Society News: The Church

This post is part of an ongoing series, in which I look at various classes of 7th century Anglo-Saxon England society. For previous posts, click the links below. 

Society News: Introduction

Society News: The Kings (and Queens).

Society News: The Upper Crust


I am working my way down through Anglo-Saxon society in these series of posts, and this week I will be discussing the church.  First, just to clarify terms, when I say “the church”, I’m not writing about the average everyday people who might attend a service on Sundays. In particular, I am writing about the men and women who made up the ecclesiastical hierarchy in the seventh century.

The men and women of the Christian church had a bit of a dual identity in terms of where they stood, society-wise. The church was made up of individuals who came from various classes of society, and so there you would find the sons and daughters of kings rubbing shoulders with those who were further down the social ladder. Monks and nuns could be just about anyone, and in theory, so could the abbots and bishops and abbesses, given that they were taken from the ranks of the regular clergy.

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The Anglo-Saxon church at Monkwearmouth, which, together with its “twin” at Jarrow, was one of the earliest monasteries in Britain. The bottom part of the tower and the west wall are from the original building, built in 674 AD. It is where the Venerable Bede lived and worked.

However, it is true to say that many of the higher-ranking clergy also came from the higher ranks of society. Both St. Aidan and St. Columba were from the Ui Neill clan of Ireland, a very powerful and influential clan, and it is likely that both of these men were high-ranking men in their clans, perhaps even of royal blood.  There were exceptions, of course. St. Patrick of Ireland started off as an English slave in Ireland, you don’t get much lower class than that! Depending on which story you believe, St. David may have been the result of a rape, and grew up in a nunnery. Both these men became the most-respected clergymen in their countries, and so you can see that in the church hierarchy a person’s worth was not necessarily tied to their original status in society.

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Beautiful stained glass commemorating Cuthbert of Lindisfarne, found at St. Michael Church, Workington. Cuthbert is one of those whose original status in society is disputed. Some scholars suggest he came from noble birth, others that he came from a poor family. Either way, he became of one England’s greatest saints. Photo from Wikicommons. 

As the Christian church began to get established in Northumbria, it began to amass land, through gifts from kings who wanted to see the church succeed. Most notably, we can see that the monastery Lindisfarne was begun by the Irish bishop/abbot Aidan, who was granted land by the Bernician King Oswald in 634 AD  to start a monastery close to his royal seat at Bebbanburg. Oswald had converted to Christianity while in exile in Dàl Raida, and when God granted him victory over King Edwin in 633 AD, restoring his family’s claim to the Bernician throne, he wanted to make sure his fellow Angles in Bernicia were converted to the new faith as well. As Aidan and his monks spread out through Northumbria in their missionary journeys and people began to accept Christianity, more monasteries were established along with more gifts of land.

The abbots and abbesses in charge of the monasteries (the Celtic Church allowed for double monasteries, housing both monksand nuns in separate buildings, often presided over by women) became local agents of the king, in many cases, although in theory, their ultimate obedience was always to God. The monasteries were centres of learning, operating schools for the sons and daughters of the local nobility as well as for the novices who joined the monastery, looking to one day become monks and nuns themselves. They also were orphanages and hospitals, taking in the sick or homeless. And so the local people had a certain amount of respect for the clergy which was tied to what they did as well as who they were socially, in terms of what family they originated from.

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St. Hilda (Hild) of Whitby, the important double-monastery of which she was Abbess. Hild’s father was the nephew of King Edwin, so she certainly came from an upper class Northumbrian family.

The locals gave tithes to the monasteries in terms of food, services, land rent, etc, just as they gave tribute to the kings each year (the concept of taxes goes a long ways back!). A priest had the same rank in society as a thegn, and a bishop was seen as equal to an eoldorman.

Although the life of a monk or nun was not an easy one, they certainly were able to have a fairly secure life, and had a mainly respected role in society. This may help to explain why the monasteries grew so rapidly in the Early Medieval period, with some of the major ones boasting a population in the thousands. It was a fairly unusual place in that society, where someone from a very low class could end up being as highly respected as a king or queen. This opportunity for upward social mobility may have attracted some to the church. But bottom line, spiritual devotion was still very important. There may have been some of the excesses in the church that characterized the institution later in the Middle Ages and beyond, but at this time devotion to God and obedience to the monastic rule was still very much emphasized.

The next post in this series will not tackle a certain social class, but I will pause for a moment to explain something that was integral to this whole idea of societal ranking: the concept of weregild. 

That post will be coming up in the next month or so…I hope you join me!

 

 

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Cuthbert of Lindisfarne, Pt. 1

I’m a little overwhelmed with busy, busy, busy at the moment and so seeing as today, March 20th, is the feast of St. Cuthbert, I thought it would be a great time to repost this, which appeared on the blog last year. I hope you enjoy it, and I’ll be back with new content next week! 


I realized a few weeks back when I wrote a post about clothing in the 7th century, that I have yet to write a post about one of the most influential figures of the Early Middle Ages, that being Cuthbert, Bishop of Lindisfarne (634 AD – March 20, 687 AD).

It’s time to rectify that!

Cuthbert is a fascinating figure whose life echoes throughout the centuries until even today. After his death he became possibly the most popular saint in England, eclipsed only by Thomas à Beckett who died in 1170 AD. In fact there is so much to say about Cuthbert that I am going to present his story to you in two parts. I will follow up with Part II next week.

Most of what we know about Cuthbert comes from the hand of Bede, the famous Early Medieval historian, sometimes called the Venerable Bede.  Bede actually wrote three accounts of Cuthbert’s life. One was a  poem, one was a work of prose, commissioned by the brethren of Lindisfarne, and one which was included in his Ecclesiastical History of the English People. 

What fascinates me about this is that Bede was actually a contemporary of Cuthbert. Bede was fourteen when Cuthbert died and, although he never met him, in writing his Life of Cuthbert he spoke with many who knew Cuthbert well. As he puts it in the introduction to the Life (addressed to the Lindisfarne community which has commissioned the work):

…I have not presumed without minute investigation to write any of the deeds of so great a man, nor without the most accurate examination of credible witnesses to hand over what I had written to be transcribed. Moreover, when I learnt from those who knew the beginning, the middle, and the end of his glorious life and conversation, I sometimes inserted the names of these my authors, to establish the truth of my narrative, and thus ventured to put my pen to paper and to write. But when my work was arranged, but still kept back from publication, I frequently submitted it for perusal and for correction to our reverend brother Herefrid the priest, and others, who for a long time had well known the life and conversation of that man of God. Some faults were, at their suggestion, carefully amended, and thus every scruple being utterly removed, I have taken care to commit to writing what I clearly ascertained to be the truth, and to bring it into your presence also, my brethren, in order that by the judgment of your authority, what I have written might be either corrected, if false, or certified to be true.

After he had completed the task the book was read by the Lindisfarne elders and teachers for final approval before it was allowed to be copied for wider distribution.

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This is the earliest surviving copy of Bede’s Life of St. Cuthbert. It dates from the 9th century and was found in France, which shows you how far-reaching Cuthbert’s popularity was, even at that early date. Image from the British Library.

Now let’s remember that these hagiographies (biographies of saints), are always meant to popularize the said saint in order to attract people to the monasteries that saint was associated with. In other words, nothing negative was going to be included in Bede’s Life of Cuthbert. Hagiographies were a kind of medieval one-up-man-ship: “Yo, my saint’s better than your saint, dog!” .  So we do need to keep that in mind as we read these accounts.

However, with all that being said, I love the fact that Bede’s Life of Cuthbert was written in consultation with people who actually knew the man and who had seen themselves the stories they recounted to Bede. And I love that Bede tried to make his account as accurate as possible, using many witnesses and checking and rechecking the stories. We have so few credible accounts of people’s lives from this era. It’s wonderful having this window into one person’s life, even though that window may be squeaky clean indeed.

What is also interesting is that Bede’s Life of Cuthbert was not the first one to be written. Bede completed his work around 721 AD, but the earlier one was completed around 700 AD. This earlier work, like Bede’s, was commissioned by Bishop Eadfrith* of Lindisfarne, which is the monastery most associated with Cuthbert. The earlier Life of Cuthbert is often called the Anonymous Life of Cuthbert, because we are not sure who the author was, although it most certainly was one of the monks at Lindisfarne.

Although you wouldn’t know it from his introduction quoted above, Bede draws heavily from the anonymous Life in his work. In fact you might accuse Bede of being a little disingenuous in his introduction, but I guess I can forgive him seeing as Eadfrith and the other monks certainly knew all about the other anonymous Life, and possibly the author of the previous version may still have been at Lindisfarne. The Latin of Bede’s Life is apparently much more classical and stylized than the earlier one, which is perhaps one of the reasons why Bede was asked to do another one. The other reason we will discuss in Part II, so come back next week to find out!

So, now that we know the source(s) of our information, let’s get to Cuthbert himself.

He was  born in 634 or 635 AD, just as Aidan was invited by King  Oswald to found the monastery at Lindisfarne and become its Bishop. He was born in Dunbar, located on the east coast of Britain at the mouth of the Firth of Forth. At the time this was part of Northumbria, but now it is in Scotland.

There are indications that Cuthbert came from noble birth, perhaps even son of a king, but other historians discount this, and say that he was more likely born to a poor family. Either way, he grew up near Melrose Abbey (at the time called Mailros)  on the banks of the river Tweed.  He was by all accounts a devout youngster, and one night in 651 AD, when he was seventeen, he had a vision while he was watching the sheep. In the distance he saw angels coming down to earth and escorting a soul to Heaven. The next day he discovered that Bishop Aidan of Lindisfarne had died, and decided then that he would also join a monastery and devote his life to God.

However, the real world interfered with this plan. At the time Oswy, King of Northumbria, was engaged in an epic struggle with Penda of Mercia over who would eventually have control over Northumbria. Like most of the men of fighting age at the time, Cuthbert became a soldier and fought with the Northumbrians against the Mercians until the decisive battle of Winwidfield in 654 AD. While we don’t have the exact date of his entrance into Melrose as a monk (Bede let us down there) it seems that some time after 654 AD he arrived at the monastery with a spear, and on horseback–one of the reasons some say he came from nobility, as only the wealthy had horses.

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Unfortunately, there is nothing left of the original Mailros Abbey, founded by Aidan and the monks from Lindisfarne around 650 AD. This is the little interpretive centre built on the site associated with the monastery. Image from saintsandstones.net

Along with the epic political struggle between Penda and Oswy for control of Northumbria that was occurring at this time, there was also an epic struggle in the ecclesiastical world. On side was the Celtic British monks of the north-west, nurtured under Columba‘s Rule at Iona, whose influence had spread across northern Britain, and on the other, the southern Roman Christians, whose practices of the faith stemmed from Rome (this is a very simple explanation…one day I will do a more detailed post on this).

Us moderns have a hard time understanding the nature of this conflict between two “styles” of Christianity, for it seems to us to revolve mainly around what style of tonsure the monks should wear, and, most importantly, how one should calculate the date of Easter. Indeed, these are the outward expressions of this conflict, but it goes much deeper than that.

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Two styles of tonsure: Roman, on the left, and Celtic, on the right. Or is it? Technically we are not entirely sure of the Celtic tonsure. We know that the hair was cut from ear to ear, but some suggest that the opposite of this look, in other words the hair at front is kept and all the hair from the ear back is shaved off! Image from Church History for Everyday Folks.

As a Celtic Christian monk who learned the monastic rule from the community at Lindisfarne, Cuthbert was by no means unaware of this conflict, and it shaped his life in significant ways. He quickly distinguished himself at Melrose, and when a new monastery was founded in Deira at Ripon,  he was sent there as guest-master along with Eata, who became Bishop.  But in 661 AD Cuthbert and Eata returned to Melrose, ousted from Ripon by King Alhfrith of Deira (son of Oswy) who had put the ambitious monk Wilfrid in Eata’s place. Alhfrith and Wilfrid were proponents of the Roman practices, and Ripon was thus changed from a Celtic Christian monastery to a Roman one.

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St. Wilfrid. Oh, he was a wily one. Soon I will be doing a post on him…stay tuned.

Soon after their return, some type of plague strikes Melrose, and many of the brethren there are afflicted, including Cuthbert, but he recovers.

However, by 664 AD Cuthbert must have seen the writing on the wall, for he has a change of heart. In the hugely important Synod of Whitby that year, King Oswy decrees that henceforth the Roman practices would be the ones followed in the Northumbrian monasteries. Some of the Northumbrian monks balk at this, but Eata accepts the ruling, and Cuthbert follows his mentor’s lead.

Back at Melrose, the abbot, Boisil, dies of the pestilence, and Eata is named Abbot/Bishop (these offices were somewhat fluid at the time).  Cuthbert becomes prior (second in rank to the Abbot). While there he became a great evangelist, travelling around the country and up into the mountains to preach the gospel to the pagan people where others feared to go. He also encouraged those Christians who had given up the faith in the face of the plague and had resorted back to their pagan practices to rid themselves of the sickness.

It is during this time at Melrose that one of the most famous stories of Cuthbert occurs. Cuthbert often left the monastery to spend the night in prayer. One night one of the monks follows him to see where he goes. He follows him down to the sea, and watches as Cuthbert wades out into the waves, until the water is up to his arms, and begins to pray.

As dawn breaks he comes back on to the beach, falls on his knees, and continues to pray. The monk watching is astonished to see two otters come out of the ocean, breathe upon Cuthbert’s feet, and lay down upon them to dry his feet with their fur. Cuthbert blesses them for their duty and the otters scamper back to the waves. The astonished monk confesses his spying to Cuthbert and the Bishop forgives him, but asks him to tell no one of it until his death, a promise the monk keeps.

Eata is in charge of both Ripon and Lindisfarne, and sometime in the 670s  he assigns Cuthbert to Lindisfarne as prior. Cuthbert is given the task of reforming the monastery from the Celtic practices to the Roman ones. This would not have been easy, and it seems it caused some bitterness among the brethren there. But he was a perfect one to do it, seeing as he was raised in Northumbria and trained in the Celtic practices himself as a monk.

Let’s hear Bede’s explanation of this:

There were some brethren in the monastery who preferred their ancient customs to the new regular discipline. But he got the better of these by his patience and modest virtues, and by daily practice at length brought them to the better system which he had in view. Moreover, in his discussions with the brethren, when he was fatigued by the bitter taunts of those who opposed him, he would rise from his seat with a placid look, and dismiss the meeting until the following day, when, as if he had suffered no repulse, he would use the same exhortations as before, until he converted them, as I have said before, to his own views. For his patience was most exemplary, and in enduring the opposition which was heaped equally upon his mind and body he was most resolute, and, amid the asperities which he encountered, he always exhibited such placidity of countenance, as made it evident to all that his outward vexations were compensated for by the internal consolations of the Holy Spirit.

Sometimes retreat is a good offence, it seems. I can think of a few meetings I have endured where this strategy could well have been employed!

At any rate, it is after the reforms are completed, in 676 AD, when he is 42 years old, that Cuthbert decides he wants to withdraw even more from the world and become a hermit. I suppose after the harrowing work he had to do to change the monastery’s practices and dealing with the difficulties that caused I can’t blame him for having enough of people and wanting to renew his spirit by time alone in prayer!

He first finds an isolated spot on the outskirts of the monastery, but finding even that not quite isolated enough (too easy for the other brothers to get to him, I imagine) he sets himself up on Inner Farne Island, a deserted island some miles east of Lindisfarne.

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Eider ducks are known as Cuddy Ducks in Northumbria, after Cuthbert. While on the Inner Farne Cuthbert became enamoured of these ducks, and instituted laws to protect them as people often would harvest both the eggs and the birds. So aside from his religious accomplishments, Cuthbert thus became the world’s first conservationist! Image from wikicommons

Thus ends the first part of Cuthbert’s fascinating life. But there is much more to come. I hope you join me next week as we learn more about Cuthbert the hermit and the influence he continued to have, even after separating himself completely from the world.  And even after his death, as we shall see.


*Fun fact: Eadfrith is also the man responsible for the Lindisfarne Gospels. And by “responsible”, I mean he is one who actually designed, drew, and painted them, as historians have determined that the Gospels were the work of one man alone.  What wonderful treasures he gave us!

Featured image is an icon of Cuthbert, from Aidan Hart Sacred Icons. Note the otter at his feet, and also the raven. Ravens are associated with Cuthbert because, as he was building a shelter on Inner Farne for visiting brethren, three ravens came and pulled out the thatch on the roof. Cuthbert banishes them from the island, but they return, and in a penitent manner bowed their heads and showed signs of asking forgiveness. Cuthbert does so, and they bring him a piece of hog’s lard, which he uses to grease the visiting monk’s shoes.


You can find Part II of Cuthbert’s story here

Repost: To Lent, or not to Lent?

Note: I originally published this in 2015, in the first year of my blog, and it didn’t get a lot of traffic. As we have just begun Lent, I thought this post would fit in nicely this week. It explains one of the key controversies in Northumbria in the 7th century. I hope you enjoy! 


Believe it or not, this was a vitally important question back in 7th Century Britain. Not so much whether or not to celebrate Lent, but when. The whole question of when Easter began, and thus, when to start celebrating Lent, was the source of great division and controversy.*

It may seem silly to us now, but it was a serious problem for the Church. It’s a difficult one to encapsulate in one blog post, but I’ll give it a shot.

Christianity first arrived in Britain with the Romans, who conquered the island (or parts of it, anyway) in the early parts of the 1st century. By the time the legions withdrew somewhere near the end of the 4th century, the Church had established a presence in the island, but it was not a major presence, just a religion among the other pagan religions that people followed, and it likely might have died out as the Angles, Saxons, and Jutes invaded and brought their own pagan religions with them. But the Celts in the South-west and North resisted those invasions as they had resisted the Romans, and Christianity survived and indeed began to flourish in those corners of the island.

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Image from Pixabay

However, they were cut off from Rome, and their practice of the faith began to take on a decidedly Celtic feel. The Irish and British priests and Bishops still venerated the Roman pope, but in all practicality their allegiances were much more tribal, and the Abbots of the monastery  had more sway in spiritual matters than the Bishops of the dioceses. In some cases, the Abbot was both Abbot and Bishop.  The Abbots were often descended from ruling Irish families, and held great influence over their people.  The practice of the faith was very much centred around the monasteries, as opposed to the diocesan, urban model developed in Rome.  Due to their influence, the monastic lifestyle was held up as the ideal of Christian living in the Celtic church.

Unbeknownst to the Celts in Britain, the Roman church had abandoned the original method for dating Easter, making some changes based on astronomical calculations (and other considerations, such as wanting to distance the resurrection of Christ from the Jewish passover) which are too complicated to get into here. Pope Gregory sent Augustine to Britain in 597 AD to convert the southern Saxon kings of England, which gave the Roman Church a firm hold on the southern parts of the island. But the it quickly came into conflict with the established “Celtic” church in the north as their differences in practice came to light.

All this brings us to the date of my  novel, set in 642 AD, and the situation in of the northern kingdom of Bernicia, which illustrates some of the difficulties in having two sets of practices. King Oswy of Bernicia, who, although a Saxon, had been brought to the Church through his exile in Dál Raita, and the influence of the monks at Iona, the island monastery off the west coast of what is now Scotland. For political reasons he married Eanflead, a princess of Kent, who was a Roman Christian. Therefore, at Easter, one spouse could be celebrating Christ’s resurrection while the other was still practicing Lent. It was all very awkward and, I imagine, confusing for the lay people.

There were other differences as well, including the style of tonsure worn by monks. The Roman monks shaved the top of their heads, leaving a ring of hair, echoing Christ’s crown of thorns. The Celts shaved the front of their heads from ear to ear, in what some surmise was the same haircut that the Druidic priests once wore.

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The two tonsures: on the left, the Roman style, and on the right, the Celtic. Or is it? It’s a bit obscure from the explanations we have that come down to us from this time. “Shaved from ear to ear” could also mean shaving all the back of the head and leaving hair in front. We’re just not sure.  Image from Church History for Everyday Folks

 

This conflict between the two approaches to the faith continued until the Synod of Whitby, in 664 AD, instigated, interestingly enough, by King Oswy. He wanted to determine once and for all which practices would be the ones to follow for the Church in Britain as a whole (one wonders how much pressure his wife put on him to get it all sorted out!). Based in part on the influence of the charismatic Bishop Wilfred, Oswy ruled in favour of the Roman practices and the Celtic style began to be phased out, although the Church in Britain retained a couple of hold-overs from its Celtic monastic past, including the emphasis on missionary work and its dedication to intellectual pursuits. Pockets of resistance to this change lasted until the 9th century.

It may seem a tempest in a teapot to us, but at the time it was a vitally important matter as power, politics, and religion were all stakeholders in this conflict. The upshot of the whole thing was that the Church in England remained staunchly Roman until the marital shenanigans of Henry the VIII brought a whole new religious controversy to Britain.


*Interestingly, there is still a difference today between the Eastern Orthodox church calendar and the Western (Roman) one, but for different reasons than the ones delineated in this post.

Photo credit: Celtic Cross at Ballinskellig Priory by Ulrich Hartman

 

Society News: The Upper Crust

A couple months back I started a new series, consisting of posts about the various classes of 7th century Anglo-Saxon society. I began at the top, with the Kings and Queens, and gave you a brief idea of what their roles were at the time.

Today we are going to move a little further down the ladder to the next class, which consisted of three groups: the aethling, ealdorman, and thegn. 

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These terms were not necessarily exclusive of one another, and their meanings can be difficult to interpret with the little information we have. So, again, bear with me as I try to explain something that can be murky at best to even trained historians!

Technically, in the 7th century, an aethling could refer to any high nobleman, but as time went on the term began to get more precise, and by the ninth century it referred specifically to the sons or brothers of reigning kings.

Ealdorman is also a rather fluid term in the seventh century context. It refers to high-status men, including those of royal birth; but generally more so to those who had power and authority independent of the king.

Thegn and ealdorman could be used interchangeably, both referring to the men of high status described above.  But generally, kings would be the top, followed by the aethlings, the ealdormen, and then the thegns. For the purposes of this article, I will refer mainly to thegns, but understand that both aethlings and ealdormen had much the same status and function as thegns in Anglo-Saxon society at this time.

And before we go any further, I should note that it seems as if the word thegn replaced the original term, gesith, or king’s companion (especially in a military sense, but not exclusively). By the time of the Norman Conquest the term gesith  had pretty much disappeared, replaced by thegn. But as for when exactly this exchange of terms happened, historians are unclear.

So, who were the thegns, and what did they do? And how did one achieve this high status?

To answer those questions, you have to get a broader picture of the society in general at the time, which was, of course, agriculturally based. A thegn would have been considered wealthy because he had a considerable amount of hereditary or granted land (or likely both), and perhaps even some property in a town. The land may or may not be in the same counties; it wasn’t until later that land began to get consolidated under one person in one area.

The thegn would be socially connected to important people as well as royalty, and he would be the manager of a large estate consisting of many men under him in status. The thegns were the king’s right hand, literally (in battle) as well as figuratively, doing a lot of the administrative work of the kingdom.

Thegns could hold important positions in the king’s court or household, or be appointed to the office of reeve (or manager) of one of the kings estates (vils); or sheriff (shire-reeve), charged with managing the affairs of a certain area.

All of the thegns had military obligations to the king. They would fight in the king’s battles and would gather men in the fyrd to fight under them.

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Fairly accurate representation of how a thegn might dress for battle. Note that he doesn’t have a sword, those were for only the really wealthy. He carries at his waist the more typical seaxe, the weapon of choice for the Anglo-Saxon warrior. The most wealthy might have some chain mail, and a horse.

Anglo-Saxon culture was honour-based. Loyalty to one’s lord was very important. From what I can tell, a formal spoken oath came along later in the Anglo-Saxon era, so in the 7th century it’s unclear whether or not a thegn would give such a spoken pledge. And perhaps this is why, as I explained last week, that the thegns and other noblemen of the kingdom had the power to withdraw their support of a king and elect another in his place. The relationship between the two was very much reciprocal–if the king was not a worthy warrior and the thegns did not get suitable treasure from their lord in thanks for their loyalty to him, they had the power to replace him.

Treasure in this context was not just shiny things, although those were certainly important. Kings would also grant land seized from defeated rivals, along with slaves.

The thegns and ealdormen had a great deal of power in Anglo-Saxon society. Many people would never see the king, but the thegns held local authority, and were the ones who would be administering justice, arranging for the local bridge to be repaired, or gathering support for the king in his military ventures.

All in all, the upper crust of Anglo-Saxon society had it pretty good, relatively speaking, compared to the class below them, called the coerls. They will be the subject of my next post in this series.

Stay tuned!


Feature image is an artist’s reconstruction of Tintagel, off the coast of Cornwall, in 600 AD, from English Heritage

 

 

 

The Lindisfarne Gospels

In looking back through the vaults, I see that this post didn’t get too many looks the first time it was published, back in 2015. So I thought I would share it again. Hope you enjoy this bonus post! New content coming tomorrow…


 

There are many seeds that an author can point to that lead to an idea for a book. Looking back I can identify quite a few that led to my fantasy trilogy, The Traveller’s Path. Without a doubt one of those was planted on a summer’s day in 1987 when I saw the Lindisfarne Gospels in person for the first time.

My husband and I were spending a glorious summer travelling through Europe. We began our travels in Britain – I have relatives there whom I had not seen for over a decade, who live in Wales. But before we got there we spent three or four days in London (which is truly one of my most favourite cities in the world). One of our first stops was the British Museum. We are both history buffs and we couldn’t wait to see the treasures there. And indeed we found treasures galore, too many to mention here, but I could write tomes about them all. A happy, happy place for us!

Towards the end of the day, after we had wandered through the Egyptian exhibits (mummies! Book of the Dead!) and the Ancient Cultures (Nebuchanezzer! Treasures from Ur!!) and the Greek rooms (Pantheon Friezes!) we saw that there was a section of the museum called the British Library (this is housed in its own building now, separate from the Museum, but at that time it was part of the Museum itself). Being book lovers as well as history buffs we figured we should go have a quick look around.

Walking into the exhibit rooms the first thing we saw displayed was a large glass cabinet, with a big book open inside: the Lindisfarne Gospels.

I had never heard of this book before, but I was immediately captured by the sheer beauty of the thing. It was the first illuminated manuscript I had seen in person, and the details and exquisite craftsmanship absolutely stunned me.

The first page of the Gospel of Matthew, consisting of the first sentence (in Latin):

The first page of the Gospel of Matthew, consisting of the first sentence (in Latin): “Liber generationis Iesu Christi filii David filii Abraham” (The book of the generation of Jesus Christ, the son of David, the son of Abraham.) The letters on the side are the Old English translation, added 250 years after the Gospels were finished.

Just spend a moment pondering that page. I can assure you that the impact is magnified ten-fold when you see it in person; the colours are much more vibrant, and you can really get close and see the details. Here’s a close up of part of another page:

A detail from the second initial page from St. Matthew's Gospel.

A detail from the second initial page from St. Matthew’s Gospel.

Not every page were illuminated like this, of course. The main body of the book was written in the beautiful “uncial” style of writing, developed in Britain at this time. Here’s an example:

A page from This is one of the very few pages on which Eadfrith's original 7th century script can be admired almost entirely free of the gloss added by Aldred in the 10th century. Clear and black, very assured and regular in form, this script, designed for formal use, is known technically as insular majuscule. The page gives details of particular passages in St John which are to be read on specific feast days.

You can see Aldred’s gloss of Old English up at the top, the rest of the page is one of the few places in the Gospels where you can see Eadfrith’s script free of the gloss and admire the beauty of his lettering. The page consists of instructions on which passages of the Gospel of St. John should be read on specific feast days.

There are reams and reams of scholarship available on the Gospels, I can’t begin to go into the depths of detail about this wonderful book that it really deserves, but let me give you just a few quick details:

  • Best guess for when the book was finished is 698 AD, as part of the celebrations at Lindisfarne of the translation of St. Cuthbert’s relics to the high altar of Lindisfarne. Cuthbert was one of Lindisfarne’s most famous abbots. Other scholars place the date of completion around 710-720 AD.
  • it is a compilation of the four Gospels (Matthew, Mark, Luke and John), in Latin, from the Latin Vulgate. It was written on vellum, the very finest calfskin available, and it would have taken 300 cattle to make the book. The pigments used were from local sources (ores, lead, etc) but possibly also some lapis lazuli from the foothills of the Himalayas.
  • The translation of the Latin into Old English (Anglo-Saxon) was done by Aldred, a priest, 250 years after its creation. Aldred also added a colophon in which he gives some of the history of the book’s creation.
  • The artist/scribe used lead point (the forerunner of the pencil) to do preliminary drawings on the back of the page, using compasses and dividers as well, and then backlit the pages in some way, perhaps using a transparent horn desk found in the Islamic territories. He then traced the design on the front and painted it.  In some cases he deviated from the design he originally drew, obviously struck by inspiration as he worked.
  • It was bound together and given a jewelled cover; the original was lost, unfortunately, but it was given a new cover in 1852.
  • It was taken by the monks from Lindisfarne during the era of the Viking attacks, and preserved by them until the Dissolution of the Monasteries in the 1500s. It’s history is murky after that, but somehow it ends up in the collections of Sir Robert Cotton in the 1800s, who collected many early Anglo-Saxon manuscripts and whose collection formed the basis of the British Library.
  • It is the work of one man, likely Eadfrith, the Bishop of Lindisfarne at the time.

Go back and look at the second image for a moment, and think of Eadfirith, in the scriptorium at Lindisfarne, likely cold and drafty with its open windows to let in the light. He is the Bishop, busy with the administration of this monastery, and aside from his duties as Bishop, like all the monks he participates in the rhythm of monastery life: eight times during the day and night to drop everything to attend the services of the Divine Office, plus doing the work of the monastery such as tending the livestock, brewing ale, etc, plus time for study and contemplation. Think of the concentration necessary to do such fine, detailed work, and the planning that was needed to develop the designs. Other Gospel books, such as the Book of Kells, were the work of a team of scribes. Eadfrith was the lone creator of this one, a fact attested to by Aldred’s colophon as well as careful analysis of the writing and art contained within it.

It is estimated that someone today, working two years full time with electric light and heating, could make something similar, but not up to the standard displayed here. It likely took Eadfrith approximately ten years to complete the Gospels.

It’s an incredible, unbelievable achievement. Eadfrith would have begun each session dedicating his work to God, for this was truly an Opus Dei, a work of God. He would have seen every stroke as part of a prayer he was offering on his behalf and on the behalf of the community at large, each word a “wound on Satan’s body”, according to the Roman monastic founder Cassiodorius, whose works would have been very familiar to the monks at Lindisfarne.

Looking at the Gospels I was struck by the devotion and dedication of this man, and I began to wonder what it was like to create this, what spurred him on to do it, how he accomplished it. Those questions lay buried in my mind for twenty years until a few other seeds came together and began to take root and grow into Wilding, Book One of The Traveller’s Path.

I knew that I had to include Lindisfarne, and those monks, in my book. As it turned out Eadfrith himself isn’t in the book, as Wilding takes place (mainly) in 642 AD, but his incredible workmanship displayed in the Lindisfarne Gospels was a huge creative inspiration to me as well as a spiritual one.

Eadfrith died in 721 AD. If you accept the later date of the Gospel’s completion, it would mean he died shortly before it was finished. And indeed, there are places in the book where the drawings are unfinished, where paint was obviously meant to be added but was left undone. I can’t imagine Eadfrith not finishing it if he was at all able to do so, so I can see that the reason why it was left undone was that he died before he could complete it.

It was his life’s work, the Word made word, done to the glory of God. It’s a challenge to us to make our lives count for more than ourselves, and a reminder that dedication and single-mindedness can help you achieve something glorious. And that every brush stoke of our lives can be dedicated to God as a prayer, trusting in faith that something of it will survive for His glory.

YOFR: A Book About a Topic or Subject You Already Love

So…here we are at the final post for my 2017 Reading Challenge. Wow! How did the year go by so fast?

This last entry was a no-brainer for me. Recently I picked up Matthew Harffys novella, Kin of Cain, and it fits this month’s category perfectly. Like his other books, this story is set in 7th century Northumbria, in the year 630 AD.

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This book is a companion to his other, longer books, set in this era. The first of these, The Serpent Sword, I reviewed here on the blog. And the author was gracious enough to provide me an interview as well.

So, yes, I am a fan of Harffy’s work. I have purposely not read any of his other Bernicia Chronicles books yet, as I haven’t wanted his interpretation of 7th century Britain and it’s  people to colour my own, while I am in the midst of writing mine. But being that this one was a shorter story I thought I could risk it. And I’m glad I did!

The other books in the series are about Beobrand, a young man who goes on a quest to avenge his brother’s murder. This novella takes place before the events in the first book, The Serpent Sword, and the main character is Octa, Beobrand’s brother, who is a warrior in the court of King Edwin of Bernicia.

It is wintertime, and evil is stirring. Livestock and men have been found ripped apart, their bones gnawed upon. Edwin sends a group of his trusted warriors and thegns, Octa among them, into the icy marshes to find and kill the beast that is responsible for these atrocities.

This story is definitely engaging. It’s suspenseful and a little creepy here and there. And full disclosure, there is some gore, so if that kind of thing bothers you, be warned. The writing is solid. The details of seventh century Britain are done right, immersing you into this world. And Harffy includes a twist at the end that I really loved.

It’s a short, satisfying read, perfect if you want something that is not too long in the midst of this busy season. And if you want to delve more deeply into this fascinating world, Harffy’s Bernicia Chronicles now has four books, with a fifth to be released soon.

My rating: Five stars. Exciting, engaging tale of seventh century Northumbria, with good writing to boot.

 

Society News: The Kings (and Queens).

Today’s post is part of a new series up here on the blog, in which I examine the societal structure of 7th century Anglo-Saxon Britain. Last week I introduced the series, and this week I present Part 2, in which we will look at the top of the heap, the kings (and queens). Subsequent posts will follow in the New Year, but not one after the other. So keep your eyes open!


 

In the seventh century, Britain was very much an agricultural society. People lived in “holdings” – a plot of land in which they farmed and raised livestock. Everyone was engaged in this activity, from kings on down to the commoners. Of course, the further “up the ladder” you were in social standing,  the more land you would own and the more you would be able to fob off all the hard work to others.

Naturally, the kings were at the top of the social structure. How they got there, however, may not be as cut and dry as you might think. One fascinating fact about kingship at this time is that succession to the kingship of the various kingdoms did not necessarily depend upon familial ties. In other words, if you were the oldest son of a king, that didn’t  necessarily mean that you would take over as king when your father died.

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Beautiful icon of Oswald, King of Northumbria, available at ByzantineArt

This is because the Anglo-Saxons were warrior kings. A king had to prove himself a worthy warrior to become a king.* When one king was killed in battle (which was the usual and preferred way for a king to die) the king’s closest advisors, consisting of the highest ranked of the nobility and clerical class, would elect a new king. This group of advisors was called the Witan, although there is some dispute about that term today. But for the sake of ease, I will use that term.

Generally, of course, the Witan would choose the new king from the surviving family members of the old king. But the new regent had to be wary, for the Witan could also dispose of a king they felt was unworthy to rule. This happened only rarely, but it did happen nonetheless, and the new king had to keep this in the back of his mind. He had to win the favour of the Witan in order to keep his throne, and he would do that by showing his prowess in battle and showering his warriors with land, battle booty, and other honours.

The Witan would meet at least once a year, and always at the pleasure of the king. It did not have a fixed place to meet, but would happen wherever the king happened to be. At this meeting, called a witenagemot,  laws would be discussed, complaints could be heard, the king would endow people with land or titles, etc.

While not at battle, the king would spend much time travelling his kingdom and accepting foodrent, or feorm, from his subjects. The king had various royal vills, places he would go to during his tours of the kingdom, and it was there that the peasants would bring their feorm to the king. The amounts were based on how much land the peasant farmed, the basic unit being one hide, which was the amount of land needed to support one family. It would include things like honey, loaves of bread, ale, livestock, butter, cheese, and even eels (which seem to be a staple in the Anglo-Saxon diet. Eeww.). In return, the king was expected to keep good order in the kingdom, and deal with the mundane business of keeping roads and bridges in order. The king would have underlings who would do this work for him, of course. He would also take part in judging of legal cases, and also craft new laws of his own, all with the aim of keeping the kingdom working smoothly.

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Yeavering Bell, Northumberland. Located at the northern edge of the Cheviots, near the border of today’s Scotland, this was the site of one of the royal vills of the Bernician kings. At that time it was called Ad Gerfin (“hill of the goats”, for the wild goats that still populate the area). The faint line at the top of the hill marks the site of an Iron Age hilltop fort, the Anglo-Saxon settlement was on the other side of the hill, on a flattened area.  This was an important residence for the Bernician kings, a centre of power in the northern edge of their kingdom. A Roman style auditorium is part of the complex, and you can just imagine Oswald or Oswy holding court, surrounded by his loyal subjects. Image from Wikicommons.

Because his standing as a king depended on how generous he was with his loyal retainers, kings at this time spent a lot of time fighting, as this was the way they expanded their territories and gained treasure. The battles could be small ones; border skirmishes or minor raids into another’s territory. Or, they could be major battles, in which they deposed another king and expanded their own territory even further. It is because of this that most of the kings of this time died in battle, rather than of old age or infirmity. In Anglo-Saxon culture, dying in battle was the ultimate way to die for a warrior. Honour and loyalty to your lord was paramount, even to the extent that if your king died in battle, it was seen as cowardice if you did not die in battle beside him.

At the beginning of the seventh century there were twelve kingdoms, and by the ninth there were only four. This is due to the various kings conquering one another and amalgamating territory into bigger and bigger areas. Of course, although highly important, warfare was not the only way in which kings gained territory and expanded their kingdoms. There was also the tried and true method of treaties and marriage negotiations, whereby a king might marry the daughter or sister or other female relative of a neighbouring king, and/or negotiate treaties with them instead of going to war. War was expensive, and when it involved large numbers of men, it involved a lot of disruption for the ordinary people who would be called up to fight for the king. This would usually be in the summer, when they would rather be making sure they had enough food to eat for the winter.

The Anglo-Saxons had a patriarchal society, so, although women did have freedoms and power that we might find surprising in comparison with women in the later medieval period, the Anglo-Saxon queens were generally not rulers in their own right, nor were they regents on behalf of a under-age son. If a king was killed in battle, the surviving wife and children would often have to flee and seek shelter elsewhere, so that they would not be killed by the new king who would not want them around as usurpers. This is why Oswald and Oswy and their brothers were sent to exile among the Scots (Irish) of Dal Riata after their father Aethelfrith was killed in battle and Edwin took over the Bernician throne.

But the Queens were no milquetoasts, either. Generally they were daughters of kings and held influence and power of their own. And they were definitely not above getting involved in the politics of the day in order to further their husband’s or son’s or father’s ambitions, even, in some cases, going to the extreme. Penda of Mercia’s son, Peada, ruler of Middle Anglia, was said in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle to have been murdered through the treachery of his Northumbrian wife (King Oswy’s daughter, Alhflaed. Perhaps at the instigation of her father? Who knows, but it’s interesting to speculate!).

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Cynethryth was the wife of Offa of Mercia (757-796 AD). She seemed to have a considerable amount of influence, and her husband even had coins struck in her name, one of the very few medieval women to have this honour. Image from Medieval Girl

All in all, a king had a better standard of living than the common people, but his life was often cut short by war. A bit of a trade-off, I suppose. But one that most commoners would be willing to make, if given the chance!


*Another important qualification for kingship at this time was that the potential king’s  family lineage could be traced back to the god, Woden. Interestingly, this was important for pagan and Christian kings alike.

Feature image is an artist’s reconstruction of Tintagel, off the coast of Cornwall, in 600 AD, from English Heritage

 

Posts in this series: 

Society News: Introduction