Back in the summer of 2011 (I think), I spent every evening when my children were in bed, trying to plot the possessions of the Earls of Mercia as revealed by the entries in Domesday Book (which I think is a totally normal thing to do).
It was a tedious process, which could be achieved much more quickly these days with Google Maps, but it was what I had available to me. Somewhat frustrated with the process because by that period many of the possessions of the Earls of Mercia and their family were not located in the original area of the Hwicce (roughly Gloucestershire), and aware that Deerhurst (which is in Gloucestershire) has a long history back to the Saxon period, I eventually plonked by ealdorman, Leofwine, (of the Hwicce) close to that location, and indeed, readers of the books will know that I have his family burials there. But, I’d never actually visisted Deerhurst before. Until now.
It is a beautiful location, and I’m sharing some photos from my visit, including The Angel, a surviving piece of Saxon sculpture, outside on the walls (my photos aren’t the best but it’s at a very awkward angle and quite high up the side of the building. You can find a much clearer image here https://www.flickr.com/photos/paulodykes/41119170111).
The font – not original to the church – but found in the 19th century and placed there. It is stunning.The AngelThe Angel (again)My camera lens is slightly smashed, and it’s usually fine unless it catches the sun – but sometimes the images are quite cool
Deerhurst hosts an annual lecture each year (indeed, it’s on 21st September 2024 this year), and is also open for visitors, for anyone else who fancies visiting. If you can’t make it, you can visit their website, and also order printed copies of the lectures, which I’ve done before now. https://deerhurstfriends.co.uk
And, just around the corner is Odda’s Chapel, another Saxon survivor. I will also share photos from Odda’s Chapel in a few days.
When I first wrote Kings of Conflict, I had very little idea what Jorvik at the time (the 930s/940s) might have looked like. I wrote an entire battle scene and then realised some of my assumptions were very, very wrong (I do this all the time. Don’t feel sorry for me. I should just do the research first instead of giving free rein to my imagination.) I got the fact the settlement was split in two by the River Ouse wrong (and who knew about the Foss). But, most tellingly, what I failed to understand was the true nature of York, from its Roman origins as Eboracum to the age of Jorvik, and most importantly by that I mean its Roman walls and what might, or might not have still been standing at this period.
We don’t (yet) have time machines. We can’t visit York in the 940s, but if there is one thing York is famous for it’s the archaeology, and the Jorvik Viking Centre, which offers a recreation of what those streets on Coppergate might once have looked like, and also much else. And because Jorvik/York has benefitted from so much archaeological work, there are also a series of maps showing York at various times in its lifetime, alas out of print at this time, but which can be accessed via a good library (my thanks to the Great Northern Library at the Hancock museum in Newcastle – if you want to see it then let them know so they can have it ready for you, and make note of their opening hours) or the amalgamation of this work available in An Historical Map of York, available from all good book sellers. And if not, then my favourite ‘go-to’ for recreating this time period, the antiquarian maps by John Speed (which are also much prettier) can also offer some information.
York, from John Speed’s West Riding of Yorkshire map (own photo)
This is readily available and amalgamates the information from the actual Atlas.This is currently out of print – check out your local library or antiquarian library for a copy
Roman York
The British Historic Towns Atlas Volume V, York ed. Peter Addyman provides the following information about Eboracum-Roman York.
York’s surviving walls, not far from MicklegateI planned to take many more photos but my phone went flat and it was a suitably biblically wet day in York – which seems to happen every time I visit:)
It might have been occupied under Vettius Bolanus (69-71) but was truly founded under Emperor Vespasian (69-79). However, the ridge of the River Ouse was a routeway from the Neolithic onwards. This was in the territory of the Brigantes although the East Riding of Yorkshire was that of the Parisi. It is possible that Eboracum means ‘the place of the yew trees.’
The stone used in constructing the fortress was Magnesian Limestone from Tadcaster and Millstone Grit from Bramham Park (I love that they know this). To begin with the fortress had a ditch, rampart and timber structures and four gates, with the original towers up to 15 metres high. And here, there is the suggestion that to begin with, crossing the River Ouse (to get to the civilian settlement) was via ferry. The bridge can only be confirmed from the second century onwards. The Foss River was also tidal at this time and the banks sloped sharply. The rampart was widened from 20feet to about 42 feet during a second phase of occupation.
Some ‘old’ bits of Roman York (I think), from the museum in York Minster
The end of Roman York is impossible to pinpoint. Did it cease to exist? Certainly, the last documentary reference was in 314 when York’s bishop, Eborus, attended the Council of Arles, but as with so many of these Roman settlements in Britannia, what happened afterwards is more difficult to determine and we must turn to archaeology and not written records.
I think this is from the exhibition at Micklegate Bar but I could be wrong. It very clearly shows the two ‘halves’ of the walls.
I must admit, all of this information about Roman York makes me somewhat desperate to write a book about it:) (Don’t all groan).
Anglian York – Eoforwic
The creators of this series of maps make the point that this is the most speculative of the series. Put simply, they really don’t know what was happening.
What can be said is that the walls were renovated on the north west side of the fortress with a dry stone wall and cobbled sentry walk while the eastern ramparts were topped with a timble palisade wider than the Roman wall (if I’ve understood that correctly).
Eoforwic first enters the historical record as the place of baptism for Edwin in 627, the king of Northumbria (Deira and Bernicia combined).
‘…the king was baptised at Easter with all his chief men; that Easter was on 12 April. This was done in York, where earlier he had ordered a church to be built of wood.’ ASC E 626 p.25
The archbishopric began from 735, but Eoforwic was not densely settled at this period, although it does seem to have had many, many churches. This includes the Minster, St Michael-Le-Belfrey, Holy Trinity, St Peter the Little, St Martin, St Michael, and many more, all probably founded by 850.
Map of Britain in the tenth century, showing York (map design by Flintlock Covers).
Viking York – Jorvik
It’s record that the first attack Viking attack on York occured on 1st November 866. The Northumbrians counter-attacked in 867 but this left York under Viking control.
‘Here the raiding-army went from East Anglia over the mouth of the Humber to York city in Northumbria;’ ASC A 867 corrected to 866 p.68 (from my preferred edition edited by Michael Swanton).
And here is where my notes become a little muddled between time periods. The British Historic Towns Atlas Volume V informs that the River Ouse at the time would have been tidal, and much wider than it is now and also with much steeper banks .
The late-eighth-century scholar Alcuin describes York as having high walls and lofty towers (he spent time in York). Asser (Alfred’s late-tenth-century biographer – although I’m curious as to how he’d know as I’m sure he was from one of the Welsh kingdoms and York was not under Alfred’s control) suggests that York’s walls were insecure and there is a suggestion that the Vikings restored the walls. Considering what we know about Asser and his ability to be less than honest, we might suspect this statement. Certainly, the remains of the walls were visible but whether they were defensible is unknown.
The walls survive to this day. To paraphrase from the Atlas, from the western corner of the Roman fortress to fifty metres along its south-west front, parallel to the river, the Roman wall is still visible above ground. Beyond this point, its six projecting interval towers and the Roman south/west gateway leading to the bridge over the Ouse have either been demolished to foundation level or been covered by organic-rich debris of post-Conquest date. The fortress’s south corner tower at Freasgate survives to fifteen foot. It is suggested that the south-west section of the civilian settlement might not have been included in the walled defences.
On the northern banks of the River Ouse, there were plots about 5.5m wide occupied by one or more structures (Coppergate/Ousegate/Pavement) with backyards running downslope towards the River Foss. Hungate also had similar plots. There might have been crossings over the rivers below St Mary Castlegate and Hungate. These rectangular structures of post and wattle had entrances front and back, with centrally arranged hearths and roofs made of turf, reeds or straw. Most settlement was below Coppergate, Ousegate, Pavement, Hungate and Walmgate areas.
Recreating Jorvik?
But what does all this mean when trying to recreate the time period? (Some will know that I’ve already ‘visited’ York earlier in the Brunanburh series, and without all this angst). It is frustrating that some aspects are so clearly defined and others aren’t. Where were the people living – especially the high status people? Where were the kings living? In King’s Square/Kuningesgard? And what’s this about the civilian defences never being completed to the south?
My overwhelming impression is that the remains of the actual Roman encampment (to the north of the Ouse) were in better condition than those to the south of the Ouse surrounding the civilian settlement (there are ‘proper’ terms for this – I’m not using them). But, these remains of the Roman wall at the fort seem to have largely been surrounding the religious centre under the control of the Archbishop of York, Wulfstan I. Were they any use to those in control of Jorvik? And what about the rivers? How navigable were they? Could they be easily blocked? How tidal is tidal? Did it raise and lower the water level by metres or centimetres?
Was there even a bridge over the River Ouse or did they need to use a boat to get across? Perhaps there was only one bridge over the Ouse, and only one over the River Foss.
Having this information to hand and making sense of it are two very different things. How would someone have gone about attacking York? Would they have taken ships, come on foot or tried to steal their way inside through the never completed walls? Who would have protected it? What would our erstwhile holy man, Archbishop Wulfstan have done? If the walls were standing, how many warriors would have needed to protect it?
You’ll have to read Conflict of Kings to see just what I did, and you can from 6th August 2024:)
The death of King Ælfweard of Wessex, 2nd August 924
Today sees the 1100th anniversary of the death of King Ælfweard of Wessex, a king most people have never heard of as his reign was just sixteen days in summer 924, and we know almost nothing about him. (According to one source, the Textus Roffensis he is credited with a reign of 4 weeks, which would have made him king before his father’s death. You can see a digital copy of this source here). There are surely many ‘might have beens’ about his reign, and as much as I admire Athelstan, his older halfbrother, I felt it only right to shed what light there is on Ælfweard.
Who was Ælfweard?
He was the son of Edward the Elder (who had died 16 days earlier) and his second wife, Ælfflæd. He was, presumably, the oldest born son with Edward’s second wife, and from a very young age, he can be seen attesting to his father’s charters. We don’t know his exact date of birth because we don’t know when Edward remarried, and whether it was before or after his father’s death in 899.
What do we know about Ælfweard?
Ælfweard begins to attest charters in 901 as filius regis, alongside his famous older halfbrother, Athelstan, although Ælfweard is given precedence and named before him. This precedence for the oldest son from a second marriage would also be mirrored in later years by King Edgar, who presented his oldest son with his third wife, Elfrida, as the legitimate ætheling while acknowledging his oldest son with his first wife.
Ælfweard attests eight of his father’s charters (S365, S375, S376, S377, S378, S381, S382 and S383). The number is small and may not be representative. There’s a lack of surviving charter evidence from the reign of Edward the Elder and none from Ælfweard’s short reign. Indeed, his full brother, Edwin, doesn’t attest any of his father’s charters, although he is named in one of Athelstan’s charters (S1417). This is something that needs explaining and examining in more depth.
Ælfweard’s death ‘allowed’ Athelstan to become king of Wessex
Despite the survival of his full brother, Edwin, Athelstan was, eventually, proclaimed king of Wessex as well as Mercia on the death of Ælfweard, although his coronation was delayed until September 925 (Read about Athelstan here). We must consider what led to Ælfweard’s death at Oxford. Had he been with his father at Farndon in Mercia putting down a revolt or fighting the Norse enemy? Was there some sort of illness? Was he murdered by those loyal to Athelstan to allow him to become king of Wessex as well as Mercia? We do not know. The situation is presented as a fait accompli in the sources.
Edwin, Ælfweard’s younger full brother, would die far from England’s shores, if the information we do have about his death, is correct. It is possible he did rise in rebellion against Athelstan, but alas, we do not know any details.
For more suggestions, and my fictional recreation of how Athelstan became king of Mercia, Wessex and the English, do check out my books, Kingmaker (the story of Lady Eadgifu, Edward the Elder’s third wife), and King of Kings (which begins with the coronation of King Athelstan in September 925). I’ve also written a post about Athelstan becoming king of Mercia which can be accessed here.
And for more information about the tenth century as a whole, do check out my nonfiction title about the Royal Women of the Tenth Century, which also includes information about the royal men.
Anglo-Saxon Chronicle quotations from M Swanton, The Anglo-Saxon Chronicles.
The death of King Edward (the Elder), 17th July 924
17th July saw the anniversary of the death of Edward the Elder, who was Athelstan’s father.
We don’t know why Edward was in Mercia at the time of his death, although this is only recorded in the C and D versions of the Anglo Saxon Chronicles, always deemed to be more Mercian in their outlook by scholars of the era than other surviving versions. I highly recommend Pauline Stafford’s book on the writing of the ASC, and you can read more about the ASC recensions here.
We don’t know why Edward died, although it was potentially quite sudden. Was he wounded in battle? Was he unwell – the fact his oldest son with his second wife dies only 16 days later (the 16 days is provided by the D version of the ASC) at Oxford might suggest a contagion. Admittedly, it might also suggest that Ælfweard was murdered by those loyal to Athelstan, to enable him to also claim Wessex but there is no mention of this in any surviving source material. Alternatively, it might point to a deadly war with ‘someone.’
Who was Edward the Elder (899-924)
So, who was Edward the Elder? He was the younger brother of Æthelflæd, famously known as the Lady of Mercia, as well as the son of King Alfred. He seems to have ‘stolen’ the kingdom of Mercia from his niece Ælfwynn, who was intended to rule there after her mother’s death in June 918. Perhaps Edward was an unwelcome presence in Mercia. It’s been suggested he might have been putting down either a Mercian rebellion, perhaps orchestrated by Athelstan, or that Edward was fighting the enemies of the Saxons – no doubt the Viking raiders – at the time of his death.
King of the Mercians
We are then told by the D version of the ASC that Athelstan was chosen as king by the Mercians.
So, a few important things to highlight – he was chosen as king, but only by the Mercians even though his father was ruling Wessex and Mercia.
Despite very popular portrayals of England at this time, we are still very much looking at the kingdoms of Mercia, Wessex and Northumbria, (and of course Jorvik), so not ‘England’ at all. Edward the Elder did try to rule both Mercia and Wessex at the same time after his sister’s death. How successful he was at that is very much open to debate. Certainly, he has been very much relegated behind the achievements of his father and his son (and his sister). It’s not always that easy to study his reign in depth due to the lack of surviving charter evidence. There is also a debate about how ‘much’ ruling Æthelflæd and Æthelred did in Mercia? Was their kingship under a Wessex banner?
But to return to Athelstan. Was he immediately declared king of Mercia on 18th July 924 or did it take longer? We don’t know the answer to this.
A beguiling suggestion by historian Jayakumar is that Athelstan might have been marked to succeed by his grandfather King Alfred in Mercia, not in Wessex. This is intriguing – prior to this we see fathers and sons ‘sharing’ the kingship of Wessex and then Kent, when it was taken back from the Mercians in the 820s/830s. And indeed, while Mercian, Kent was often ruled by an offshoot member of the Mercian ruling family as well.
Who was Athelstan?
So, who was this Athelstan, who became king of Mercia in 924?
The oldest son of Edward the Elder, but who was his mother?
It’s been suggested his mother might have been Mercian, and this also made him acceptable for the Mercians to declare him as king- but it’s impossible to determine more about her. We don’t even know her name, although it’s suggested that it was Ecgwynn. She was soon replaced, either because of her death or because Edward, on becoming king of Wessex, needed to cement his position through marriage with a powerful ealdormanic family. Lady Ælfflæd was Edward’s second wife.
Later discussions abound about Athelstan’s suitability to become king of Wessex, with many casting doubt on the union, but it is evident that Alfred believed the union was a lawful one, and his grandson would one day become king, although of where, we don’t know.
Equally, we don’t actually know when Edward’s second marriage occurred, was it before or after his father’s death?
Athelstan’s early life
Athelstan and his younger half-brother, Ælfweard, who we must assume was the oldest son born to Edward and his second wife, begin to attest charters in 901 both as filius regis although Ælfweard is named above Athelstan despite being younger.
Athelstan attests eleven of his father’s charters (Sawyer, P.H. (ed.), Anglo-Saxon charters: An annotated list and bibliography, rev. Kelly, S.E., Rushforth, R., (2022). http://www.esawyer.org.uk/ S365, S366, S371, S375, S376, S377, S378, S379, S381, S382, S383), Ælfweard only eight, but again, the number is still small and so may not be representative – in 901, Athelstan witnesses 2 charters, but Ælfweard only one.
Only three of the eleven charters that Athelstan witnesses under his father are deemed to be authentic, and only one of those witnessed by Ælfweard and Athelstan together which is dated to 901, when they were both young children. This would have been very early in Edward’s reign, when his cousin, Æthelwold, was still alive and contesting the rulership of Wessex, something that wasn’t resolved until the decisive Battle of the Holme, in either 901 or 902. Edward may have wanted to labour the point that he was the father to two potential male heirs, or æthelings. (His brother, Æthelweard is also termed filius regis, and so Edward might have been highlighting that if something did befall him, he had a brother who could also succeed him, as opposed to two young children.)
However, there is a large gap in the charter evidence for Edward the Elder in the middle of his reign, and so it is difficult to track any developments.
But with all that said, I don’t find Athelstan’s charter witnessing very helpful when trying to determine his place at the Wessex royal court at this time, his position as a young man or even how he got on with his father’s second wife (as well as his third wife) and her many, many children, who would bedevil him when he became king.
Was Athelstan raised in Mercia by his aunt and uncle?
The fact Athelstan was declared king of Mercia does seem to corroborate a statement made by William of Malmesbury, in the later Gesta Regum Anglorum, or The History of the English Kings, that Athelstan was raised in Mercia by his aunt and uncle, alongside his full birth sister, who may have been called Edith.
Or, it could be that his mother was Mercian. It’s frustratingly difficult to find explanations when events are merely told us as supposed ‘fact,’ and William of Malmesbury’s assertion has been little questioned, other than by historian David Dumville, even though it dates to two centuries after the events. It seems to be the ‘easy’ explanation as to why Athelstan became king of Mercia after his father’s death.
What was happening in Wessex?
Ælfweard, his younger half-brother, was declared king, until his death, 16 days after his father.
How did Athelstan become king of Wessex?
So, once he was chosen as Mercia’s king, how did he then become king of Wessex on the death of Ælfweard so soon after that of Edward?
This period is as equally hazy as what happened to make Athelstan king of Mercia.
But, after Ælfweard’s death, there is another son of Edward’s second marriage who could have become king, Edwin. As could the sons of Edward’s third wife, Lady Eadgifu, who were very young at the time, perhaps no more than one and three years old.
Why Athelstan was chosen is difficult to rationalise, especially if the Wessex witan were so uneasy with him. Some suggest he reached an agreement with Lady Eadgifu (his father’s third wife) that her sons would be his heirs. Others think there was a period of unease where Wessex was kingless. We have no explanation for Edwin being overlooked, and certainly, it seems he went on to cause his older half-brother problems. We have reports of Edwin’s death in 933 – apparently from drowning, but it seems likely, it was some sort of rebellion against his half brother, the king. The Gesta Abbatum S. Bertini Sithiensium, reports his burial by his cousin in Flanders.
I find this period quite interesting as by now, another Eadgifu, a half sister of Athelstan, who had been married to King Charles III of the West Franks, might have been in Wessex. She had a young son, Louis, but Charles had been usurped and imprisoned and certainly Louis was at the Wessex court when his grandfather died. It’s possible Eadgifu was as well. Would she not have supported her full brother against Athelstan claiming the kingship? Equally, we don’t know if Edwin’s mother was still alive. It is all very perplexing.
What we do know is that Athelstan underwent his coronation in September 925, so over a year after his father’s and half-brother’s death. The coronation took place at Kingston upon Thames. This delay has been interpreted as showing he met resistance in Wessex to his rule, but it might not have been that unusual. His father’s coronation was not immediate, although, admittedly, his father was faced with the rebellion of Æthelwold, his cousin and the surviving son of Alfred’s older brother, Æthelred I. Alfred and his brother seem to have reached an accord about the succession before Æthelred I’s death, and Alfred then rode roughshod over it.
A coronation with a crown?
There is some discussion about whether the surviving Coronation ordo (ceremony) was devised for Athelstan or not, but he was crowned with a crown and not a helmet, as earlier kings had been. We have a famous image of Athelstan, (we only have two contemporary/near-contemporary images of the tenth century kings) presenting a book to St Cuthbert, and in this image, he is shown wearing a crown. This was a departure from earlier ceremonies.
Frontispiece of Bede’s Life of St Cuthbert, showing King Æthelstan (924–39) presenting a copy of the book to the saint himself. Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
For more suggestions, and my fictional recreation of how Athelstan became king of Mercia, Wessex and the English, do check out my books, Kingmaker (the story of Lady Eadgifu), and King of Kings (which begins with the coronation of King Athelstan).
Anglo-Saxon Chronicle quotations from M Swanton, The Anglo-Saxon Chronicles.
Having written more books than I probably should about the Saxon kingdom of Mercia, and with more planned, I’ve somewhat belatedly realised I’ve never explained what Mercia actually was. I’m going to correct that now.
Having grown up within the ancient kingdom of Mercia, still referenced today in such titles as the West Mercia Police, I feel I’ve always been aware of the heritage of the Midlands of England. But that doesn’t mean everyone else is.
Where was Mercia?
Simply put, the kingdom of Mercia, in existence from c.550 to about c.925 (and then continuing as an ealdordom, and then earldom) covered the area in the English Midlands, perhaps most easily described as the area north of the River Thames, and south of the Humber Estuary – indeed, nerdy historians, and Bede, call the area the kingdom of the Southumbrians, in contrast to the kingdom of the Northumbrians – do you see what Bede did there?
While it was not always that contained, and while it was not always that large, Mercia was essentially a land-locked state (if you ignore all the rivers that gave easy access to the sea), in the heartland of what we now know as England.
What was Mercia?
Mercia was one of the Heptarchy—the seven ancient kingdoms that came to dominate Saxon England – Mercia, Wessex (West Saxons), the East Angles, Essex (East Saxons), Sussex (South Saxons) and Kent.
In time, it would be one of only four to survive the infighting and amalgamation of the smaller kingdoms, alongside Northumbria, the kingdom of the East Angles, Mercia, and Wessex (the West Saxons).
The End of Mercia?
Subsequently, it has traditionally been said to have been subsumed by the kingdom of Wessex, which then grew to become all of ‘England’ as we know it.
This argument is subject to some current debate, especially as the king credited with doing this, Athelstan, the first and only of his name, might well have been born into the West Saxon dynasty but was potentially raised in Mercia, by his aunt, Lady Æthelflæd, and was, indeed, declared king of Mercia on the death of his father, King Edward the Elder in July 924, and only subsequently became king of Wessex, and eventually, king of all England.
Mercia’s kings
But, before all that, Mercia had its own kings. One of the earliest, and perhaps most well-known, was Penda, in the mid-7th century, the alleged last great pagan king. (Penda features in my Gods and Kings trilogy). Throughout the eighth century, Mercia had two more powerful kings, Æthelbald and Offa (of Offa’s Dyke fame), and then the ninth century saw kings Wiglaf and Coelwulf II (both of whom feature as characters in my later series, The Eagle of Mercia Chronicles and the Mercian Ninth Century), before the events of the last 800s saw Æthelflæd, one of the most famous rulers, leading the kingdom against the Viking raiders.
The Earldom of Mercia
And even when the kingdom itself ceased to exist, it persisted in the ealdordom and earldom of Mercia, (sometimes subdivided further), and I’ve also written about the House of Leofwine, who were ealdormen and then earls of Mercia throughout the final century of Saxon England, a steadfast family not outmatched by any other family, even the ruling line of the House of Wessex.
In fact, Mercia, as I said above, persists as an idea today even though it’s been many years since the end of Saxon England. And indeed, my two Erdington Mysteries, are also set in a place that would have been part of Mercia a thousand years before:) (I may be a little bit obsessed with the place).
I always love to hear how authors research their historical characters and events. KJ McGillick shares how she researched for her new book, Whispers Through the Canvas.
Howard Dynasty
To study the powerful Howard dynasty of Tudor England, I consulted a variety of digitized primary sources available online such as wills, letters, court records, and literary works from the era. Searching through these collections, I found references to key Howard figures like the poet Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey and his ill-fated relatives. Contemporary accounts provided glimpses into the scandals, romantic entanglements, and power dynamics playing out at the royal court and aristocratic estates. Family correspondence shed light on inheritance disputes among the duke’s children. Literary pieces like Surrey’s poems and writings by other Howards offered additional perspectives on their remarkable century – chronicling their ascent, arts patronage, and the perils their elite status invited.
Levina Teerlinc To learn about Levina Teerlinc, one of the earliest professional female artists in Renaissance England, I turned to digitized primary sources and secondary analyses available online. High-resolution images of Teerlinc’s exquisite miniature portraits hosted by museums revealed her skill at capturing likenesses. I searched literature databases for any mentions of Teerlinc from writings of her era, finding scattered records confirming her lifelong court employment. While limited biographical details survive, historians have reconstructed some context about her Flemish origins and artistic training based on fragments of evidence. Scholarly articles also examined her pioneering role as an art tutor to noble pupils.
Witchcraft 16th Century
To investigate 16th century England’s witchcraft accusations and trials, I immersed myself in digitized primary sources and scholarly research available online. This allowed me to examine the social tensions, religious upheaval, and cultural forces behind the deadly persecution of alleged witches. I accessed sensationalized literature published during the witch-hunting frenzy, providing window into the paranoia around women supposedly consorting with the devil. Legal records and transcripts illuminated how flimsy the evidence used to condemn the accused often was – a person’s reputation, a death, or unexplained misfortune could prompt charges. Scholarly journal articles analyzed the complex sociopolitical tensions of the Reformation era that enabled witchcraft hysteria to take hold, from anxieties over female autonomy to ruling elite distrust of the peasantry.
16th century Occult Symbols
To explore the fascinating world of occult symbols and their place in 16th century English society, I delved into a range of digitized primary source materials and secondary scholarship available online.
One key resource was literature databases containing published works from the era. I examined texts on astrology, alchemy, magic, and esoteric philosophies for insight into the symbolic languages and imagery employed by occult practitioners and their beliefs. Engravings and woodcuts accompanying these works provided a visual catalogue of seals, sigils, and emblems.
I also searched through digitized diaries, letters, and accounts of the time for references to the use of occult symbols and coded markings in both elite and folk traditions. Correspondence between royals, nobles, and scholars sometimes mentioned encrypted communications or arcane symbolic meanings.
Court records, witness depositions, and transcripts from witchcraft trials offered a window into societal suspicion surrounding the perceived nefarious use and misuse of symbols and markings associated with magic and the supernatural. The language and suspicions revealed in these documents shed light on prevailing attitudes.
Additionally, I consulted digitized archaeological reports, inventories of home goods, and material culture studies to trace actual artifacts and objects bearing occult symbols that survived from 16th century England – whether tools, talismans or architecture.
By synthesizing evidence from these various sources, I could begin mapping the complex cosmological, mystical, and coded symbolic vernacular of the Renaissance era and how it manifested in art, writings, personal practice, and dangerous accusations.
Intrigued? Here’s the blurb.
Here’s the blurb
Murder… Across The Fractured Corridors of Time.
Plunged into a centuries-old conspiracy, unconventional art historian Rowan Southeil must race against time to stop an ancient evil from rewriting history. When a young artist is murdered in a chilling echo of medieval violence, Rowan finds herself drawn to a seemingly unrelated clue – a 16th-century painting drenched in arcane symbols. Aided by the victim’s haunting presence, Rowan delves into the painting’s mysterious past, uncovering a dark conspiracy that stretches back generations.
Teaming up with the pragmatic Detective Lancaster, the intuitive Rowan follows a daring journey through time, from the storied halls of 16th-century Tudor London to the secretive 17th-century Vatican. As she awakens powerful elemental forces within herself, Rowan must decipher the painting’s secrets – and the connection to the medieval-style murder – before Lev Rubilov, a dark centuries-old occultist, can harness its magic to rewrite history and restore a twisted vision of the past.
For fans of genre-blending thrillers like A Discovery of Witches and Outlander, this captivating novel weaves together mystery, the supernatural, and high-stakes time travel in a race against the clock to stop an ancient evil. Whispers Through The Canvas is a crime story, filled with action and adventure, within a historical fantasy milieu. If you love kick-ass heroines who have a bit of life experience and walk on the wild side of magic, this book is for you.
From the bustling courtrooms of Atlanta to the vibrant tapestry of 16th-century England, Kathleen McGillick’s life and career have been a captivating blend of legal expertise, artistic passion, and a thirst for adventure.
Fueled by an undergraduate and graduate degree in nursing, Kathleen built a foundation of compassion and care. This dedication to service later led her to pursue a Juris Doctorate, allowing her to navigate the intricacies of the legal system for nearly three decades. Her courtroom experience now breathes life into the intricate details of her legal thrillers, ensuring every courtroom scene crackles with authenticity.
But Kathleen’s story doesn’t end there. A deep fascination with art history led her to delve into the world of renowned artists and captivating eras. Her particular passion for 16th-century British history allows her to transport readers to richly detailed historical settings, immersing them in the culture, politics, and societal nuances of the time.
Driven by an unwavering dedication to her craft, Kathleen has independently published eleven legal thrillers since 2018. Her commitment extends beyond solo creation, as she actively engages with the writing community, honing her skills through workshops and courses led by renowned authors.
And when she’s not crafting captivating narratives, Kathleen embarks on international journeys, soaking in diverse cultures and experiences that further enrich her writing. This global perspective adds another layer of depth and realism to her stories, allowing readers to connect with characters and settings that transcend geographical boundaries.
To delve deeper into Kathleen’s world and explore her captivating legal thrillers, visit her website at kjmcgillick.com.
It feels like I’ve been talking about this book forever, but the day is finally upon us. The Royal Women Who Made England is available in hardback in the UK and US from today, and also in Kind
If you’ve been hiding from me for the last few months, you might be wondering what this is all about. So here goes.
Throughout the tenth century, England, as it would be recognised today, formed. No longer many Saxon kingdoms, but rather, just England. Yet, this development masks much in the century in which the Viking raiders were seemingly driven from England’s shores by Alfred, his children and grandchildren, only to return during the reign of his great, great-grandson, the much-maligned Æthelred II.
Not one but two kings would be murdered, others would die at a young age, and a child would be named king on four occasions. Two kings would never marry, and a third would be forcefully divorced from his wife. Yet, the development towards ‘England’ did not stop. At no point did it truly fracture back into its constituent parts. Who then ensured this stability? To whom did the witan turn when kings died, and children were raised to the kingship?
The royal woman of the House of Wessex came into prominence during the century, perhaps the most well-known being Æthelflæd, daughter of King Alfred. Perhaps the most maligned being Ælfthryth (Elfrida), accused of murdering her stepson to clear the path to the kingdom for her son, Æthelred II, but there were many more women, rich and powerful in their own right, where their names and landholdings can be traced in the scant historical record.
Using contemporary source material, The Royal Women Who Made England can be plucked from the obscurity that has seen their names and deeds lost, even within a generation of their own lives.
So, who were these royal women? While some of us will know Æthelflæd, the Lady of Mercia, either because I think she is one of THE most famous Saxon women, or because of The Last Kingdom TV series and books, but she is merely one of many.
I’ve fictionalised Elfrida and her contemporaries, Eadgifu, the third wife of Edward the Elder and also some of his daughters, as well as Ælfwynn, the daughter of Æthelflæd. My first non-fiction title is me sharing my research that these stories are based upon.
I’ve also ‘found’ many other women of the period who have left some sort of physical reminder, mostly in charters or because their wills have survived.
In total, I discuss over twenty women directly involved with the royal family, either by birth or marriage, and also a further forty, who appear in the sources. I also take a good look at what these sources are and how they perhaps aren’t always as reliable as we might hope. I make an attempt to ‘place’ these women in the known historical events of the period. And draw some conclusions, which surprised even me.
You can find some of my blog posts about these women below.
I’ve made it somewhat of a passion to study the royal women of the tenth century. What drew me to them was a realisation that while much focus has rested on the eleventh century women, most notably Queen Emma and Queen Edith, their position rests very much on growing developments throughout the tenth century. It also helps that there is a surprising concurrence of women in the tenth century, the early years of Queen Elfrida, England’s first acknowledged crowned queen, find the ‘old guard’ from previous reigns, mixing with the ‘new guard’ – a delightful mix – it must be thought – of those experienced women trying to teach the younger, less experienced women, how to make their way at the royal court, perhaps with some unease from all involved.
Lady Elfrida, or Ælfthryth (I find it easier to name her as Elfrida) was the first of these women to catch my eye. Her story, which can be interpreted as a love story if you consult the ‘right’ sources, fascinated me. The wife of a king, mother of another king, and in time, grandmother, posthumously, to two more. But, it was her possible interactions with her husband’s paternal grandmother, the aging but long-lived Lady Eadgifu, and maternal grandmother, Lady Wynflæd, as well as probable unease with her second husband’s cast-off second wife, that really sparked my imagination. I could well imagine the conversations they might share, and the dismay they might feel around one another. Lady Elfrida replaced a wife who was not crowned as queen, and also replaced a grandmother who had never been crowned as queen but had long held a position of influence for over forty years at the Wessex court.
Equally, Elfrida’s husband had been surrounded by women from his earliest days. His mother had died, perhaps birthing him, but he had two grandmothers, a step-mother, a foster-mother and his (slightly) older brother’s wife, who would have been instrumental in his life, not to mention his first two wives. As such, it was the personal interactions of the women that called to me, and the tragedy and triumphs of their lives, and, I confess, an image of Dame Maggie Smith holding sway in Downton Abbey that drew me to the women of this period.
I’ve gone on to write fictionalised accounts of many of these women, and then, frustrated by the lack of a cohesive non-fiction account, I’ve also written a non-fiction guide detailing the scant information available for these women.
I’m delighted to welcome Michael Dunn, and his new book, Anywhere But Schuylkill to the blog, with What’s Love Got To Do With It?
What’s Love Got To Do With It?
As most readers know, a little romance always spices up a story, regardless of the genre. So, for my guest post today, I thought I’d write something about love and romance, in honor of Valentine’s Day.
In my recent historical novel, Anywhere But Schuylkill, my protagonist, Mike Doyle, is in love with a girl named Hannah, who happens to be his sister Tara’s best friend. This is troubling enough for him, since he cares deeply for his sister and doesn’t want to harm her friendship with Hannah. But Mike also works for Hannah’s father, who happens to be a gangster, and he has told Mike to keep his hands off his daughter. And to complicate matters further, Hannah’s mother is incredibly hot, and she likes to flirt with Mike when her husband isn’t around. At the same time, Tara is in love with Mike’s friend Johnny Morris, who their Uncle Sean thinks is a ne’er-do-well. And Uncle Sean is not someone you want to anger.
As a writer, I found these romantic minefields a lot of fun to create. But I also had to do a lot of research, because courtship rituals in the 1870s were so different than today. We’re talking about a small town, rural, and very traditional. There was, of course, a common trick I could exploit that transcends time period: Hannah could sneak away from her protective parents to be with Mike by pretending she was visiting her best friend, Tara. And Tara could sneak away from Uncle Sean, pretending to visit Hannah, but actually run off to meet with Johnny Morris.
This trick will only get you so far as a teen (the adults are usually sharp enough to catch on and will eventually tighten the reins). Likewise, it will only get me so far as a writer, since you modern readers are even sharper than a gilded-age parent. So, let’s talk about the research that helped me make these romances seem more authentic, and true to the era and setting.
One of the first things to consider is that none of these kids went to school. They were too poor and either had to stay home and help with the chores or go out and work for someone else to help support their families. Mike and Johnny Morris worked at the colliery. Tara and her mother worked for a neighborhood washer woman. And Hannah took care of her younger siblings, so her mother could help at the tavern. This left Sunday church as one of the only times and places where teens with strict parents could regularly meet, free of their usual burdens. While there wasn’t much courting that could occur in church, kids could chat before and after mass, and there were plenty of opportunities for lusty thoughts and teen imaginations to run wild.
There were also holidays, and community events, where teens might be able to sneak away from parents and chaperones long enough for a dance, or perhaps something a bit more illicit. Bonfire Night was one such holiday. Celebrated on the evening of June 23, Bonfire Night was historically connected to St. John’s Night, but, like many religious holidays, was likely an appropriation of an older pagan ritual. This would explain the date’s proximity to the summer solstice, and its May Day-like rituals, such as bonfires, which are lit at sunset, and kept going until long after midnight. Typically, there is food, alcohol, song and dance, creating a socially acceptable milieu for courtship. However, it is also a family-friendly event. The pious take embers home to ward off disease and evil spirits. Parents tell stories about the fairies, and kids get to stay up as late as they want because, if they fall asleep on Bonfire Night, the devil is sure to take them. Younger kids beat drums and blow tin whistles. They light sticks on fire and throw them into the air, while teens and young men challenge each other to leap across the fire. The flicker and spark of the flames tell whether they’ve been naughty, particularly in the romance department, and this can be a great source of amusement, or embarrassment.
Another popular holiday for young folks was Halloween. But an Irish-American Halloween in the 1870s was quite different than what most of us have experienced, particularly in terms of romance. The holiday often involved food, games and rituals to divine the future, particularly with regards to matrimony. For example, a traditional (and yummy) Halloween dish was colcannon, a casserole of mashed potatoes, milk, onion and kale, served with lots of butter, if one could afford it. The cook would hide prizes in the colcannon. The person who found a ring hidden in their serving was supposedly the next to get married. Alternatively, they might scoop the first and last spoonful of colcannon into a girl’s stocking, and hang that from a nail in the door, and her future husband would be the next person to enter through that door.
Another Halloween treat was barmbrack, a sweetbread filled with fruit, and sometimes hidden prizes. In this case, finding a hidden ring foretold of an impending romance, whereas a thimble meant you would never get married.
Supposedly, if a girl ate an apple while combing her hair in front of a mirror at midnight on All Hallows Eve, she would see her future husband gazing back at her. If she walked out into the night, blindfolded, and was led to a cabbage patch, she could predict the size and shape of her future husband by the size and shape of the first cabbage she picked. And if she peeled an apple and let the shavings fall to the ground, she might be able to discern her sweetheart’s initials.
Mumming, or guising, was another tradition that the Irish brought to the U.S., and that continues to be practiced in parts of Pennsylvania. Mumming involves dressing in costume and marching from door to door, performing rhyming plays, usually humorous, and often in exchange for food, treats, or even booze. It may have been the origin of the contemporary tradition of trick-or-treating. It was also common for mummers to dress in drag. One typical character was the darling Miss Funny, generally a man in drag, who demanded kisses or treats from audience members. And, instead of pumpkin Jack-o-lanterns, mummers carried hollowed out turnips, carved into grotesque faces, with lumps of burning coal inside to illuminate their way. For a fascinating history of Irish mumming, check out Henry Glassie’s, All Silver and No Brass (1975).
There are other kinds of love that are important in stories, too. For example, the desire to be loved, or the fear of being unlovable, can help explain a character’s motivations and actions. It can even help liven up a character that hasn’t been fully fleshed out yet, that feels too one-dimensional. This was initially the case with my villain, Uncle Sean, who felt like the epitome of a cruel, abusive parent. Indeed, Mike’s little brother, Bill, even says that the only two emotions Uncle Sean can feel are anger and rage. But when I added back story about Sean’s adoration of Aunt Mary, and his belief that she was the only one who could love him, “tetters and all,” he started to seem more like a real person, someone who felt pain and longing, and who struggled with his own insecurities.
This brings us back to my original premise, that a little love or romance helps spice up a story. Obviously, there is the salacious angle, like Hannah’s mom flirting with Mike. But much more important to the craft of writing is how love and romance can be exploited to enrich the side plots and add dimension to the characters. But what I find most interesting of all, is how both reading and writing about fictional love and romance can help us better understand our own real-life relationships with these emotions. What kinds of choices do we make in life to find love? To maintain love? To avoid being jilted or abandoned? And how do these choices affect our ongoing relationships with those we love, like friends and family members?
Here’s the blurb
In 1877, twenty Irish coal miners hanged for a terrorist conspiracy that never occurred. Anywhere But Schuylkill is the story of one who escaped, Mike Doyle, a teenager trying to keep his family alive during the worst depression the nation has ever faced. Banks and railroads are going under. Children are dying of hunger. The Reading Railroad has slashed wages and hired Pinkerton spies to infiltrate the miners’ union. And there is a sectarian war between rival gangs. But none of this compares with the threat at home.
Michael Dunn writes Working-Class Fiction from the Not So Gilded Age. Anywhere But Schuylkill is the first in his Great Upheaval trilogy. A lifelong union activist, he has always been drawn to stories of the past, particularly those of regular working people, struggling to make a better life for themselves and their families.
Stories most people do not know, or have forgotten, because history is written by the victors, the robber barons and plutocrats, not the workers and immigrants. Yet their stories are among the most compelling in America. They resonate today because they are the stories of our own ancestors, because their passions and desires, struggles and tragedies, were so similar to our own.
When Michael Dunn is not writing historical fiction, he teaches high school, and writes about labor history and culture.
When I was writing The Royal Women Who Made England, I discovered that there is potentially one surviving item that could be associated with these royal women. While the identification is not certain, it seems highly likely that some religious items, discovered in the tomb of St Cuthbert in Durham, when it was opened in 1827, could have either been stitched by Ælfflæd herself, or commissioned at her request. The item has the following words stitched on it Ælfflæd Fiere Precepit (Ælfflæd had [this] made) – translation from E Coatsworth The Embroideries from the Tomb of St Cuthbert.
Ælfflæd was the second wife of Edward the Elder (899-924). It’s believed they probably married AFTER he became king of Wessex on the death of his father in 899. She was the mother to at least six daughters, and two sons, one of whom became king after his father’s death, for a brief 16 days. Her stepson, Athelstan, then became king of Wessex. Two of her daughters married into the ruling families of East and West Frankia. Another two daughters married into influential families in Europe. Two others spent their adult lives in a nunnery, one as a lay sister, and one as a nun.
The embroideries consist of a stole, a maniple and a possible girdle, and are believed to have been made for Bishop Frithestan – indeed, the other end of the embroidery reads Pio Episcopo Fri∂estano (for the pious bishop Frithestan). So, together it reads Ælfflæd had this made for the pious bishop Frithestan. Frithestan was the bishop of Winchester in the early tenth century. It’s likely he never received them, for why else would they have found their way to Durham and the tomb of St Cuthberht?
There are two possible reasons for this. Firstly, Ælfflæd may have either died, or no longer been married to the king when they were completed. Edward the Elder remarried Eadgifu, his third wife sometime between 917-919. We don’t know if this was because his second wife had died, or merely because he wished to take a new wife. Secondly, Bishop Frithestan fell out with the House of Wessex at about this time. Indeed, he played no part in King Athelstan’s coronation. The expensive commissions, with gold thread, therefore never came into the hands of Bishop Frithestan. Where they might have been for the intervening period, would be interesting to know.
When King Athelstan (924-939) made his famous trip to Chester Le Street in c.934, it’s written that he gifted the community of St Cuthbert with a stole, a maniple and a girdle. It’s believed that it’s these items, made by, or commissioned by his stepmother, that he gave. (The religious house from Chester Le Street moved to Durham in 1104). St Cuthbert was a north-east saint, who lived on Lindisfarne/Holy Island in the 600s, and while it’s believed the religious house fled from Lindisfarne in the wake of the Viking raider invasions and were essentially ‘on the move’ for over a hundred years, this interpretation is now being questioned by Dr David Petts and the excavations taking place on Lindisfarne. Whatever happened to the community in that period, they were extremely influential in the north of England, and did eventually settle at Chester Le Street.
The survival of these items is astounding. There are only, according to E Coatsworth, three such ‘large’ items from the Saxon era, the Bayeaux tapestry, the Durham embroideries and those of St Catherine in Maaseik, Belgium. If these items were truly made by Ælfflæd, then they are unique. I can think of no other item that survives from the era and which the royal women may themselves have touched. When I saw this image, I was astonished by the vibrancy of the gold thread. I imagine I’m not alone in that.
Reproduced by kind permission of the chapter of Durham Cathedral.
You can read The Royal Women Who Made England: The Tenth Century in Saxon England now if you’re in the UK, or from March if you’re in the US. It can also be purchased in epub version direct from Pen and Sword.
MJ Porter 