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10 More Fun Viking-Age Names And The Stories Of The People They Belonged To

By
thehistorianshut
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The heyday of the Viking age occurred between the eighth and eleventh centuries. Yet, some Nordic noblemen continued to embark on Viking-like activities well into the twelfth century. Jarl Rognvald Kali of Orkney (r. 1137-1158) was one such nobleman and he ironically was said to have gone raiding in the Mediterranean while on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. The Viking Age is a well-documented period, with sources from multiple sides and viewpoints. Viking Age kings wrote about their accomplishments on stone monuments, and historians such as the Icelandic Snorri Sturluson (c. 1179-1241) and the Danish Saxo Grammaticus (c. 12th-13th century) later narrated events from the perspective of Norway and Denmark. There are also substantial sources from the regions attacked by Vikings, such as chroniclers based in the British Isles and France. With such a wealth of information, much is known about the key figures from the Viking Age and their exploits during that chaotic time. Yet, Viking Age warriors did not excel at only daring raids and bold seamanship—they also had some of the most creative names in all of Europe. We previously published an article listing ten fun and unique names from the Viking Age (check it out HERE), yet that was barely scratching the surface. Here are ten more fun names and a brief summary of their lives in the Viking Age.

1) Einar Buttered-Bread: This curious character reportedly lived in the 10th century and is mentioned in the Orkneyinga saga. Einar Buttered-Bread was said to have been a well-respected chieftain in Orkney, yet he had a remarkable fall from grace. He eventually assassinated a certain Jarl Havard of Orkney, causing a power-struggle to erupt. According to the saga, Einar Buttered-Bread was killed by another claimant to the jarldom. For a more in-depth look at Einar’s life and the power-struggle in Orkney, read our article HERE.

2) Killer-Hrapp: According to the Laxdæla saga, Hrapp was a 10th-century Hebridean immigrant to Iceland. He set up a farmstead called Hrappsstadir and, when he died, was buried upright under his kitchen. It is unclear when he was given his nickname, Killer-Hrapp, but he lived up to his reputation even after death. The ghost of Killer-Hrapp reportedly haunted Hrappsstadir and the locals were so afraid of his supernatural power that Hrapp’s body was exhumed and reburied in an uninhabited forest. His remains were later discovered under a cowshed belonging to the Hjardarholt farmstead, which was also plagued by hauntings. When the remains were located, Killer-Hrapp’s body was exhumed for a second time and burned. For a detailed account of Killer-Hrapp’s hauntings, check out our article, HERE.

3) Olaf Peacock: Olaf Hoskuldsson Peacock owned Hjardarholt and was the man who burned Killer-Hrapp’s body. In the Laxdæla saga, Olaf was described as a wealthy chieftain who sailed to Norway and Ireland. Wherever he went, Olaf seemed to obtain items of great wealth and value (read about his gilded belongings, HERE). Such lavish possessions, as well as his prideful preening, were reportedly the inspiration behind his nickname, Peacock. His life is dated to around 938-1006.

4) Sweyn the Sacrificer: Also known as Sacrifice-Sweyn or Blot-Sweyn, he was an 11th-century Swede who resisted King Inge the Elder’s attempts to enforce Christianity in Sweden. He was apparently given his nickname, “the sacrificer,” because of his outspoken support for the traditional pagan sacrifices of the Norse religion. Sweyn the Sacrificer made appearances in sources such as the Heimskringla of Snorri Sturluson and the Orkneyinga saga. He reportedly put up a good fight against King Inge of Sweden, but Sweyn was ultimately assassinated.

5) Hallbjorn Slickstone-eye: Hallbjorn was a Hebridean who immigrated to Iceland in the 10th century with his parents and brother. According to the Laxdæla saga, his family settled in Skalmarfjord but were unwelcome and faced discrimination by the locals. Accused of theft and sorcery, Hallbjorn’s family fled to Kambsnes, Iceland. Yet, when a young boy died unexpectedly in the region, Hallbjorn’s family was accused of killing the child with witchcraft. In the ensuing witch-hunt, Hallbjorn Slickstone-eye’s entire family was subsequently hunted down and murdered. For a more lengthy account of this tragic story, read our article, HERE.

6) Svein Breast-Rope: According to the Orkneyinga saga, Svein Breast-Rope was a follower of Jarl Paul the Silent of Orkney (d. 1137). Svein had a rude and argumentative reputation and was not a popular man. He apparently became more competitive, jealous and belligerent as he drank. As could be expected, Svein Breast-Rope was eventually killed in a drunken brawl. Sadly, no one mourned his death—not even the local bishop.

7) Harald Graycloak: Harald Graycloak, also known as King Harald II, became the ruler of Norway in 961, following the death of his uncle, King Hákon the Good. Harald’s memorable name reportedly originated from a lordly gray sheepskin cloak that he often wore (check out our article on this cloak, HERE). Both Harald and his late uncle, Hákon, were reportedly Christian, but whereas Hákon took a minimalist approach to religion, Harald put more effort into converting Norway. His attempts to convert the population (as well as assassinations of prominent pagan chieftains) led to massive revolts against his rule. Harald Graycloak was eventually killed around 970 while in Denmark. After Harald’s death, the pagan Jarl Hákon Sigurdsson dominated Norway until 995.

8) Thord Dragon-Jaw: Thord appeared in a section of the Orkneyinga saga that described postmortem miracles attributed to Saint Magnus (d. 1117). A hard-working but irreligious man, Thord Dragon-Jaw made the fateful decision to thresh barley late into the night on the eve of St. Magnus’ Mass. According to the story, the spirit of St. Magnus did not approve of Thord’s conduct and struck the man with a good dose of holy insanity. For over six days, Thord Dragon-Jaw was consumed with madness. His condition was said to have only improved after a vigil was held and money was donated to the shrine of St. Magnus on Thord’s behalf. For more information on St. Magnus and his supernatural exploits, read our article, HERE.

9) Harald Smooth-Tongue: Harald Smooth-Tongue was a 12th-century jarl of Orkney. He shared power with his brother, Jarl Paul the Silent. He died a mysterious death and many believed foul play was involved. The Orkneyinga saga claimed that Harald Smooth-Tongue put on a poisoned garment and died in agony from whatever had been applied to the cloth.

10) An Twig-belly: According to the Laxdæla saga, a man named An the Black lived in Iceland around the turn of the 11th century. He was a devoted companion of Olaf Peacock’s sons and apparently had a gift for foreseeing trouble. In 1003, during a tense Icelandic feud, An the Black reportedly had a nightmare in which someone had gutted him and replaced his entrails with twigs. When he told his friends about the dream, they laughed it off and jovially threatened to give him a nickname based on the nightmare. Yet, people looked on the nightmare differently when An the Black and his friend, Kjartan Olafsson, were soon after ambushed on the road. Kjartan was killed and An was virtually disemboweled during the fight. Although Kjartan died, An miraculously recovered from his wounds. From then on, he was said to have been called An Twig-belly. He reportedly was killed in 1007, while trying to avenge Kjartan’s death.

Written by C. Keith Hansley.

Picture Attribution: (Depiction of Norse explorers from a book by Thomas Bailey Aldrich (1836-1907), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons).

Sources:

  • Heimskringla, by Snorri Sturluson and translated by Lee Hollander. Austin: University of Texas Press, 1964, 2018.
  • Orkneyinga Saga, written anonymously approximately c. 1200, translated by Hermann Pálsson and Paul Edwards. New York: Penguin Classics, 1981.
  • Laxdæla saga by an unknown 13th century Icelander, translated by Keneva Kunz. New York: Penguin Classics, 2008.

The Disturbing Myth Of The Horatii And The Curiatii

By
thehistorianshut
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According to tradition, the kingdom of Rome began in the mid-8th century BCE. Despite its centuries of existence, Greek scholars did not start taking serious interest in Rome until the 4th and especially the 3rd century BCE, by which time Rome had become the undisputed dominant power in Italy and began clashing with its Mediterranean rival, Carthage. The Romans, themselves, apparently never produced a historian until around 200 BCE, around which time Senator Quintus Fabius Pictor began writing the first official native Roman historical works. Unfortunately, by the time Pictor began writing, much of Rome’s written records were likely destroyed in the Gallic sack of Rome in the early 4th century BCE, and the surviving oral history about Rome’s founding would have been incredibly corrupted after untold generations of retellings. Therefore, when a Roman scholar such as Livy (c. 59 BCE-17 CE) set out to tell the story of the founding of Rome, he had to work with dubious documentation, such as historic names without historical context, and folkloric tales that were often adapted to the structure of preexistent stories of Greek mythology.

The tragic and disturbing tale of the Horatii and the Curiatii is one of the myths that Rome created as an explanation as to how Rome expanded its influence over the nearby community of Alba Longa. Historically, Alba Longa is believed to have been in existence well before 1,000 BCE and was a powerful city in Italy until the 7th century BCE, when it was presumably challenged by Rome and ultimately destroyed around 600 BCE. While we will never know specific details of the conflict between Rome and Alba Longa, writers such as Livy preserved the conflict, albeit in a dramatic and embellished fashion, within their works on the folklore of early Rome.

In his History of Rome, Livy alleged that the war between Rome and Alba Longa began because of a cattle dispute. As the story goes, both cities were stealing the livestock of the other and neither side wanted to return the stolen property. War was eventually declared to settle the issue, but before battle commenced, the leaders of the cities agreed to an odd solution—the war would be settled with a duel between chosen champions of each city. Oddly enough, both Rome and Alba Longa chose as their champions trios of triplet brothers—the Horatiii and the Curiatii. According to Livy, there was some debate as to which set of brother belonged to which city, but most accounts of the tale placed the Horatii in the Roman camp.

The match-up between the Horatii and the Curiatii was unfortunate, for the Roman triplets were all set to be brothers-in-law of one of the Alban triplets, as a sister of the Roman Horatii had been recently engaged to marry one of the Curiatii brothers. Nevertheless, one of the themes of Livy’s tale was that the city is more important than love and family, so, naturally, the Horatii and Curiatii all agreed to fight to the death on behalf of their homelands. The soon-to-be-married brother from Alba Longa, however, did not shed all his emotion—when he arrived for the duel, he was proudly wearing a cloak that had been lovingly made for him by his betrothed. The six warriors entered a list, or arena, set up by the two armies, and the duel began to the sounds of trumpets and cheers.

Livy painted the scene of the duel with great attention to drama. To the horror of the Romans, their Horatii triplets fought terribly. The Roman brothers fell in quick succession until only one, Publius Horatius, was left alone to face all three Curiatii siblings. Staring down the three warriors, Horatius could think of only one strategy—to run. The Romans looked on with dismay as the three Alban warriors chased the lone champion from Rome around the arena. Yet, Horatius was sprinting around the battlefield for a reason. As the Alban champions were chasing their prey, they fell into a single-file line. Seeing an opportunity, Horatius suddenly stopped and began his attack. Using good footwork and well-placed blows, the lone Roman sliced through his three pursuers, dropping one after the other as they raced toward him individually. The Romans cheered as Horatius killed the first Curiatii and then the second. For his final opponent, Publius Horatius faced the man who would have been his brother-in-law if war had been avoided. Showing no mercy, the Roman killed his foe and even looted from his body the cloak that was handmade by Horatius’ sister.

With the duel over, the Albans were said to have made momentary peace with Rome. Noncombatants waiting with anticipation in Rome for news of the duel could see the Roman army celebrating on the road as it returned home. At the forefront of the Roman troops was Publius Horatius, proudly wearing the plundered bloodstained cloak that had been made by his sister. While the population of Rome cheered for the army’s valiant return, one woman at the Capena gate could only cry.

According to Livy, the betrothal between Horatius’ sister and the slain Curiatii warrior was not a coldly arranged marriage for politics or wealth, but actually a union of genuine love and affection. Therefore, when the sister saw her brother wearing the bloodied cloak that she had given to her beloved, she could not suppress her grief and bawled for all of Rome to hear. Publius Horatius, enjoying all of the cheers and praise, soon heard someone killing the triumphal mood with wails and sobs. The sound of someone not appreciating his victory annoyed him and his anger did not abate even after discovering it was his own sister who was crying.

At this point, the tale takes an incredibly dark turn. Instead of consoling his distraught sister, Horatius did the unthinkable. He grabbed a sword, angrily marched over to his sobbing sibling and plunged the blade deep into her chest, piercing her heart. As she bled to death, Horatius growled abuse over his sister’s body: “’Take your girl’s love,’ he shouted, ‘and give it to your lover in hell. What is Rome to such as you, or your brothers, living or dead? So perish all Roman women who mourn for an enemy!’” (History of Rome, Book I, section 26).

To Rome’s credit, the myth states that the Romans immediately arrested Horatius and put him on trial for murder. Yet, the murdered sister was not given justice by the court. The Roman populace cried out for Horatius to be spared, and even the father of the Horatii (who had lost two sons and one daughter that day) spoke in defense of his son. The only way for the father to save his last living child was to besmear the memory of his own daughter. Livy wrote, “In the course of the hearing the decisive factor was the statement of Horatius’ father, to the effect that his daughter deserved her death” (History of Rome, Book I, section 26). With such pleas on his behalf, Horatius was said to have been acquitted with almost no punishment. Livy traced the origin of a mysterious wooden gateway, the Tigillum Sororium (Sister’s Beam), to this myth. He alleged that members of Horatius’ family had to regularly pass under the Sister’s Beam gate as a sort of penance for the murder.

Ironically, the Curiatii triplets, the two Horatii brothers and their tragically slain sister all died for nothing. According to the tale, the Albans resumed their hostilities against Rome after the duel. In response, Rome once again went to war and this time destroyed the city of Alba Longa. In the end, their deaths only served to convey the theme that the city of Rome was more important than individual Romans, the bonds of family and the cherished emotion of love.

Written by C. Keith Hansley.

Picture Attribution: (Painting depicting the myth of the Horatii and the Curiatii, by Giuseppe Cesari (1568–1640), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons).

Sources:

The Tale of Gonzalo Guerrero, The Conquistador Adopted Into Mayan Society

By
thehistorianshut
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In March 1517, the expedition of Francisco Hernandez de Cordoba reached the native Yucatan town of Campeche. What happened there was a surreal experience for the Spaniards—only days earlier the conquistadors had suffered thirteen casualties from an ambush, yet at Campeche, the natives peacefully invited the Spaniards to take a tour of the town. Bernal Díaz del Castillo was one of approximately one hundred explorers who walked into the town that day, and he would later write about his experiences in his text, The Conquest of New Spain. According to his account, the priestly leaders of Campeche set up large pyres and then explained through gestures that the Spaniards had safe passage in town until the fires burned out. With the pyres lit, the Conquistadors spent some time admiring the local fashion, architecture and culture before hurrying out of the town as soon as the fires began to die down. After they left, the conquistadors reflected on their experiences in the town and many of them thought they heard the natives use several Spanish words and labels. Bernal Díaz, himself, remembered the locals of Campeche asking if he was “Castilan,” which he thought was a reference to the Spanish region of Castile or the former Castilian kingdom in Spain (The Conquest of New Spain, chapter 3). The possible use of the Spanish language by the locals in Campeche was odd, as the expedition of 1517 was the first official Spanish incursion into the Yucatan Peninsula.

In 1519, Hernán Cortés became the leader of a new expedition with eleven ships and over 500 conquistadors. By then, the Spaniards had formulated some theories as to how fragments of the Spanish language had disseminated through the Yucatan. Bernal Díaz del Castillo was once again present on the voyage and he later recorded the thoughts of the Conquistadors. Hernán Cortés was apparently convinced that there were Spaniard captives in the Yucatan Peninsula from whom the natives were learning some Spanish words. It was not a far-fetched assumption—Bernal Díaz had personally seen two of his comrades be captured alive by natives during the earlier expedition of 1517.

The theory of Spanish captives was still on Cortés’ mind when he reached the island of Cozumel, located near the northeastern tip of the Yucatan Peninsula. By that time, the Conquistadors had hired translators, and Cortés specifically tasked his translator to ask the natives of Cozumel about the existence of any Spaniards living in the Yucatan. The population of Cozumel, reportedly an important religious and commercial hub, indeed did know of some captives on the mainland. When he learned of this, Cortés hired some locals and sent them on a mission to the peninsula with beads and other trinkets with which to ransom the captive Spaniards.

After around twelve days had passed, a large canoe appeared at Cozumel. Seven people disembarked from the canoe, and the Conquistadors, after some double-takes and closer inspections, realized that one of the seven new arrivals was Spanish. Bernal Díaz described the man’s state: “He wore a very ragged old cloak, and a tattered loincloth to cover his private parts; and in his cloak was tied an object which proved to be a very old prayer-book” (The Conquest of New Spain, chapter 29). Upon reaching the Conquistadors, the man loudly exclaimed in Spanish a prayer to God and “the blessed Mary of Seville,” which convinced Cortés and the explorers that the man was truly a Spaniard.

After giving the man new clothes, Hernán Cortés debriefed him for information. The man claimed that he was a priest named Jeronimo de Aguilar and that, in 1511, his ship had run aground on a sandbar or shallow water somewhere between the colony of Darién, Panama, and Hispaniola. Aguilar stated that he and seventeen other people on the shipwrecked vessel loaded themselves into a rowboat and attempted to paddle to Cuba or Jamaica. Yet, storms and strong currents forced the small boat to a Yucatan beach, where a local Mayan chieftain captured the stranded Spaniards. Most of the captives reportedly suffered horrible fates. Some were said to have been killed in ritual sacrifice, and others were worked to death as laborers. Yet, Aguilar and other survivors eventually escaped and found shelter in more lenient Mayan communities.

By 1519, only two of the original eighteen captives were still alive—Jeronimo de Aguilar and another man by the name of Gonzalo Guerrero. The two apparently kept in close contact, for when Hernán Cortés’ ransom payment was brought to the Mayan town where Aguilar was staying, the now-free priest decided to personally bring the rest of the ransom to where Gonzalo Guerrero was living. Interestingly, Guerrero reportedly refused to accept the ransom and decided to stay behind in the Yucatan Peninsula with his adopted community. Therefore, when Jeronimo de Aguilar arrived in Cozumel to meet Hernán Cortes, he arrived alone.

Unfortunately, no written autobiography of Gonzalo Guerrero was ever found, and even Jeronimo de Aguilar never took the time to write down his own life story. Therefore, the account of Aguilar’s debriefing as recorded by Bernal Díaz del Castillo, who would have met the newly freed Aguilar in person on the island of Cozumel, may be the closest thing to a first-hand account of Guerrero’s supposed life among the Maya.

Bernal Díaz recorded what Aguilar reported about the other surviving captive: “When questioned about Gonzalo Guerrero, he said that he was married and had three children, that he was tattooed, and that his ears and lower lip were pierced, that he was a seaman and a native of Palos, and that the Indians considered him very brave” (The Conquest of New Spain, chapter 29). Aguilar elaborated that Guerrero’s wife was the daughter of a prominent native and that Guerrero’s tattoos and piercings were done as an act of assimilation. In addition, Gonzalo Guerrero reportedly had started teaching his adopted town new tactics and strategies for warfare, eventually going as far as acting as a general for his community in military campaigns. Aguilar claimed that Guerrero had personally told him, “they look on me as a Cacique [military chief] here, and a captain in time of war” (The Conquest of New Spain, chapter 27). Whether or not the debriefing was accurate, the Spanish perception of Gonzalo Guerrero was formulated solely from Jeronimo de Aguilar’s testimony—no other Spaniards spoke to Guerrero while he was alive.

The legend of Gonzalo Guerrero skyrocketed in 1526 or 1527, when two Spanish leaders, both named Francisco de Montejo (senior and junior), began a campaign of conquest against the Yucatan Peninsula. The Spaniards were shocked to find that the Mayans were mounting a stout and powerful resistance. Instead of a quick conquest, the campaign against the Yucatan Peninsula would last for around two frustrating decades.

Many Spaniards could not reconcile the stark difference between the speedy collapse of the Aztecs in Mexico versus the dogged resistance of the Mayan communities in the Yucatan. Unable to bring themselves to attribute the strength of the native Yucatan war effort to anything homegrown, a great deal of Spaniards became convinced that all of their problems in the Yucatan theatre of war stemmed from none other than Gonzalo Guerrero. This belief that Guerrero was a leading figure in the Yucatan resistance became even more solidified in the 1530s, when Conquistadors began making reports of enemy corpses that seemed to have Spanish physiological features. By the time the Spanish conquest of the Yucatan was completed around 1546, Gonzalo Guerrero had become a legend regardless of his role in the native resistance.

Written by C. Keith Hansley.

Picture Attribution: (Gonzalo Guerrero statue in front of a relief of captives presented to a Maya Ruler; c. A.D. 785; Mexico, Usumacinta River Valley, Maya culture; both [Public Domain] via Creative Commons).

Sources:

The Great Athenian Baiting Of Syracuse

By
thehistorianshut
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In 415 BCE, a fleet of over 130 Athenian and allied trireme ships, accompanied by more than a hundred supply boats, reached the eastern shores of Sicily on the pretext of combating the potential threat posed by Syracuse. While most Sicilian communities on that stretch of coastline wanted nothing to do with the Athenian expedition, the cities of Naxos and Catana allowed the foreigners into their walls, albeit the latter city took some coercion. After expelling the minority pro-Syracusan party in Catana, the Athenians built their camp there, reportedly housing more than 7,000 hoplites, skirmishers and some cavalry in or around the premises.

At least one prominent member of the pro-Syracusan party managed to stay behind in Catana. The unnamed man began taking notes about the Athenian forces, such as repetitious schedules, the locations of armories and even the positioning of their sleeping quarters. After memorizing such details, the man departed from Catana and rushed to Syracuse. As the refugee was a well-known member of the downfallen pro-Syracusan party in Catana, the contacts that he had in Syracuse vouched for his loyalty, and the military leaders of the city took his words with all seriousness. Once allowed to speak, he vividly described to the Syracusans the layout of the Athenian camp, as well as their daily routine. He claimed that the camp became especially lazy at night and that the Athenian warriors would leave their weapons outside the city walls while they slept without their armor in makeshift barracks within Catana. In addition to this, the informant also swore that there was still a spirited pro-Syracuse core of the population in Catana that would betray the Athenians if given a chance.

After being told these details, the military of Syracuse fell into a bloodlust. They assumed that a night attack, or an assault at dawn, would result in the Athenians being cut off from their weaponry and ships. If the foreigners were caught unprepared, the enemy ships and weapons outside the walls could easily be torched and then the unarmed Athenians in their stockades would not be able to avoid being slaughtered by a Syracusan assault. Thinking it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, the Syracusans mobilized virtually their entire army, and, with any allied forces they had on hand, they began marching overland toward Catana.

It was a fairly slow march for the warriors of Syracuse, but their cavalry was out ahead scouting the region. When the mounted warriors reached Catana, they discovered a horrible sight—there was no sign of life in the Athenian camp at Catana. All of the foreigners were gone and the large Athenian fleet was nowhere to be seen. Taking in this unsettling information, the scouts rushed back to their army to relay the news. When the generals of Syracuse were briefed on the scene at Catana, they immediately turned the army around and began a forced march home to Syracuse.

Unfortunately for the leaders of Syracuse, they had not questioned how the informant from Catana had survived the Athenian purge of dissidents and they similarly did not investigate his supposed escape from the tight Athenian occupation of the city. Furthermore, they had not devoted enough time to discovering if his information about the Athenians in Catana was credible. It was a costly mistake—according to the Athenian general and historian, Thucydides (c. 460-400), the informant from Catana had defected to the Athenian side and had been sent to Syracuse by the leaders of the Athenian expedition specifically to sow disinformation.

Although Syracuse had hoped to catch the foreigners in a trap, it was the Syracusans who had fallen victim to a ploy. While the entire army of Syracuse set out on a long march to Catana, the Athenians were simultaneously sailing their whole force to the now defenseless Syracusan homeland. By the time the forces of Syracuse realized that they had been duped, they had already marched a great distance away from their city and it would take time for them to rush home.

Luckily for the Syracusans, the defenses of their city were intimidating even without a full garrison manning the walls. When the Athenians and their allies disembarked outside of Syracuse, they decided to not assault the city but instead focused on choosing a defensible location and devoted themselves to building camp fortifications. It took so long for the Syracusan army to return home that the Athenians were given enough time to demolish a bridge, build a stockade around their ships and construct a makeshift stone fort. Moreover, this was all constructed on land specifically chosen to counteract Syracuse’s vast cavalry superiority.

When the army of Syracuse finally arrived, they besieged the Athenian camp, but did not attack on the first day. On the second day, however, both sides prepared for battle. According to Thucydides, the commanding general in charge of the Athenian forces for the battle was Nicias. Even though the Athenians had spent a lot of time fortifying their position, Nicias apparently decided to make the first move. Perhaps the Syracusans had been lured into unfavorable ground, but Nicias reportedly marched his men forward to ignite a pitched battle.

Despite all of the drama, buildup and pre-battle maneuvering, the actual armed clash outside of the city of Syracuse did not last long. According to Thucydides, the battle was initially a stalemate, but as the men began to fatigue, the experience that the Athenians and their allies had picked up during the Peloponnesian War (begun in 431) began to sway the battle in their favor. After a while, the Syracusan infantry lines began to give way under pressure, and they became so disjointed that the army of Syracuse was ultimately split in half. After the Syracusan line was broken, it did not take long for the spirit of the army to break completely. With the forces of Syracuse fleeing for the safety of their walls, the Athenians were victorious.

Fortunately for Syracuse, the battle was more of a psychological defeat than a physical massacre. According to Thucydides, the Syracusan cavalry survived the battle virtually unscathed and they provided cover and support while the rest of the army fled to the city. As a result, even though the army of Syracuse had been routed, there were only 260 reported lives lost on the Syracusan side of the battle. Interestingly, the Athenians were content with the damage they had done in the battle and decided not to do anything else against Syracuse for the time being. Instead, the Athenian warriors returned to their fleet and sailed back to Catana for the winter.

As for the battle’s blow on the morale of the Syracusans, the city took the defeat as a teaching moment and strove to take the war more seriously. In response to the battle, a council of three generals reportedly took control in Syracuse to whip their city into shape militarily and diplomatically for the war to come.

Written by C. Keith Hansley.

Picture Attribution: (a trireme from a panel of the Temple of Isis, Pompeii; Naples Archaeological Museum, Italy, [Public Domain] via Creative Commons).

Sources:

  • History of the Peloponnesian War (Book IV) by Thucydides, translated by Rex Warner and introduced by M. I. Finley. New York: Penguin Classics, 1972.

The Deadly Ghost Story Of Killer-Hrapp

By
thehistorianshut
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According to Icelandic folklore, a belligerent and bullying farmer named Hrapp immigrated to Iceland from the Hebrides sometime in the 10th century. He built a farmstead called Hrappsstadir, which was adjacent to lands owned by the leading settlers of the Laxardal region in Iceland. As portrayed in the Laxdæla saga, which was centered on that region of Iceland, Hrapp and the dominant chieftain of the region, Hoskuld, jostled for power and influence in their community. Hrapp never surpassed Hoskuld in importance, yet the stubborn farmer maintained a fierce reputation in Laxardal until the day he died. He came to be known as Killer-Hrapp, but whether he gained this name before or after he died is unclear. Whatever the case, the legend of Killer-Hrapp only continued to grow after his death.

According to the saga, Hrapp died in the mid 10th century, either during the reign of King Hákon the Good of Norway (r. 946-961) or Harald II Graycloak (r. 961-970). Hrapp left his wife strict instructions for how he wanted to be buried—his wish was for his body to be laid to rest in an upright position underneath the threshold of the kitchen. The request was not unique; similar burials were made in at least three other sagas, including Hen-Thorir’s Saga, Saga of People of Svarfadardal, and the Saga of the People of Vatnsdal. Such a burial was thought to allow the spirit of the deceased to guard over the homestead and the people that were left behind.

Hrapp’s dutiful wife carried out her late husband’s wishes and buried him exactly as he had asked. According to the saga, the ritual was a success and the spirit of the deceased landowner became anchored to the farmstead. Yet, if the people of Hrappsstadir thought that the spirit would be a benevolent guardian, they were quickly and brutally shown just how wrong their assumption had been. In fact, the bullying and malicious nature of Killer-Hrapp was only amplified after his death. As the saga put it, “if it had been difficult to deal with him when he was alive, he was much worse dead, for he haunted the area relentlessly” (Laxdæla saga, chapter 17).

Life at Hrappsstadir quickly became a nightmare. It did not take long for Killer-Hrapp to live up to his name. He haunted and frightened the whole region, but he seemed to have a special hate for his farm staff. On Hrapp’s dogged targeting of this unfortunate group of people, the Laxdæla saga reported, “It is said that in his hauntings he killed most of his servants” (chapter 17). The brutal haunting eventually caused the whole population of Hrappsstadir, including Hrapp’s widow and son, to flee from the farmstead, and the region became an abandoned ghost town.

The hauntings of Killer-Hrapp began to worry other regions of Laxardal, so the farmers petitioned the chieftain Hoskuld to do something about the deadly ghost. In response to his people’s pleas, Hoskuld gathered his courage and traveled to Hrappsstadir. There, he exhumed the body of Hrapp from underneath the farmstead’s kitchen and then had the remains reburied far away in a forest. To everyone’s relief, the relocation of the body drastically reduced the number of reported hauntings in Laxardal. Yet, although Killer-Hrapp’s supernatural influence over Hrappsstadir and Laxardal had been diluted by the exhumation of his body, the ghost found more subtle means to sow mayhem in the region.

After Hoskuld had restored a semblance of order to Hrappsstadir, Killer-Hrapp’s son, Sumarlidi, returned to the property and tried to revive the farm. Not long after the young man went home, however, he was said to have become delirious and suddenly died. The people of Laxardal quickly attributed the death to the malicious spirit of Hrapp and the farmstead once again was abandoned. Sumarlidi’s mother inherited the estate after her son’s death, but she vowed to never return to that cursed land. Her apprehension about the estate, however, was not shared by her brother, the brave Thorstein Surt. Disregarding the ghost stories, Thorstein Surt packed his belongings onto a ship and set sail with eleven companions for Hrappsstadir, where he intended to bring the farm back to prominence. Unfortunately, Thorstein Surt’s dream was not realized—his ship sank in the final stretch of the trip and ten out of the eleven passengers onboard drowned, including Thorstein Surt. Next to inherit the cursed property was Thorstein’s daughter Gudrid, and her husband, Thorkel Scarf. The couple, however, pointedly left Hrappsstadir abandoned.

To the northeast of Hrappsstadir lived Olaf Peacock, so named because of his prideful demeanor and his ever-gilded fashion sense that applied to clothing and weaponry, alike. Olaf wanted to expand into Hrappsstadir and build a new farmstead on the deserted land. As a result of the hauntings and suspicious deaths connected to the region, Thorkel Skarf gladly sold the land for a measly three marks of silver. After acquiring the land, Olaf Peacock constructed the farm of Hjardarholt in a location just a short distance from Hrapp’s original farmstead.

Hjardarholt thrived, but farmhands began to report unnerving supernatural events. The epicenter of the hauntings seemed to be the cowshed for non-milking cattle, a structure located in a forested section of Olaf’s new property. The ghostly presence there was so bad that the cowherd threatened to leave if he was not transferred to another task. Instead of reassigning the man, Olaf Peacock accompanied the cowherd to the shed to help manage the cattle. While the two were working, the ghost of Killer-Hrapp appeared in the cowshed. In a comedic scene from the saga, the cowherd saw the ghost first and “suddenly came running back into Olaf’s arms” in freight (Laxdæla saga, chapter 24). After wrenching himself free of the cowherd, Olaf Peacock heroically rushed at the ghost and stabbed at the spirit with a spear (gold-inlaid, of course). The spear did not harm the ghost, but the spectral Killer-Hrapp had enough supernatural power to snap off the weapon’s gilded spearhead before spookily sinking into the ground, taking the spear with him.

Olaf Peacock interpreted Killer-Hrapp’s disappearance into the earth as evidence that the ghost’s body was located underground in that very spot. The next morning, Olaf and his farmhands grabbed their spades and excavated the earth around the cowshed. They eventually discovered Killer-Hrapp’s restless body, which was reportedly still clinging to Olaf’s lost spearhead with the inlaid gold. After the body was exhumed for a second time, the remains were burned and then the ashes were dumped into the sea. With this, Killer-Hrapp’s reign of terror finally ended.

Written by C. Keith Hansley.

Picture Attribution: (Scene of Gudrun and the ghost by Andreas Bloch (1860–1917), based on a passage from the Laxdæla saga, [Public Domain] via Creative Commons).

Sources:

  • The Saga of the People of Laxardal and Bolli Bollason’s Tale, by an anonymous 13th-century Icelander and translated by Keneva Kunz. New York: Penguin Classics, 2008.

The Costly Battle of Champoton

By
thehistorianshut
-

 

In early 1517, over one hundred Spaniards on three ships set out from Cuba to explore the Yucatan Peninsula. The expedition, led by Francisco Hernandez de Cordoba, was met with mixed receptions whenever it made landfall. In some regions, the natives attempted to ambush the explorers when they came ashore. Yet, in other locations, locals received the conquistadors in peace, allowing the foreigners to tour their communities for a limited amount of time while under supervision. All in all, the expedition must have seemed lackluster—they had suffered casualties in the ambush and had found very little gold. Nevertheless, they were still making progress, if only in mapping the shores of the Yucatan Peninsula and learning about the local population.

Around early April, 1517, the Spaniards had traveled a fair distance down the western shore of the Yucatan Peninsula. In a fateful decision, the explorers decided to anchor their ships and paddle their rowboats to shore in order to gather water from some freshwater pools that they could see further inland. There were approximately one hundred conquistadors that were healthy in the expedition at the time, and all of them went ashore with their weapons. When they reached the freshwater pools, they saw signs of life—there were some small buildings nearby, and enough corn was planted there to make the Spaniards believe it was a local plantation.

Before the Spaniards could gather their water and leave, an army of natives arrived from a nearby city that the Spaniards later identified as Champoton. The approaching masses were armed for war, carrying bows, spears, slings and shields. Many of the native warriors also were described as wearing cloth armor and had their faces painted in red, white and black. Even though the two groups were armed and mistrustful, peace was maintained. Neither side had a translator, so they communicated as best they could through hand signals. The awkward attempt at sign language continued until night began to fall. As the sky darkened, the natives started heading back to Champoton. In an unwise move, the Spaniards decided not to return to their ships, but to instead camp by the beach.

When the dark of night arrived, it did not take long for the conquistadors to realize something was wrong. Rustling and voices reverberated from every direction around the Spanish camp. Although no native archers or slingers launched any projectiles into the camp during the night, the Spaniards soon came to believe that hostile and armed forces were amassing outside.

Bernal Díaz del Castillo, a conquistador and historian, was present in that camp and later wrote about his experiences. The Spaniards in the camp were in disagreement about what to do. Some wanted to launch an attack that very night against the forces they could hear rustling in the dark. Others wanted to flee to the boats immediately. In the end, however, the conquistadors just held their ground and waited until morning. When light returned, the Spaniards discovered that what they had been imagining in the dark of night was all true. During the night, several nearby towns and cities had sent warbands to besiege the conquistadors. Thinking back on the situation, Bernal Díaz felt that he and his companions were “outnumbered by two hundred to one” (The Conquest of New Spain, Chapter IV). The Spaniards were surrounded and it did not take long for the battle to commence.

According to the account by Bernal Díaz, it was the besieging native army that made the first move. After arranging themselves around the outside of the camp, the besiegers loosed a vicious barrage of projectiles with their bowmen and slingers. Bernal Díaz vividly wrote, “they assailed us with such a shower of arrows and darts and stones from their slings that more than eighty of our soldiers were wounded” (The Conquest of New Spain, Chapter IV). After the opening volley, native infantry charged forward against the camp while the archers provided support. By now, the conquistadors still standing were returning fire with their muskets and crossbows, yet they could not stop the momentum of the oncoming wave. When the charging native warriors reached the threshold of the camp, the Spaniards fought back with their swords. After a brief melee, however, the native infantry apparently became frustrated by the Spanish armor and weaponry and they decided to withdraw back to their original position with their archers.

Although they had won the melee, the Spaniards were far from winning the battle. In fact, they were on the verge of destruction. In assessing the state of the conquistadors after facing the opening barrage and the infantry charge, Bernal Díaz wrote, “All our soldiers had received two or three arrow wounds, three of them had their throats pierced by lance-thrusts, and our captain was bleeding from many wounds” (The Conquest of New Spain, Chapter IV). With many Spaniards dead and all other survivors wounded, the conquistadors decided their only option left was to flee for the rowboats. After packing tightly together, the ragged force pressed their way through the besieging natives and did not stop running until they reached their boats. With the enemy on their trail, the Spaniards did not take time to consider weight distribution and consequentially their rowboats began to take on water. Luckily, the vessels did not completely sink and the damp conquistadors eventually reached their ships.

The battle was reportedly only about an hour in length after the opening volley. Yet, although short in duration, it was incredibly costly in lives. According to Bernal Díaz, over fifty-five of the approximately one hundred men at the camp died of wounds sustained in the battle. Upon returning to the ships, the injured conquistadores immediately decided to return to Cuba. The captain of the expedition, Francisco Hernandez, was said to have suffered ten arrow wounds, but he lived long enough to lead his ships home. Tragically, he died of his wounds soon after successfully anchoring in Cuba.

Written by C. Keith Hansley.

Picture Attribution: (17th-century depiction of the entrance of Hernan Cortés into the city of Tabasco, [Public Domain] via Creative Commons).

Sources:

A Small Dog Reportedly Led To The Death Of Jarl Rognvald Brusason Of Orkney

By
thehistorianshut
-

 

In the year 1030, Rognvald Brusason, son of Jarl Brusi of Orkney, fought on the side of King Olaf II of Norway (Saint Olaf) at the Battle of Stiklestad. Rognvald had first joined Olaf’s retinue as a political hostage, meant to keep his father in line, but he grew to become a well-respected and trusted member of the king’s court. Unfortunately, Saint Olaf was killed during the battle, but Rognvald was credited with saving the slain king’s half-brother, a fifteen-year-old future king who would come to be known as Harald the Ruthless. Rognvald, Harald and other supporters of the late Saint Olaf fled to the lands of the Kievan Rus. Harald went on to join the Varangian Guard in service to the emperors of Constantinople, while Rognvald became a respected mercenary working under the kings of Kiev. Magnus, a son of Saint Olaf, was also present with the Rus. When Magnus “the Good” was invited back to Norway to become king in 1035, Rognvald Brusason followed him back to the kingdom and became a close acquaintance of the king.

While staying in Kiev or upon his return to Norway, Rognvald discovered that his father, Brusi, had died and that Rognvald’s uncle, Jarl Thorfinn, had claimed Brusi’s land for himself. According to the Orkneyinga Saga, the Jarls of Orkney not only ruled their title’s namesake, but also administered Shetland and Caithness. Jarl Thorfinn was also reportedly expanding his influence into the Hebrides at that time. Once King Magnus was firmly back in control of Norway, Rognvald brought up the topic of Orkney and asked the king to help him claim his inheritance from Jarl Thorfinn. King Magnus agreed to help, naming Rognvald as a jarl of Orkney, as well giving him a small fleet of three ships.

Inheritance and division of rule had long been a tense issue in the jarldom of Orkney. During the reign of Saint Olaf, the jarldom had been divided into thirds. According to the Orkneyinga Saga, Jarl Brusi (Rognvald’s father) ruled one-third of the jarldom, Jarl Thorfinn ruled another third, and the last third belonged to the Norwegian crown. The kings of Norway, however, gave their own third to the jarl of their choice, making that chosen jarl of Orkney dominant in the region. Saint Olaf reportedly chose Jarl Brusi as his governor of the royal third in Orkney, yet Jarl Thorfinn was given control of the royal third when King Canute sent Saint Olaf into exile in 1028. In keeping with the tradition of Norwegian kings giving control of their third of Orkney to their favorite jarl, King Magnus sent Rognvald not only with the authority to claim his father’s land, but appointed him as administrator of the royal third, as well.

Jarl Thorfinn was oddly calm about his nephew claiming two-thirds of the jarldom—the bitter news was made sweeter by the realization that Caithness and the land he was conquering in the Hebrides would remain in his sole possession. Therefore, Jarl Thorfinn allowed Rognvald to take possession of two-thirds of Orkney and Shetland without a fight. He only asked that Jarl Rognvald send reinforcements to help in the conquest of the Hebrides. After reaching their agreement, the two jarls of Orkney were able to coexist for nearly a decade.

According to the Orkneyinga Saga, a powerful Norwegian chieftain called Kalf Arnason fled from King Magnus and found shelter with Jarl Thorfinn around the time that King Hardecanute ruled England (r. 1040-1042). The arrival of Kalf, who had with him a modest fleet of six large ships, apparently made Jarl Thorfinn rethink the distribution of power in Orkney. Thorfinn sent a messenger to his nephew, demanding control of the royal third of the islands. When Rognvald received the message and heard that his uncle was mustering forces in Scotland and the Hebrides to enforce his demands, he decided to flee back to Norway in order to ask for help.

King Magnus agreed to aid his favored jarl and gave Rognvald a fleet of large ships. The king also handed him a pardon to give to Kalf Arnason, which stated that Kalf’s estates in Norway would be restored to him if he supported Rognvald’s claims in Orkney. With the king’s backing, Rognvald sailed to Shetland, where he recruited more troops, and then finally returned to Orkney. Upon the jarl’s return, King Magnus’ letter was sent to Kalf Arnason and Rognvald received a reply that Kalf had accepted the offer. Emboldened by the news, Rognvald set sail toward Scotland with a reported fleet of thirty large ships and an unknown amount of smaller supporting vessels. Kalf Arnason accompanied him with six sizable ships of his own.

Before Rognvald could reach Scotland, he was intercepted by his uncle. According to the Orkneyinga Saga, Jarl Thorfinn had raised a formidable fleet of sixty ships, although they were smaller than the ones provided to Rognvald by King Magnus. The two seaborne forces met near Roberry, in southern Orkney, and almost immediately a battle erupted. Rognvald’s large ships were said to have been very effective against the smaller ones possessed by Thorfinn, yet the old jarl’s ships had an advantage of their own—Thorfinn’s smaller ships could easily be pulled to shore to escape danger and then just as easily be pushed back to sea.

The battle initially favored Rognvald. He even forced Thorfinn’s flagship to retreat to the beach. Yet, something was amiss—Kalf Arnason’s forces were loitering and had not committed to the battle. After Rognvald’s fleet had been lured toward shore, Kalf Arnason finally joined the battle, but he did not follow the prearranged plan. The rogue Norwegian chieftain instead led his six ships against a weak point in Rognvald’s fleet. With Kalf joining the battle on his side, Jarl Thorfinn rallied his smaller ships for a renewed attack. The combined onslaught from Thorfinn and Kalf reportedly caused many of the ships on loan from King Magnus to flee the battle. As the Norwegian ships had made up the bulk of his thirty heavy ships, Jarl Rognvald consequently lost the most important segment of his fleet right when he needed it most. With the core of his fleet on the run, Rognvald decided to retreat. He sailed all the way back to Norway, where a sympathetic King Magnus gave him shelter.

Despite the defeat, Jarl Rognvald was not ready to give up. Even though Thorfinn now claimed all of the Orkney jarldom, Rognvald sailed back home in a single ship during winter. As conventional warfare had failed, he decided to try something different—assassination. As the account of the event is told in a saga, it is unsurprising that Rognvald chose to use the most prominent method of murder found in the Icelandic sagas. He supposedly sneaked over to Thorfinn’s house during the night and set it on fire. Rognvald, for his part, was said to have let the women and slaves who were in the home leave in peace, yet he was content to let Thorfinn and other warriors trapped inside burn. As the structure collapsed into a heap of embers, Rognvald was convinced that his uncle was dead. Yet, Thorfinn had escaped the assassination attempt by reportedly jumping out of a window.

In 1045 or 1046, during the cheerful days approaching Christmastime, Rognvald sailed to Papa Stronsay in order to acquire malt for a Christmas ale. As night approached, he decided to stay there for the night. Unbeknownst to him, Thorfinn was very much alive and was tracking his every movement, never straying far from the jarl. After nightfall, Thorfinn and a band of warriors surrounded the building where Rognvald was staying and they barricaded the exits. In front of the main doorway, they placed a pile of wood that was too high for an average man to vault over. With everything in place, Thorfinn set fire to the structure. He offered the same terms as his nephew, allowing women, children, servants and slaves to leave unharmed. Thorfinn’s warriors helped these spared people climb over the wooden barricade at the doorway.

According to the Orkneyinga saga, the warriors were baffled by someone in the building that was dressed in the robes of a priest. The man was tall, strong and had gold-colored hair. In one arm, the priestly figure was carrying a small fur-covered object. With the other arm, to the amazement of the crowd, the priest vaulted himself over the wooden barricade at the door. Once outside of the burning building the strong priest did not say a word to the warriors besieging the house, but instead quickly sped off into the darkness.

As the story goes, it took only moments for Thorfinn to realize that there was something off about the priest. Convinced that the man was Rognvald in disguise, Thorfinn sent his most trusted men to chase after the odd figure.

According to the account of the saga, the strong priest was indeed Rognvald in disguise. After darting off into the darkness, he made his way down to the rocky shoreline. He successfully evaded his pursuers and needed only to find help or, at least, locate a boat so that he could escape. Yet, something unfortunately gave his position away to the pursuers.

As Thorfinn and the warriors besieging the house had seen, Rognvald was carrying something small and furry in his arms as he fled from the building. This was apparently a beloved lap-dog which Rognvald could not bear to leave behind in a burning building. Tragically, the compassion that the jarl showed the dog proved to be his undoing. Even though Rognvald had successfully made his way down to the shore without making any recognizable tracks or sounds, the dog did not possess the same sense of stealth. To Rognvald’s horror, the dog innocently began to bark into the darkness. With the yapping dog giving away his every move, Rognvald was quickly captured and killed. With his nephew dead, Jarl Thorfinn gained control over the whole jarldom and continued to rule until he died of natural causes in 1064.

Written by C. Keith Hansley.

Picture Attribution: (An image of Lancelot from BL Royal 14 E III, f. 146, [Public Domain] via Creative Commons and picryl.com).

Sources:

The Chaotic Drama Between Charles The Bald And His Half-Siblings In The Frankish Empire Extended Even To His Half-Sister

By
thehistorianshut
-

 

Emperor Louis the Pious (r. 814-840) had a complicated family life. Louis’ first wife was Irmengardis, with whom he was married from 794 until her death in 818. She bore Louis a daughter and three sons, the former being Hildegard (b. 802) and the latter being Lothair (b. 795), Pippin (b. 797) and Louis “the German” (b. 804). The emperor started planning the succession for these sons as early as 817, when he made Lothair his co-emperor, and appointed Pippin as king of Aquitaine and Louis “the German” as king of Bavaria. The sons of the emperor were apparently satisfied, at least at that time, with the arrangement. Yet, one year after the death of Irmengardis, Louis the Pious remarried. His second wife was Judith and she bore him two children, Gisela (b. 821) and Charles “the Bald” (b. 823). Emperor Louis’ sons by Irmengardis never warmed up to Judith and they thought that she held too much influence over their father. Most of all, they were irritated at the birth of Charles, as any land granted to him would come at the expense of the other brothers’ kingdoms.

The real troubles started in 830. That year, after the emperor had ordered land in Alamannia to be handed over to Charles, a coup prompted by anti-Judith sentiment in the palace was successfully launched with the support of Lothair, Louis and Pippin. Louis the Pious was stripped of power and Judith was sent away to a nunnery. Even so, the old emperor had been playing politics for a long time, and Louis the Pious managed to regain control before the end of the year. With Louis the Pious back on the throne, his wife and son were returned. Yet, the cycle continued—Pippin was forced to hand over the kingdom of Aquitaine to Charles in 833, followed by another successful coup by Irmengardis’ sons in 834 (resulting in Judith being sent once again to a nunnery), only for Louis the Pious to regain control before the end of the year. The year 838 was a momentous year for Charles; that year, his half-brother Pippin died and his other half-brother, Louis, had been stripped of all lands except Bavaria. As a result, only two sons were still in the emperor’s favor when Louis the Pious decided to redraw succession in 839—everything but Bavaria was split in half and Charles took the west, while Lothair claimed the east.

Peace, however, hinged on the unmaintainable status of Louis the Pious being alive. As could be expected, when the old emperor died in 840, civil war immediately erupted between Lothair, Charles and Louis. This war between brothers, interestingly enough, soon expanded even to one of their sisters.

Hildegard was the sister of Lothair and Louis and also the half-sister of Charles. She had been appointed as abbess of St. Mary in the city of Laon, consequentially placing her in the domain of Charles. Unfortunately, Hildegard showed great favoritism for Lothair, who, since the death of his father, had been trying to force both Charles and Louis to recognize him as the new emperor of the Franks.

In October, 841, the armies of Charles and Lothair were having a staring contest from their separate camps near Paris. As such, Charles had his troops marching throughout northeast France, scouting for enemies and looking for passes that needed defending. Following such orders, a high profile sworn man of Charles by the name of Adalgar found himself traveling around the city of Laon. Yet, unbeknownst to him, there was an odd surprise lying in wait.

While in the vicinity of Laon, Adalgar was ambushed and arrested by rebels who favored Lothair instead of Charles. The rebels locked their captive in the city of Laon, which turned out to be in complete insurrection. Adalgar’s absence, however, did not go unnoticed, for word almost immediately reached Charles that one of his vassals had been kidnapped. Spies and informants were also able to discover the identity of the Laon rebel leader. It was none other than Hildegard, abbess of St. Mary, and half-sister of Charles.

Upon hearing the news, Charles immediately gathered an elite, but sizable, group of fast riders and galloped through the French countryside during the night to reach Laon by 10:00 in the morning. Charles set up camp and besieged the surprised city, making sure to let the inhabitants inside know that he already had enough men to storm the city if needed.

Seeing an army outside of her city’s gate made Hildegard regret her rash decision to capture Adalgar, especially when some of those besieging soldiers lit torches and moved menacingly toward the town when night fell. Fearing the destruction of her city, Hildegard released Adalgar and promised to peacefully surrender Laon over to Charles, if only he would move his army a safe five miles from the city. With his vassal released, Charles agreed to withdraw to nearby Samoussy. The following day, Hildegard swore fealty to Charles and relinquished the city without a fight. Charles showed mercy to his rogue half-sister, and she continued to live for about a decade after her rebellion.

Written by C. Keith Hansley.

Picture Attribution: (Charles the Bald welcomes monks from Tours who bring the Vivian Bible which contained this miniature (c. 9th century). Bibliothèque Nationale, Paris, [Public Domain] via Creative Commons).

Sources:

King Alfred The Great And His Chaotic First Year Of Rule

By
thehistorianshut
-

 

Nothing in the life of King Alfred the Great was simple or easy, so it is fitting that he had an inaugural year that was fraught with trials and peril. In early 871, Alfred was the heir of his brother, King Æthelred, who had been in power since 866. Alfred was about eighteen years old when his brother became king, and by early 871 he was twenty-two or twenty-three years of age. King Æthelred seemed to cherish his brother’s advice and company—whenever Æthelred martialed his forces, Alfred was always by his side. Luckily for Wessex, this hands-on battlefield and leadership experience likely gave Alfred some confidence when the crown was unexpectedly thrust upon his head.

The world in which Æthelred and Alfred lived must have seemed grim. Around 865, a coalition of Vikings landed a so-called “Great Heathen Army” on British soil. The Great Army, made up of a multitude of Nordic kings, jarls and adventuring warlords, wreaked havoc on the unprepared Anglo-Saxon kingdoms. In particular, the leading brothers of the Great Army—Ubba, Halfdan, and Ivar the Boneless—were so feared and infamous that their lives evolved into legend. The scholars of Wessex did an admirable job writing down the movements of the Great Army. In 865, the Army ravaged Kent and, during 866, the Great Army occupied East Anglia. Next, the Army invaded Northumbria in 867 and annihilated the forces of the Northumbrian kings, Ælle and Osberht, at York. After that great victory, the Army moved into Mercia by 868 and camped at Nottingham. Fortunately for the Mercians, their king, Burgred, had seemingly developed an alliance with Wessex. Therefore, King Æthelred and Alfred (who had a Mercian wife) led a force to the relief of Mercia and the Great Heathen Army retreated without any reported fighting.

The expedition of Æthelred and Alfred into Mercia in 868 would be the closest they came to fighting the Great Heathen Army until the events of 871. In the years between those two dates, the forces of the Great Army retraced their steps, crushing any resistance that had popped up in places such as Northumbria and East Anglia. Yet, in early 871, the Army began marching for a land thus far undisturbed—the kingdom of Wessex. In the opening months of the year, the Great Heathen Army crossed into Wessex and camped at Reading. There, the Vikings set about constructing some sort of rampart between the Thames and Kennet Rivers.

The first armed fight of the campaign occurred when two reckless jarls detached themselves from the Great Army to go raiding. This raiding party was discovered by Ealdorman Æthelwulf, the administrator and military leader of Berkshire (Æthelwulf was basically an Anglo-Saxon equivalent to a jarl). After learning of their whereabouts, Æthelwulf raised his forces and tracked the raiders to a place called Englefield. A skirmish ensued between the jarls and the ealdorman, in which the Anglo-Saxons were victorious. After the fight, the surviving raiders fled back to the Great Army and Ealdorman Æthelwulf marched his forces to join with King Æthelred.

Four days after the skirmish at Englefield, the army of King Æthelred arrived at Reading, and, of course, Alfred accompanied the king. While the previous fight had been a skirmish between two warbands, the conflict brewing at Reading would be a showdown between two large armies. Not long after the forces of Wessex arrived near Reading, the Great Army of Vikings attacked. Both sides were said to have fought well, but the Vikings gained momentum and drove the Anglo-Saxons from the battlefield. Ealdorman Æthelwulf, the hero of Englefield, died during the course of the battle. The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle painted the battle as inconclusive, whereas Alfred’s biographer, Asser, more openly admitted that the Battle of Reading was an Anglo-Saxon defeat. The experience of defeat was another useful lesson for Alfred—he would lose many battles and much land in his harrowing struggle for survival.

Acting as a good role model for his brother, King Æthelred did not lose hope after the loss at Reading. Instead, he rallied his forces and, only four days later, struck the Great Heathen Army once more, this time at Ashdown. Both armies apparently divided in half for the battle. King Æthelred and half of his army faced off against two Viking kings, Halfdan and Bagsecg. On the other side of the battlefield, Alfred and the rest of the Wessex army faced a force led by jarls. The armies were said to have clashed at Ashdown for an entire day, only ending when the Vikings began to break after several of their leaders were slain, including King Bagsecg and five jarls.

Riding the wave of momentum, King Æthelred and Alfred pursued the Great Heathen Army to Basing and launched another attack. Only fourteen nights had passed since the previous battle. Despite their eagerness, the forces of Wessex would learn once more that it was costly to underestimate the Vikings—the Great Heathen Army won the day at Basing and forced King Æthelred to withdraw. The defeat at Basing must have been more costly than the previous loss at Reading, for Æthelred waited a reported two months after Basing before he launched another major attack. According to the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, the last battle fought by King Æthelred against the Vikings occurred at Meretun. Although the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle classified Meretun as a battle, the biographer, Asser, did not mention the name, likely relegating whatever happened there to one of the many small skirmishes and raids of 871. Whatever the scale of the fight, Meretun did not turn out well for Wessex and the Vikings claimed the victory.

By April of 871, Wessex was in a precarious position. King Æthelred had not been able to regain the momentum in his war against the Vikings after suffering his defeats at Basing and Meretun. To make things more complicated, Wessex learned that more Viking reinforcements had arrived to replenish any losses sustained by the Great Army. In addition to all of this troubling news, King Æthelred suddenly fell deathly ill, either because of a disease or possibly due to a wound received during one of his battles. He never recovered from whatever ailment afflicted him—he died sometime after Easter (April 15), leaving his brother, Alfred, to inherit a war against the Great Heathen Army that Wessex was currently losing.

One month into the reign of King Alfred, the forces of Wessex were raised and the new king led his warriors against the Great Heathen Army at Wilton, near the Wylye River. It was the first time Alfred commanded an army into battle as the sole ruler of his kingdom. Alfred had the smaller force, but apparently caught the Vikings off guard, or used some other stratagem to initially sway the battle in his favor. After battling for most of the day, the Vikings appeared to break ranks and withdraw. Yet, as soon as the men of Wessex began to sigh with relief, the Great Heathen Army surged back onto the battlefield and forced the Anglo-Saxons to retreat. In his first battle as the king of Wessex, Alfred the Great suffered a defeat.

After his loss at Wilton, Alfred the Great pursued no further known major confrontations for the remainder of 871. Instead, Alfred embarked on a campaign of guerrilla tactics, raids and possibly targeted assassinations, as four more jarls reportedly died by the end of the year. In the end, it was a very bloody year—Alfred’s biographer, Asser, and The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle (which was also begun in Alfred’s reign) came to different conclusions on how many “great battles” were fought in 871. The former claimed there were eight battles and the latter calculated a total of nine. Both agreed, however, that the smaller raids and skirmishes carried out by Alfred and his ealdormen were too many to count. The raids and guerilla tactics apparently wore out the Great Heathen Army, for they made peace with Alfred before the end of 871, and did not to return for four or five years. Of course, once the Great Heathen Army returned under Guthrum, Alfred the Great would face a much more harrowing time than his inaugural year in 871. Nevertheless, as was his way, Alfred would overcome his many challenges to leave the Kingdom of Wessex in a much stronger state than it was on the day he inherited it from his brother.

Written by C. Keith Hansley.

Picture Attribution: (Illustration of the Battle of Ashdown by Richard Doyle (died 1883), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons).

Sources:

The Promising Life And Bizarre Death Of King Edmund I Of England

By
thehistorianshut
-

 

Edmund I was the half-brother and successor of King Æthelstan (r. 925-939). It was a tough act to follow, as Æthelstan was the first king of Wessex to claim authority over the whole of England. Yet, instead of being lost in his brother’s long shadow, Edmund I learned from Æthelstan’s success. He even played a leading role in one of the key events in Æthelstan’s reign—the Battle of Brunanburh (c. 937), in which the forces of England triumphed over a coalition of Britons from Strathclyde, joined by Nordic warriors from Ireland and York, as well as the army of Scotland, led personally by King Constantine II. King Æthelstan died only two years after that decisive battle, passing the baton of rule to his eighteen-year-old brother, Edmund.

Although Edmund ascended to the throne of a unified England, he would quickly discover that the north had not lost the will to fight. As soon as news of Æthelstan’s death spread, a man named Olaf Guthfrithson usurped power in Northumbria. The upstart Northumbrian king, however, died in 942. Nevertheless, King Edmund’s problems were not over yet. Although one troublesome Olaf had died, a different Olaf was still causing problems for Edmund. Olaf Sihtricson was the son of a former king of Northumbria. He attempted to wrest his family’s domain back from Edmund and, by 943, went on the offensive by capturing Tamworth. Yet, before the end of the year, Edmund launched his own campaign and had the Northumbrian rebels on the run. Olaf Sihtricson was nearly captured at Leicester and he reportedly allowed himself to be baptized in an attempt to placate King Edmund. The show of religious assimilation supposedly put Olaf and Edmund on friendly terms, but friendship did not stop King Edmund from deposing Olaf Sihtricson and reclaiming Northumbria for England by 944. King Edmund continued his string of victories by conquering Strathclyde in 945.

King Edmund also showed promise in international politics. He gave the freshly conquered region of Strathclyde to King Malcolm I of Scotland in exchange for a military alliance in 945. That same year, Edmund also meddled in French affairs by helping negotiate the release of his nephew, Louis IV of France (r. 936-954), who had been imprisoned by a powerful duke. With a growing network of powerful friends to match his expanding lands, young Edmund seemed to be on the precipice of a golden age. Yet, in 946, Edmund was suddenly and bizarrely cut down at the height of his power.

On May 26, 946, King Edmund was celebrating the feast of Saint Augustine at his estate in Pucklechurch, Gloucestershire. The king had guests over for the event, but one particular attendee present for the festivities had not been invited. His name was Liofa or Leofa, and he had been outlawed or exiled by the king at some time in the past. For unknown reasons, the outlaw decided to crash King Edmund’s party. The medieval sources gave little information as to why he was there and it is vague whether or not Liofa’s actions that day were premeditated or spontaneous. Whatever the case, the king and the outlaw fatefully crossed paths during the celebration. After being discovered, Liofa pulled out a blade and attacked King Edmund. Despite having won many battles and conquered several kingdoms, Edmund could not win in his final struggle against the single outlaw, Liofa. At only twenty-five years of age, King Edmund I was randomly stabbed to death and the crown passed to his brother, Eadred.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Source:

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