Empires of the Normans, page 1
For Clara and Lettie
Preface
When the seventeen-year-old Frederick II entered Mainz in early December 1212, he was met by cheering crowds. For years, the German throne had been contested by warring factions. Now the succession of young Frederick – ‘the boy from Apulia’, as he was affectionately known – looked set to settle matters. Frederick was dressed in finery: furs and a heavy cloak to keep out the winter chill, to which he was unaccustomed. He was guided into the city by the local archdeacon and the crowds parted as they went. Their destination was the great cathedral in the heart of the city. Two bishops wearing relics around their necks met Frederick there at the great brass doors. Then the archbishop, Siegfried, joined them, leading the imperial entourage inside.
As the crowd filed in, Frederick laid his arms and cloak down before the altar. Then he prostrated himself demonstratively in the shape of the cross, entreating divine mercy. All the bishops and clerics did likewise, while others sang litanies, invoking the assistance of the saints. Once Frederick had risen, Archbishop Siegfried asked him if he would fulfil the duties incumbent upon him as king (to defend the Church and his people), which Frederick happily affirmed. Hearing this, all those in attendance shouted their approval: ‘Amen! Amen! So let it be! So let it be!’ After a series of further prayers, the ceremony now reached its high point, as Siegfried consecrated Frederick with holy oil, formally anointing him king. He then entrusted Frederick with the regalia, the symbols of his office: the sword, that Frederick might defend the Church and chasten the unjust; the ring, as a sign of Christian faith; the sceptre and staff, that he might offer just judgement; and the crown, as a signification of the glory and holiness of his office. After more prayers, Siegfried led the newly crowned Frederick from the altar down the choir to the throne that had been erected there. Here Frederick uttered his coronation oath – his solemn promise to offer peace and justice, and show appropriate mercy – before receiving the kiss of peace from the archbishop. Finally, he ascended the throne. Seated in majesty, Frederick watched the ensuing Mass with deep satisfaction. He had entered Mainz a prince, but he left it an anointed monarch. Frederick was now king by the grace of God, ruler of the Germans (and Holy Roman emperor in waiting).
Frederick was the latest monarch of a distinguished line, stretching back to his grandfather, the legendary German emperor Frederick Barbarossa. Yet the impression of continuity is deceptive. For the young Frederick was not really German. In fact, he barely knew the country. He was an Italian Norman (known as ‘the boy from Apulia’), who’d not stepped foot north of the Alps before this. And as his reign would show, Frederick owed far more to the Norman south than to his German roots. For in his relations with his son and co-ruler, Henry (VII), Frederick would repeatedly insist on applying more rigorous Sicilian customs north of the Alps.
As a Norman monarch, Frederick was far from alone. England, most of Wales, and large parts of Ireland – not to mention a number of key holdings in France – were under the authority of the infamous ‘bad King John’, a direct descendant (in the female line) of the great Norman conquistador William I (‘the Conqueror’). To John’s north, William the Lion, the long-reigning king of Scots, was himself three-quarters Norman, supported by a largely Norman aristocracy. And in the Mediterranean, Frederick controlled Sicily and southern Italy, while almost half the Holy Land was in the hands of Bohemond IV of Antioch, the great-great-grandson of the notorious Italo-Norman sell-sword Bohemond of Taranto.
With Frederick’s coronation, Norman power and influence had reached its apex. In one form or another, the Normans had come to dominate western Europe and the Mediterranean. Their impact can scarcely be exaggerated. To Normandy, they’d brought a new aristocracy and ruling dynasty; to Britain and Ireland, they’d brought castles, chivalric culture, Romanesque architecture and the French language (still spoken by aristocrats in Frederick’s day); to southern Italy, they’d brought ties to Rome and the Catholic church; and to Germany, they’d brought new attitudes to law and order. The Norman achievement was, however, remarkably fragile. For in all these regions, the Normans settled and adapted to local society. The result was a world that was recognisably Norman but where the Normans themselves had become more localised. In the Mediterranean, the Normans had long since come to identify as Sicilians, Apulians and Calabrians; in the British Isles, they’d similarly started to see themselves as English and Scottish (albeit of a Francophone aristocratic variety). They were at once everywhere and nowhere – a people with an exalted past, but little future.
These years of Norman ascendancy first saw the emergence of a common European culture, and the Normans were an essential part of this process.1 It was thanks to them that the British Isles and southern Italy would form part of western (Catholic) Europe. Nor was their influence limited to areas of direct Norman rule. The Normans were involved at crucial moments during the Christian conquest of Islamic Iberia. They established a short-lived kingdom in North Africa, threatening the Fatimid rulers of Egypt and Almohad lords of Morocco. And they played an essential part in the collapse of Byzantine authority in Asia Minor, events which paved the way to the First Crusade.
For the descendants of a few shiploads of Vikings who settled on the northern reaches of the River Seine c.911, the Normans had come a long way. The following pages are dedicated to understanding how, by a combination of luck, pluck and piety, they achieved this. It’s a tale of ambitious adventures and fierce freebooters, of fortunes made and kingdoms lost. We begin with the legendary Rollo, whose piratical raids on the Seine laid the foundations for the future duchy of Normandy. Thereafter, we follow his descendants as they achieve dominance in northern France, fighting off threats from neighbours in Flanders and Anjou. In the following years, we see them launch more daring ventures, first to England, where William the Conqueror seized one of Europe’s most valuable crowns; then to southern Italy, where the sons of the otherwise obscure Tancred de Hauteville created an equally exalted kingdom of their own. From these new bases, the Normans extended their influence further still, settling in Scotland and conquering large parts of Wales and Ireland. More spectacular, if short-lived, was their impact on the eastern Mediterranean, where we see them come close to toppling the Byzantine Empire. By the time of Frederick’s coronation in December 1212, they’d even supplied the next German king. In an age of overachievers, the Normans repeatedly stood out: their churches were bigger, their leaders bolder, their troops fiercer. This is their story.
1 Beginnings: Strange Men from a Strange Land, The Lower Seine, c.911–42
Two armies faced each other across the River Epte in northern France. The atmosphere was tense. On one side, stood the court of the French (or West Frankish) king, Charles the Simple, attended by his leading magnate Robert of Neustria. On the other, was arrayed the host of Rollo, the Viking freebooter who’d been making a nuisance of himself along the Seine in recent years. The ground was, however, set for concord. Shortly before this, Rollo had been defeated by Robert as he attempted to take Chartres, an important cathedral city some 90 km (56 miles) south west of Paris. In the aftermath, Charles had initiated diplomatic contacts. He offered Rollo the hand of his daughter Gisla and coastal territories to the north, if Rollo and his men would pledge future service and adopt the Christian faith. This was a rare opportunity, and the Scandinavian warlord consented readily. All that remained was to ratify the pact – or so it seemed.
We are told that as the forces converged on St-Clair-sur-Epte, Rollo sent the archbishop of Rouen with a message to the French king. The archbishop instructed Charles that Rollo and his men would no longer accept just the lands originally allocated to them (those between the Andelle and the sea); now they demanded the entire territory between the Epte and the coast – a strip some 50 km (31 miles) wider. What from anyone else would have been sheer effrontery, however, was begrudgingly countenanced when it came from the mighty Rollo. Robert of Neustria, who stood prepared to act as the Viking leader’s godfather, advised Charles that he would not win the service of such a great warrior without concessions. And so it was that the king slowly relented. He first tried to offer Rollo Flanders and Brittany instead; but Rollo stood firm. In the end, Charles caved in – Rollo would indeed receive all the lands between the Epte and the sea.
Finally, Rollo was ready to submit. He publicly placed his hands within those of the king, in the ritual act of commendation (or homage, as it would later be known). None of Rollo’s forebears had been willing to submit to another in this fashion; but then, none of them had won such rich rewards. Still, Rollo did not lose his sense of pride. He refused to kiss the foot of King Charles in gratitude, as was customary. In his place, one of Rollo’s men was sent to do so. Yet even he was only willing to go so far. Instead of bending down to kiss the king’s foot, as was expected, the bold Viking pulled Charles’ leg unceremoniously up to his own head, sending Charles sprawling on the ground. The superiority of Rollo and his men over their French counterparts could scarcely have been clearer.
Or so Dudo of Saint-Quentin, our main narrator of the early Norman settlement, would have us believe.1 The problem is, Dudo was writing over ninety years after the events (he completed his History in the mid-1010s), and it’s often impossible to tell where reality ends and Dudo’s fertile imagination begins. To take but two examples, Dudo names the archbishop of Rouen as Franco, whereas at the time of Rollo’s settlement the archbishop was not Franco but a man called Guy; while Gisla – if she ever existed – would’ve been no more th
Unfortunately for us, Dudo’s almost all we have. It’s clear that some sort of deal was struck with the Vikings around this time. But more than that is hard to say. The lack of contemporary interest in the early Viking settlement is understandable. Despite Dudo’s claims, the pact of St-Clair was nothing special. The Vikings (or Northmen) had burst on the scene in the late eighth century, when they initiated a series of Blitzkrieg raids on western Europe’s exposed coastlines. What first inspired them to seek their fortunes across the seas remains a matter of debate, but there were clearly a number of incentives. New kingdoms were being created within Scandinavia, which created a pool of discontented petty chiefs (and their men) who’d lost out in the process. Growing maritime capabilities also made foreign ventures easier than ever. Added to which, there was political instability in many parts of Europe (particularly the British Isles). Raids of ever-increasing intensity began in the second half of the eighth century (perhaps as early as the 760s or 770s), eventually culminating in the conquest of large swathes of continental Europe and the British Isles.3
Under these circumstances, it’s hardly surprising that western European rulers began to recruit Vikings into their own armies. This not only removed a prospective threat, but often provided the best line of defence; it was a matter of setting a thief to catch a thief. Yet the Northmen were not only out to make a quick buck, and it soon became common to offer land in exchange for more extended service. A particularly popular tactic was to settle Viking groups in coastal districts, leaving them to defend these against their own countrymen.4 Parts of Flanders were repeatedly bestowed in this fashion; and this tradition may well have informed Charles’ attempts to fob Rollo off with the region.
Rollo himself may have hailed from Norway and began his career as part of the ‘Great Viking Army’, which conquered large parts of England in the 860s and 870s. He was probably not present for the earliest phases of these conquests. But he’d clearly joined the force by the time it relocated from England to northern France in the early 880s and was present in 885 and 886, when it famously besieged Paris. While the future French capital held firm, elements of the army went on to overrun much of Brittany and the northern Seine. And Rollo was one of the leaders to settle on the Seine.
Without more detailed sources, it’s hard to know the precise nature of Rollo’s activities in these years. Archaeologists are sometimes tempted to associate early evidence for Scandinavian settlement in what was to become Normandy with Dudo’s tall tales of Rollo’s exploits in the 890s, painting a detailed picture of the early growth of the new Viking power. But caution is called for where Dudo’s vivid (but clearly fantastic) narrative is concerned.5 It’s likely that Rollo and his army were active – and perhaps even settled – on the lower Seine before their pact with Charles c.911. Then at some point these inroads were formalised by an agreement with King Charles (perhaps at St-Clair). Our earliest secure evidence of this comes not from Dudo, but from charters (that is, legal documents, granting land or rights) issued in the name of King Charles.6 The first of these, from 905, reveals that at this point the core areas of what was to become Normandy were still in royal hands, since Charles then granted eleven serfs at Pîtres (just south of Rouen) to his chancellor, a man called Ernustus. There are, however, signs that the region was already under pressure. In the following year, another charter records that the monks of Saint-Marcoulf in the west of later Normandy had moved the relics of their patron saint Marculf to Corbény (just north of Rheims), on account of attacks by the pagans (i.e. Vikings). Evidently the Northmen were making their presence felt, and it is likely that Rollo and his associates were among them. The situation was far from catastrophic, however, as the charter also alludes to the possibility of Marculf’s return.
The most important document is a charter of March 918 in favour of the Parisian monastery of Saint-Germain-des-Prés, which mentions Rollo’s pact with King Charles. This grants Saint-Germain the lands of the smaller religious community of La Croix-Saint-Ouen, located on the Eure in modern La Croix-Saint-Leufroy, just 43 km (27 miles) south of Rouen. The reason was that La Croix, like Saint-Marcoulf, had suffered at the hands of its Viking neighbours (the charter speaks dramatically of the ‘ferocity of the pagans’) to such an extent that its position was no longer tenable. Its estates were therefore now being assigned to the abbey of Saint-Germain, which lay well out of harm’s way in Paris. Yet an important reservation is made. King Charles does not grant all of La Croix’s lands to the Parisian monastery, but only those which are not in ‘that part of the abbey’s holdings we granted to the Northmen of the Seine, namely Rollo and his followers, for the protection of the realm.’ Evidently the Vikings were now an established presence on the lower Seine – and the royal writ did not run within their domains.
By early 918, a significant portion of what was to become Normandy had thus been ceded to Rollo and his men. Though Dudo presents the king and his leading magnate, Robert of Neustria, working in seamless harmony here, the reality was almost certainly more complicated. Dudo wrote at a time when Robert’s descendants had achieved royal status with the support of Rollo’s heirs, who repeatedly backed them in factional disputes of the intervening years. It was convenient for Dudo to pretend that the families had been allies from the start. In fact, the settlement of Rollo was, at the time, to the detriment of Duke Robert. For over half a century, Robert and his family had dominated the Neustrian march, a large region of north-western France. Rollo’s territories were carved directly out of this, and it’s hard to believe that the duke was happy about it – let alone that it was he who persuaded the king to grant the land (as Dudo would have us believe). The La Croix charter confirms this. The abbeys of La Croix and Saint-Germain were both under Robert’s control; and the entire transaction is a piece of damage limitation for the duke, granting the holdings of one exposed abbey to another more secure one.
Politically, Charles’ pact with Rollo was a success. Rollo’s Northmen not only proved an effective deterrent to other Viking groups, they were also staunch allies in the internecine politics of tenth-century France. The biggest threat to Charles lay in Duke Robert, whose elder brother had briefly been king in the 890s. This is why Charles settled Rollo and his men on Robert’s lands, and they continued to assist Charles in future years. A crucial moment came in late 922 and early 923, when Robert rebelled, claiming the crown for himself. And though Robert died in battle at Soissons in 923, his side prevailed, eventually capturing Charles. As a result, Robert’s son-in-law, Duke Raoul of Burgundy, inherited the French throne. It was at this point that Charles called on his Viking allies. Rollo happily took up arms in the name of the deposed monarch. But Charles’ strategy backfired. For Rollo was unable to free him, and his intervention further soured the king’s relations with his French subjects. Pacts with pagan Vikings were unpopular at the best of times, and memories of the damage done by Rollo and his men remained fresh.
Yet if Charles reaped little immediate benefit, Rollo was able to profit from the resulting turmoil. Our main source here are the Annals of Flodoard, a contemporary record from nearby Rheims. These speak of Rollo as ‘prince of the Northmen’ (princeps Nordmannorum), alluding to the earlier pact he’d forged with Charles – a pact which the king’s opponents claimed (rather tendentiously) Rollo had broken by rallying to Charles’ aid, since this was done against the wishes of the new king Raoul. This is a clear reference to Rollo’s original settlement of c.911, mentioned both in the charter of 918 and in Dudo’s account. It was, however, more than mere loyalty which stirred Rollo and his men. For Flodoard also states that Charles promised Rollo ‘a breath of land’ in this connection, a turn of phrase which probably refers to an extension of the original settlement. Certainly when Raoul later made peace with Rollo in 924, he had to buy him off with Maine and the Bessin to the west.7
