‘Voice of the King’.
60M. Clayton, ‘De Duodecim Abusiuis, Lordship and Kingship in Anglo-Saxon England’, in Saints and Scholars: New Perspectives on Anglo-Saxon Literature and Culture in Honour of Hugh Magennis, ed. S. McWilliams (Woodbridge, 2012), 141–63. See further below, Chapter 3, pp. 113–14.
61IV Eg, prol. (ed. Liebermann, I, 206–7). See Whitelock, EHD, 434; Keynes, ‘Edgar’, 11–12; and Pratt, ‘Voice of the King’, 169–70; and cf. Wormald, English Law, 441–2, who prefers a later date.
62R. McKitterick, Charlemagne: The Formation of a European Identity (Cambridge, 2008).
63S. Keynes, ‘Eadwig (c. 940–959)’, in ODNB, XVII, 539–42. See also P. Wormald, ‘The Strange Affair of the Selsey Bishopric, 953–963’, in Belief and Culture in the Middle Ages: Studies Presented to Henry Mayr-Harting, ed. R. Gameson and H. Leyser (Oxford, 2001), 128–41; and R. Lavelle, ‘Royal Control and the Disposition of Estates in Tenth-Century England: Reflections on the Charters of King Eadwig (955–959)’, HSJ 23 (2014), 23–49.
64S. Jayakumar, ‘The Politics of the English Kingdom, c. 955–c. 978’ (DPhil diss., Univ. of Oxford, 2001), 174–228. See also B. Yorke, ‘The Women in Edgar’s Life’, in Edgar, King of the English 959–75: New Interpretations, ed. D. Scragg (Woodbridge, 2008), 143–57.
65William of Malmesbury, Gesta regum Anglorum II.159 (ed. Mynors, 258–60); John of Worcester, Chronicon, s.a. 964, ed. R.R. Darlington and P. McGurk (Oxford, 1995), 416.
66Libellus Æthelwoldi episcopi, ch. 5 (= Liber Eliensis II.7, ed. E.O. Blake, Camden Society 3rd ser. 92 [London, 1962], 79–80); with Jayakumar, ‘Politics’, 199–208, esp. 202–3.
67C.[R.] Hart, ‘Edward (c.962–978)’, in ODNB, XVII, 783–5.
68Jayakumar, ‘Politics’, 189–98. See also York, ‘Women’, 144–5.
69Osbern of Canterbury, Vita S. Dunstani, ch. 35, ed. W. Stubbs, Memorials of Saint Dunstan, Rolls Series (London, 1874), 111–12; Eadmer of Canterbury, Vita S. Dunstani, ch. 56, ed. A.J. Turner and B.J. Muir, Eadmer of Canterbury: Lives and Miracles of Saints Oda, Dunstan, and Oswald (Oxford, 2006), 134–6; William of Malmesbury, Gesta regum Anglorum II.158 (ed. Mynors, 258). However, see B. Yorke, ‘The Legitimacy of St Edith’, HSJ 11 (1998), 97–113.
70D.L. d’Avray, Medieval Marriage: Symbolism and Society (Oxford, 2005), 74–99; R.M. Karras, Unmarriages: Women, Men, and Sexual Unions in the Middle Ages (Philadelphia, PA, 2012), esp. 25–67.
71M. Becher, Otto der Große. Kaiser und Reich: Eine Biographie (Munich, 2012), 69–71; G. Duby, The Knight, the Lady and the Priest: The Making of Marriage in Medieval France, trans. B. Bray (New York, 1983), 75–85.
72C.R. Hart, ‘Athelstan “Half King” and his Family’ (1973), rev. and repr. in his The Danelaw (London, 1992), 569–604.
73P. Stafford, Queen Emma and Queen Edith: Queenship and Women’s Power in Eleventh-Century England (Oxford, 1997), 162–4.
74Asser, Vita Alfredi regis, chs. 13–14, ed. W.H. Stevenson with an introduction by D. Whitelock, Asser’s Life of King Alfred (Oxford, 1959), 10–13.
75P. Stafford, ‘The King’s Wife in Wessex 800–1066’ (1981), repr. in and cited from her Gender, Family and the Legitimation of Power: England from the Ninth to the Early Twelfth Century (Aldershot, 2006), no. IX. See also S. Keynes, An Atlas of Attestations in Anglo-Saxon Charters, c. 670–1066, rev. edn (Cambridge, 2002), tables XXXIa–XXXIc; and Stafford, Queen Emma, 162–206.
76However, our evidence for Edward’s later years is scant and the foundations of Eadgifu’s later prominence may lie here. Further discussion is to be anticipated from Megan Welton.
77K. Heidecker, The Divorce of Lothar II: Christian Marriage and Political Power in the Carolingian World, trans. T.M. Guest (Ithaca, NY, 2010).
78P. Corbet, Autour de Burchard de Worms. L’Église allemande et les interdits de parenté (IXème–XIIème siècle) (Frankfurt, 2001), 70 and 222–3; K. Ubl, ‘Der kinderlose König. Ein Testfall für die Ausdifferenzierung des Politischen im 11. Jahrhundert’, HZ 292 (2011), 323–63, at 343–4.
79K. Ubl, Inzestverbot und Gesetzgebung. Die Konstruktion eines Verbrechens (300–1100) (Berlin, 2008), 387–402. See further ibid., 373–83 and 402–40; and C.B. Bouchard, ‘Those of My Blood’: Constructing Noble Families in Medieval Francia (Philadelphia, PA, 2001), 39–58.
80Early Lives, ed. Winterbottom and Lapidge, xxx–xxxiii. See also C. Cubitt, ‘Bishops and Succession Crises in Tenth- and Eleventh-Century England’, in Patterns of Episcopal Power: Bishops in Tenth and Eleventh Century Western Europe, ed. L. Körntgen and D. Waßenhoven (Berlin, 2011), 111–26, at 114–15.
81‘Constitutions of Oda’, ch. 7, ed. Whitelock, Councils, no. 20, 72–3; Adelard of Ghent, Lectiones in depositione S. Dunstani, ch. 12, ed. Winterbottom and Lapidge, Early Lives, 142–4.
82ASC 965 D (ed. Cubbin, 46). See S. Keynes, ‘Manuscripts of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle’, in The Cambridge History of the Book in Britain, I, c.400–1100, ed. R. Gameson (Cambridge, 2012), 537–52, at 545.
83John of Worcester, Chronicon, s.a. 964 (ed. Darlington and McGurk, 416); Keynes, Atlas, table LVI.
84S 725 (Abing 101). On the estate itself, see M. Gelling, Signposts to the Past: Place Names and the History of England, 2nd edn (Chichester, 1988), 196–201.
85Charters of Abingdon, ed. Kelly, 405–6. See also Stafford, Queen Emma, 70–2.
86Bede, Historia ecclesiastica gentis Anglorum II.11, ed. B. Colgrave and R.A.B. Mynors (Oxford, 1969), 172–4.
87Bede, Historia ecclesiastica I.27 (ed. Colgrave and Mynors, 84); with Ubl, Inzestverbot, 220–7.
88William of Malmesbury, Gesta regum Anglorum II.157 (ed. Mynors, 256–8). Though Jayakumar, ‘Eadwig and Edgar’, 96–8, is prepared to accept the tale, I would urge caution. Certainly, Ælfric’s De oatione Moysi, which Jayakumar reads as a critique of Edgar, seems more likely to represent a commentary on Æthelred’s actions in the 980s: see below, Chapter 4, p. 165.
89S. MacLean, ‘Monastic Reform and Royal Ideology in the Late Tenth Century: Ælfthryth and Edgar in Continental Perspective’, in England and the Continent in the Tenth Century: Studies in Honour of Wilhelm Levison (1876–1947), ed. D.[W.] Rollason, C. Leyser and H. Williams (Turnhout, 2010), 255–74. See also S. MacLean, ‘Reform, Queenship and the End of the World in Tenth-Century France: Adso’s “Letter on the Origin and Time of the Antichrist” Reconsidered’, Revue belge de philologie et d’histoire 86 (2008), 645–75.
90S. Weinfurter, ‘Kaiserin Adelheid und das ottonische Kaisertum’ (1999), repr. in and cited from his Gelebte Ordnung, gedachte Ordnung. Ausgewählte Beiträge zu König, Kirche und Reich (Sigmaringen, 2005), 189–212.
91S 658 (Abing), S 673 (Abing 84), S 786 (BCS 1282), S 812 (BCS 1187), S 876 (Abing 124). Of these, only the last is likely to be authentic: see below, Chapter 4, pp. 143–5.
92On such statements, which must be taken with a pinch of salt, see Keynes, Diplomas, 26–8.
93J.L. Nelson, ‘The Second English Ordo’, in her Politics and Ritual in Early Medieval Europe (London, 1986), 361–74, at 372–4; Stafford, Queen Emma, 62–3 and 162–4.
94Keynes, Atlas of Attestations, tables XXXIa–XXXIc. The only royal woman to be granted the title of queen before this point is Eadgifu, and then only in a blatant forgery: S 477 (CantCC 111).
95A. Rabin, ‘Female Advocacy and Royal Protection in Tenth-Century England: The Career of Queen Ælfthryth’, Speculum 84 (2009), 261–88.
96S. Klein, Ruling Women: Queenship and Gender in Anglo-Saxon Literature (Notre Dame, IN, 2006), 125–90.
97J.L. Nelson, Charles the Bald (London, 1992), 75–104; B. Schneidmüller, Die Welfen. Herrschaft und Erinnerung (Stuttgart, 2000), 51–8. Issues of succession were, however, only one of many factors; see M. de Jong, The Penitential State: Authority and Atonement in the Age of Louis the Pious, 814–40 (Cambridge, 2009), for a masterful account.
98Becher, Otto der Große, 158–85. See also K.J. Leyser, Rule and Conflict in an Early Medieval Society: Ottonian Saxony (London, 1979), 9–31.
99D.N. Dumville, ‘The Ætheling: A Study in Anglo-Saxon Constitutional History’, ASE 8 (1979), 1–33.
100BL Cotton Vespasian A. viii, fol. 30v; with Williams, Æthelred, 2.
101B. Yorke, ‘Æthelwold and the Politics of the Tenth Century’, in Bishop Æthelwold: His Career and Influence, ed. B. Yorke (Woodbridge, 1988), 65–88, at 81–6.
102Regularis concordia, ch. 3 (ed. Symons and Spath, 70). See also above, n. XXX.
103Libellus Æthelwoldi episcopi, chs. 41, 49, 51, 58 (Liber Eliensis II.31, 37, 39, 47, ed. Blake, 105, 111–12, 116).
104S 1485 (Anglo-Saxon Wills, ed. D. Whitelock [Cambridge, 1930], no. 9).
105BL Cotton Tiberius B. v, vol. 1, fol. 23r. See Dumville, ‘The Ætheling’, 4–5.
106Jayakumar, ‘Politics’, 187–212 and 301–3.
107Wulfstan Cantor, Vita S. Æthelwoldi, ch. 14 (ed. Lapidge and Winterbottom, 24–6); Adelard of Ghent, Lectiones in depositione S. Dunstan, ch. 7 (ed. Winterbottom and Lapidge, 130–2). Cf. Yorke, ‘Æthelwold’, 86–8.
108S. Ashley, ‘The Lay Intellectual in Anglo-Saxon England: Ealdorman Æthelweard and the Politics of History’, in Lay Intellectuals in the Carolingian World, ed. P. Wormald and J.L. Nelson (Cambridge, 2007), 218–44, at 224–30.
109Interestingly, Æthelwold is recorded as having brought Æthelred to Ely during Edward the Martyr’s reign (975–8), perhaps indicating a degree of responsibility for the young prince: see below, Chapter 2, p. 71. Cf. Regularis concordia, ch. 1 (ed. Symons and Spath, 69); ‘Edgar’s Establishment of Monasteries’ (ed. Whitelock, 146).
110Asser, Vita Ælfredi regis, ch. 23 (ed. Stevenson, 20).
111D. Pratt, ‘Kings and Books in Anglo-Saxon England’, ASE 43 (2014), 297–377, esp. 322–33; M. Gretsch, ‘Historiography and Literary Patronage in Late Anglo-Saxon England: The Evidence of Æthelweard’s Chronicon’, ASE 41 (2012), 205–48. See further D. Pratt, The Political Thought of King Alfred the Great (Cambridge, 2007). Though questions have been raised as to the degree of ‘Alfredian’ involvement in the translations ascribed to the king, he was certainly remembered as a learned ruler in Æthelred’s day: M. Godden, ‘Did King Alfred Write Anything?’, Medium Ævum 76 (2007), 1–23; J. Bately, ‘Did King Alfred Actually Translate Anything? The Integrity of the Alfredian Canon Revisited’, Medium Ævum 78 (2009), 189–215.
112S 904 (KCD 707); with Keynes, Diplomas, 187, n. 117; and Stafford, Queen Emma, 130, n. 173.
113See below, Chapter 2, p. 62.
114K. Harrison, The Framework of Anglo-Saxon History to AD 900 (Cambridge, 1976), 92.