pumpkinstrokemarrow

Just read an interesting story in Hodgkin on the Anglo-Saxons (see 30th August). It seems that back in AD755, in the first half of the interval (see 14th September), Wessex was in the uncertain grip of a number of kinglets. They were taking a little while to learn that peace was a better recipe for long life and happiness than continual raids, riots, feuds and brawls – raids, riots, feuds and brawls which resulted on the one hand in rather low life expectancy among the warrior elite and on the other in some rather memorable poetry, poetry which survived to be compulsory at Oxford, Durham & St. Andrews today. In any event, this particular story is confirmed by an Internet translation of the Anglo-Saxon chronicle. I offer a translation of my own.

One of these kinglets was a chap called Nogbad the Bed, a kinglet in south Wessex, a kinglet with both an agenda and a lady friend who lived in north Wessex. One day, in the autumn, after the harvest was in, he thought he would go trysting, go to pay his lady friend a visit in her stockade, a stockade which was almost grand enough to be called a borough. As this was a private visit, he only took a portion of his household troops with him and gave the rest the day off. On arrival, after a hearty picnic in the outer garth, he repairs to the boudoir and his guard repairs to the mead hall, for their respective entertainments.

Meanwhile, a pretender to his kingletship, a cousin called Nogtoad the Stoat (or it may have been Stoute. This copy of the chronicle is a bit smudged at this point) and who had been outlawed to the forest of Andred, gets to hear about this visit. Maybe he had one of Nogbad’s slaves in his pay. In any event, he decided that this was a once in a lifetime opportunity to whack Nogbad and take his kingletship. So off he goes, taking all his household troops with him, and after riding for a night and a day arrives at the stockade and knocks at the gate. Nogbad’s troops come to the gate and are offered safe passage if they care to leave. They look a bit grim. Death before dishonour. Semper fidelis. They lock shields and start a slow beat on them with their long swords. Stamp in time. Scary stuff. “Come on if you dare” they shout, along with various oaths, sacred and profane. Nogtoad’s troops do come on, with their own shouts, sacred and profane, and after a while Nogbad’s troops are vanquished to a man. Nogbad himself was chopped into pieces and his favourite sword, Cynewulf, was later deposited in the shrine of St. Edband in Winchester Cathedral, where it became a holy relic. It is not told what happened to the lady; whether she was taken on as live bait or whether she shared the fate of her swain.

But while all this is going on, or perhaps meanwhile, the rest of Nogbad’s household get to hear about what was going on. So they ride for a night and a day and arrive at the stockade and knock at the gate. And then we go around again, but this time with Nogtoad and his household being vanquished. Some other of Nogbad’s cousins takes up the coronet (a device borrowed from the Byzantines of all people). And the feud, thus refuelled, went on for centuries until it was, at last, snuffed out by Canute the Cane.

The lady’s stockade was eventually sold on to the church who built Merton Abbey there, now the site of a Sainsbury’s Superstore. With a few runic bead sellers lurking at the margins.