ch 4

It is in this light that we should understand both the lull in charter production in 991 and 992 and the dramatic fashion in which it was resumed in 993. The reverse at Maldon and death of Byrhtnoth had brought matters to a head, and the king’s failure to defeat the viking force in the following year must only have exacerbated matters. It is within this context that Æthelred came to the conclusion that his previous actions were responsible for recent misfortunes and set about remedying these. The first sign of rapprochement between the king and his mother comes in these years, when Ælfthryth is recorded intervening with Æthelred on behalf of Wynflæd in a dispute (990 × 993).5 Likewise, it is around this time that Sigeric began to play a major part in royal counsels: in 990 he had been translated to Canterbury as Dunstan’s successor and he is likely to have been instrumental in obtaining papal support for the peace treaty with Normandy in this year. A year later he was at the heart of discussions which led to the first payment of tribute to the vikings. Sigeric enjoyed close contacts with the reform movement: he had been educated at Glastonbury and was abbot of St Augustine’s in Canterbury before his promotion to Ramsbury, whence he was transferred to Canterbury; and it was to him that Ælfric dedicated the First and Second Series of his Catholic Homilies, completed in these years (990 × 994). Sigeric’s rise is a sign of things to come and he deserves to be considered one of the architects of the new politics of the 990s.⁶

This message is reinforced by two sets of textual allusions to the Regularis concordia within this document.¹³ The first comes in the description of Æthelred’s youthful errors, in which the king mentions how ‘this misfortune came to pass, in part on account of my youth, which is accustomed to engage in various pursuits (diversis solet uti moribus), and in part on account of the detestable love of money of those who ought to have counselled for my benefit’. The first half of this phrase is clearly a calque on the preface to the Regularis concordia, where it is said of Edgar that ‘from the start of his boyhood, as is customary of that age (uti ipsa solet aetas), he engaged in various pursuits (diversis uteretur moribus), but was also touched by divine regard; diligently admonished and shown the royal way of orthodox faith by a certain abbot, he began to fear, love and venerate God greatly.’14 A subtle but unmistakable contrast is drawn here: while despite the natural distractions of youth Edgar listened to the advice of ‘a certain abbot’ (almost certainly Æthelwold), Æthelred fell prey to them.¹⁵ As we have seen, the Concordia was a programmatic statement of the reform, drafted by Æthelwold and issued under Edgar’s aegis (and probably also in his presence – though this is not stated explicitly) at the Council at Winchester (c. 970).¹⁶ Æthelred’s reconciliation with the bishop of Winchester thus even takes on a textual guise: he frames his regret and renewed commitment to reform in Æthelwold’s own words. That the charter was indeed meant to represent a return to the kind of politics seen under Edgar, Ælfthryth and Æthelwold is confirmed by a second, lengthier set of borrowings from this work: the entire first dating clause is an extended calque on that of the Regularis concordia, and the ‘synodal council of Winchester’ (synodale concilium Wintoniae) of Pentecost 993 is thus presented as a direct equivalent to the original ‘synodal council of Winchester’ which had witnessed the production of the Concordia. The choice of Winchester for this event would have further underlined the parallel: Æthelred chose to announce his change of tack at a site with close associations with Æthelwold, Edgar and the reform.

This charter is, therefore, in many respects extraordinary: its length, its allusions to contemporary events, its criticism of named royal advisers and its textual links with the Regularis concordia all make it stand apart from other documents of the era. It can be read as something of a political manifesto, laying out the new direction of the 990s. Its appearance is commensurate with its political importance: it is one of the grandest charters to survive in its original format from the Anglo-Saxon period (Plate 5). Written throughout in a clear Anglo-Caroline hand, even its script sends a message: Caroline writing had been popularized by the reformers, as we have seen, and had only made sporadic appearances in diplomas before this point.17 What is more, the specific form of script used (Style I Anglo-Caroline) is that associated with Æthelwold’s circles: it is written in the prelate’s own preferred style, perhaps by a former student.¹⁸ One further anomaly deserves comment: the charter’s witness-list. Since diplomas were first introduced to England in the seventh century, it had been customary for them to bear lists of those present at the time of their enactment. Though modelled on continental documents in which the interested parties would actually sign their own names (or make autograph crosses next to them), in England it was the scribe of the main text who generally added these details (presumably in the earliest cases because the illiterate English were incapable of doing so themselves).¹⁹ The only certain exception to this rule is the Abingdon privilege in question. As the most cursory glance at its witness-list reveals, the crosses next to the names of the attestors are different in shape and aspect, strongly suggesting that they are autograph (Plate 6).²⁰ It would seem that the document was produced in the following manner: first, at the council of Winchester the king promised to restore Abingdon’s liberty; then at a second, smaller gathering at the oratory of the royal estate at Gillingham a diploma was drawn up recording the act; finally, those present at this latter event added crosses next to their names (perhaps in two distinct stages).21 This final act was clearly anticipated by the draftsman, since he left spaces for the crosses. What is more, he also left space for further names to be added to the witness-list. In two cases names were indeed inserted – those of Bishop Wulfsige of Sherborne and Abbot Ælfwig of Westminster. These figures were presumably promoted to their posts between the two gatherings. In fact, in Wulfsige’s case the bishop’s original subscription as abbot of Westminster (reflecting his role at the time of the Winchester assembly) has also made its way into the final charter. It would thus seem that the list represents attendance of the original Winchester council, updated (or at least partially updated!) at the Gillingham gathering. The signing of this document would certainly have been a ceremonial act, much like the signing and sealing of documents elsewhere in Europe; the difference, however, is that whereas on the continent such acts were the norm, in England this was a novelty and must have been all the more striking for this fact.²² What we are dealing with is a promise to rule better, personally signed by the kingdom’s leading magnates.

There is, therefore, every reason to believe that the Abingdon privilege of 993, with its lengthy meditation on sin and redemption, is an original statement of 993, not simply a variation on an existing theme; it is a key witness to Æthelred’s concerns at this point. That such thoughts are to be ascribed to the king and his closest advisers should not be doubted: it would not have been in the interests of a local Abingdon scribe to explain the reasons behind Æthelred’s change of heart in detail, nor does one imagine that he would have dared put such words in the king’s mouth – these sentiments can only have served a royal agenda.²⁸ The charter claims to have been dictated by Abbot Wulfgar, and this is by no means inconceivable; but whoever drafted it, there must have been a great deal of royal input. In this respect, one imagines that other figures at court, such as Archbishop Sigeric, Abbot Ælfsige of the New Minster and the thegns Æthelmær and Ordulf (the last three of whom are named as playing an active role at the Gillingham gathering) also had a say. The resulting charter was the first of a series of restitutions issued in the 990s, all of which frame Æthelred’s actions in remarkably similar terms. The next, in favour of St Andrew’s, Rochester, was issued in 995, two years after the council of Winchester, restoring estates at Wouldham and Littlebrook in Kent.²⁹ This document does not go into the same degree of detail as the Abingdon privilege, but it similarly refers to the neglect of Æthelred’s youth and the ignorance that the king then showed, an ignorance which he has been able to rectify since achieving maturity. As before, the king’s personal interest in restoring these lands is evident: he has done wrong, and now that he has attained a sufficient age feels the need to correct his youthful error. Beyond thematic similarities, there is a textual link between the charters: the reference to Æthelred’s youth and its ‘various pursuits’ in this diploma is taken almost verbatim from the Abingdon privilege, right down to the allusion to the preface of the Regularis concordia.30 The two documents were evidently part of the same programme and the draftsman is advertising this fact. At Wantage two years later (Easter 997), Æthelred then restored lands to the Old Minster, Winchester, expressing remarkably similar sentiments. Here he admits to having earlier taken estates amounting to a massive hundred hides at Downton and Ebbesborne (Wilts.) – a portion of which we know to have gone to Ælfgar in 986 – on account of his immoderate youth; now, however, admonished by his advisers and fearing apostolic wrath, the king promises to restore the lands which he has unjustly possessed.³¹ Again Æthelred’s guilt and fear are clear, as is their cause: the intemperate actions of his youth.

These themes are returned to at greater length in the next document in this series, a second restitution in favour of Rochester, issued at Easter 998.³² Here Æthelred revisits his wrongdoing in a level of detail not seen since the Abingdon privilege: the king again mentions his youth and the role of bad counsellors, in this case singling out Æthelsige, who had taken advantage of him and obtained permission to despoil St Andrew’s. Nevertheless, the king maintains that his actions were performed ‘not so much cruelly as ignorantly’ (non tam crudeliter quam ignoranter) and goes on to explain that he has since deprived Æthelsige of office, promising now to restore the relevant estate (Bromley) to Rochester. The diploma reaches a crescendo with the following details:

What is significant here is the use of the Latin verb peniteo, ‘I repent, I do penance’. That specifically penitential contrition is intended is suggested by the wording of the rest of the passage: Æthelred’s conscience is pricked (he is compunctus) and he wishes to receive the ‘tears of repentance’ (lacrimas penitentiae); compunctio, as we have seen, was associated with penitential regret and the tears of repentance were another important sign of contrition, an indication that penance was not undertaken cynically.³⁴ The final phrase of this passage, taken from Ezekiel XXXIII.11, is a classic penitential motif, probably drawn from contemporary rites for the reconciliation of penitents.³⁵ This is not the only liturgical allusion in this document: its preamble borrows elements of its formulation from the mass text for Maundy Thursday (the Thursday before Good Friday).³⁶ Since the diploma was issued on Easter Sunday, only three days after those present would have witnessed these rites (possibly including the reconciliation of penitents), these allusions can hardly have fallen on deaf ears. Indeed, the textual links between this charter and the liturgy of penance raises the distinct possibility that Æthelred underwent these rites three days earlier; such remarks are unlikely to have been a mere literary fiction.37

These charters bear witness to the anxiety which had taken root within Æthelred’s regime. The king and his advisers were not in danger of losing control of the realm – it would be some time before the viking raids reached such intensity – but the ideological foundations of their rule had been shaken: good governance was meant to bring prosperity and so long as the kingdom suffered there would be questions about Æthelred’s suitability as monarch (and also, for that matter, the suitability of his senior advisers). If the primary aim of the king’s restitutions was spiritual, to redeem his sins, then a secondary concern was certainly to present himself as a just and God-fearing ruler. We can be confident that he and his counsellors were versed in the lessons of the ‘Twelve Abuses’ and the implicit message of these documents is that Æthelred was not an ‘unjust king’, but a repentant sinner – he was David, not Ahab; he had erred but made amends. While we might think of penance as a sign of weakness, it was not necessarily so in the Middle Ages: David provided a powerful model for the repentant ruler and the reformers of the ninth and tenth centuries taught that he who exalted himself would be humbled, while he who humbled himself would be exalted (cf. Matthew XXIII.12; Luke XIV.11).⁵⁰ Penance could thus be an assertive act: it had the power to transform weakness into strength, making prior mistakes into signs of humility, a cardinal virtue for rulers. Æthelred was acting in a venerable tradition: the Carolingian emperor Louis the Pious had performed penance twice (once under duress, admittedly), while Emperor Theodosius I (379–95), whose rule was synonymous with peace and justice in the Middle Ages, had also done so.⁵¹ Still, emotions were running high and the very fact that the king had to fall on his sword in this manner says something: Æthelred was deeply troubled by recent events and desperate to find a way to make amends.

Though Æthelred’s charters of restitution give us the clearest insights into royal thought in the 990s, much can also be gleaned from other documents of these years.52 Of particular importance here is the close nexus between repentance and reform, first established in the Abingdon privilege of 993: an essential part of Æthelred’s volte-face was a return of royal support to reform. Since the reformers of Edgar’s reign had taught that political success and national piety went hand in hand, it stood to reason that by returning to the politics of his father and erstwhile regents Æthelred could usher in a new ‘Golden Age’. Reform here was to the institutional church what penance was to the individual sinner: a means of rectifying past wrongs. Indeed, the monastic vocation itself carried distinctly penitential undertones: the Rule describes life in a monastery as ‘an eternal Lent’, a never-ending period of prayer and penitence.⁵³

The large number of charters issued in favour of religious houses (and in particular reformed monastic centres) in these years must be viewed in this light; like the restitutions discussed above, these were designed to court divine favour. Thus, when Æthelred granted liberty to the bishopric of Cornwall in 994, the document in question opens with a dramatic preamble considering the Fall of Man and closes with a sanction threatening eternal damnation on any who, seduced by love of money (philargiria), infringes upon its terms.⁵⁴ It is hard not to see herein echoes of the Abingdon privilege of the previous year, which also opens with a lapsarian proem and places particular blame on the ‘detestable love of money’ (detestanda philargiria) displayed by Æthelred’s advisers in the 980s. The connections between these documents are not only thematic: the latter also draws elements of its formulation from the Abingdon diploma.55 The reference to how ‘this charter was written by the venerable Archbishop Sigeric of the church of Canterbury’ (scripta est hec cartula ab uenerabili archiepiscopo Sigerico Dorobernensis aecclesie) suggests that the kingdom’s senior metropolitan had an active hand in its drafting; if so, such similarities can hardly be coincidental, since Sigeric had been a prominent presence at the previous year’s council of Winchester. These reminiscences advertise the connection between this document and the programme unveiled at that event; it was clearly born of the same spirit.⁵⁶ This may explain why this privilege claims to be issued not only for the redemption of Æthelred’s soul – something of a commonplace in such documents – but also for the absolution of his sins (pro absolutione criminum meorum), a rather less common turn of phrase, possibly alluding to the misdeeds of the 980s. The importance of this diploma is further indicated by the use of gold script to highlight initials and the names of key individuals within the text – it was designed to impress (Plate 7).

The wording of many other charters suggests a connection with this programme of repentance and reform. A diploma issued in favour of Wilton in 994 draws the reader’s attention to the strict Benedictine observance of the nuns there, and a privilege in favour of Muchelney a year later likewise notes the monks’ rigorous application of the Rule; in both cases, a distinctly reformist agenda is evident.⁵⁷ More telling, perhaps, is a document of 996 granting the Old Minster a bequest which had hitherto been blocked, which is said to have been issued ‘for the expiation of my sins and the state of my realm’ (pro meorum expiatione piaculorum, meique statu imperii).⁵⁸ That such documents were indeed issued with an eye to courting divine favour is shown by a charter issued to St Albans in 996, in which the king requests that the monks celebrate masses and sing psalms to assist him and the Christian nation, that they might merit victory ‘against both visible and invisible enemies’ (contra uisibiles et inuisibiles hostes); clearly, the king was trying to marshal the spiritual weapons available, hoping that masses and psalms would succeed where hard steel had failed.59 The phrase used here is of particular interest. To speak of the ‘visible and invisible’ was common enough in the Middle Ages (the Nicene Creed, which since 325 had been the cornerstone of Christian orthodoxy, opens by referring to ‘all things visible and invisible’); nevertheless, the specific line employed here was probably lifted from the royal coronation ordo, in which it forms part of the prayer said over the king immediately before his consecration.⁶⁰ We thus seem to be witnessing further reflections upon the nature and duties of royal office. What is more, the connection between Æthelred’s undertakings and present ills is made clear by the king’s hope that by virtue of the monks’ masses and psalms – ‘spiritual arms’ (arma spiritualia), as the draftsman puts it – not to mention the intercession of the blessed martyr Alban, he and his people will yet merit victory over their adversaries. The message of this document, like that of the restitutions of these years, is that Æthelred does indeed measure up to the expectations placed upon him; he invokes the help of the saints and the religious communities of his realm and rules in accordance with the instructions received at the time of his consecration. That the coronation ordo should be a source for such reflections is perfectly natural and this document’s draftsman was not alone here: a short vernacular text composed at some point in Æthelred’s reign (perhaps in his later years) uses the coronation oath as a springboard to consider broader themes of kingship and justice.⁶¹ That these thoughts stemmed from the king or one of his closest advisers should be presumed; in the wake of recent misfortunes, just rule was on the mind. This was, in any case, not the only charter to request masses and psalms for the king and nation: the Abingdon privilege of 993 had been issued in return for such services, as we have seen, and in 1002 an estate was granted to Westminster not only in exchange for a hundred mancuses (the mancus being one eighth of a pound, or thirty pence) but also on the condition that the monks celebrate masses and sing psalms for the king.62

Similarly revealing is a charter of 998, which grants Bishop Wulfsige permission to reform the cathedral chapter at Sherborne, confirming the centre’s holdings and liberty in the process. This opens by explaining how Archbishop Ælfric (of Canterbury) and the rest of the king’s leading men had taken part in deliberations leading to the chapter’s reform, then launches into a series of instructions for Wulfsige’s successors, who are to be pastors, not tyrants, looking to the best interests of the brothers. This, so the diploma continues, is necessary because the king and his countrymen are those ‘upon whom the ends of the world are come’ (nos sumus in quos fines seculorum deuenerunt: I Corinthians X.11); the human race is multiplied, there is a shortage of land, and everywhere the love of money (philargiria) is on the rise.⁶³ Again, we see echoes of the kinds of thoughts and concerns expressed in the Abingdon charter of 993; again, the tone is distinctly reformist. Wulfsige himself is one of a number of reform-minded individuals who rose to senior positions within the English church in these years, and other sources help shed further light on his pontificate. Pride of place goes to an anonymous letter to Wulfsige from his metropolitan (perhaps Archbishop Ælfric, given the emphasis placed on his involvement in Sherborne’s reform). Most of the epistle is lifted from an earlier letter to Eanbald, archbishop of York, written by the eighth-century scholar Alcuin, who hailed from York but had made his career on the continent, eventually retiring to St-Martin’s, Tours: it comprises a general guide on how bishops ought to behave. The opening address to Wulfsige, however, is not taken from this exemplar and presumably reflects contemporary concerns: it gives thanks to God that the author has been set up to govern the church ‘in such dangerous and most difficult times’ (in tam periculosis et laboriosissimis temporibus: see II Timothy III.1), praying for divine assistance in all good works.64 That Wulfsige was keen to receive advice on his new duties is further indicated by another letter written to him, this time by Ælfric the homilist (then of Cerne in Dorset, within Wulfsige’s diocese). This offers some guidance to the secular clergy, but is unmistakably monastic in focus, expressing concern for the lax standards amongst clerics and affirming the superiority of the monastic vocation.⁶⁵ Clearly, there is a connection here between current events and the need for reform: the letter from Wulfsige’s metropolitan speaks of the ‘dangerous times’ in which they live, an allusion to the dangerous times which according to II Timothy will precede the end of time, while later versions of Ælfric’s pastoral letter splice this together with the homilist’s tract ‘On the Prayer of Moses’ (De oratione Moysi, c. 995), an eschatologically charged work which presents recent misfortunes as punishment for the neglect of monastic life and divine services.⁶⁶ Hints of such concerns can also be detected in the ‘earlier’ version of Ælfric’s letter, which contains a set of later pronouncements inserted into the main text. These clearly stem from a church council and were presumably added by Wulfsige himself. Amongst the stipulations is an instruction that the mass contra paganos (‘against the pagans’) should be sung in larger religious houses of the kingdom every Wednesday; as the viking incursions ramped up, the kingdom’s bishops evidently thought it wise to entreat divine support for the nation.⁶⁷ The lucky circumstance – if it is to be ascribed to luck alone – that so many sources shed light upon Wulfsige’s actions at this point allows us to say with confidence here what we can often only infer: that reform and other pious endeavours were intimately associated with the growing viking threat.68

Yet it is not only bishops and abbots who are prominent at this point. In addition to Abbot Ælfsige, laymen by the name of Æthelmær and Ordulf are singled out as playing an active role in overseeing the restitution of Abingdon’s liberty in 993. These can be identified as the thegns of these names who regularly attest royal charters, generally in the first and second positions. They are also said to have advised the king to compensate Abingdon for its loss of lands (c. 999) previously donated by Edgar and therefore deserve to be seen as another driving force behind the restitutions of these years.⁷¹ The first of these figures was the son of Ealdorman Æthelweard ‘of the western provinces’ and thus a relative of Ælfhere of Mercia (himself a relation of the queen-mother Ælfthryth). Though Æthelweard owed his promotion to Edward the Martyr, thanks to these connections he may also have been an associate of Ælfthryth during the regency years, when his son was the beneficiary of a grant at Thames Ditton. Certainly, he and Æthelmær were important patrons of reform, founding Cerne (c. 987) and Eynsham (1005), and the latter’s prominence is further reflected in the fact that he is recorded as one of the king’s seneschals (Old English: discðegn).⁷² As we have seen, this was an honourable post, reserved for the most influential magnates. The second of these figures, Ordulf, was the king’s maternal uncle, who also shared a passion for monastic life. He had been responsible for founding Tavistock (c. 981) – dedicated appropriately enough to the Blessed Virgin – and may have retired to the house in later years.73 In fact, Tavistock itself may have been amongst the centres to suffer in the 980s: the only early charter to survive from the abbey, a purported grant of privileges from 981, declares that it was issued after a period in which, as a consequence of his youth, the king had been unable and unwilling to prevent attacks on the house. This is a problematic document, since in 981 Æthelred can have been no more than fifteen (and was perhaps only twelve); it is hard to imagine how he would have been in a position to express regret for the errors of his youth at this point. However, while unconvincing as a document of 981, this diploma fits well into the politics of the 990s, when Ordulf’s fortunes – like those of his sister – were on the rise, and when the king was issuing similar charters of restitution to other monastic houses. Indeed, much of the document concerns the right of free election, which was a hot topic in the wake of Æthelred’s simoniacal intervention at Abingdon. One suspects, therefore, that the charter was concocted shortly after the sack of Tavistock in 997, perhaps on the basis of local memories of earlier struggles.⁷⁴ Like Æthelweard and Æthelmær, who were patrons of the homilist Ælfric, Ordulf seems to have been a learned layman, since he was left a copy of one of Hrabanus Maurus’s works and a martyrology by the local bishop of Crediton, Ælfwold (1008 × 1012).⁷⁵ Although Ordulf is not recorded as occupying a household office, his prominence in diploma witness-lists suggests that he too was accorded such a dignity. Other important figures amongst the ranks of the thegns at this point include Wulfgeat, who is named alongside Æthelmær and Ordulf as those who advised the king to compensate Abingdon for its loses c. 999 and is to be identified with the man of this name whom John of Worcester calls the king’s particular favourite; and Wulfric Spot, who founded Burton Abbey and endowed the centre with a substantial part of his patrimony in the early eleventh century.76 It was also around this time that Wulfric’s brother, Ælfhelm, was appointed ealdorman of Northumbria. He and his two sons, Wulfheah and Ufegeat (the former of whom often attests alongside Æthelmær, Ordulf and Wulfric amongst the ranks of the thegns), were also a significant presence at court. We do not know what happened to Ælfhelm’s predecessor, Thored; it may be that he died around this time (after a career of over a decade, this would be no surprise), but it has been suggested that he was removed to make way for Ælfhelm following his failure to face down viking forces in 992 and 993.⁷⁷ If so, this would be a further sign of Æthelred’s change of direction. In any case, it was also at this point that Leofsige and Leofwine were appointed to the ealdordoms of Essex and the Hwicce (a west-Midlands people); though their role in the resulting regime is somewhat less clear, we can be confident that they too were supportive of the new politics of the 990s.

Many of these new favourites were recipients of and participants in royal diplomas: Wulfric received a grant in 995 and another two in 996, and the king confirmed lands donated by Æthelmær to Muchelney in 995.⁷⁸ Æthelweard himself attests as senior ealdorman from 993 onwards and one suspects that he played an especially important part in developments at this point; as a literate layman, who may have received his education at Winchester, his sympathy for reform is clear. Finally, it should not be forgotten that Ælfthryth herself returned to the scene in 993, and though she never quite regains the position she had enjoyed during her son’s minority, there are signs that she was once again exerting significant influence at (and beyond) court: she appears periodically in the witness-lists of diplomas (including two of Æthelred’s four key restitutions); she seems to have been charged with raising the king’s sons (a job with which she may have been entrusted upon her return); and in the early 990s she was involved in an important exchange of estates which paved the way for the foundation of Cholsey Abbey (to which we shall return).79 It is, therefore, clear that she and her son had put the 980s behind them. Her involvement in the upbringing of her grandsons, alongside whom she frequently attests, is especially striking; if Æthelred’s actions in previous years had been a rejection of her (and Æthelwold’s) teachings, this decision reveals just how far the king had back-tracked: he was now entrusting her with imparting these same lessons to his sons and heirs. It has been suggested that Ælfthryth’s return to political life occasioned the side-lining of Æthelred’s first wife and possibly also the removal of the latter’s father, Thored.⁸⁰ This may be true, insofar as these years saw a general shift away from the politics of the 980s; however, even then Ælfgifu had not attested Æthelred’s diplomas, so it is by no means clear that we can read so much into her invisibility at this point. The fact that she continued to bear Æthelred children throughout the 990s certainly indicates that she was accommodated within the new regime. Indeed, though it is probably no more than a coincidence, it is fitting that it should be during these years of reforming zeal that Ælfgifu gave birth to sons bearing the evocative names Eadwig and Edgar.⁸¹

Viewed in this light, it comes as little surprise that, despite viking ravages, the 990s were a period of substantial literary and intellectual activity. It was in the early years of the decade that Ælfric completed the First and Second Series of Catholic Homilies (990 × 994), which he dedicated to Archbishop Sigeric (though Ealdorman Æthelweard also received a special version of at least the first of these).⁸² These were followed shortly by his Lives of Saints (994 × 998), which are a supplement of sorts to the Catholic Homilies, written with a keener eye to political developments and appropriately enough dedicated to Æthelweard.83 Alongside these major collections many shorter works can be ascribed to this most productive of English homilists.⁸⁴ Yet if Ælfric was the most prolific writer of these years, he was certainly not alone. It was in the 990s, perhaps soon after his appointment to the see of London (996), that Wulfstan began writing sermons. Many of his early works address the coming of Antichrist and end of time, events which he anticipated coming to pass in the near future. These were soon followed by writings on pastoral themes, including the correct conduct of religious life, provision of sacraments and payment of church dues.⁸⁵ The works of these two figures can be placed alongside the rich Latin literary production of these years. Wulfstan Cantor (also known as Wulfstan of Winchester) is known to have produced a veritable slew of texts: a poem on the ceremonial transfer (translation) and miracles of the relics of St Swithun (Narratio metrica de S. Swithuno; 992 × 994, updated in or soon after 996); a Life of Bishop Æthelwold (996 × 1002, probably late 996 or early 997); a work on musical theory (no longer extant); and various shorter poems and hymns, which cannot be securely dated, but are probably to be assigned to the 990s.⁸⁶ Rather more idiosyncratic, but no less interesting, are the writings of Byrhtferth of Ramsey, a sometime student of the continental reformer Abbo of Fleury, who had taught briefly at Ramsey (985–7). Byrhtferth composed Lives of Ramsey’s founder, Bishop Oswald (995 × 1005, probably 997 × 1002) and the obscure eighth-century Mercian bishop Ecgwine; a work of history which later formed the basis for the earlier sections of Symeon of Durham’s Historia regum; a selection of extracts from earlier writers (the so-called Glossae in Bedam); and a bilingual handbook or Enchiridion (1004 × 1016), designed to accompany a now-lost work of computus (that is, a guide to the reckoning of dates, especially those of movable church feasts such as Easter).87 Taken together this constitutes a very substantial literary output, a fact which is all the more impressive when one considers that other works are likely to have been lost in transmission. Alongside such new works, this was also a period in which many existing texts were copied and circulated: it was around the turn of the millennium that the Blickling Homilies (a selection of anonymous sermons) were transcribed, as were two of the four great manuscripts of Old English verse, the Junius and Beowulf codices (the other two, the Exeter Book and the Vercelli Codex, were probably produced slightly earlier).⁸⁸ Such manuscripts may reveal something about the concerns of those copying them and it has been suggested that the Beowulf manuscript, in particular, with its pronounced interest in foreign invasion and the monstrous, reflects the problems faced by the English at this point: its readers were meant to meditate on men and monsters.⁸⁹

There is, therefore, reason to speak of a ‘second generation’ of reform in these years, typified by Ælfric of Eynsham, Wulfstan of York and Wulfstan Cantor. That these figures were not satisfied with maintaining the status quo is clear: the pastoral letters of Ælfric and sermons of Wulfstan reveal a firm belief that there is much work to be done. This generation was more concerned with consolidating previous gains than spreading them to new centres, as we might expect, and pastoral matters bulk particularly large. Still, reform was also taken forward in important manners. A number of centres were founded anew or reformed, including Cerne (c. 987), Cholsey (993 × 997), Sherborne (998), Burton (1003) and Eynsham (1005), which join the foundations of the early 980s (Tavistock and perhaps also Amesbury and Wherwell). Existing centres also did well in the 990s: the monks of Abingdon were to recall the abbacy of Wulfgar (990–1016) as a second ‘Golden Age’ and in Winchester the dedication of a new tower (993 × 994) and the translation of Æthelwold (10 September 996) speak of new-found confidence.90 It is against the backdrop of renewed royal patronage that such activity is to be understood.

That the works of these years should reflect contemporary concerns is not surprising and the viking raids naturally take pride of place here. Indeed, though the literary flourishing of the period is not simply a reflex of the Scandinavian attacks, there is no mistaking the urgency of many of these works, an urgency which becomes more pronounced as we move through the 990s. Already in the preface to his Second Series of Catholic Homilies (c. 992 × 994) Ælfric complained of the ‘many injuries of hostile pirates’ (multae iniuriae infestium piratarum) he had suffered since completing the First Series (c. 990 × 992) and in later writings the homilist shows signs of growing concern.⁹¹ It was only shortly after finishing the Second Series that he rendered the ‘Twelve Abuses’ into the vernacular (c. 995), a text which, as we have seen, carried clear contemporary resonances. His ‘On the Prayer of Moses’ (De oratione Moysi), written around the same time (c. 995), can be read in a similar vein: here the homilist asserts that present invasions are divine punishment for earlier attacks on monastic life (apparently those of the 980s). Ælfric also includes an account of God’s punishment of David, the archetypal penitent ruler who may have been the model for Æthelred’s own actions at this point.⁹² This work was composed for inclusion in Ælfric’s Lives of Saints, and other texts within this collection betray a similar interest in current events: the account of the deeds of the Maccabees, who had resisted foreign dominion of Judea in the Hellenistic period, and the rendering into English of the Passion of Edmund, who had died at the hands of the viking ‘Great Army’ in 869, may have been intended as models for the English in their hour of need; meanwhile, the assurance at the end of the account of the martyrdom of the Forty Soldiers that ‘heathens’ – heathen being a common synonym for viking – who oppress Christians will receive their just deserts from the Almighty must have come as welcome news to many.93 Similar interest attaches to the unusual tract known as Wyrdwriteras (998 × 1002), in which Ælfric undertakes a learned discussion on how kings of old had delegated military command to ‘ealdormen’ and generals so that they might concentrate on other business, such as prayer; clearly, military manoeuvres and royal piety were matters of interest.⁹⁴ Further evidence of such thoughts comes from Ælfric’s translation of the Book of Kings (992 × 1002), which frequently expands on or adjusts the original, giving particular attention to the role of royal counsel; as Stacy Klein notes, it is tempting to see herein a commentary on Æthelred’s recent indiscretions.⁹⁵ Whether such references should be read as ruler criticism, however, is a good question. There can be no doubt as to Ælfric’s disapproval of recent attacks on monasteries, but it must be borne in mind that by the time he wrote these works Æthelred himself had expressed similar sentiments. Indeed, much of what the homilist has to say sits comfortably alongside the king’s own actions in these years: he urges prayer and piety, but also military support when necessary. Ælfric was critical of the boy who had brought his nation to the brink of disaster in the 980s, not the man seeking to redress this in the 990s. That the homilist should be broadly in agreement with Æthelred’s regime makes perfect sense: his chief patrons, Æthelweard and Æthelmær, were a dominant force at court in these years, while Archbishop Sigeric, to whom he dedicated the Catholic Homilies, also played an important part in developments.⁹⁶

While Æthelred was willing to take some of the blame for recent events, he makes it clear that this is not his to bear alone: he repeatedly points to the role of bad advisers, who ought to have counselled him better. The king was not alone in thinking thus: Ælfric’s rendering of the ‘Twelve Abuses’ shows almost as much interest in the ‘nobleman without virtue’ (dominus sine virtute) as the ‘unjust king’, and elsewhere the homilist stresses that every counsellor (wita) should speak his mind and that the king should not be taken in by ‘secret advice’ (runung), but rather act in consultation with all.⁹⁹ Wulfstan likewise emphasizes that the counsellors of the nation (ðeodwitan) bear responsibility for its affairs alongside the king, noting the key role of bishops within this context.100 A sense of collective responsibility could not, therefore, be denied. What is more, it was not only the king and his ‘bad’ counsellors who had erred in previous years: the murder of the young Edward in 978 cast a shadow over the entire nation. While the translation and reburial of the king’s body may have temporarily lifted this, the viking attacks of the later 980s and early 990s must have served as a timely reminder of this earlier sin. Æthelred himself was not responsible for this – at worst, he was guilty by association – and all indications are that the blame was felt to fall upon the nation at large: Edward’s ‘own people’ (propria gens), as the Latin poem preserved in a Canterbury manuscript of c. 1000 puts it.¹⁰¹ If some saw the misfortunes of the early 990s as divine retribution for Æthelred’s misdeeds, others seem to have seen them as a consequence of the disgraceful treatment of Edward in 978.¹⁰²

It is against this backdrop that we must view the efforts to establish Edward’s cult in these years. The veneration of saints had first developed in the late Roman Empire and was well established by the tenth century. The appeal lay above all in the ability of saints to make the divine tangible; their remains were where heaven and earth met, points of contact between the human and divine.¹⁰³ Within the circles of Gerard of Brogne (d. 959) on the continent the veneration of saints played a key role and similar developments can be seen amongst the English reformers, who accorded great interest not only to so-called ‘universal’ saints such as Benedict of Nursia and the Blessed Virgin, but also to more local (and often half-forgotten) figures such as Swithun of Winchester and Æthelthryth of Ely.¹⁰⁴ By the 990s these were joined by the reformers Æthelwold, Dunstan and Oswald, as well as newly sainted members of the royal family (Edward, Edith). In the case of Edward, there is little evidence of a cult before the 990s and, though it is possible that popular opinion was already laying the foundations for his later sainthood, by the time we can trace his veneration in any detail it clearly enjoyed royal support.105 Byrhtferth of Ramsey is a key witness here: he reports that miracles began to be seen at Edward’s grave eleven years after his death (c. 990), information he says he owes to Archbishop Ælfric, who was the local diocesan bishop at Ramsbury at the time.¹⁰⁶ That the cult should take off as the viking attacks intensified is no accident; as noted, such signs of divine displeasure must have made Edward’s death appear in a new light. We can see evidence of his changing reputation in Byrhtferth’s account: here Edward is a saint almost despite himself, a petulant young man whose death alone has earned him sanctity. He conforms to the type of the ‘holy innocent’, one who like the children executed by Herod (Matthew II.16–18) has earned sainthood not through piety or good deeds, but as a result of his blameless demise.¹⁰⁷ Further evidence for the early development of the cult comes from the foundation of Cholsey Abbey, the first religious house dedicated to the royal martyr. The history of this centre is obscured by the fact that it did not last long; it may have been sacked in 1006, when the vikings are reported to have passed through the area, and after Æthelred’s reign it retreated into obscurity (by the time of the Conquest it had disappeared entirely).¹⁰⁸ Yet Cholsey’s later fate should not mislead us as to the house’s contemporary significance; it is clear that as originally conceived this was a very important centre indeed. Though we know little of its endowment, Germanus was its first abbot. Educated at Fleury and Winchester, he had previously been abbot of Westbury, Ramsey and Winchcombe and numbered amongst the leading reformers of the era.109 The window for Cholsey’s foundation is provided by Germanus’s last attestation as abbot of Ramsey (993) and his first as abbot of Cholsey (997). If Goscelin of St-Bertin’s late eleventh-century Life of St Ivo (which draws on local Ramsey traditions) is to be trusted, this window can be narrowed further, since he reports that Sigeric of Canterbury (d. 994) had encouraged the king to found the centre.¹¹⁰ Sigeric is certainly likely to have had a hand in the development of the cult. Not only was he an important player in these years, but as bishop of Ramsbury (985–90), in whose diocese Edward’s tomb lay, he would have had the chance to develop an early interest in the saint’s remains. Another important figure was Ælfric, Sigeric’s successor at both Ramsbury and Canterbury: according to Byrhtferth, it was he who first witnessed miracles at Edward’s tomb during his tenure of the former see and his will (1002 × 1005) includes a bequest to Cholsey.¹¹¹ That one of the earliest narratives celebrating Edward’s death and translation should come from a Canterbury manuscript is therefore entirely appropriate. A further piece of the puzzle is provided by a charter of 996 in which Æthelred grants a series of estates forfeited by Wulfbald to his mother in return for Cholsey, ‘which she had previously given to me’ (illa michi prius donauerat). Much of this document concerns the so-called ‘Crimes of Wulfbald’, which are of great interest in their own right; what matters from our present perspective, however, is that Ælfthryth had owned the estate on which the monastery was founded and had granted this to the king at some point before 996, presumably in connection with the centre’s foundation (though this is not stated explicitly).¹¹² While it is conceivable that Ælfthryth’s hand was forced, all indications are that she was an active and willing participant; there is, therefore, every reason to believe that she was involved in the growth of Edward’s cult from the start (rather than opposing it, as is often supposed).

An early sign of the cult’s growth is provided by the Latin poem relating to Edward’s translation added to a Canterbury manuscript around the turn of the millennium; by this point the saint’s fame had clearly reached the metropolitan see. It is also from these years that Byrhtferth’s reports of Edward’s miracles stem (997 × 1002), reports which the author may have received not only from Ælfric (whose authority he mentions), but also Germanus, who as former abbot of Ramsey is likely to have remained in contact with the centre after his move to Cholsey. Indeed, Ramsey itself boasted the remains of two other holy innocents, Æthelberht and Æthelred (d. c. 669), whose remains had been translated shortly before this (c. 991), and Germanus may thus have been gazetted to Cholsey as an expert on the phenomenon.113 A Latin poem commemorating an altar dedicated to Edward, Eustace and Kenelm added to an Abingdon manuscript in the early eleventh century attests to his veneration there and soon his name also found its way into the ‘litanies of saints’ (prayers invoking the intercession of Christ and his saints).¹¹⁴ The clearest evidence for the burgeoning cult, however, comes from the translation of Edward’s remains on 20 June 1001. This act is only recorded in the post-Conquest Passion of the saint, but there is little reason to doubt its historicity: the text draws on local Shaftesbury traditions and, while allowances must be made for the portrayal of Ælfthryth, the report of the translation itself is perfectly acceptable – indeed, the initiative ascribed to Æthelred speaks in its favour, since there would have been little reason to invent such details in the late eleventh century, when the king’s reputation was otherwise entering terminal decline.¹¹⁵ According to this account the king encouraged the translation, which was overseen by Wulfsige of Sherborne and an Ælfsinus praesul, probably Abbot Ælfsige of the New Minster.116 This was thus a decidedly local event, but one overseen by leading royal advisers. It was also undertaken at an important moment, since 1001 saw a series of serious attacks on the south-west – if Edward’s cult was indeed promoted in the hope of aiding the English in their ongoing efforts against the vikings, this would have been the ideal moment to do so. Further light is shed by a charter issued in favour of Shaftesbury a few months later. The document grants the centre the community (cenobium) of Bradford-on-Avon in order to offer a safe place of retreat in the face of the ongoing attacks. It opens with a preamble alluding to the dire straits in which the realm finds itself, then goes on to explain that the privilege has been issued to the resting place of Æthelred’s brother ‘so that the same religious community, with the relics of the blessed martyr [Edward] and other saints may obtain there a refuge against the snares of the barbarians and serve God undisturbed’.¹¹⁷ Questions have been raised as to the authenticity of this document and it has been suggested that the references to Edward the Martyr, in particular, represent a later addition (or interpolation).¹¹⁸ However, there is nothing else suspicious about the diploma and, as we have seen, there are other signs that Æthelred was involved in the promotion of his half-brother’s cult. Indeed, the fact that the charter was issued so soon after Edward’s second translation speaks in its favour; though it does not refer to this event, it reveals an active royal interest in the safety of the saint’s relics at a moment we know him to have been engaged on Shaftesbury’s behalf. Further evidence is provided by the remains of a late Anglo-Saxon church at Bradford (Plate 8). This was built in these years, probably to house Edward’s remains. The fact that work was left unfinished suggests that construction was abandoned at some point, perhaps after 1016, when Cnut’s conquest might have rendered the chapel’s original purpose redundant.¹¹⁹ Æthelred’s own interest in these developments is indicated in his sons’ attestations to the Shaftesbury charter: the king evidently wanted to involve the young princes in the promotion of their uncle’s cult. He seems to have been successful in this regard, since his eldest son, Æthelstan (d. 1014), later left a bequest to Shaftesbury, noting the presence of Edward’s remains there.120 There was certainly a personal tone to this. Though there is no reason to believe that Æthelred was involved in his half-brother’s death, he had been its beneficiary and may well have considered himself tainted by association. It was, after all, the fraternal rivalries of the 970s which lay behind Edward’s demise. It may be that Ælfthryth felt similarly: the earliest signs of Edward’s cult come from those years in which she was once again making her influence felt at court and, as we have seen, it was her willingness to exchange lands at Cholsey which enabled the foundation of the first church dedicated to the martyr.

Edward’s translation parallels those of many other saints in these years: during the first half of Æthelred’s reign (perhaps c. 991) the Kentish princes Æthelberht and Æthelred had been translated to Ramsey (whose abbot, Germanus, was later to be placed in charge of Cholsey); according to later tradition Cuthbert was translated from Chester-le-Street to Durham in 995; Æthelwold’s remains were translated at the Old Minster, Winchester, on 10 September 996; Æthelred’s half-sister, Edith, whose cult closely mirrors that of her half-brother Edward, was translated (apparently also at the king’s orders) at Wilton in early 997; and Oswald was translated at St Mary’s, Worcester, on 15 April 1002.¹²¹ Clearly, Æthelred and the English were seeking the support of the saints at every turn. There is, therefore, ample evidence to suggest that Æthelred supported the cult of his half-brother from at least the mid-990s, and it is perfectly understandable that when in 1008 he and his leading advisers, led by Archbishop Wulfstan, came to designate those feast days which were to be celebrated throughout the nation, they included Edward’s alongside those of Mary and the apostles.122 The development of this cult also accords with the general trajectory of developments in Æthelred’s reign: we see hesitant moves in this direction during the king’s minority, then hear nothing till the 990s. When we do hear more, it is at a time when the king was actively throwing his support behind reform. In his restitutions Æthelred often expresses concern about offences he may have caused the saints and it was presumably similar thoughts – in this case on the part of the nation – that inspired his support for Edward’s veneration.¹²³ The fact that so many of these cults were centred on reformed monastic houses is no accident; as we have seen, the cult of saints was channelled above all by the reformers and these acts bear comparison with Æthelwold’s own efforts to foster the veneration of Swithun during Edgar’s reign.¹²⁴ Here as elsewhere, Æthelred was following the example of his father and the reformers.

Shortly after peace had been made, one of the three viking leaders mentioned in the treaty, Olaf, was sponsored by Æthelred at his confirmation at Andover (he had apparently been baptized some years earlier). Ritual sponsorship was part of the repertoire commonly used to forge alliances, particularly between Christian kings and their pagan neighbours.¹²⁹ In this case, the act may have been necessitated by Olaf’s desire to return to Scandinavia; it served to create a firm bond of commitment. Initially these efforts seem to have borne fruit: as the Chronicle notes – with more than a hint of relief – Olaf kept his promise: in 995 he returned to Norway, where he set himself up as king in opposition to Earl Hákon of Hláðir (Lade), who had hitherto governed the region under the loose overlordship of the Danish ruler Swein. It has been suggested that this was part of a long-term strategy to divide England’s enemies and it may thus be significant that Swein is not mentioned in the treaty of 994; though he had been with the army earlier in the year, he was apparently not party to this agreement.130 It is certainly conceivable that Æthelred had a sense for the lie of the land in Scandinavia: Norwegian traders such as Ohthere had been known at the court of Alfred the Great, while King Hákon góði (‘the Good’) of Norway (d. c. 961) had been fostered at the court of Æthelred’s great-uncle, Æthelstan.¹³¹ York’s own contacts with its North Sea neighbours were not immediately severed upon its incorporation into the English realm in the second half of the tenth century and Æthelred may thus have had access to specific information regarding the situation in Scandinavia through his father-in-law, Earl Thored, or the latter’s successor, Ealdorman Ælfhelm. In later years English missionaries were also to play a significant part in the Christianization of Norway, reflecting the ties forged by Hákon, Æthelred, Olaf and others in these years.¹³²

Whether part of a grand strategy or simply a last-ditch attempt to bring an intractable foe to heel, Æthelred’s undertaking seems to have been successful in the short term. It was only when raids resumed in 997 that matters took a turn for the worse: in this year a major force ravaged Devon and Cornwall, sacking Ordulf’s foundation at Tavistock; and in the following one it struck at Dorset before settling down to overwinter on the Isle of Wight.¹³³ In 999 the raiders continued their steady eastward progress, travelling up the Medway to Rochester, where local Kentish levies were defeated and subsequent attempts to counter their progress foundered on delays. It was only in 1000 that the vikings finally departed, apparently of their own volition. The following year saw further strikes, however: a major force under the command of Pallig came to Sussex, where it defeated a levy from nearby Hampshire before travelling west to Devon, sacking Pinhoe and routing those who had assembled to defend the region. Finally, in 1002 a tribute of 24,000 pounds was paid.134 There is reason to believe that elements of the army active in the later 990s were drawn from the mercenaries who had entered Æthelred’s employ in 994: John of Worcester refers to this force as having ‘remained amongst the English’ (remanserit in Angliis) between then and 997, returning to its old ways at this point; meanwhile Pallig is presented as a pledge-breaker in the entry in the A-version of the Chronicle for 1001.¹³⁵ That there were indeed Scandinavians present at Æthelred’s court is shown by the survival of a fragmentary Old Norse praise-poem in the king’s honour, Gunnlaugr ormstunga’s Aðalráðsdrápa (traditionally dated c. 1002, though conceivably composed earlier).¹³⁶ If much of the raiding army was recruited in this fashion, this would explain why we do not hear of any opposition being offered by the king’s Scandinavian mercenaries, as we might have expected under the terms of the treaty of 994.

There are other signs that Æthelred remained firmly in control of the realm. His ability to restore church lands and redress past wrongs speaks of a ruler at the height of his powers, not one struggling to bring his influence to bear. His apparent hesitance to appoint new ealdormen, which has attracted much comment, points in the same direction: this was presumably an attempt to reduce the influence of figures such as Ælfric of Hampshire, who had proven unreliable in previous years, concentrating power in the hands of more trustworthy individuals, particularly reeves.¹⁵¹ Similarly informative is the evidence of coinage: Æthelred’s Crux and Long Cross issues, which span these years (c. 991–c. 1003), are amongst the most uniform since Edgar’s reform.152 That the first of these, bearing the inscription ‘CRVX’ (‘cross’) on the reverse, should be introduced in the early 990s, when we have other indications of a change of course, is entirely appropriate: the message sent was one of unity through piety. Of particular interest is the Intermediate Small Cross coinage of the mid- to later 990s (perhaps c. 997), which was only briefly minted, mostly in the west of the kingdom, towards the end of the Crux issue. It would seem that a new type was introduced, then withdrawn for reasons which are not entirely apparent. Whatever the grounds, the iconography of the Intermediate Small Cross, which harks back to the coinage of Edgar and Edward the Martyr (and also Æthelred’s own earliest years), sits well alongside other efforts to evoke the age of Edgar and Æthelwold. The very act of changing type was itself significant: the maintenance of correct weights and measures was a core duty of a Christian monarch and in showing such concern Æthelred was living up to these expectations.¹⁵³

This period also witnessed the king’s first legislative endeavours, which likewise constitute an effort to present an image of just and God-fearing rulership. In 997 Æthelred held assemblies at Woodstock in Oxfordshire and Wantage in Berkshire, leading to the production of two closely related sets of ordinances (I and III Æthelred ). The former are addressed to those regions which follow ‘English law’, while the use of Scandinavian vocabulary and reference to wapentakes in the latter suggests that they were intended for circulation in more northerly climes.¹⁵⁴ Both texts are relatively short and focus on similar issues: sureties, ordeals, land purchases and men of ‘ill repute’. At certain points the Wantage ordinances provide greater detail (not least on the subject of coin forgery), suggesting that they were the second to be issued; but in essence the two are complementary, as revealed by related clauses and common allusions to an earlier gathering at Bromdun (location unknown). Neither set of decrees is terribly novel, but novelty may not have been the intention; rulers struggled to stamp out crime throughout the tenth century and it was often necessary to repeat and expand earlier initiatives.155 Indeed, the issuing of decrees was itself a powerful gesture, as Patrick Wormald has shown: it presented the king in a uniquely royal fashion, showing him to be living up to the expectations placed upon him.¹⁵⁶ In the aftermath of the indiscretions and misdemeanours of the 980s, this must have been especially important. In this respect, it is surely no accident that the Wantage assembly also witnessed one of the king’s more prominent acts of repentance: the restitution of a hundred hides to the Old Minster. The charter and ordinances send complementary messages here: the former looks to the past, atoning for prior misdeeds, while the latter look to the future, seeking to prevent further misdemeanours.¹⁵⁷ Æthelred was thus doing everything within his power to cultivate the image of a good and God-fearing king: he was restoring church lands; he was promoting reform and the cult of saints (including that of his recently martyred half-brother); he was requesting masses and psalms for the well-being of his nation; he was reforming the coinage and maintaining correct weights and measures; and he was issuing new ordinances to curb a wide variety of lawless behaviour.

¹See below, pp. 146–9.

²S. Hamilton, ‘Rites for Public Penance in Late Anglo-Saxon England’, in The Liturgy of the Late Anglo-Saxon Church, ed. H. Gittos and M.B. Bedingfield (Woodbridge, 2005), 65–103, esp. 79–82 and 93–103.

³See similarly Koziol, Politics of Memory, 401–7; and cf. Fried, ‘Wissenschaft und Phantasie’.

⁴L. Roach, ‘Apocalypse and Atonement in the Politics of Later Æthelredian England’, English Studies 95 (2014), 733–57, at 735–6. See also above, Chapter 1, p. 41.

⁵S 1454 (CantCC 133). See Rabin, ‘Queen Ælfthryth’, 274–5; and P. Wormald, ‘Giving God and King their Due: Conflict and its Regulation in the Early English State’ (1997), repr. in and cited from his Legal Culture in the Early Medieval West: Law as Text, Image and Experience (London, 1999), 333–57, at 343–51.

⁶Cf. the suggestive remarks of Keynes, ‘Church Councils’, 110 and 122.

⁷S 876 (Abing 124). See Keynes, ‘Church Councils’, 107–16; Cubitt, ‘Politics of Remorse’; and L. Roach, ‘Penitential Discourse in the Diplomas of King Æthelred “the Unready”’, Journal of Ecclesiastical History 64 (2013), 258–76, esp. 260–1.

⁸S. Hamilton, The Practice of Penance, 900–1050 (Woodbridge, 2001), 18, 34, 36 and 114; M. Mansfield, The Humiliation of Sinners: Public Penance in Thirteenth-Century France (Ithaca, NY, 1995), 173; Wulfstan, Sermo in XL, and Sermo in Cena Domini, ed. D. Bethurum, The Homilies of Wulfstan (Oxford, 1957), 233–8 (the latter of which, however, draws heavily on Abbo of St-Germain’s sermon on the same theme).

⁹B. Poschmann, Buße und letzte Ölung (Freiburg, 1951), 87–8. See also H. Foxhall Forbes, ‘The Development of the Notions of Penance, Purgatory and the Afterlife in Anglo-Saxon England’ (PhD diss., Univ. of Cambridge, 2008), 103–7.

¹⁰M. Clayton, The Cult of the Virgin Mary in Anglo-Saxon England (Cambridge, 1990), 122–38 and 158–67.

¹¹M. Godden, ‘Money, Power and Morality in Late Anglo-Saxon England’, ASE 19 (1990), 41–65. Cf. Murray, Reason and Society, 59–80.

¹²ASC 993 CDE (ed. O’Brien O’Keeffe, 86–7).

¹³H. Vollrath, Die Synoden Englands bis 1066 (Paderborn, 1986), 309–10, esp. 309, n. 70; S. Keynes, ‘Re-Reading King Æthelred the Unready’, in Writing Medieval Biography, 750–1250: Essays in Honour of Professor Frank Barlow, ed. D. Bates, J. Crick and S. Hamilton (Woodbridge, 2006), 77–97, at 91, n. 70. See also Roach, ‘Penitential Discourse’, 266–7; and Keynes, ‘Church Councils’, 110–11.

¹⁴S 876 (Abing 124): ‘ad memoriam reduxi . partim hec infortunia pro meae iuuentutis ignorantia que diuersis solet uti moribus . partim etiam pro quorundam illorum detestand[a] philargiria qui meae utilitati consulere debebant accid[isse].’; Regularis concordia, ch. 1 (ed. Symons and Spath, 69): ‘… ab ineunte suae pueritiae aetate, licet uti ipsa solet aetas diuersis uteretur moribus, attamen respectu diuino attactus abate quodam assiduo monente ac regiam catholicae fidei uiam demonstrante cepit magnopere deum timere, diligere ac uernarari.’ (Italics added.)

¹⁵Cf. the similar remarks in ‘Edgar’s Establishment of Monasteries’ (ed. Whitelock, 147–8).

¹⁶See above, Chapter 1, p. 39.

¹⁷D.N. Dumville, ‘English Square Minuscule Script: The Mid-Century Phases’, ASE 23 (1994), 133–64, at 161–3; S.D. Thompson, Royal Anglo-Saxon Diplomas: A Palaeography (Woodbridge, 2006), 56–63.

¹⁸T.A.M. Bishop, English Caroline Minuscule (Oxford, 1971), xxi–xxii and 11; Rushforth, ‘Caroline Minuscule’, 200. Though some doubts have been raised about this hand, these are not sufficient to discard the charter as a later copy. See Keynes, ‘Church Councils’, 112–16; and cf. D.N. Dumville, English Caroline Script and Monastic History: Studies in Benedictinism, A.D. 950–1030 (Woodbridge, 1993), 135, n. 110.

¹⁹Chaplais, ‘Origin and Authenticity’, 33; Keynes, ‘Church Councils’, 70, 73, 75 and 94–5.

²⁰BL Cotton Augustus ii.38. A facsimile can be found in E.A. Bond et al., ed., Facsimiles of Ancient Charters in the British Museum, 4 vols. (London, 1873–8), iii, no. 36.

²¹Keynes, ‘Church Councils’, 112–16; L. Roach, ‘A Tale of Two Charters: Diploma Production and Political Performance in Æthelredian England’, in Writing Kingship and Power in Anglo-Saxon England: Studies in Honour of Simon Keynes, ed. R. Naismith and D.A. Woodman (Cambridge, forthcoming). Cf. Charters of Abingdon, ed. Kelly, cxiv, for the alternative proposition that the crosses were added in many different stages after the Gillingham gathering.

²²Cf. B.-M. Tock, ‘La mise en scène des actes en France au Haut Moyen Âge’, FMSt 38 (2004), 287–96; H. Keller and S. Ast, ‘Ostensio cartae. Italienische Gerichtsurkunden des 10. Jahrhunderts zwischen Schriftlichkeit und Performanz’, Archiv für Diplomatik 53 (2007), 99–121, esp. 120.

²³Keynes, Diplomas, 98–102; Cubitt, ‘Politics of Remorse’, 181, n. 12; Pratt, ‘Voice of the King’, 186, n. 221. Cf. Charters of Abingdon, ed. Kelly, lxxxiv–cxv.

²⁴S 658 (Abing 83), S 673 (Abing 84).

²⁵S 673 (Abing 84), S 786 (BCS 1282), S 788 (BCS 1284), with Keynes, Diplomas, 99. Kelly argues that such clauses could refer to any of the ‘many other periods in which church lands passed into secular hands’ (Charters of Abingdon, ed. Kelly, cii), but the examples she cites are not known to have led to the production of such documents. See further L. Roach, ‘The Privilege of Liberty in Later Anglo-Saxon England’, in Magna Carta: New Interpretations, ed. S. Ambler and N. Vincent (forthcoming).

²⁶See, e.g., Koziol, Politics of Memory, 315–99; and W. Huschner, Transalpine Kommunikation im Mittelalter. Diplomatische, kulturelle und politische Wechselwirkungen zwischen Italien und dem nordalpinen Reich (9.–11. Jahrhundert), MGH: Schriften 52, 3 pts (Hannover, 2003), 169–72 and 756–94.

²⁷Cf. H. Fuhrmann, ‘Fälschungen im Dienste der Wahrheit’, in his Überall ist Mittelalter. Von der Gegenwart einer vergangenen Zeit (Munich, 1996), 48–62 and 277–8.

²⁸Roach, ‘Penitential Discourse’, esp. 265–72.

²⁹S 885 (Roch 31).

³⁰Keynes, ‘Re-Reading’, 91, n. 70; Roach, ‘Penitential Discourse’, 266–7.

³¹S 891 (KCD 698).

³²S 893 (Roch 32).

³³S 893 (Roch 32): ‘Nunc autem quia superna michi parcente clementia ad intelligibilem etatem perueni . et que pueriliter gessi in melius emendare decreui ; iccirco domini compunctus gratia quicquid tunc instigante maligno contra sanctum dei apostolum me inique egisse recogito . totum nunc coram deo cum flebili cordis contritione peniteo . et queque opportuna ad eundem locum pertinentia libenter restauro . sperans penitentie mee lacrimas suscipi . et prioris ignorantie uincula solui ab eo qui non uult mortem peccatoris . sed ut magis conuertatur et uiuat .’ On which, see also S. Thompson Smith, Land and Book: Literature and Land Tenure in Anglo-Saxon England (Toronto, 2012), 56–60.

³⁴Foxhall Forbes, ‘Notions of Penance’, 103–7; T.-A. Cooper, ‘The Shedding of Tears in Late Anglo-Saxon England’, in Crying in the Middle Ages: Tears of History, ed. E. Gertisman (London, 2011), 175–92.

³⁵Roach, ‘Penitential Discourse’, 262–3.

³⁶S 893 (Roch 32): ‘pro redemptione generis humani in ara sancte crucis semetipsum patienter in odorem suauitatis immolari permisit .’; The Leofric Missal, ed. N. Orchard, 2 vols., HBS 113–14 (Woodbridge, 2002), II, 166: ‘Sed filius tuus dominus noster, tanquam pia hostia, et immolari se tibi pro nobis pacienter permisit, et peccatum quod mundus commiserate relaxauit’ (italics added). See further Keynes, ‘Church of Rochester’, 345, n. 102, who notes the influence of the liturgy, but does not specify the nature of the allusions.

³⁷Cf. C. Insley, ‘Charters, Ritual and Late Tenth-Century Kingship’, in Gender and Historiography: Studies in the Earlier Middle Ages in Honour of Pauline Stafford, ed. J.L. Nelson, S. Reynolds and S.M. Johns (London, 2012), 75–89, at 79–80, for a somewhat different perspective.

³⁸Hamilton, Practice of Penance, esp. 1–24 and 173–206; R. Meens, Penance in Medieval Europe: 600–1200 (Cambridge, 2014), 15–25, 118–30 and 158–64.

³⁹M. de Jong, ‘What was Public about Public Penance? Paenitentia publica and Justice in the Carolingian World’, Settimane 44 (1997), 863–904, at 896–8.

⁴⁰Hamilton, ‘Rites’; B. Bedingfield, ‘Public Penance in Anglo-Saxon England’, ASE 31 (2002), 223–55.

⁴¹T. Reuter, ‘Contextualising Canossa: Excommunication, Penance, Surrender, Reconciliation’, in his Medieval Polities and Modern Mentalities, ed. J.L. Nelson (Cambridge, 2006), 147–66, at 159–60. See also S. MacLean, ‘Ritual, Misunderstanding and the Contest for Meaning: Representations of the Disrupted Royal Assembly at Frankfurt (873)’, in Representations of Power in Medieval Germany, c .800–1500, ed. S. MacLean and B. Weiler (Turnhout, 2006), 97–120, at 105–6.

⁴²Similar sentiments are found in S 891 (KCD 698).

⁴³S 937 (Abing 129).

⁴⁴See above, Chapter 2, pp. 70–1; and cf. R. Lavelle, Royal Estates in Anglo-Saxon Wessex: Land, Politics and Family Strategies (Oxford, 2007), 1 and 90.

⁴⁵G. Koziol, ‘Is Robert I in Hell? The Diploma for Saint-Denis and the Mind of a Rebel King (Jan. 25, 923)’, EME 14 (2006), 233–67; H. Hoffmann, ‘Eigendiktat in den Urkunden Ottos III. und Heinrichs II.’, DA 44 (1988), 390–423. Cf. Koziol, Politics of Memory, 447–58 and 524–9; and A. Scharer, ‘Herrscherurkunden als Selbstzeugnisse?’, Mitteilungen des Instituts für Österreichische Geschichtsforschung 119 (2011), 1–13.

⁴⁶Cf. Le Goff, ‘Le roi enfant’, 231–7.

⁴⁷Die Briefe Heinrichs IV., ed. C. Erdmann, MGH: Deutsches Mittelalter 1 (Leipzig, 1937), no. 5, 8–9; C. Schneider, Prophetisches Sacerdotium und heilsgeschichtliches Regnum im Dialog, 1073–1077. Zur Geschichte Gregors VII. und Heinrichs IV. (Munich, 1972), 48–78.

⁴⁸See Cubitt, ‘Politics of Remorse’, 190–1; and Roach, ‘Penitential Discourse’, 267–8.

⁴⁹See further Stafford, ‘Political Ideas’, 74–5.

⁵⁰L. Bornscheuer, Miseriae regum. Untersuchungen zum Krisen- und Todesgedanken in den herrschaftstheologischen Vorstellungen der ottonisch-salischen Zeit, Arbeiten zur Frühmittelalterforschung 4 (Berlin, 1968). See also Koziol, Begging Pardon, 98–103 and 166–73.

⁵¹R. Schieffer, ‘Von Mailand nach Canossa. Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte der christlichen Herrscherbuße von Theodosius d. Gr. bis zu Heinrich IV.’, DA 28 (1972), 333–70.

⁵²Keynes, ‘Re-Reading’, 91–3; Cubitt, ‘Politics of Remorse’, 188.

⁵³Regula Benedicti, ch. 49.1 (ed. Neufville, 604). See Hamilton, Practice of Penance, 77–103; and cf. C. Cubitt, ‘Bishops, Priests and Penance in Late Saxon England’, EME 14 (2006), 41–63.

⁵⁴S 880 (KCD 686); with Insley, ‘Episcopal Scriptoria’, 188–9. The background is provided by earlier conflicts with the bishopric of Crediton: Councils, ed. Whitelock, no. 35, 165–73, esp. 165–7.

⁵⁵Roach, ‘Apocalypse and Atonement’, 738, n. 28 (reading ‘bishopric of Cornwall’ for ‘bishopric of Crediton’). See also C. Insley, ‘Where did All the Charters Go? Anglo-Saxon Charters and the New Politics of the Eleventh Century’, ANS 24 (2002), 109–27, at 117.

⁵⁶See Keynes, ‘Church Councils’, 122.

⁵⁷S 881 (KCD 687); S 884 (ed. E.H. Bates, Two Cartularies of the Benedictine Abbeys of Muchelney and Athelney in the County of Somerset [London, 1899], no. 4).

⁵⁸S 889 (KCD 1291).

⁵⁹S 888 (StAlb 9). This charter may be interpolated, but the section in question is probably authentic: Charters of St Albans, ed. J. Crick, Anglo-Saxon Charters 12 (Oxford, 2007), 171–3.

⁶⁰Conn, ‘Pontificals’, 116: ‘contraque omnes visibiles et invisibiles hostes idem potenter regaliterque tuae virtutis regimine regat et defendat’ (cf. the later benediction hoping that God will free the king ‘from all assaults of visible and invisible foes’ [ab omnibus uisibilium et inuisibilium inimicorum insidiis] and grant him victory ‘over visible and invisible enemies’ [de inuisibilibus atque uisibilibus hostibus]: ibid., 121–2). I am grateful to Sarah Hamilton for discussion on this point. On the visible and invisible, see also Foxhall Forbes, Heaven and Earth, 63–128.

⁶¹Clayton, ‘Promissio regis’. Though Clayton prefers a date later in Æthelred’s reign (c. 1014), it is conceivable that the text was written as early as the mid- to later 990s: by 996 Wulfstan, the leading candidate for author, was bishop of London and he even attests the diploma in question.

⁶²S 903 (ed. J.A. Robinson, Gilbert Crispin, Abbot of Westminster [Cambridge, 1911], 167–8).

⁶³S 895 (Sher 11). See Charters of Sherborne, ed. M.A. O’Donovan, Anglo-Saxon Charters 3 (Oxford, 1988), xvii–xx and 41–4; and S. Keynes, ‘Wulfsige, Monk of Glastonbury, Abbot of Westminster (c 990–3), and Bishop of Sherborne (c 993–1002)’, in St Wulfsige and Sherborne: Essays to Celebrate the Millennium of the Benedictine Abbey 998–1998, ed. K. Barker, D.A. Hinton and A. Hunt (Oxford, 2005), 53–94, at 69–72.

⁶⁴Councils, ed. Whitelock, no. 40, 196–226. Cf. Alcuin of York, Epistola 124, ed. E. Dümmler, Epistolae Karolingi aevi II, MGH: Epp. 4 (Berlin, 1895), 166–70, at 167–8. Interestingly, this letter was included within Archbishop Wulfstan’s collection of Alcuin’s letters. See below, Chapter 6, p. 283, with n. 91.

⁶⁵Councils, ed. Whitelock, no. 40, 196–226.

⁶⁶M. Godden, ‘Apocalypse and Invasion in Late Anglo-Saxon England’, in From Anglo-Saxon to Early Middle English: Studies Presented to E.G. Stanley, ed. M. Godden, D. Gray and T.F. Hoad (Oxford, 1994), 130–62, at 133–7.

⁶⁷Councils, ed. Whitelock, no. 40, 226.

⁶⁸See Keynes, ‘Wulfsige’, 59–72.

⁶⁹For the following, see Keynes, Atlas, tables LX–LXIV; with discussion in Keynes, Diplomas, 189–93; and Williams, Æthelred, 29–42.

⁷⁰Keynes, Atlas, table LXI. Cf. ibid., table LV.

⁷¹S 876 (Abing 124), S 937 (Abing 129).

⁷²S 914 (CantCC 140); with Charters of Christ Church, ed. Brooks and Kelly, 1026–31.

⁷³C. Holdsworth, ‘Tavistock Abbey in its Late Tenth Century Context’, Report and Transactions of the Devonshire Association for the Advancement of Science 135 (2003), 31–58.

⁷⁴S 838 (KCD 629). See Roach, ‘Privilege of Liberty’; and cf. Charters of Abingdon, ed. Kelly, xci–xciii; and Holdsworth, ‘Tavistock Abbey’, who believe the document to be substantially authentic. What Kelly and Holdsworth fail to explain is how Æthelred could have responded to the ‘helplessness’ and ‘unwillingness’ of his youth in 981. See also Stafford, ‘Royal Government’, 44–5; and Keynes, Diplomas, 180, n. 101.

⁷⁵S 1492 (ed. Whitelock, Councils, no. 51).

⁷⁶John of Worcester, Chronicon, s.a. 1006 (ed. Darlington and McGurk, 456); C. Insley, ‘The Family of Wulfric Spott: An Anglo-Saxon Marcher Dynasty?’, in The English and their Legacy, 900–1200: Essays in Honour of Ann Williams, ed. D. Roffe (Woodbridge, 2012), 115–28, esp. 122–7.

⁷⁷Whitelock, ‘Dealings’, 80; Stafford, ‘Reign of Æthelred II’, 29; Williams, Æthelred, 28.

⁷⁸S 878 (Burt 27), S 879 (Burt 26), S 886 (Abing 126), S 884 (ed. Bates, Muchelney Cartulary, no. 4).

⁷⁹Keynes, Atlas, table LIX; S 877 (WinchNM 31). See also above, Chapter 3, p. 95, with n. 12.

⁸⁰Williams, Æthelred, 28. See also Stafford, ‘Sons and Mothers’, 92.

⁸¹Eadwig first attests in 997 and Edgar in 1001: Keynes, Atlas, table LIX.

⁸²Ælfric, CH: FS, prol. (ed. Clemoes, 177, n.); with M. Godden, Ælfric’s Catholic Homilies: Introduction, Commentary and Glossary, EETS s.s. 18 (Oxford, 2000), 7.

⁸³Ælfric, LS, prol. (ed. Skeat, I, 2–4). See M. Godden, ‘Ælfric’s Saints’ Lives and the Problem of Miracles’, Leeds Studies in English n.s. 16 (1985), 83–100, at 94–7; and C. Cubitt, ‘Ælfric’s Lay Patrons’, in A Companion to Ælfric, ed. H. Magennis and M. Swan (Leiden, 2009), 165–92.

⁸⁴P.A.M. Clemoes, ‘The Chronology of Ælfric’s Works’, in The Anglo-Saxons: Studies in Some Aspects of their History and Culture Presented to Bruce Dickens, ed. P.A.M. Clemoes (London, 1959), 212–47.

⁸⁵J.T. Lionarons, The Homiletic Writings of Archbishop Wulfstan: A Critical Study (Woodbridge, 2010).

⁸⁶L. Roach, ‘Wulfstan Cantor’, in The Wiley Blackwell Encyclopedia of Medieval British Literature, ed. S. Echard and R. Rouse (Chichester, forthcoming).

⁸⁷Byrhtferth of Ramsey, ed. Lapidge, xxx–xliv.

⁸⁸D. Scragg, ‘Old English Homiliaries and Poetic Manuscripts’, in The Cambridge History of the Book in Britain, I, c.400–1100, ed. R. Gameson (Cambridge, 2012), 553–61, at 553–7.

⁸⁹K. Powell, ‘Meditating on Men and Monsters: A Reconsideration of the Thematic Unity of the Beowulf Manuscript’, Review of English Studies 57 (2006), 1–15.

⁹⁰Historia ecclesie Abbendonensis, ch. 97 (ed. Hudson, I, 140); Wulfstan, Narratio metrica de S. Swithuno, ‘Epistola specialis ad Ælfegum episcopum’, ll. 213–50 (ed. Lapidge, 390–2), and Vita S. Æthelwoldi, ch. 43 (ed. Lapidge and Winterbottom, 66).

⁹¹Ælfric, CH: SS, prol.13–15 (ed. Godden, 1). For much of what follows, see Godden, ‘Apocalypse’, 131–42; and Clayton, ‘Ælfric and Æthelred’.

⁹²Ælfric, LS XIII.147–77, 240–72 (ed. Skeat, I, 294–6, 300–2); with Cubitt, ‘Politics of Remorse’, 188–9. Interestingly, Ælfric briefly summarizes the ‘Twelve Abuses’ in this work.

⁹³Ælfric, LS XI.353–5, XXV, XXXII (ed. Skeat, I, 258–60, II, 66–120, 314–34).

⁹⁴Ælfric, Supplementary Homilies XXII (ed. Pope, 725–33); W. Braekman, ‘Wyrdwriteras: An Unpublished Ælfrician Text in Manuscript Hatton 115’, Revue belge de philologie et d’histoire 44 (1966), 959–70.

⁹⁵Ælfric, LS XVIII (ed. Skeat, I, 384–412); with Klein, Ruling Women, 144–61.

⁹⁶S. Keynes, ‘An Abbot, an Archbishop, and the Viking Raids of 1006–7 and 1009–12’, ASE 36 (2007), 151–220, at 162; Gretsch, ‘Æthelweard’, 247. Cf. Clayton, ‘Ælfric and Æthelred’.

⁹⁷Adelard of Ghent, Lectiones in depositione S. Dunstani, ch. 12 (ed. Winterbottom and Lapidge, 142).

⁹⁸Lionarons, Homiletic Writings, 75–146. See further below, Chapter 5, pp. 241–51.

⁹⁹Ælfric, De duodecim abusivis, abusio 6 (ed. Clayton, 122–4), and Supplementary Homilies IX.31–47 (ed. Pope, 380). See Two Ælfric Texts, ed. Clayton, 57 and 66–8; and Homilies of Ælfric, ed. Pope, 372–7 and 389–90.

¹⁰⁰Wulfstan, Institutes of Polity, chs. 41–2, ed. K. Jost (Bern, 1959), 62.

¹⁰¹Omnibus est recolenda, l. 3 (ed. Dumville, ‘Death’, 281).

¹⁰²Keynes, ‘Alfred the Great and Shaftesbury’, 48–55.

¹⁰³P. Brown, The Cult of Saints: Its Rise and Function in Latin Christianity, rev. edn (Chicago, IL, 2014), 1–22.

¹⁰⁴D.W. Rollason, Saints and Relics in Anglo-Saxon England (Oxford, 1989), 164–95; Clayton, Cult of the Virgin Mary, 122–38 and 158–67; Denton, ‘Hagiography’; Hudson, ‘Æthelwold’s Circle’; A. Thacker, ‘Cults at Canterbury: Relics and Reform under Dunstan and his Successors’, in St Dunstan: His Life, Time and Cult, ed. N. Ramsay, M. Sparks and T. Tatton-Brown (Woodbridge, 1992), 221–44. Cf. D. Misonne, ‘Gérard de Brogne et sa dévotion aux reliques’ (1982), repr. in and cited from Revue Bénédictine 111 (2001), 90–110.

¹⁰⁵Keynes, ‘Cult’. Cf. C. Cubitt, ‘Sites and Sanctity: Revisiting the Cult of Murdered and Martyred Anglo-Saxon Royal Saints’, EME 9 (2000), 53–83, at 72–4 and 83.

¹⁰⁶Byrhtferth, Vita S. Oswaldi IV.21 (ed. Winterbottom and Lapidge, 144).

¹⁰⁷P.A. Hayward, ‘The Idea of Innocent Martyrdom in Late Tenth- and Eleventh-Century English Hagiology’, SCH 30 (1993), 81–92.

¹⁰⁸P. Stafford, ‘Cherchez la femme. Queens, Queens’ Lands and Nunneries: Missing Links in the Foundation of Reading Abbey’ (2000), 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. XII, 7–8 and 20–1.

¹⁰⁹M. Lapidge, ‘Abbot Germanus, Winchcombe, Ramsey and the Cambridge Psalter’ (1992), repr. in and cited from his Anglo-Latin Literature 900–1066 (London, 1993), 387–417, at 405–14. Immediately before the foundation of Cholsey, Germanus was apparently abbot of Ramsey (and not Winchcombe, as Lapidge maintains), since he attests S 876 (Abing 120) as Ram’ abbas.

¹¹⁰Goscelin of St-Bertin, Vita S. Yvonis, ch. 3, PL 155, cols. 87–8. See Keynes, ‘Cult’, 119.

¹¹¹Byrhtferth, Vita S. Oswaldi IV.21 (ed. Winterbottom and Lapidge, 144); S 1488 (Abing 133). See further Dumville, Caroline Script, 82–4.

¹¹²S 877 (WinchNM 31). See Charters of the New Minster, ed. Miller, 152–3; and cf. Stafford, ‘Cherchez la femme’, 20–1. The estate had belonged to Æthelflæd of Damerham, the second wife of King Edmund, and may have been one of the queen’s ex officio holdings: Stafford, Queen Emma, 129–30.

¹¹³Denton, ‘Hagiography’, 114.

¹¹⁴M. Lapidge, ‘Æthelwold and the Vita S. Eustachii’ (1988), repr. in and cited from his Anglo-Latin Literature 900–1066 (London, 1993), 213–23, at 218; Anglo-Saxon Litanies of the Saints, ed. M. Lapidge, HBS 106 (London, 1991), 101, 102, 116, 133, 143, 158, 175, 183, 188, 236, 245, 251, 297.

¹¹⁵Passio S. Eadwardi (ed. Fell, 11–12). See Denton, ‘Hagiography’, 35–62; and cf. Hayward, ‘Translation-Narratives’, 85–9, whose doubts about the account of the translation are perhaps overstated.

¹¹⁶Cf. Denton, ‘Hagiography’, 52.

¹¹⁷S 899 (Shaft 29): ‘quatenus aduersus barbarorum insidias ipsa religiosa congregacio cum beati martiris ceterorumque sanctorum reliquiis ibidem Deo seruiendi impenetrabile optineat confugium’.

¹¹⁸P. Wormald, Review of Ridyard, Royal Saints, Journal of Ecclesiastical History 42 (1991), 101–2, at 102, and Making of English Law, 343–4, n. 373. See also Hayward, ‘Translation-Narratives’, 87, n. 94.

¹¹⁹J. Haslam, ‘The Unfinished Chapel at Bradford on Avon, Wiltshire, and Ecclesiastical Politics in the Early Eleventh Century’, Archaeological Journal 170 (2013), 272–301, with further references.

¹²⁰S 1503 (CantCC 142). See further below, Chapter 6, pp. 298–300.

¹²¹Keynes, ‘Alfred the Great and Shaftesbury’, 50–1; Thacker, ‘Saint-Making’, 248–51; Byrhtferth, ed. Lapidge, xli; Ridyard, Cults, 152–5; Yorke, ‘Legitimacy of St Edith’, 111. However, on Cuthbert, see now N. McGuigan, ‘Neither Scotland nor England: Middle Britain, c.850–1150’ (PhD diss., Univ. of St Andrews, 2015), 74–81 (to which Alex Woolf kindly drew my attention).

¹²²V Atr 16 (ed. Liebermann, I, 240–1); with Keynes, ‘An Abbot’, 178–9.

¹²³S 891 (KCD 698): ‘cognoui me hanc iniuste possidere … furoremque apostolicum incurrere …’; S 893 (Roch 32): ‘iccirco domini compunctus gratia quicquid tunc instigante maligno contra sanctum dei apostolum me inique egisse recogito’. There may have been similar anxieties where the legacy of Æthelwold was concerned, since it was in these years that the latter’s cult was established (a process which would have begun some time before his formal translation in 996): Wulfstan, ed. Lapidge and Winterbottom, xcix–ci and cxii–cxliii.

¹²⁴Thacker, ‘Cults at Canterbury’, 230–5; Denton, ‘Anglo-Saxon Hagiography’, 110–15 and 216–22; C. Cubitt, ‘Reading Tenth- and Eleventh-Century Latin Hagiography in the Context of the Reign of Æthelred II “the Unready”’, in Hagiography in Anglo-Saxon England: Adopting and Adapting Saints’ Lives into Old English Prose (c. 950–1150), ed. L. Lazzari, P. Lendinara, C. Di Sciacca (Turnhout, 2014), 345–64.

¹²⁵ASC 992–4 CDE (ed. O’Brien O’Keeffe, 86–7).

¹²⁶II Atr (ed. Liebermann, I, 220–4). On which: Keynes, ‘Historical Context’, 103–7; N. Lund, ‘Peace and Non-Peace in the Viking Age – Ottar in Biarmaland, the Rus in Byzantium, and Danes and Norwegians in England’, in Proceedings of the Tenth Viking Conference, ed. J.E. Knirk (Oslo, 1987), 255–69, at 264–8; J. Benham, ‘Law or Treaty? Defining the Edge of Legal Studies in the Early and High Medieval Periods’, Historical Research 86 (2013), 487–97, at 490–1.

¹²⁷Keynes, ‘Historical Context’, 100.

¹²⁸P.J. Heather, ‘Foedera and foederati of the Fourth Century’, in Kingdoms of the Empire: The Integration of Barbarians in Late Antiquity, ed. W. Pohl (Leiden, 1997), 57–74; S. Coupland, ‘From Poachers to Gamekeepers: Scandinavian Warlords and Carolingian Kings’, EME 7 (1998), 85–114.

¹²⁹A. Angenendt, Kaiserherrschaft und Königstaufe. Kaiser, Könige und Päpste als geistliche Patrone in der abendländischen Missionsgeschichte, Arbeiten zur Frühmittelalterforschung 15 (Berlin, 1984), 106–9 and 215–23. See also Lynch, Christianizing Kinship, 205–28.

¹³⁰T.M. Andersson, ‘The Viking Policy of Ethelred the Unready’, Scandinavian Studies 53 (1987), 284–95. See also Sawyer, ‘Ethelred II’.

¹³¹J.M. Bately and A. Englert, ed., Ohthere’s Voyages: A Late 9th-Century Account of Voyages along the Coasts of Norway and Denmark and its Cultural Context (Roskilde, 2007); A. Englert and A. Trakadas, ed., Wulfstan’s Voyage: The Baltic Sea Region in the Early Viking Age as Seen from Shipboard (Roskilde, 2008); G. Williams, ‘Hákon Aðalsteins fóstri: Aspects of Anglo-Saxon Kingship in Tenth-Century Norway’, in The North Sea World in the Middle Ages: Studies in the Cultural History of North-Western Europe, ed. T.R. Liszka and E.M. Walker (Dublin, 2001), 108–26.

¹³²L. Abrams, ‘The Anglo-Saxons and the Christianization of Scandinavia’, ASE 24 (1995), 213–49.

¹³³ASC 997–8 CDE (ed. O’Brien O’Keeffe, 88). Cf. M.K. Lawson, ‘“Those stories look true”: Levels of Taxation in the Reigns of Aethelred II and Cnut’, EHR 104 (1989), 385–406, at 393, n. 1.

¹³⁴ASC 999–1002 CDE (ed. O’Brien O’Keeffe, 88–9).

¹³⁵John of Worcester, Chronicon, s.a. 997 (ed. Darlington and McGurk, 446); ASC 1001 A (ed. Bately, 79–80); with Keynes, ‘Historical Context’, 92–3.

¹³⁶See M. Townend, ‘Norse Poets and English Kings: Skaldic Performance in Anglo-Saxon England’, Offa 58 (2001), 269–75, esp. 269–71.

¹³⁷ASC 999 CDE (ed. O’Brien O’Keeffe, 88): ‘7 a swa hit forðwerdre beon sceolde, swa wæs hit lætre fram anre tide to oþre, 7 a hi leton heora feonda werod wexan, 7 a man rymde fram þære sæ, 7 hi foron æfre forð æfter’; ASC 1001 CDE (ed. O’Brien O’Keeffe, 89): ‘7 wæs æfre heora æftra siþ wyrsa þonne se æra’.

¹³⁸ASC 1001 A (ed. Bately, 79–80), 1001 CDE (ed. O’Brien O’Keeffe, 89); with Keynes, ‘Tale of Two Kings’, 201–3, and ‘Re-Reading’, 78–9. See also Bately, ‘The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle’, 46.

¹³⁹ASC 997 CDE (ed. O’Brien O’Keeffe, 88).

¹⁴⁰R. Lavelle, Alfred’s Wars: Sources and Interpretations of Anglo-Saxon Warfare in the Viking Age (Woodbridge, 2010), 249–50; D. Gore, The Vikings in the West Country (Exeter, 2015), 56–7. Cf. D.[H.] Hill, ‘Gazetteer of Burghal Hidages Sites’, in The Defence of Wessex: The Burghal Hidage and Anglo-Saxon Fortifications, ed. D.[H.] Hill and A.R. Rumble (Manchester, 1996), 189–231, at 209.

¹⁴¹Freeman, History of the Norman Conquest, 277.

¹⁴²Though Keynes, ‘Re-Reading’, 79, casts doubt on the historicity of this attack, I remain more optimistic about the chronicler’s sources and accuracy (cf. Brooks, ‘Anglo-Saxon Chronicle’, 51–2).

¹⁴³J. Baker and S. Brookes, Beyond the Burghal Hidage: Anglo-Saxon Civil Defence in the Viking Ages (Leiden 2013), 179–99.

¹⁴⁴Charters of St Paul’s, London, ed. S.E. Kelly, Anglo-Saxon Charters 10 (Oxford, 2004), 97–100 and 192–201 (no. 25).

¹⁴⁵S 1383 (Sherb 13). The document is datable 1001 × 1012.

¹⁴⁶See below, Conclusion, pp. 312–14.

¹⁴⁷ASC 1000 CDE (ed. O’Brien O’Keeffe, 88). Typically, the chronicler focuses on the failures of this venture. See C. Downham, ‘England and the Irish Sea Zone in the Eleventh Century’, ANS 26 (2003), 55–73, esp. 59–63; and M. Blackburn, ‘Currency under the Vikings, Part 4: The Dublin Coinage c. 995–1050’, BNJ 78 (2008), 111–37, esp. 123–7, on ‘Insular’ dimensions.

¹⁴⁸ASC 1001 A (ed. Bately, 79–80).

¹⁴⁹Williams, Æthelred, 63–6; Cubitt, ‘Reeves’, 1034–44. See further below, Chapter 5, pp. 190–1 and 239.

¹⁵⁰Ælfric, Supplementary Homilies XXII (ed. Pope, 725–33); with Keynes, Diplomas, 206–8; and Sheppard, Families of the King, 83–4. Cf. Clayton, ‘Ælfric and Æthelred’, 82–6.

¹⁵¹Stafford, ‘Reign of Æthelred II’, 29; Keynes, Diplomas, 197–8, n. 163.

¹⁵²Naismith, ‘Coinage of Æthelred’, 129–30. See also Dolley, ‘Introduction’, 121–3.

¹⁵³E. Screen, ‘Anglo-Saxon Law and Numismatics: A Reassessment in the Light of Patrick Wormald’s The Making of English Law’, BNJ 77 (2007), 150–72.

¹⁵⁴I Atr (ed. Liebermann, I, 216–20), III Atr (ed. Liebermann, I, 228–32); with Keynes, Diplomas, 196–7; and Wormald, English Law, 328–9.

¹⁵⁵S. Keynes, ‘Crime and Punishment in the Reign of King Æthelred the Unready’, in People and Places in Northern Europe 500–1600: Essays in Honour of Peter Hayes Sawyer, ed. I.N. Wood and N. Lund (Woodbridge, 1991), 67–81, at 68–73.

¹⁵⁶Wormald, ‘Lex scripta and verbum regis’.

¹⁵⁷Keynes, Diplomas, 102, n. 56; Williams, Æthelred, 56. More generally, see M.R. Rambaran-Olm, ‘Trial by History’s Jury: Examining Æthelred II’s Legislative and Literary Legacy, AD 993–1006’, English Studies 95 (2014), 777–802, at 787.