The Vikings 041534350X, 9780415343503

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THE VIKINGS

The Vikings provides a concise but comprehensive introduction to the complex world of the early medieval Scandinavians. In the space of less than 300 years, from the mid-eighth to the mid-eleventh centuries CE, people from what are now Norway, Sweden, and Denmark left their homelands in unprecedented numbers to travel across the Eurasian world. Over the last half-century, archaeology and its related disciplines have radically altered our understanding of this period. The Vikings explores why we now perceive them as a cosmopolitan mix of traders and warriors, craftsworkers and poets, explorers, and settlers. It details how, over the course of the Viking Age, their small-scale rural, tribal societies gradually became urbanised monarchies firmly emplaced on the stage of literate, Christian Europe. In the process, they transformed the cultures of the North, created the modern Nordic nationstates, and left a far-flung diaspora with legacies that still resonate today. Written by leading experts in the period and exploring the society, economy, identity and world-views of the early medieval Scandinavian peoples, and their unique religious beliefs that are still of enduring interest a millennium later, this book presents students with an unrivalled guide through this widely studied and fascinating subject, revealing the fundamental impacts of the Vikings in shaping the later course of European history. Neil Price is Distinguished Professor of Archaeology at Uppsala University, Sweden. A leading expert on the Viking Age, his fieldwork, teaching, and research have taken him to more than 40 countries. He specialises in Viking-Age ritual, religion, identity, and world-view, with a particular focus on mortuary behaviour, amongst many other topics. Neil’s books and other publications have appeared in 20 languages, and he is a frequent consultant and contributor to television and film. Ben Raffield is Associate Professor of Archaeology at Uppsala University, Sweden. He specialises in the study of the Viking Age, with a particular focus on conflict and violence; captivity, slavery, and social inequality; and cross-cultural interaction in Scandinavia and the wider early medieval world. He has published his work in a range of peer-reviewed journals and edited volumes.

PEOPLES OF THE ANCIENT WORLD

This series stands as the first port of call for anyone who wants to know more about the historically important peoples of the ancient world and the early middle ages. Reliable, up-to-date and with special attention paid to the peoples’ enduring legacy and influence, Peoples of the Ancient World will ensure the continuing prominence of these crucial figures in modern-day study and research. THE BABYLONIANS Gwendolyn Leick THE TROJANS AND THEIR NEIGHBOURS Trevor Bryce MYCENAEANS Rodney Castleden THE EGYPTIANS Robert Morkot THE BABYLONIANS Gwendolyn Leick THE ISRAELITES Antony Kamm THE NEANDERTHALS Friedemann Schrenk and Stephanie Müller THE ROMANS, Third edition Antony Kamm and Abigail Graham THE GREEKS, Third edition Robin Sowerby THE HUNS Hyun Jin THE VIKINGS Neil Price and Ben Raffield

THE VIKINGS

Neil Price and Ben Raffield

Cover image: Background detail from carved picture stone I from Stora Hammars (Gotlands Museum, Sweden), and the armed female figurine from Hårby, near Roskilde (National Museum of Denmark). First published 2024 by Routledge 4 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10158 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2024 Neil Price and Ben Raffield The right of Neil Price and Ben Raffield to be identified as authors of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN: 978-0-415-34349-7 (hbk) ISBN: 978-0-415-34350-3 (pbk) ISBN: 978-0-203-48325-1 (ebk) DOI: 10.4324/9780203483251 Typeset in Bembo by codeMantra

For my students – past, present, and future. N.P. For my parents, Jane and Steve Raffield, whose unwavering support has kept me on the right path. B.R.

CONTENTS

List of figures Acknowledgements

ix xi

Introduction:Viking Variations

1

Defining the Vikings 3

1

The Vikings Begin

7

Northern Landscapes, Northern Peoples 7 The Sámi 12 Scandinavian Prehistories 13 The Lords of the Hall 16 A World in Motion 18 The Vikings Begin 20

2

Viking Lives and Landscapes Kinship and Community Relations 25 Social Organisation 33 Life on the Land 36 An Economy of Things 39 Going to Market 42 Ships and the Sea 48 Language and Literacy 50 The Rule of Law 54 Violence and Society 56 The Visual World 60

25

viii Contents

3

Tradition and World-View

70

Cosmogony and the Norse Story-World 71 The Invisible Population 76 The Ritual Landscape and its Agents 78 Living with the Dead 85 Imagining the Afterlife 92 The Good Viking? 93

4

The Viking Diaspora

97

The ‘First Vikings’ in the East 99 The Early Raids in the West 103 Fighting for Frankia, Invading England 108 The Danelaw and the Kingdom of York 113 The Irish Sea 117 Scotland and the Isles 123 From Andalucia to Aachen 126 The Opening of the North Atlantic 131 The Rise of the Rus’ 137 Mikligarðr and the Caliphate 141 Full Circle: Unknowingly into Another World 146

5

Church and State

156

Faith and Power 158 Scandinavian Contacts with Christianity 159 The Vikings and Islam 162 The Viking-Age State 164 Christian Lifestyles 170 Conversion in the Overseas Settlements 176 Viking ‘Empires’? 179 The Old World Order 183

Bibliography Index

189 223

FIGURES

1.1 Map of Scandinavia in the late Iron Age, with selected places mentioned in the text. Danish fortresses of the late Viking Age: (1) Aggersborg; (2) Fyrkat; (3) Nonnebakken; (4) Trelleborg; (5) Borgring; and (6) Borgeby. Produced by Tom H. Lundmark 1.2 The excavated fourth-century royal halls at Gudme on Fyn, Denmark. Photo by Frank Bach/Alamy 1.3 Excavation drawing of the helmet from boat grave 6 at Valsgärde, Uppland, Sweden – part of the material culture of the new elites on the eve of the Viking Age. Drawing by Harald Faith-Ell, 1941, by kind permission of Uppsala University Museum Gustavianum 2.1 The runestone from Hovgården, Adelsö, Sweden, commissioned by an enslaved royal estate manager to his own memory and that of his wife. Photo Wirestock/Alamy 2.2 The Oseberg ship under excavation in 1904,Vestfold, Norway. Photo by Olof Væring; licence cc by-sa 4.0 2.3 The greatest assembly site in the Viking world: Þingvellir in southwest Iceland. Photo by Peter Lopeman/Alamy 2.4 A variety of Viking weapons from Frøysnes farm, Bygland, Agder, Norway. Photo Museum of Cultural History; licence cc by-sa 4.0 2.5 Oval brooches typically worn by women, from the Birka cemetery, Björkö, Sweden. Photo Swedish History Museum; licence cc 2.0 2.6 The late eleventh-century door of the Urnes stave church, Sogn og Fjordane, Norway, with its elaborate carving that gave its name to the Urnes art-style. Photo by Dmitry Naumov/Alamy 3.1 A Þórr’s hammer pendant from Erikstorp, Ödeshög, Östergötland, Sweden. Photo by Gabriel Hildebrand, Swedish History Museum; licence cc by-sa 4.0

8 17

22

32 49 56 58 61

65

73

x Figures

3.2 The Lindholm Høje cemetery in northern Jylland, Denmark. Covered by a sandstorm, the original stone settings are almost completely preserved. Photo by Andrew Dutton/Alamy 4.1 Map of the Viking diaspora, showing maritime and overland routes from Scandinavia. Produced by Tom H. Lundmark 4.2 Medieval fortifications at the heart of the Viking-Age settlement of Staraja Ladoga, on the Volkhov River, north-western Russia. Photo by Lev Karavanov; licence cc by-sa 4.0 4.3 Map of Viking raids and operations in Western Europe. Produced by Neil Price 4.4 Map of the North Atlantic settlements in the Viking Age. Produced by Neil Price 4.5 Map of the Rus’ polities and the Scandinavians’ eastern contacts. Produced by Tom H. Lundmark 4.6 The Golden Gate of Kyiv, Ukraine. Reconstructed in Soviet times, this imposing structure formed one of the main gateways to the Rus’ capital. Photo by Tibor Bognar/Alamy 4.7 The Hagia Sofia in Istanbul, Turkey. Now a mosque, in VikingAge Constantinople it was the primary basilica of the Byzantine Empire. Runic inscriptions inside bear witness to the presence of the Varangian Guard. Photo by Michele Burgess/Alamy 4.8 The site of L’Anse aux Meadows on Newfoundland’s northern peninsula, so far the only known Norse settlement in North America. Photo by Dan Leeth/Alamy 5.1 The power centre of King Haraldr ‘Bluetooth’ at Jelling, Jylland, Denmark. The church can be seen between the two great mounds, with the alignment of the stone ship setting marked out. Photo by Lars Madsen/Alamy 5.2 The Jelling runestones, Jylland, Denmark, located between the great mounds. Photo by Casiopeia; licence cc by-sa 4.0 5.3 A Christian future: the eleventh- and twelfth-century Urnes stave church, in Sogn og Fjordane, Norway. Photo by Nancy Tobin/Alamy

86 98

100 104 135 138

141

143

147

166 167 174

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This book has been an inordinately long time in preparation, which is no-one’s fault but mine. Ben Raffield came on board partway through, and his contributions have made all the difference to its eventual completion – he has my grateful thanks and collegial appreciation. I cannot adequately thank a long succession of Routledge editors and editorial assistants for their patience; special thanks to Matt Gibbons, Manas Roy, and Gayathree Sekar, under whose eyes the book at last took shape. The maps were produced for this book by Tom H. Lundmark, facilitated by Daniel Löwenborg; our thanks to them both. A synthesis of this kind has incurred academic debts too numerous to credit individually here, though I hope that the references make clear the extent to which the contents of this book rest on the research of others. My profound thanks to the global community of Viking scholars – none named and none forgotten – whose work I have read and listened to, and with whom I have debated, argued, agreed, disagreed, and socialised, for more than 30 years; I salute you all. Thanks also to Victor Lloret and National Geographic History, for permission to reproduce a couple of paragraphs in the section on the Norse in North America. My family – Linda, Lucy, and Miranda – have all my love and gratitude, as ever. This book was finished during two much-needed periods of disruption-free work in the equatorial heat of Peninsular Malaysia and Borneo, and the desert aridity of the American Southwest, both settings that the Vikings might have appreciated. Here’s to them. Neil Price Sarawak, New Mexico, and Colorado, Autumn 2022 My involvement in this book project began in 2017, shortly after I first arrived in Uppsala. I am grateful to my colleague, mentor, and friend Neil Price for inviting me to participate. Although there have been a few delays, this collaboration – like all of our previous endeavours – has been stimulating and, most importantly, enjoyable.

xii Acknowledgements

Like Neil I would also like to thank the editors and editorial assistants at Routledge, who have been far more patient with us than they ever needed to be. Thanks also go out to our colleagues, both in Uppsala and elsewhere, for their knowledge and insight. Finally, I am of course grateful for and deeply indebted to my friends (both old and new) and in particular my family, who have always helped me to find my way, and who have been the rock that I could lean on during hard times. Ben Raffield Uppsala, Autumn 2022 The authors’ work on this volume was funded with the generous support of the Swedish Research Council, as part of theViking Phenomenon project (2015–00466) at Uppsala University.

INTRODUCTION Viking Variations

Sometime around the year 1590, an anonymous Elizabethan playwright penned one of the earliest known examples of a new theatrical genre. Shunning the usual emphasis on heroes from Classical Antiquity, the play instead created a truly English historical drama. Edmund Ironside is little known and almost never performed today, mainly noted for the possible, controversial identity of its author (on the basis of vocabulary and syntax, the play has been argued to be the first, precocious work of a talented young man called William Shakespeare).1 Regardless of who wrote it, the key feature of this tentative experiment in a new presentation of the English story is that its author chose to focus not on the reigns of the medieval monarchs who would make Shakespeare famous a few years later, but on the invasions of the Vikings. Six centuries after their heyday it says much that these Northern peoples would still be seen as such central figures, obviously suitable for a popular theatre-going audience. Half a millennium further on, in our own times, the Vikings remain just as prominent in the public imagination, giving their name to football teams, shipping lines, and spacecraft.Their gods have comic books and movies devoted to them and are remembered in the days of the week. Even their language has left some surprising imprints on our own: when we speak of such a basic concept as ‘law’, we are using an Old Norse word. The Vikings enjoy a popular recognition shared with very few other ancient cultures. At the same time, theVikings have also been reinvented at regular intervals, their attitudes and appearance changing to suit the times. Not long ago, even in recent decades, the image of them that greeted any interested enquirer would have been a resolutely violent one: the Vikings as raiders, pirates, and agents of terror. This stereotype has a long pedigree, extending back to the Middle Ages when they formed the stuff of saga writing and legend. The clichés came into sharper focus

DOI: 10.4324/9780203483251-1

2 Introduction

with their rediscovery during the Enlightenment and in the political fantasies of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. At this time, romance was blended with a nationalism that incorporated the Vikings into a blurred sense of emergent identity, supposedly rooted in the deep past. When the outlines of the modern map of Europe were being formed, the Vikings became Nordic archetypes: blond supermen (definitely men) with horned helmets, scouring the world in their dragon ships, but in a somehow admirable and heroic way. They were seen to have laid the foundations of modern Scandinavia and were pioneers of northern Christianity, though in a fashion that still permitted the remembrance of their excitingly savage paganism. By the 1930s, this version of the Vikings was in turn usurped by the darker fictions of the Third Reich and its spurious myths of racial purity.2 After the war, the academic study of the Viking Age would take decades to recover from the contamination of Nazi ideology. Interpretations began to be toned down and subsumed in the collection of data – of which more and more was coming to light with the advent of large-scale rescue archaeology in advance of construction projects as Europe rebuilt itself. Partly as a result, by the 1970s and 1980s, the Vikings had become peaceable, their warrior image not exactly forgotten but instead giving way to traders, craftsworkers, travellers, and poets. From the 1990s onwards, they were transformed again, this time into standard-bearers of free trade, early medieval pathfinders for the fully integrated European Union that was just then coming into being. In more recent years, the violent Vikings have also begun to return – partly as a restoration of historical reality, but sadly also with echoes of their twentiethcentury weaponisation as they continue to be misappropriated by white supremacists and nationalists. Beyond these distortions, however, scholars are now becoming increasingly interested in the contents of Viking minds as well as the substance of their actions and materiality. Current perspectives on the early medieval Scandinavian world are numerous, pluralistic, and in constant flux. They also incorporate perhaps one of the most fundamental shifts in research perspective: until about 30 years ago – with some notable exceptions – most readings of the Viking Age were unquestioningly androcentric. The notion of the female Viking was seen as a contradiction in terms, and Viking studies took a very long time indeed to be engendered. Thankfully, this has now changed definitively, and Viking-Age gender and identity is being explored on a spectrum that extends well beyond the binary.3 There is also a similar acknowledgement of all stages of the life course from infancy to old age, a range of bodily ability, and a diversity of ethnic backgrounds. In approaching all this, archaeologists share the field with historians, philologists, scholars of medieval literature, students of comparative religion, runologists, anthropologists, and specialists from the full range of the natural, physical, and biological sciences. But in the midst of all this variation and redefinition, who really were the Vikings? What was the ‘Viking Age’, how did it come about, and when and why did it end?

Introduction  3

Defining the Vikings Traditionally, according to the kings-and-battles school of history, the Viking Age has been seen to begin on 8th June 793 CE with the first recorded seaborne raid on the shores of England, targeting the insular Northumbrian monastery of Lindisfarne. Through the shocked reactions preserved in chronicles and clerical letters, subsequent generations have derived the notion of the Viking raids as an unexpected ‘bolt from the blue’. One of the most famous and frequently quoted is the letter written to the King of Northumbria by the English cleric Alcuin, who was then in residence at the Frankish court: Never before has such terror appeared in Britain as we have now suffered from a pagan race, nor was it thought that such an inroad from the sea could be made. Behold, the church of St. Cuthbert spattered with the blood of the priests of God, despoiled of all its ornaments; a place more venerable than all in Britain is given as prey to pagan peoples. This provides a perfect match for the ‘plunder and slaughter’ described in other sources and is no doubt an accurate reflection of what it felt like to be on the receiving end of a Viking raid. The above excerpt from Alcuin’s letter appears in almost every book on the Vikings, but what is hardly ever mentioned is how the same text continues: Consider the dress, the hairstyle, and the luxurious habits of the princes and people. Look at the hairstyle, how you have wished to imitate the pagans in their beards and hair. Does not the terror threaten of those whose hairstyle you wished to have?4 Over the following decades and centuries, Christian monks would often use the Vikings (or sundry ‘barbarians’) as a stick with which to beat those of the faithful they perceived as straying from the proper path of obedience to the Church: the ‘Northmen’ as the unwitting instruments of God’s wrath, sent to punish the wicked for their sins, victims who had no-one but themselves to blame. We see a shadow of this in Alcuin’s letter, but in the detail is something else, something specific rather than a vague metaphor. For the Lindisfarne attackers to have formerly been so admired, even down to the copying of their haircuts – and wouldn’t we love to know about those? – they must have been seen frequently, up close, and in favourable circumstances. The raiders who burned Lindisfarne were the epitome of the later Viking image, the origin of its clichés, but it is clear that, in a different context, they were also well-known to their victims, and even envied. This is supported by a wealth of archaeological material which confirms that Scandinavians had been trading in England for more than a century prior to the Lindisfarne raid and probably much longer.5 Especially in the Anglian east of the country, people were proudly wearing brooches and clothing accessories that

4 Introduction

would not have looked out of place on a prosperous Scandinavian farmer. Once we understand that, it can be seen that the shock lay not in the raiders’ sudden arrival from the sea,‘never before seen’, but in the unprecedented nature of that encounter: nobody expected them to bring swords in place of goods for barter. As we shall see, the twenty-first century has also brought new discoveries that make it clear the Scandinavians were raiding abroad much earlier than the 790s and in the east rather than the west. Medieval textual sources, especially early poetry on the lives of kings, have long been understood to imply this, but it has only recently been confirmed through archaeology. One particularly dramatic excavation revealed the remains of a large force, apparently a raiding party from central Sweden, who had been buried in two boats on the Estonian island of Saaremaa around 750 (we shall return to this in Chapter 4).6 This pre-Viking heritage of Scandinavian contact withWestern Europe is important for understanding the later social transformations that lie at the very core of why we think of a ‘Viking Age’ at all. The irony is that when a few boatloads of tooled-up Norwegian farmers beached on the sands of Holy Island, or some belligerent Swedes came to grief a few decades earlier in Estonia, it would not have occurred to them that their actions were of any historical significance or singularity. Not least, they would not have made much distinction between trading and fighting as viable forms of interaction, both being components of everyday life in their homelands. This links to another problem, namely the notorious difficulty in determining what the word ‘Viking’ – víkingr in Old Norse – actually means, and how it should be used. To summarise the leading contenders for a definitive reading, it might refer to maritime robbers who lurked in bays (vík) of the sea; in its original sense, to raiders from the Viken (Old Norse Víkin) region of Norway (an interpretation almost wholly discounted today); or even to those whose main targets were the fledgling market centres (wic) of northern Europe. We know that the term did not only apply to people from Scandinavia, but was also in use among other cultures around the North Sea and Baltic littoral.There is general agreement that something close to ‘pirate’ is about right and that it refers to an activity or a sense of purpose, almost a job description. It was clearly a mutable identity that one could take on or discard, either permanently or as a temporary measure.7 To complicate matters further, Scandinavian researchers tend to use ‘Viking’ in this specific sense, while those from the English-speaking world often employ it far more liberally as a collective term of convenience. Some modern scholars write of vikings in lower case, using the term in a generalising sense, while others retain the distinguishing title case of Vikings though claiming to denote much the same thing; still, others use the case distinction to separate properly piratical Vikings from everyone else. There is no consensus, other than that it is very hard to find a universally acceptable alternative. In this book, it is hoped that the meaning of all such terminology will be clear from its context. Perhaps the most curious aspect of this period is that if we could somehow talk to a Scandinavian from that period, they would probably be astonished to learn that later generations would characterise her or his lifetime as falling in an ‘Age of

Introduction  5

Vikings’ at all.The scholarly use of this term to refer to the Scandinavian population in general is hard to escape but has been rightly criticised for drawing attention away from all those who never went anywhere and did no harm to anyone. One historian has suggested that it would be more accurate to write of ‘the golden age of the pig-farmer’.8 The ‘end’ of the Viking Age is equally problematic and has its counterpart to the Lindisfarne purists in those who see a termination with the Norwegian defeat at the Battle of Stamford Bridge in northern England, on 25 September 1066. Others, including the authors, prefer to look to more long-term processes of cultural change that mark out a significant shift in the course of human history. For the purposes of this volume, we are safe in framing the Viking Age as the broad period from the mid-eighth century CE to the middle of the eleventh, plus or minus a decade or two, with the proviso that its social motors started up and ran down in different ways in different places at different times, and at radically different speeds. We shall return to these beginnings and endings below. With all this in mind, however, can we really speak of a ‘Viking Age’ at all? Some scholars argue firmly that we cannot, seeing it as a redundant relic of an imperial past. According to this view, the Victorians and their contemporaries ‘colonised’ the understanding of these few centuries as a means of retrospectively legitimising their own ambitions of national glory with a notional heritage, creating the Viking stereotype in the process. By the same token, it is suggested, there was no such thing as a pan-Scandinavian culture at the time in question, but instead a fragmented world of separate identities that should meaningfully be grouped together in quite different ways, or not at all. Other researchers promote the idea of the eighth to eleventh centuries as a period of economic and social change all over the Northern world, in which the inhabitants of the modern Nordic countries simply played a part alongside many others, again without any sense of ethnic unity.9 Of course, all historical scholarship tends to create artificial chronological divisions of what would have been experienced at the time as nothing other than the continuities of existence. The cultures of ‘Viking-Age’ Scandinavia were certainly heterogeneous, varied, and changeable, dynamic rather than static or monolithic. However, beyond the local and regional identities so clearly visible in the archaeology, there was also a general pattern of consistent material culture from the Danish border to the High Arctic, not to mention a pan-Nordic language with mutually intelligible dialects. In addition, all of this was also different to what was going on beyond the broad geographical borders of Scandinavia. More importantly, conceptual critics of the Viking Age overlook a basic fact, namely that the centuries packaged into this historians’ artifice really did see unprecedented changes, something fundamentally different from what came before and after. It is certainly true that this process was appropriated, distorted, or just misunderstood by the intelligentsia of several European nations during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, reaching a terrible culmen in the 1930s when the Vikings were enthusiastically adopted by Nazism. The SS even formed its own ‘Wiking’ division of recruits from the Nordic countries, and the propagandists of the Third

6 Introduction

Reich actively promoted the German conquests of the 1940s as latter-day raids on an Iron Age model. Nonetheless, morally repugnant though these efforts undoubtedly were, in themselves they say nothing about the actual time of the Vikings. Our research interpretations today should not be directed or diverted by the wishful thinking of romantic nationalists in earlier centuries, or by what fascist pseudoscholars wrote about the same subjects more than 80 years ago, or by what their successors claim today. When viewed in contemporary context, the Viking Age emerges as a period of genuine and distinctive social development. The early medieval Scandinavians’ brief period on the global stage saw the transformation of their homelands from scattered tribal groupings to the nation states of Norway, Sweden, and Denmark that we still recognise today. With the rise of statehood also came unified kingship and a shift of religion, as the traditional beliefs and practices of the North were gradually absorbed into the more formal structures of the Christian church. Over little more than 300 years, Scandinavians ranged over the northern world as never before, engaging with cultures and places from Afghanistan in the East to the Canadian seaboard in the West. As traders, raiders, mercenaries, explorers, and settlers all across this vast region, ‘Viking’ men and women left a diaspora and political legacy with echoes into the twenty-first century. In this fundamental reshaping of Northern identities, their vibrant material culture and art played a vital role, as the Vikings changed – and were changed by – all those they encountered. The Vikings, in short, were real. Like any field of research, Viking studies has its debates, arguments, and competing interpretations; there is a sense in which every scholar has their own Viking Age.10 However, in this book, we have tried to avoid controversies of this kind, to present a concise, introductory overview of a remarkable ancient people and their place in a world whose widening was partly of their making. We begin with where they came from, the region known today as Scandinavia, and how their own unique culture developed from the prehistoric past.

Notes   1 Sams (1986). 2 Roesdahl and Sørensen (1996); Wawn (2000); Raudvere et al. (2001); Jón Karl Helgason (2017). 3 Back Danielsson (2007); Jóhanna Katrín Friðriksdóttir (2020); N. Price (2020a, ch. 5).   4 Chase (1975). 5 The revisionist view of Alcuin’s letter, its implications and archaeological correlates, were first fully explored by John Hines (1984). See also Carver (1990). 6 The Saaremaa boat burials are not yet fully published, but for an interim overview see Peets (2013); N. Price (2020a, 275–9); Konsa (2021); and Chapter 4. 7 Herschend (2006); Brink (2008a). 8 Christiansen (2002, 6). 9 Svanberg (2003); Hodges (2006); Woolf (2022). 10 For a range of views, see Croix (2015c); Lund and Sindbæk (2021); Sävborg (2022). N. Price (2020a) provides a personal view of this kind from one of the authors.

1 THE VIKINGS BEGIN

In the past two decades or so, the concept of the ‘North’ has been taken up in numerous academic contexts, embracing climate, sociology, politics, the literary imagination – and, of course, history and culture.1 At times its geographical range can span the circumpolar region, occasionally it refers to the High Arctic specifically, but it is also employed with greater focus and slightly more southerly latitude to mean northern Eurasia, northern Europe (including areas such as Scotland and the Isles), or the North Atlantic. However, in seeking specifically ‘Northern’ expressions of lifestyle, environmental adaptation, and in particular the spiritual interaction with nature as expressed in localised religion and folklore, Scandinavia has always been at the centre of this notion.

Northern Landscapes, Northern Peoples The sheer scale of Scandinavia can be hard to grasp, not least since it is usually relegated to the periphery of our conventional map projections. Measured from the southernmost tip of modern Sweden, as the crow flies it is the same distance to the North Cape of Arctic Norway as it is to Istanbul. Whether we focus on its indented coastlines, deep fjords, or still lakes, it is widely understood even now that Scandinavia is – and always has been – a world with contours of water: it is after all no accident that the ship is probably the most recognisable of all Viking images. In fact, the landscape of what is now Norway, Sweden, and Denmark was literally created by water, more exactly carved out of bedrock by the slow grinding of the glaciers. While most of the European landmass was settled by mobile communities of gatherers and hunters, until some 13,000 years ago Scandinavia remained locked beneath more than a kilometre’s thickness of ice. Over the following millennia of melt and glacial retreat, the long river courses, valleys, and fjords of Scandinavia were formed around the mountainous spine of the DOI: 10.4324/9780203483251-2

8  The Vikings Begin

FIGURE 1.1 Map of Scandinavia in the late Iron Age, with selected places mentioned in the text. Danish fortresses of the late Viking Age: (1) Aggersborg; (2) Fyrkat; (3) Nonnebakken; (4) Trelleborg; (5) Borgring; and (6) Borgeby. Produced by Tom H. Lundmark.

The Vikings Begin  9

peninsula, interspersed with clay flatlands and marshes in the south, coniferous taiga forests to the north, and ultimately the treeless tundra zone of the Arctic. The combination of land uplift as the weight of the ice receded, and the flood of meltwater released into the sea, set in motion complex processes of shoreline displacement that continue today. At varying rates throughout Scandinavia, in broad terms the sea level has fallen steadily since the last glaciation. During theViking Age, the shorelines were up to 5 m higher than today, meaning that the lakes were larger, the rivers and fjords wider, and the natural harbours deeper – all of which made waterborne transport easier and more efficient, as people travelled through a landscape dotted with far more islands and archipelagos than we see now. The Vikings were supreme mariners but behind them stretched millennia of human experience with the sea. Living on the land, its terms and conditions, was also largely dictated by the legacy of the glaciers.2 To the west of the mountains in what is now Norway, heavy year-round rainfall and cold winters were mitigated by the warming effects of the Gulf Stream. Over 20,000 km of indented coastline was in places sheltered by offshore islands, affording safer maritime passage, and secure harbours in the outer reaches of the fjords. The banks of these same waterways also comprised the bulk of the arable land, as less than 5% of the country is suitable for agriculture. These fertile zones were especially in the Trøndelag and in the south-eastern heartlands of Østfold and Vestfold; it is no accident that it is was here the later political centres and early towns (including the capital city of Oslo) would later be founded. Beyond the farmland, the majority of the population was reliant on marine resources – the fish that could eaten fresh or salted for the winter; the seals that were plentiful in the coastal waters; the walrus off more northerly shores; and the whales of the open ocean. On land, large game such as bear and elk (the animal called moose in North America) provided a wealth of both meat and raw materials, especially furs and skins, while smaller animals were hunted and trapped. On the eastern side of that natural mountain border, sheltered from the worst of the Atlantic weather, a markedly different environment characterised what is now Sweden. The northernmost two-thirds of the country – known as Norrland (‘Northland’) – was and remains an elevated, undulating landscape of steep valleys covered with vast, impassable taiga forests of pine and spruce. All along the Norrland coast, a series of strong, navigable water courses run down from the hill country to empty into the Gulf of Bothnia. Superficially similar to the Norwegian fjords, the northern Swedish river valleys provided efficient transport routes into the interior, while their shores sustained the only viable agricultural subsistence in the far north. Further inland, the farms gave way to a more transient settlement pattern of hunters and reindeer herders that have left minimal traces in the archaeological record, though new discoveries are steadily adding to our knowledge. Further south, the Swedish landscape opened up into deciduous woodland with broad plains of glacial clay, fertile soil that was perfect for large-scale cultivation. Extending in a belt across the country, interspersed with enormous freshwater lakes, this agricultural heartland was the foundation for the competing political powers that would emerge in the course of the long Iron Age, culminating in the time of

10  The Vikings Begin

the Vikings. Deep bays and rivers provided access to the sea – as waterways or ice roads, depending on the season – while inland movement was possible along glacial eskers and gravel ridges.The climate was warm and temperate, with an annual cycle of pleasant summers and snowy, freezing winters. The farming country of the central Swedish lakelands was bordered to the south by a belt of dense forests, roughly corresponding to the modern province of Småland. This formed a natural topographical barrier that, over millennia, had real social and political impact in that it developed into the effective frontier between the ‘Swedes’ and ‘Danes’ – it was not until long after the Middle Ages that the provinces of Skåne, Blekinge, and Halland would be transferred from Danish to Swedish control as a political decision. Denmark itself consists of the Jylland peninsula as an extension of the European continent, and a great number of islands of which the two largest are Sjælland and Fyn, with other insular centres of strategic and political importance including Samsø and Bornholm.The country is very low-lying by comparison with the rest of Scandinavia, rich in agricultural farmlands between belts of deciduous woods. This was also a marine landscape – nowhere in Denmark is more than about 40 km from the sea – and deep fjords penetrate far inland, albeit with gentler profiles than their Norwegian counterparts. The interior was also dotted with bogs and marshes that would play a significant role in the spiritual world-view of those who lived around them. Through the sea passages of the Skagerrak and Kattegat, and the complex channels between their islands, the inhabitants of Denmark largely controlled access to the Baltic from the west. However, Scandinavian influence and settlement also extended far into the central regions of the ‘Eastern Sea’, on the islands of Öland, Gotland, and the Åland archipelago. Each developed its own distinctive social organisation and material expression, separate from the ethnic and political structures of Scandinavia itself but also all clearly part of the same, broad cultural collective. Gotland in particular formed a key node in Baltic contact and trade, a role it would retain far into the medieval period; today, it is a province of Sweden. The Åland islands – numbering in the thousands, though less than a hundred are inhabited – are effectively an eastern extension of the ‘Stockholm archipelago’ which begins in the seaward reaches of the modern Swedish capital. Culturally Swedish but today part of Finland, in the deep past they formed a bridge between mainland Scandinavia and the peoples of the eastern Bothnian shore. In terms of the populations of all these regions, the difficulty of finding a suitable nomenclature for the Viking-Age peoples of what is now Scandinavia has been mentioned in the Introduction. The modern national identities of Norwegians, Swedes, and Danes are largely irrelevant when applied to that time (or at least in correspondence to their modern scope), and labels such as ‘Norse’, ‘Nordic’, and so on are not much better. The only thing we can be sure of is that they all shared an approximately similar ethnic heritage with southerly links to the peoples of the north European continent. The earliest glimpses we have of ‘Scandinavian’ ethnonyms – the names of peoples or coherent ethnic groups – come from a mixed bag of written sources,

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all originating outside the region concerned. Among the primary examples are the Getica of Jordanes, written c.551, and the tenth-century English poem Widsith that both include much-debated lists of named populations.3 In what is now Sweden, two larger ethnic groups appear – the Svear who controlled the area north and south of Lake Mälaren, the brackish body of water connecting to the Baltic on which the modern city of Stockholm now lies, and the Götar, divided into eastern and western groups, and inhabiting the region to the south-west around the great lakes of Vänern and Vättern, bordering the Småland forests and the ‘Danish’ frontier. There were internal divisions and local names for peoples among the Svear and Götar, but at least some general level of identification and allegiance is evident early on. There were organised social and political clusters around the Norrland rivers, each controlling a valley and its connections between sea and mountain, but we have little idea what they called themselves. In the Baltic proper, the Gutar occupied the island of Gotland. There seems to have been no name for ‘Sweden’ as a generalising entity, and Svitjod appears later to describe the land of the Svear in the sense of an expanding political polity.The modern Swedish name for the country, Sverige, literally means the Kingdom of the Svear. The Latin term Dani, ‘Danes’, appears before the Viking Age, and at least from outside it was used as a catch-all for almost any kind of Scandinavian. Even though it is clear that the Danish peoples achieved some kind of political cohesion much earlier than their northern neighbours, it is far from certain that the collective name referred to much more than discrete regions such as the Jylland peninsula. The first mention of a place actually called Denamearc, ‘Denmark’, comes from a most unusual source, a set of notes inserted in an English text from the 880s that records a visit to the Wessex court of a merchant from the Lofoten Islands in the Norwegian Arctic.4 This man, called Ohthere in the Old English but probably named Óttarr, seems to have aroused considerable curiosity in the English King Alfred, who asked him a long series of questions about his homeland, how he made his living, and the routes by which he sailed. Not least, the interest that the king showed in Óttarr’s description of his homeland also demonstrates how little the English really seemed to know about their neighbours across the sea: the Scandinavians went frequently to at least parts of the British Isles, but the traffic was largely one way. Albeit at second hand through the words of the scribe, the discussion that ensued provides our first description of Scandinavia by one of its inhabitants. Apart from mentioning Denmark (where Óttarr traded), it is not surprising that he devoted most attention to his own country. He calls it Norðveg, meaning the same as the modern name, the ‘North Way’, referring to the natural coastal sailing route inside the chains of sheltering islands.5 The people who lived there were the ‘Northmen’, again approximating to the modern equivalent, effectively the ‘Norðvegians’. Óttarr’s description is succinct, eloquent, and to the point: He said that the land of the Norwegians was very long and very narrow. All that they can either graze or plough lies by the sea; and even that is very rocky in some places; to the east, and alongside the cultivated land, lie wild mountains.

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Although this might seem to describe Norway in two sentences, there are deeper conceptions of the land buried in Óttarr’s text. As he relates what can be seen from a ship when sailing north along the Norwegian coast, a subtle change comes into the nature of the settlements he depicts. This introduces one of the most important aspects of life in Viking-Age Scandinavia, not the main subject of this book but nevertheless a feature of Northern culture that must be acknowledged and built into our understandings of this time and place: the presence of the Sámi, with whom the ‘Scandinavians’ shared much of Fenno-Scandia, incorporating presentday Norway, Sweden, Finland, and parts of northern Russia.

The Sámi For most of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, the Sámi were known in English as the Lapps, with corresponding terms in the Scandinavian languages, but these are today regarded as pejoratives and should be avoided. There persists a general perception of the Sámi as an arctic people of the far north; though there is some truth in this, it is misleading even now, and it certainly does not reflect their population distribution during the Viking Age.6 The Sámi speak, and have always spoken, a Finno-Ugric language, of the same family as Finnish, Hungarian, and Estonian and thus utterly different to the Indo-European tongue of the majority population in Scandinavia. Their name for themselves seems to go back at least to the medieval period and probably extends to the Viking Age or even earlier. In a curious echo of the later dichotomy between external labelling and self-description, the Vikings appear to have called them something different, Finnar, ‘Finns’, sometimes with a prefix that referred to their abilities on skis or their skill with the hunting bow. The origins of the Sámi – where exactly they came from, when they moved into Fenno-Scandia – have been much debated, often with uncomfortably nationalist overtones concerning who ‘arrived first’. The key fact is that both the Sámi and the majority population had been present in Scandinavia for millennia prior to the Viking Age and that they lived side by side while maintaining clearly distinct cultures and lifestyles. There is a degree to which these correspond to a nomadic path of reindeer herding, fishing, and hunting for the Sámi, contrasting with the settled agrarian life of the rest, but this is an oversimplification and in reality there was no such firm division of ethnic subsistence. The Sámi homeland today is known as Sápmi, spanning (and ignoring!) recognised political borders to encompass the northern regions of Norway, Sweden, and Finland, as well as the Kola Peninsula in north-west Russia. In formal terms, Sápmi is a relatively recent creation, but it may well extend back in time in the cognitive perception of ‘Sámi-ness’ and a link to the land. In the present day, the cultural distribution of the Sámi more or less coincides with the borders of Sápmi, as the area where a Sámi identity and expression is visibly promoted. However, even now this belies their actual distribution, which follows the same socio-economic trends as the Nordic population: for example,

The Vikings Begin  13

the majority of modern Sweden’s Sámi live in the capital Stockholm, for much the same reasons as everyone else. In the Viking Age, archaeology has shown that the Sámi ranged much further south than the contemporary conception of their homeland might suggest. This evidence consists of burials conducted with what would elsewhere clearly be understood as Sámi rituals, the characteristic remains of circular tent encampments with central stone hearths, and isolated finds of objects decorated with art styles common among the Sámi.This is also supported by early modern accounts of Sámi trade and settlement in the south far into the eighteenth and even nineteenth centuries. Identity is a more complex matter than patterns of ornament or the burial rites of the dead, but in combination the mass of data is compelling, especially in view of its contrast with the surrounding settlements of equally typical ‘Norse’ type. In Norway, Sámi traces of this kind have been found around the Trondheim area and just to the north of Oslo, and in Sweden, they were present even further south. There were also other differences in the settlements of the Norse and Sámi, brought out not least in Óttarr’s description for King Alfred mentioned above. In his account, Óttarr speaks of the land ‘emptying’ the farther north one travels, despite it being obviously still inhabited. Although he does not say so explicitly, it is clear that he regards the Norwegian attitude to the landscape as essentially transformative, as a place onto which one imposes buildings, settlements, and the material trappings of living. The Sámi, by contrast, adopt an assimilative approach, living within the land and leaving a light touch upon it, in a pattern of subsistence that is essentially invisible. This is borne out by the archaeology, in which we see the pit structures and ephemeral mobile tents of the Sámi alongside the established wooden farmhouses and byres of their neighbours. Again, it is important to emphasise that Viking-Age Scandinavia supported two fundamentally distinctive populations, living in close proximity and in relative cooperation – occasionally in the same settlements or even households – but following their own lifeways and employing a substantially different repertoire of material culture.7 Continued expansion northwards and westwards would have led to increased interaction between homesteaders and the Sámi.As in Norway, the groups inhabiting coastal and interior regions of Sweden cannot be easily ascribed ‘Scandinavian’ or ‘Sámi’ identities. Rather, new ethnicities and communities were demonstrably growing up in these environments. While these developments are characterised more by behaviour and lifestyle than an easy cultural label, this distinction becomes clearer over time.

Scandinavian Prehistories For Scandinavian archaeologists, the Viking Age (conventionally reckoned as the period c.750–1050 CE) is the final phase of a longer span of prehistory known as the Iron Age, which extended back in time to the centuries before the rise of the Roman Empire. This construction was originally placed on the distant past as part of the so-called three-age system, which traced human social and cultural evolution

14  The Vikings Begin

in terms of the changing technological use of raw materials that were easiest to detect in the archaeological record – thus the successive ‘Ages’ of Stone, Bronze, and Iron.8 Although these terms are still widely used, their once-rigid chronological demarcations have long been deconstructed in favour of exploring fluid social change and the complexities of life as it was lived.9 Towards the end of the last glaciation, about 12,000 BCE, small communities of hunters, fishers, and gatherers began to move into the coastal region of what is now Norway, while the Scandinavian interior was still covered with ice. These peoples carved their world into the rocks, covering them with engravings of animals, humans, and symbols that are today one of the great treasures of Northern archaeology.10 Over the next 4,000 years or so, others would continue to migrate into the region both from the north, through what is now Finland and over the North Cape, and from the south, up from Denmark and the islands. Several different groupings can be perceived in the material culture, with arguable ethnic reflections, and the genomic picture also reveals a tangle of populations with complex origins.11 Although the practice of agriculture would be introduced from the continent around 4000 BCE – beginning a period that archaeologists term the Neolithic – it was by no means universally adopted, and in the north of Scandinavia it would be millennia before animal husbandry became firmly established. Even in the south, hunting and fishing was a lifestyle to which many groups either returned periodically or practised alongside farming.12 Across the southern parts of Scandinavia, timber was in plentiful supply for building and warmth, and indeed the whole region held huge resources of game and fish. Evidence for the movement of livestock over long distances during the early and middle Neolithic, as indicated by scientific analyses of animal bone assemblages, shows that communities were capable of developing and maintaining extensive social and economic networks at this time. Viewing Scandinavia as a whole, from northern Norway to the Danish border, agrarian communities really began to take root and expand in the Bronze Age, beginning around 1700 BCE (though with wide chronological variation across the North).13 The first millennium BCE saw a northwards expansion of agricultural practice, as forests were cleared for farmland. A range of domestic animals were kept on farms, including cattle, sheep, and goats, as well as horses and household creatures such as dogs.14 People lived in rectangular buildings known as longhouses, primarily built of wood and daub, with thatched roofs, though in some areas the walls were founded in stone with timber and turf above. For much of prehistory, humans and livestock shared the same structures, and this would set the pattern for domestic life in Scandinavia well into the first millennium CE. Little is known about the details of social structures during the Bronze Age, but high-status monumental burials are clearly indicative of a hierarchical system and increasing stratification. At least some communities were able to dispose of wealth in lavish displays of power, making offerings of figurines, helmets, and weapons to the peat bogs, marshes, and rivers. This political influence, for such it seems to have been, was perhaps derived at least in part from the ability of specific groups to control the flow of imported raw materials used in the production of bronze. Tools

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made from copper ores originating as far afield as the Iberian Peninsula and Sardinia were being used in Sweden, for example, implying that southern Scandinavian communities were actively participating in the development of long-range trading networks.15 Some form of basic slave trade may also have formed part of such regional and international connections.16 Warfare seems to have been endemic to Bronze Age Scandinavia, with evidence from rock carvings and the material culture of violence that implies an advanced notion of martial ideology.17 There is little to suggest that the extended contacts and interactions reflected in the archaeology were always peaceable, and indeed it may be that life in Scandinavia actually resembled the political sophistication and internecine conflict of the contemporary Aegean world related in later texts such as Homeric epic. Many of the social traits visible in the Bronze Age of the North – including a socio-political tendency towards violence – clearly continued for centuries afterwards.18 The so-called early Iron Age (c.500 BCE–400 CE) is conventionally defined from a deeply externalising perspective, in relation to the power of Rome. Its ‘preRoman’ phase extended until the beginning of the Common Era and the end of the Republic, while the ‘Roman Iron Age’ lasted for the four centuries of primary imperial power. During this 900-year period in Scandinavia, the remainder of the viable agricultural land was settled and cleared for cultivation, again especially in the north, building a landscape of scattered farms and small villages.These same regions were also the focus of other activities, such as the extraction of iron ore in quantities sufficient not only for use but also to generate a surplus for export.19 During the first centuries CE, at the height of the Roman Empire, goods from the south were entering Scandinavia in some quantity.These included weapons – a trade that was perhaps illegal – and also prestige goods such as wine sets, which would have associated their Northern owners with the sophistication of imperial life.20 We know relatively little of the social constellations of these early Iron Age peoples, but archaeological evidence indicates the presence of regional political authorities capable of coordinated organisation on a large scale – in effect, probably an expansion of Bronze Age power structures.21 In Norway, groups of longhouses have been discovered set up in clusters around courtyard spaces, and the current consensus is that they represent assembly sites with an administrative function. The sophistication of their social organisation is clear, there are parallels in other areas of Scandinavia, and it seems that these were the precursor of the developed thing assemblies of the Viking Age to which we shall return below.22 That this structuring of regional power was also projected outwards in military competition – in essence, organised warfare – is clear not only from the substantial quantities of weapons found in burials but also particularly from the massive deposits of military equipment found in the bogs of Denmark. Dating from the pre-Roman and Roman periods, these offerings are usually assumed to have been made to the gods and the powers below, spirits of the liminal world of the marshes between land and water. It is also in the early centuries of the Iron Age that large numbers of unaccompanied individuals, such as the famous Tollund Man, seem to

16  The Vikings Begin

have been deposited in bogs as sacrifices. The motives for these ritual murders are a subject of debate, but it is possible that the victims may have been social outcasts or criminals, or that they were killed (not necessarily unwillingly) as an offering to the gods.23 The material in the weapon sacrifices appears to consist of trophies taken from defeated forces who came to grief during attempted invasions of the Danish islands, even including the ships they came in. The Hjørtspring boat, for example, dating from 400 to 300 BCE and measuring nearly 20 m in length, was found deposited in a bog along with the weapons and equipment of around 80 individuals.24 Detailed studies of weaponry and other personal equipment – most comprehensively at the site of Illerup Ådal – have enabled archaeologists to reconstruct these forces in some detail, with tripartite command structures and a mix of infantry and cavalry.25 At Alken Enge, a weapon deposit of this kind was actually accompanied by human remains that may represent the grisly sacrifice of defeated troops.26 Some have even argued that these little ‘armies’ were organised on a Roman model and that the bog offerings are a sort of Northern equivalent of the imperial triumph given to victorious generals.27 The same research has conclusively shown that some of the forces originated in southern Norway, Denmark, and northern Germany, demonstrating the truly international range of these wars. It is not possible to write a material ‘history’ of this period, other than at the crudest kings-and-battles level implied by the bog finds, but we can at least track the presence of the small but powerful polities (perhaps based on extended family lineages or clans?) that could launch such expeditions.

The Lords of the Hall While the importance of water and the sea during the Viking Age cannot be overstated, the physically tangible foci of socio-political power in Scandinavia had for centuries lain very much on land. From the Roman Iron Age onwards, we find extensive elite settlements based around the monumental buildings known as halls, a kind of structure that seems to have developed relatively quickly throughout the ‘Germanic’ societies of the North during the early first millennium CE. Essentially an augmented and extended version of the classic longhouse, in addition to providing a high-status residence the hall was primarily a building for representation. The behavioural codes of the late Iron Age placed great weight on hospitality and conspicuous generosity, expressed not least through the hosting of feasts and collective meals. The hall was the arena where these social dramas played out, usually in a main elongated room with a large central hearth and access from the outside, sometimes through porch-like annexes. At either end of the hall was often a kitchen area, and at the opposite gable, the private chambers of the family.28 In Scandinavia, early examples of halls are found at sites such as Gudme on the Danish island of Fyn, dating from the third to seventh centuries CE.29 Impressive finds of gold and silver that have been recovered around the buildings speak to the influence of these magnate residences as places of social, mercantile, and diplomatic

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FIGURE 1.2 The excavated fourth-century royal halls at Gudme on Fyn, Denmark. Photo by Frank Bach/Alamy.

interaction. Many of these early hall complexes remained a focus of power into the late Iron Age, sometimes moving location slightly within the estate but retaining the same essential landscape context. The type example here is at Lejre near Roskilde, where the early Danish royal seat would develop, which has produced evidence for the adaptation and rebuilding of multiple hall structures over several centuries.30 It is clear the hall itself often represented a single element within what were much larger and multi-functional sites, the importance of which was entwined with their situation within political, ritual, and ancestral landscapes, just as much as it resided with the elite groups that inhabited them at any single point in time. Closely tied to any aristocratic group was the retinue – the band of warriors employed by a lord both for protection and as an extension of militaristic power.31 We know from the enormous sacrificial deposits of weapons and armour found in Danish bogs, noted above, that many of the fighting forces of the North used standardised equipment of clearly separate grades during the Roman Iron Age, implying something akin to uniforms and formal military organisation. We should not be surprised, given that many men from Scandinavia served in the Roman army as foederati – a polite term for mercenaries – formed into irregular military units and organised along ethnic lines. They fought alongside the legionaries of the later Empire and were trained in its fighting methods, while retaining many of the cultural characteristics (especially those of martial value) native to their homelands. A major question thus concerns what these soldiers brought back to Scandinavia on their discharge from the southern wars, in terms of both material culture and ideas. It is possible, for example, that models for military organisation in Scandinavia

18  The Vikings Begin

were based on those which Northern warriors had encountered while serving in the south, under the standards of the Empire, but equally their societies seem quite sophisticated enough to have developed such practices themselves. The ability to muster sizable groups for warfare must in any case have been essential to the elites’ ability to maintain their dominance within volatile tribal hierarchies. From an early period, it seems that the relationship between a lord and his retinue was one of a patron and clients. Retainers offered a lord their services – and at least nominally their lives – in exchange for food, shelter, and material wealth. These bonds were sealed by oaths, but there is little indication to suggest that these were necessarily binding for life. Rather, it is likely that an individual could enter or, with permission, leave the orbit of their lord, and there was clearly an expectation that a lord should be able to competently lead and reward his followers. The reciprocal relationship between lords and their retinues is embodied in archaeological finds such as the ring-pommelled swords that are known from England, Germany, and Scandinavia, dating from the centuries immediately before the Viking Age, symbolising the oaths of allegiance that would have been sworn.32

A World in Motion As the power of the Western Roman Empire ebbed during the fifth century, much of Europe saw a period of social and political turmoil marked by an upsurge in warfare, instability, and what appear to have been large-scale population movements. This has long been known as the Migration Period, and for well over a century, scholars have debated the variety of factors that may have combined in its turbulent development.33 There is little agreement still, but the contemporary forces in play included disruptions to supply networks caused by the reorganisation of the post-imperial economy, the depredations of former Roman auxiliaries who had turned to mobile banditry, and political destabilisation at the peripheries of the fading superpower. Whatever their precise workings, these are all relevant because it is arguably in the complex interplay of Migration Period disruptions and resilience, recovery, and development, that we can detect the first steps on the social path that two centuries later would lead to what we can identify as the Viking Age.34 In recent years, however, one event in particular has risen to prominence in late Iron Age research and has been widely adopted (often rather uncritically) as a major trigger for the Migration Period collapse and the new society that seems to have been rebuilt on the foundations of the old. Beginning around 536 and continuing into the early 540s, it is clear that many societies of the northern hemisphere were severely impacted by at least two, and possibly three, major volcanic eruptions.35 Although geoscientists still cannot agree on their precise locations (one was definitely at Ilopango in today’s El Salvador, another probably in Iceland), there is no doubt that the eruptions ejected sulphate aerosols and other debris into the stratosphere in sufficient quantities to block the warmth of the sun for well over a year in Mediterranean latitudes, where the resulting failed harvests and social unrest are

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vividly described in contemporary written sources; similar effects are recorded in texts from as far away as India and China.36 The effects of this so-called ‘dust veil’ varied geographically, but in the marginal agricultural conditions of Scandinavia, it seems to have had drastic impacts, resulting in the widespread withering of crops, starvation, and ultimately a significant degree of depopulation in some regions. This can be seen in a number of environmental proxies, particularly the large-scale abandonment of arable land and its reclamation by woodland, reflected also in a sharp decline in seed pollens; tree rings also show a steep fall in summer temperatures and restricted growth in the years following 536. Occupation at many settlements seems to have come to an abrupt end during the mid-sixth century, in some cases violently, in a pattern that can be traced consistently across central and southern Scandinavia. More than a thousand farms were deserted on each of the islands of Gotland and Öland, and some areas of central Sweden and Norway seem to have been almost entirely given up.The effects of the solar darkness varied even from one valley to another depending on local environmental conditions – some settlements even prospered at the expense of their neighbours – but an overall mortality rate of up to 50% has been estimated across Scandinavia.37 With several years of failed harvests, it is not difficult to imagine how the effects of the dust veil would have impacted upon the ideologies of the Scandinavian population. The archaeological record has yielded evidence to suggest that communities were going to extreme measures as part of their ritual observances, especially in the form of elaborate sacrificial deposits, unusually costly burial practices and the like. It is also during this period that we also see a proliferation of hillfort construction across many parts of Scandinavia. This seems to have been particularly intensive in Sweden and on Öland, suggesting a zone of coastal unrest from the Danish islands and up to the north-east. Again, this fits well with the picture of special measures taken in unstable times. Though the dust veil blanketed the North some 200 years before the time of the Vikings, the memories of these traumatic events may be preserved in mythology. In the poetic treatise Gylfaginning (‘The Tricking of Gylfi’), which forms the first part of Snorri Sturluson’s Prose Edda, there is a foretelling of the events that will lead to the destruction of the world and the cosmos – the final cataclysm of the Ragnarök. This would be preceded by a great winter, described in some detail: First will come the winter called Fimbulvetr. Snow will drive in from all directions; the cold will be severe and the winds will be fierce. The sun will be of no use. Three of these winters will come, one after the other, with no summer in between.38 We cannot be sure whether these mythological tales can be linked directly with the events of the mid-sixth century, but the suggestion is compelling and the chaos of the Migration Period fits the consequences of the Fimbulvetr, the ‘Mighty Winter’ as described in other sources. In addition to further relations of a solar dimness and

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abnormal weather, there are also indications of its social effects. For example, in the mythological poem Völuspá (‘The Prophecy of the Seeress’), preserved in the medieval compilation known as the Poetic Edda, the world slides inexorably into anarchy: Brothers will struggle and slaughter each other, and sisters’ sons spoil kinship’s bonds. It’s hard on earth: great whoredom; axe-age, blade-age, shields are split; wind-age, wolf-age, before the world crumbles: no one shall spare another.39 The sense of dire calamity that is apparent in both of these texts speaks strongly to the gradually worsening and dramatic nature of the changes that have been observed in the archaeological record for the late Migration Period. If kinship groups disintegrated and social order began to fray, the bonds that held the Norse sense of community together would have dissolved – something truly nightmarish for the Viking mind to contemplate. It would not be surprising if this trauma would have been remembered two centuries later, encoded into mythological narratives as a warning of the end.40

The Vikings Begin However arguably (and regionally variably) catastrophic the combined impacts of the Migration Period events might have been, the turbulence of the late fifth and sixth centuries also gave rise to new social structures and new ways of living that would in time fundamentally change the North.While similar in their basic subsistence strategies and organisation to the societies that had existed during the Roman Iron Age, a distinct increase in social stratification can be observed. Across much of Scandinavia, elite authority seems to have increasingly been based on the ownership of land, with kin groups perhaps seeking to take advantage of the previous period of depopulation and abandonment by taking and holding large tracts of territory. It has been suggested that this was the period in which oðal rights – the right of a family to lay claim to land after occupying it for a certain number of generations – emerged. Oðal land could not be sold without the consent of kin, and even if this had already happened then members of the kin group had the right to redeem it. These rights are expressed on a number of Viking-Age runestones from Sweden, providing insights into the desire of families to reinforce their claims to land. The siting of grave fields on the edge of enclosed, arable land also suggests attempts to express claims to the landscape through the establishment of a physical, ancestral presence.41 It is also towards the end of the sixth century that the landscape of Scandinavia began to become increasingly monumentalised as a reflection of the new elites and their aspirations. This is seen particularly clearly in the establishment of royal burial complexes at Borre in Norway, Lejre in Denmark, and Gamla Uppsala in Sweden. The massive burial mounds at these sites were funerary counterparts of the great palatial halls discussed above, and in combination they speak to the power of emerging regional kings, marshalling resources and labour in order to construct extravagant

The Vikings Begin  21

testaments to their influence. A century later, other expressions of authority can be seen in the boat burials at cemeteries such as Vendel and Valsgärde, Sweden. The lavishly decorated regalia recovered during excavations, which included weaponry and other military equipment such as shields and helmets, speaks to the aristocratic projection of an ostentatious warrior identity.42 The spatial and cultural focus of elite power continued to lie in the hall, just as it had for centuries. The size and grandeur of these structures could vary significantly, but there is no mistaking their role as monumental expressions of an ideology focused on the ruler. In addition to their imposing size, the visual impact of these structures may have been magnified by the whitewashing or painting of the interior and exterior walls, for which there is now evidence in the form of lime kilns and construction materials found at sites such as Gamla Uppsala, Sweden, and Tissø, Denmark.43 Archaeological evidence, furthermore, is increasingly showing that these structures were used for a range of functions, including elaborate feasting and ritual activities over which the lords of the halls presided. In this, the elites played a dual function as both secular and cult leaders, whose influence and identity as mediators between the gods and the wider population became enshrined within the concept of divine kingship.44 Contrary to what was previously believed, there is now evidence to suggest that many halls were not permanently occupied. Excavations at Viking-Age sites such as Hofstaðir in Iceland have implied that certain hall structures may have been used on a seasonal basis by large groups participating in ritual activities. In mainland Scandinavia, other magnate halls such as that at Tissø may have been occupied intermittently by itinerant kings who spent much of their time on progress from one royal residence to another.45 This raises questions as to the extent to which the archaeological signature of these sites provides a ‘realistic’ image of daily-life among the Viking-Age elites. By the mid-eighth century in Scandinavia, all the building blocks of the societies that would characterise the Viking Age were in place. The continuing consolidation of elite power had led to the formation of a number of regional polities, each of which attempted to expand through endemic warfare at the expense of its neighbours. In the territory of Norway and Sweden, these tiny kingdoms (or whatever we are to call them) would gradually decline in number throughout the course of the Viking Age in tandem with the gradual rise of consolidated states. However, in the mid-eighth century, this process was only beginning, and at that time we see at least a couple of dozen such groupings focusing along the Norwegian west coast, the Oslofjord, the heartlands of the Götar and Svear, and on the river valleys of Norrland. In Denmark, however, the situation was different. There, the entrenchment of royal power can be seen in the consolidation of the Danevirke by a king named Gudfred in 808, attested in the Royal Frankish Annals. This massive linear ditch and bank, which traverses the Jylland peninsula a few kilometres from modern-day Schleswig, effectively sealed off access to mainland Denmark from the south. This monument would have required very considerable investment in labour and resources, not only in its construction but also in its maintenance and monitoring. Although the Royal Frankish Annals record Gudfred

22  The Vikings Begin

FIGURE 1.3 Excavation drawing of the helmet from boat grave 6 at Valsgärde, Uppland, Sweden – part of the material culture of the new elites on the eve of the Viking Age. Drawing by Harald Faith-Ell, 1941, by kind permission of Uppsala University Museum Gustavianum.

as constructing the Danevirke, archaeological evidence indicates that he merely refortified a pre-existing monument, implying an original construction by one of the increasingly powerful Danish kings that ruled in the region during the seventh century. Although it has been posited that Gudfred ruled a united Danish kingdom, it is more likely that he was one of several regional rulers who, like their neighbours in the north, were vying with each other for supremacy.46 Scandinavia’s total population at this time was perhaps a few hundred thousand. These societies were anything but homogenous. Native Norse-speakers and Sámi communities would have mingled with visiting travellers and merchants, as well as more settled immigrants. In Denmark and in the south and central regions of the Scandinavian peninsula, there were certainly sectors of the populace made up of people from what is now Poland and the Baltic States, as well as Saxons from north Germany and others from further afield.47 Many of these individuals had travelled to the north for much the same reasons as people migrate today – for work, trade, profit, and of course the personal drives of relationships and family. Even among properly ‘Viking’ groups, raiding parties and pirate expeditions were by no means

The Vikings Begin  23

confined to Nordic participants, and the lure of (relatively) easy wealth with a modicum of risk spread far. As we shall see in later chapters, merchants travelled to Scandinavia from much of the known world, and the multiculturalism of Viking society would not look out of place – in relative terms – beside the cosmopolitan populations of our own cities. Walking the streets of a Scandinavian market centre, we might easily rub shoulders with traders from all the territories of western, central, and southern Europe; we could meet Arabs from the Middle East and Spain, occasionally Africans from the southern Mediterranean coast (the Vikings called them blámenn, ‘blue people’), and probably also a few nomads from the Asian steppes. In this confusion of languages, foreign accents, and exotic appearances, the Vikings felt at home.

Notes 1 Davidson (2005); Plumb et al. (2020). 2 For overviews of Scandinavian environmental prehistory, see Ethelberg et al. (2000; 2012); Myrdal and Morell (2011); Iversen and Petersson (2017). 3 Iversen (2019). 4 Bately and Englert (2007), including the passage quoted on the ‘land of the Norwegians’. 5 Skre (2014). 6 Hansen and Olsen (2004); Fossum (2006); Ojala (2009). 7 I. Zachrisson (1997); N. Price (2019, ch.4). 8 B. Gräslund (1987). 9 For a recent archaeological summary of Scandinavian prehistory, see T.D. Price (2015). 10 Helskog (2014). 11 Schülke (2020), for general coastal settlement in the Mesolithic of Scandinavia and the Baltic. For contemporary overviews, see Larsson et al. (2003); McCartan et al. (2009); Borić et al. (2020). 12 Tilley (1996); Fischer and Kristiansen (2002); Klassen (2020); Gron, Sørensen, and Rowley-Conwy (2020). 13 Bergerbrant and Wessman (2017); Austvoll et al. (2020). 14 Andersson (2021). 15 Kristiansen and Larsson (2005). 16 Ling (2008). 17 Trehearne (1995); Horn and Kristiansen (2018). 18 Ling, Earle and Kristiansen (2018), making explicit analogies between Bronze Age and Viking Age maritime societies. 19 Hedeager (1991); Solberg (2000); Myhre (2003); Herschend (2009). 20 K. Andersson (2013); Gonzalez Sanchez and Guglielmi (2017). 21 Mortensen and Rasmussen (1988); (1991); Fabech and Ringtved (1991). 22 Semple et al. (2021). 23 Giles (2020). 24 Randsborg (1995); Crumlin Pedersen and Trakadas (2003). 25 Ilkjaer (2000). 26 Holst et al. (2018). 27 Jørgensen, Storgaard, and Thomsen (2003). 28 Herschend (1997); Callmer and Rosengren (1997). 29 Jørgensen (2010); Grimm and Pesch (2011).

24  The Vikings Begin

30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37

38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47

Christensen (2015). Enright (1996); Evans (1997). Brunning (2019). Fehr and von Rummel (2011). N. Price (2020a, ch. 2). Geophysical research on the ‘dust veil’ event is constantly expanding, but for recent summaries see Büntgen et al. (2016); Toohey et al. (2016); Helama et al. (2018). Gunn (2000); Arjava (2005); Gunn and Ciarini (2021). Gräslund and Price (2012); Price and Gräslund (2015); Gundersen (2019); N. Price (2020a, 71–82, and In Press). See also Gjerpe (2021) for some important correctives to the ‘536’ narrative. Byock (2005, 71). Orchard (2011, 11). B. Gräslund (2008); Price and Gräslund (2015); Ciarini (2021). T. Zachrisson (1994); (1998); Runer (2006). Ljungkvist (2006); Bratt (2008); Christensen (2015); Myhre (2015); Eriksson (2018); Nitenberg (2019). Holst and Henriksen (2015); Ljungkvist and Frölund (2015). Skre (2001); Thurston (2002); Sundqvist (2002); (2016). Jørgensen (2003); Lucas (2009); Croix (2015a); Holst, Jørgensen and Wamers (2017). Scholz (1970); Näsman (2000); Thurston (2002); Maluck and Weltecke (2016); Hedenstierna-Jonson, Ljungkvist and Price (2018). Margaryan et al. (2020).

2 VIKING LIVES AND LANDSCAPES

TheVikings are today most associated with raiding, trading, and long-distance travel – the classic stereotype, as we have seen.The different realities behind these tropes will be explored in the coming chapters, but supporting them all were the basic building blocks of life as lived in late Iron Age Scandinavia.

Kinship and Community Relations During the Viking Age, the basic and most important social unit was the nuclear family, in the recognisable modern sense of parents, children, and grand-parents. These people were all situated within an extended kinship group of individuals related by blood, marriage, and close social bonds established through practices such as fostering.These inclusive kinship groups were what everyone depended upon for social security and survival – to be denied this support was to exist outside of the margins of organised society. Such familial alliances in turn sought to thrive within potentially volatile socio-political networks of obligation, allegiance, and diplomacy, vying with others for prestige and power. Running throughout these intersecting relations was a sense of community, of identities, defined, expressed, and activated at different levels of society and according to varying circumstances. As in many societies, marriage served to cement connections between kin groups and to expand networks of contacts. In the turbulent political climate of the Viking Age, marriage also represented a means of establishing mutually beneficial political alliances that could be activated in times of need, as can be seen in many of the later medieval saga texts that describe the protracted and bloody feuds of various family groups living in Iceland. Marriage contracts seem to have been usually agreed upon through a process of negotiation, with a husband-to-be making several payments to his bride’s family both prior to and following the marriage ceremony. The bride was also provided with a dowry – a share of her family’s inheritance that remained DOI: 10.4324/9780203483251-3

26  Viking Lives and Landscapes

her property throughout the marriage, and would be retained by her in the case of divorce. These arrangements therefore involved significant expenditure of capital on the part of both families, who would also provide land for the newly wedded couple’s home.1 One aspect of Viking-Age marriage with important implications for our understanding of kinship groups and family life, as well as socio-political networks and relationships, was the practice of polygyny.This entailed a man being permitted to have more than one wife at the same time, while a woman could only have one husband. There is good evidence from both contemporary observers (such as the German chronicler Adam of Bremen, and several Arab travellers who left eyewitness reports of their encounters with Scandinavians), early medieval laws, and later sagas to suggest that this might have been relatively widespread. Given the social roles of marriage, the potential political implications of polygyny are obvious – men with more wealth and status would have possessed the resources necessary to enter into multiple marriage contracts, allowing them to construct more elaborate networks of political allegiance and obligation that could be manipulated and mobilised when needed.2 The medieval sources have been questioned with regards to their accuracy for the Viking Age, but evidence for a man having multiple wives can be found on two Swedish runestones (Sö 297 from Uppinge in Södermanland and U 1039 from Bräcksta in Uppland), while a great many others mention half-siblings that may lend some support to the existence of normative polygyny. Although these runestones represent exceptions among the thousands known from Sweden, the vast majority of these stones were erected in the eleventh century, and bear explicitly Christian messages. As the Church specifically sought to suppress polygynous relationships, it should not be surprising that few of the runestones commissioned at this time would attest to these practices.3 Another type of formal relationship that existed between men and women, and one that was deeply entwined with the practice of marriage, was concubinage. There is fairly good evidence from early medieval Iceland to suggest that concubinage was a common social institution. It is hard to tell to what extent this was an inheritance from the Viking Age itself, but given the Church’s hostility to the practice, like polygyny, it can hardly have been an innovation of Christian times. This also fits with the testimony of Arab travellers who left contemporary accounts of meeting eastern Vikings on their travels, and who frequently write of the men having multiple ‘wives’. The exact words used vary, and it is usually unclear as to whether these women were formal marriage partners or not.4 On the basis of the medieval texts, there seem to have been several different kinds of concubines, with a social and legal status precisely defined by custom, terminology, and law. These included relationships based on genuine romantic affection, akin to the modern sense of a mistress, and perhaps best understood in the context of a society used to arranged marriages that did not necessarily involve close emotional attachment. Other such contracts were explicitly political alliances, or agreements made with the intention of binding the parties into the complex

Viking Lives and Landscapes  27

webs of kinship and obligation that held society together (and also pulled it apart). Each category of concubine was understood as a legal definition. A man could hold such contracts simultaneously with several women, with relationships that differed in nature according to the kind of arrangement made (though it was not possible to have multiple concubines of the same form). All these liaisons were in addition to marriage and operated alongside the bond between husband and wife (or wives), which in status terms was clearly paramount; of course, any of these relationships could produce children. It was also possible for unmarried men to take concubines.5 There are few glimpses into the female experience of relationships of this kind. To a degree, the stories of the Norse gods may provide some indication of sexual conventions for women, at least among Viking-Age elites. Some of the goddesses are accused of being free with their sexual favours, especially Freyja, and there is an implication that this was reprehensible behaviour. However, the social reality may have been very different and much more accepting, as we see in the poem Lokasenna when a goddess is defended against a charge of promiscuity with the assertion that, ‘there’s little harm though ladies get themselves a man, a boy on the side, or both’. In the sagas, many women are described as taking an active role in the romantic pursuit of partners. Women sometimes indicate their interest in men by bringing them drinks at feasts and other social gatherings, and sitting (or being invited to sit) on a man’s lap seems to have been understood as a signal of sexual interest; whether this in practice involved expectation or coercion is open to interpretation. Another striking aspect of these sources is that adultery is clearly not automatic grounds for divorce within saga narratives, and several literary heroines take extra-marital lovers without stronger consequences than disapproval.6 The study of gender has emerged as a major, if at times contentious, focus of research within Viking studies over the last 40 years. In particular, any attempt to explore these aspects of Viking-Age identity must find a difficult balance between the often-ambiguous evidence from archaeology and the vivid but much later descriptions of the medieval Old Norse textual corpus, naturally with a great deal of variation within each category of source material.7 One of the most significant issues concerns the inherent problems of trying to extrapolate gender and relationships from the contextual study of skeletal remains and material culture. In funerary assemblages, for example, identifying and interpreting the social roles played by the buried dead in life presents many difficulties. This is in turn exacerbated by the fact that osteological sex determination is far from completely secure (even where bone survives), it does not necessarily equate with social constructs of gender, and it also tends to promote a binary view of identity. In the absence of preserved human remains, all too often archaeologists are left with nothing but artefacts as evidence of the dead person’s life. If used for gender determination, this process is wholly based on assumptions of what kinds of objects are ‘appropriate’ for different people, and often follows predictable lines with jewellery for a woman, weapons for a man, and so on. Crude though they are, it should be acknowledged that in many instances such readings may well be correct, but as a fine tool of interpretation, the practice is deeply unsatisfactory. At

28  Viking Lives and Landscapes

worst, it may have radically skewed our relative understanding of gendered material culture in the Viking Age.8 The Viking Age has also been unusually subject to gender stereotyping, with the cliché of the violent, adventurous male raider paralleled by an image of Scandinavian women as particularly emancipated by comparison with those living elsewhere in early medieval Europe. In this view, men were active agents in politics, legal affairs, and war, while women were the strong social equals of their menfolk and exercised independent rights of property and power. There is some truth in this, but at the most basic level, Viking-Age Scandinavian society was a patriarchy, albeit one in which female agency was acknowledged to a considerable degree.9 With a few exceptions, kinship groups were dominated by men who had the power to control the decisions and actions of both male and female family members. Later medieval law codes indicate that women were subordinate to the wishes of their male guardians, usually their husbands, fathers, or brothers, but if these (or potentially also one of an extended string of male family members) were absent or dead, then the women could proceed on their own account. They were also largely prevented from acting in the public sphere – women in Iceland, for example, could attend the Alþingi (governmental assembly), but they could not actively participate. The degree to which women could act as men in specific circumstances, in effect with status conferred by de facto social role rather than by gender, has been long debated.10 Beyond the dictates of the law, what actually occurred in practice is naturally another matter. Women also had considerable independence within the family, and in its social relations. Prior to the conversion period, for example, it seems to have been relatively easy for women to obtain a divorce on their own account. This was evident even to fairly casual observers, such as al-Ṭarṭûshi, a Jewish emissary from the Arab caliphate in Andalucía who visited Hedeby in the mid-tenth century and left us a brief but pungent description of the town that lay in the frontier zone between Denmark and the lands of the Germans. Among his comments was that, ‘it is the right of the women to divorce their husbands whenever they like’, and similar sentiments are found in Arab texts as well as in medieval saga narratives.11 Traditionally, scholars have often considered a woman’s authority and power to have existed within the boundaries of the household, where she was responsible for the economic, social, and ritual life of the farmstead. Men, in contrast, primarily engaged in activities away from the homestead, such as fishing, hunting, long-distance commerce, and fighting. However, an increasing number of studies are challenging this perception, arguing for the active participation of women in supposedly ‘male’ activities such as trading and even warfare.12 What emerges, therefore, is a complicated picture, as it is difficult to interpret the extent to which women acting in such capacities might have represented an exception to the norm. In the medieval Icelandic sagas, at least, it does seem that women were able to assert considerable independence despite being nominally subordinate to men. When they do so, this often results in conflict between the sexes. One of the most common characters is that of the ‘whetter’, a woman who uses her sexual attraction and social networks to goad men into action, often violent. Indeed, the

Viking Lives and Landscapes  29

sagas are striking for their large numbers of strong, independent female protagonists, drawn without stereotype or caricature in a way that clearly made them believable to a contemporary audience and thus probably a genuine reflection of actual social conditions.13 The sexual and emotional lives of the Viking-Age Scandinavians are, unsurprisingly, difficult to access through archaeology. Occasionally double graves are found with male and female bodies, often positioned in close proximity to one another – the bodies may be side by side, linking arms or holding hands; in a couple of cases, the woman is on the man’s lap, both of them seated in a chair – but what this actually reflects from their lived relationship (if any) is another matter. Not least, we have little way to tell the relative free or unfree status of the ‘couple’. There is almost no sexual imagery in the Viking-Age artistic repertoire, with the exception of occasional graffiti; indeed, even nudity is depicted very rarely indeed and more often seems associated with masculine virility and power than literal sexuality. A small number of runic inscriptions preserve sexual (‘Þorgny fucked, Helgi carved’) or romantic (‘Kiss me’) content, most dating from the very end of the Viking Age or from the same, later period as the sagas’ composition.14 Same-sex relationships are never mentioned in the texts, in the sense of any kind of socially sanctioned partnership, but their (obvious) existence is acknowledged by the occurrence of homophobic insults in both prose and verse. These relate only to men and were a special kind of attack on the honour of the person concerned, codified in the laws as nið.This could take the form of a spoken slur, a runic inscription, or even a wooden sculpture, all with precise and severe penalties if proven to represent an untrue allegation. Male heterosexuality was bound up with ideals of honour and social standing, which homosexual behaviour was thought to subvert, and the formalised insults were part of this complex.15 Sex between women is never referred to at all in the sources. Two pendant images depicting same-sex figures clasping each other’s arms, one male pair and one female (at least to judge by the conventions of their outfits), have sometimes been interpreted as referring to sexual partnerships, but could also be viewed in other ways. In general, a broader spectrum of sexual identity is hard to discern in any of our sources, though there are hints in both legal codes and saga narratives that cross-dressing was practised. In the textual sources, it is frowned upon, or actually illegal, but the occasional finds of burials in which the gender codes of the clothing and artefacts apparently contradict the sex of the skeleton suggest that this may not have always been the case. This, together with the known gender ambiguities of sorcery and the (in our terms) posthumanist perceptions of shape-shifting, raises the strong possibility of non-binary gender constructions in Viking-Age society. While we should not directly transfer today’s vocabularies of gender and identity onto the people of the past (because their concepts and understandings differed from ours), we can be sure that in this as in every other aspect of life, Viking-Age people were individuals as complicated as we are.16 While an understanding of gender has become an increasingly integrated part of Viking studies, it is still more recently that the life course – from birth to

30  Viking Lives and Landscapes

old age  – has been explicitly studied. Archaeology is of obvious relevance here, recovering the remains of individuals of every age, together with objects that were felt to be meaningful in their particular funerary contexts. This material provides evidence that many lived to a considerable age, and also that a high degree of social care must have been provided both to the infirm and those who were differently abled either from birth or through illness and accident.17 Children as a social group still remain underrepresented in academic writing on the Viking Age, but this too is changing.18 Archaeology has provided considerable evidence for their lives, including a child’s chair from Lund, and toys recovered from sites as far apart as the Faroes and Novgorod.Wooden animals and boats, leather balls, and cloth dolls are instantly recognisable today as cherished childhood possessions. From Russian frontier settlements such as Staraja Ladoga, examples have been found of small wooden swords, obviously meant for children but exactly reproducing the stylistic traits of the full-sized, functional weapons carried by adults – one imagines that little Vikings wanted to play with the same weapons, rather than some outmoded style.19 Occasionally, we get a closer glimpse of a young life, as in an intensively-studied tenth-century grave from Birka in Sweden. Here, a five-year-old girl was buried in an expensive dress of north German type, wearing a brooch and necklace scaled down to fit her. The quality of her clothing and accessories implies that she came from relative wealth, and the needle case interred with her also suggests some degree of status – perhaps the daughter of rich textile merchants. Social prominence may be the reason why she is archaeologically visible to us at all, but one can nonetheless perceive the human beings behind the funeral assemblage: a family burying their little girl with her favourite-coloured beads.20 Despite the discovery of the ‘Birka girl’, however, it is comparatively rare to find substantial evidence for child burials prior to the Christianisation process. While this may be because children’s remains tend to preserve less well than those of adults, it has also been suggested that children were buried (or perhaps even more informally disposed of) in liminal contexts outside of communal cemeteries. Such locations could include boundaries, marshes and bogs, or even bodies of water. This might have reflected cultural perceptions of children’s agency, so they were generally not accorded the same burial rites as adults. Perhaps related to this, there is ambiguous evidence to indicate that Viking-Age societies practised infanticide. Several sagas attest to the practice, and the aforementioned HispanoArabic traveller in Hedeby noted that unwanted children were thrown into the sea. Evidence for increasingly strict penalties for the practice of infanticide, found in later medieval Scandinavian law codes, similarly indicates that this must have been a fairly common practice.21 Childhood in any society is a culturally-situated construct that does not necessarily align with the boundaries of adolescence and adulthood that are drawn today (and which also vary widely across the globe). During the Viking Age, it is likely that adolescence might have been perceived differently between communities and even kin groups, but was nonetheless a time when children would begin

Viking Lives and Landscapes  31

to take on adult roles. Evidence from two late tenth- or early eleventh-century mass graves from southern England, which may represent the remains of Viking raiders killed after capture, has shown that teenagers were likely active participants in warfare and at the very least that they were considered as eligible combatants. Other burials of young adolescents from across the Viking world, such as that of a 12- or 13-year-old boy from Balnakeil, Scotland, have been found to contain fullsized military equipment. While the individuals interred within the graves would not have been able to use this equipment effectively, perhaps this provides insights into the aspirations that kinship groups had for their children, should they have lived to reach an older age. Several child burials of both sexes, including that from Balnakeil, contain needle cases, which (when the limitations of sexing objects are acknowledged) is often thought to be a specifically ‘female’ object type. Perhaps the inclusion of these goods reflects cultural perceptions of children as not having achieved their full-status within society. Combining this with other data, it seems that the threshold of maturity – when young people began to be buried with objects suitable for adults – was crossed about the age of 14.22 Beyond all of these social distinctions was one further border, in some ways the most fundamental of all: between the free and the enslaved.The communities living in Viking-Age Scandinavia were certainly part of a slaveholding society, a fact that has been partly obscured due to a curious tangent of nomenclature by which the Old Norse word þræll, and its modern cognates such as Swedish träl, are translated to English as ‘thrall’ – a term that in its specificity leads the mind away from slavery to some other form of subaltern status.23 Several different conditions of unfreedom were present in Viking-Age society, from degrees of temporary servitude (for example as a means of debt payment) to outright chattel slavery. The latter could be war captives or people kidnapped on raids, either directly into Scandinavian hands or traded from third parties.Their state appears in many cases to have been passed to their children, unless the father was a free man and chose to acknowledge the child. The enslaved had very little rights and were potentially subject to constant abuse including sexual exploitation and rape. The law recognised a number of specific ‘types’ of thrall, often with particular tasks (working in the byres; baking; weaving; and so on) and these could also be gendered. The enslaved could be manumitted at their owners’ discretion, but even then, they would live with fewer legal rights than the free born, retaining bonds of obligation to their former masters. Some scholars argue that the ownership of thralls was a largely aristocratic phenomenon and relatively rare, but there is good archaeological evidence to suggest that enslaved people were distributed across the social landscape and embedded within the households of free farmers and their families. It has even been argued that they might have comprised as much as a quarter of the Viking-Age population. Further evidence for their presence can be found in medieval laws (especially the Grágás, Gulaþing, and Frostaþing legal codes) that provide extensive legislation governing the support, punishment, and manumission of the enslaved, and the obligations owed to and by freedmen.

32  Viking Lives and Landscapes

FIGURE 2.1 The runestone from Hovgården, Adelsö, Sweden, commissioned by an enslaved royal estate manager to his own memory and that of his wife. Photo Wirestock/Alamy.

While the extent to which slaves were exploited within Scandinavia itself is a subject of debate, historical records provide clear and extensive evidence for widespread slave-taking and trafficking by Viking raiding and merchant groups. During the ninth century, the British Isles and the Atlantic coast of Europe seem to have been particularly lucrative targets, and in the tenth century, eastern sources attest to massive raids by the Rus’ in the Caspian Sea region, one of the primary objectives of which seems to have been to take captives. Women and children are frequently noted as being specifically targeted for enslavement. The fate of individuals taken during these raids varied. In Ireland and Frankia, high-status members of the Church or aristocracy were sometimes ransomed back to their home communities, though these deals could also go bad and the captives were subsequently slaughtered at the raider’s ships. Female captives may have been particularly sought after for transportation and sale, either being redistributed across Scandinavia and the Viking colonies of the North Atlantic or funnelled into the slave-trafficking networks of the Rus’. We catch a glimpse of some of these unfortunate women in an account by the Arabic envoy Aḥmad ibn Faḍlān, who in the early tenth century was sent on a diplomatic mission from Baghdad to the Volga Bulgars. Somewhere on the Volga River, in 922, Ibn Faḍlān encountered a group of Rus’ merchants, accompanied by a number of female slaves. He goes on to graphically describe the treatment and sexual exploitation of these women, and it is clear that their value as slaves derived from their youth and beauty. While such people remain generally invisible in the archaeological record, a proxy for their movement through trade networks may be

Viking Lives and Landscapes  33

represented by the vast quantities of Islamic silver coins that have been recovered from sites across the Baltic, Scandinavia, and even in the Viking colonies of the west; beads too may have formed an important component of the trade.24 Insights into the lives of the enslaved can potentially be gained by analyses of skeletal assemblages. A number of excavated graves from Scandinavia, the British Isles, and Continental Europe feature individuals buried in relatively unexceptional ways but accompanied by one or more others whose treatment appears anything but usual. These ‘secondary’ dead can be seen to have been beheaded or hanged, deposited with bound hands and/or feet, and are sometimes lying face down in the graves. Perhaps the best example of one such burial is represented by a pair of decapitated men from Grimsta, Uppland, who were found buried prone on a cremation pyre. In some cases, a funerary monument has been completed over the ‘primary’ occupant of the grave, and then someone has clearly been killed at a later stage of the rites. This seems to have been the case at Ballateare on the Isle of Man, where a young woman was slain by a blow to the head (likely from a sword) on top of a burial mound during the tenth century. By studying the wear trauma on the bones of these individuals, osteologists can begin to better understand the conditions that they were subject to during life. Additionally, isotopic analysis can provide information on their geographic origins and diet relative to local burial populations.25

Social Organisation Scandinavian societies had become increasingly stratified during the early first millennium, accelerating during the recovery from the turmoil of the Migration Period. At a very basic level, the social hierarchy is often presented as a pyramid, with a wide base of those lowest in status. Above the unfree and poor tenant farmers (who perhaps were not considered to be fully free themselves), lay the landed farmers who made up the bulk of society. Moving higher up as the pyramid narrows, were the elites, who themselves ranged from senior farmers and local magnates, to jarls, chieftains, and – at the apex – kings and their retinues. An interesting insight into social organisation during the Viking Age is provided by the Eddic poem Rígsþula (‘The Lay of Ríg’), which has been the subject of frequent discussion by scholars. It describes how the god Heimdallr, travelling in disguise under the name of Ríg, visits the homes of families who represent the various strata of Scandinavian society, and from whom – after the god’s stay under their roof – the main social classes will supposedly descend. He visits first the progenitors of the thralls, are who are portrayed as ugly, stupid, and employed in the most arduous physical tasks; Ríg next guests the farmers in their simple but well-kept home; and finally, the jarls who will spend their time engaged in hunting, swimming, playing board games, and leading armies to war. At least in an idealised sense, and perhaps influenced by medieval perceptions, Rígsþula provides some very basic insights into the roles and lives of Scandinavians as they may have varied across the social spectrum.26

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Although Rígsþula is highly categorical in its terminology, it is clear that Scandinavian social organisation was much more fluid than the poem implies. This was true even among the highest tiers of society. For example, while some individuals who styled themselves as ‘kings’ may have ruled over large tracts of land and water that were home to many communities, others adopting similar titles may not have been any more powerful than a local chieftain or perhaps even a wealthy farmer. At least some large Viking fleets seem to have been commanded by several ‘kings’, with no single individual possessing absolute control. The distinction between the free and unfree was likely also blurred to a degree. While poor tenant farmers possessed few legal rights, for example, there is evidence that a small minority of the enslaved could and did rise to influential positions within social hierarchies. A case in point is that of Tolir, a thrall who rose the position of king’s steward and who possessed the influence to raise a runestone (U 11) to himself and his wife at Hovgården on Adelsö island, Uppland, during the eleventh century. The social pyramid therefore seems to have been distinctly porous in its class horizons, with potential mobility across social boundaries. It is clear that there were fine-grained social and political hierarchies within broad social categories. Viking-Age identities were inevitably multi-faceted. Communities were bound to each other by an intricately woven fabric of socio-economic, political, and military connections, necessitating the maintenance of complex networks of diplomacy and obligation. As a result, an individual might have identified with or owed varying degrees of allegiance to several social or political groups.These ties might have been to family and lineage, village or community, a local leader or more powerful king, or to a wider regional ethnic or cultural identity. Neither directly intertwined nor mutually exclusive, they could be activated at any given time through dialect, the use of certain material culture, or through group-specific customs. The expression of these identities can also be seen, for example, in ritual behaviour and burial rites. Although communities adhered to a general cultural package of spiritual belief and practice, this evidently varied across Scandinavia, even at the micro-level of individual villages.27 An individual’s primary allegiance, however, was to their kin group. Such connections bound a person both to the landscape and wider society and determined their social context and fundamental rights. Being able to draw on one’s lineage and origins was a key factor in maintaining possession of land, property, and title. In contrast, to be severed from one’s kin group would have reduced an individual to (in the Viking mind) the lowest form of existence – that shared with the enslaved and outcasts who lived on or outside the borders of organised society. Relationships between kin groups were dynamic, as families acted to establish and maintain beneficial relationships with others as a means of improving their social and political position. These relationships were often unequal, and based to some degree on bonds of obligation.The institution of fostering, for example, could involve a family of lower status taking guardianship of a higher-status child, and some concubinage arrangements similarly acted to cement ties between households when marriage was

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not a viable option. The networks created by these relationships were not just social in nature; lower-status families might have gained a measure of patronage that would have provided them with influence in legal matters, or with protection during times of feuding. Higher-status families, by contrast, might have utilised these ties to gain popular support in their political endeavours or to ensure a supply of human resources that could be mobilised in conflict or building projects.28 Although at least some jarls and chieftains would have exercised political autonomy over a region, others might have owed allegiance in turn to a more powerful ruler. The social position of these individuals would not have been categorical, and certain jarls would have possessed as much or even more power than some kings. There is very little historical evidence for a unifying royal hegemony in any of the modern Scandinavian countries prior to the last decades of the ninth century. As noted above, during the early Viking Age royal power was regional in extent. A rare glimpse into the political landscape of Scandinavia can be observed in a ninth-century description of the Baltic Sea that was provided to the English court by a merchant named Wulfstan (contained in the same text as Óttarr’s narrative mentioned above).29 He noted that while the Danes were governed by a king, the island of Bornholm was seen as a kingdom in its own right, a true insular polity. On the basis of later saga stories, it may have operated as a particularly active pirate base, prior to its conquest by the emerging Danish kings later in the century. The situation may have been similar on the island of Gotland. Its early medieval law code, the Gutalagen, is often considered to preserve many Viking-Age legal structures and items of political information. While the law code describes the islanders as paying occasional tribute to the Svear on the Swedish mainland, it is clear that Gotland itself had no kings. Unlike Bornholm, it was never absorbed by the mainland polities until well into the medieval period. The leaders of regional kingdoms constantly sought to expand and consolidate their influence at the expense of others, all while attempting to survive coups and rebellions. Continental sources provide a flavour of the fairly regular cycles of violence and civil wars that took place in Denmark during the first half of the ninth century, many of which were instigated by the secondary relatives of rulers (often nephews or cousins) who could legitimately make a bid for power. Even in the late tenth century, powerful monarchs such as the Danish king Haraldr blátönn, ‘Bluetooth’, who on his runestone at Jelling claimed to have ‘won for himself all of Denmark and Norway’, were liable to be killed in uprisings and insurgencies – in Haraldr’s case one that was initiated by his own son, Sveinn tjúguskegg, ‘Forkbeard’. Given the evident fluidity of the political map, it is easy to imagine how the webs of allegiance that existed between various families and factions would have been frequently strained and tested, with knock-on effects that cascaded downwards through social strata as increasingly large numbers of individuals and their dependents were drawn into bloody feuds and civil wars. These patterns of violence represented a characteristic of Scandinavian societies that would continue to manifest deep into the Middle Ages.

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Life on the Land Viking-Age Scandinavian societies were essentially rural, and even when viewing the complex market centres that emerged during the course of the early medieval period it is important to avoid the simplistic dichotomies of a supposed urban divide. The vast majority of the population lived in dispersed settlements, either on individual farms or within small villages, engaging in the subsistence activities that were essential for their continued existence. Daily life was centred on the garðr, the term from which the modern English ‘yard’ derives. This was used literally to denote an enclosed space, with connotations of habitation. In more tangible, cognitive terms, it appears to have generally meant something close to ‘settlement’. The most common usage of the term denoted the individual farm, but garðr was also employed at a variety of levels from the cosmic to the undeniably urban. For those residing in the countryside, the majority of an individual’s time would have been dedicated to basic subsistence – growing and harvesting crops, tending to animals, hunting and fishing, and engaging in a measure of trade. An oftenoverlooked subsistence activity, which would have dominated everyday life, was textile production. This was not only a vitally necessary task but also one that was extremely labour-intensive, to the extent that it would have been effectively continuous throughout the year; it was also strongly gendered, in that it was primarily undertaken by women.30 To give an idea of the effort involved, to make a complete outfit for a Viking-Age person, in relatively coarse quality fibre, would have required about 6kg of raw wool, processed into 42,000 m of yarn with a total time investment of 800 hours – almost 67 days based on a 12-hour working day.31 Although most household textile production was part-time and directed towards self-sufficiency – certainly regarding lower-quality clothing – at best there was also a surplus for exchange.32 There is evidence of standardised production, occasionally on the scale of a cottage industry on sites with multiple weaving sheds. Excavations have demonstrated a consistent measure of bolts of cloth 9.5 m long and 0.9 m wide, tailored to the capacity of the looms. During the later Viking Age, the increasing demand for wool-based products – especially sails, and sea clothing for ships’ crews – would lead to a dramatic expansion in sheep farming, and a consequent reorganisation of the landscape.This was in turn reflected in labour requirements for textile working, and from the ninth century onwards it seems likely that an increasing proportion of basic cloth production, and its complicated processing, was undertaken by enslaved women.33 Villages also increased in size during the course of the Viking Age, especially in Denmark where several have been excavated.34 Not everyone was a subsistence farmer, however, and there is clear evidence for professions in Viking-Age Scandinavia. Among them were specialist spinners and weavers who would have worked full-time with the finer textiles – finds of their tools have been made in both Birka and Hedeby, which also supported textile operations that were producing products of a range of qualities in order to appeal to different buyers.35 There were also several specialised kinds of metalworkers, from

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the smiths who wrought crude iron into everyday tools and implements to the jewellers who worked in precious metals at an astonishing level of skill that is difficult to reproduce today.36 On the island of Gotland, several spheres of rock crystal have been found, carefully cut to different sizes and set in ornamented silver mounts. Once thought to have been merely high-end accessories, these have recently been discovered to possess magnifying properties at different resolutions: they are effectively jewellers’ loupes, used as lenses for the finest filigree work. Metalworkers would have been present in every rural district and on the leading farms, while most households would include someone who could at least make basic repairs to metal items. Some activities required a team of two or three people to operate the various simultaneous elements of the process including bellows, tongs, and so on. It may be that we can perceive something similar to an apprentice system, with comparable practices visible in other crafts such as the creation of runestones. Some of the higher-end metalworkers may have been itinerant, while others established local workshops and a distinctive style. At some market settlements such as Birka and Kaupang, there is evidence of seasonal occupation by metalworkers – probably operating along the lines of rented shops – with the same individuals then touring the countryside offering wares for sale. This pattern of ‘guest workers’ with regular home workshops has also been found at other exchange centres.37 Bone, horn, and antler were also worked into specialised products, particularly combs. An essential part of personal grooming and appearance, thousands of examples have been found across the Viking world, from crude basic models to beautifully ornamented pieces with protective cases. Careful attention to appearance is a factor of Viking life mentioned by several observers, and it is clear that combmaking was one of the primary industries.38 Woodworking was another vital element of Viking-Age crafts, ranging from meeting basic subsistence needs to production at a near industrial scale. Both in the villages and in the market centres, specialist woodworkers fashioned household tableware such as platters, together with other carved products including spoons and similar cooking and eating utensils. Lathe-turned bowls were especially in demand. Wood was also an essential part of any travel or movement beyond the level of pedestrian or horseback transport. Wagons, carts, sleds, and sledges were all made from timber – the more expensive versions richly carved and decorated, their simpler, cheaper counterparts left plain. Watercraft too were naturally made from wood, anything from a dugout canoe to an ocean-going warship. Finally, timber was also a fundamental building material, used for almost all forms of dwelling and economic buildings around the farm – and of course for the furniture and beds inside the structures. All this required managed woodland, especially in oak, elm, birch, and pine. For ship timbers, it was not unusual to fell trees that had stood for one or two generations, and which had been planted for that purpose. Ash and lime were also used for building and for making hard, straight shafts, while coppiced spreads of hazel and smaller trees provided materials for fencing and wattle work. The underbrush, twigs, and small branches were all literally fuel for the fires that kept every

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household warm. Timber was thus not simply a resource, but a carefully controlled asset that could be inherited, sold or transferred. In a very real sense, access to timber was a form of power. When we consider the great wealth that lay in the landscape, the importance of landholding in Viking-Age societies becomes clear. Ownership of land not only provided people with access to valuable natural resources but also with the mandate to limit and control access by others. This goes some way to explaining the evident concern with establishing an ancestral connection to the land that manifested in the institution of the hereditary oðal rights discussed in Chapter 1. The same thinking perhaps lies behind the creation of ostentatious mortuary monuments for the dead, functioning as boundary markers, and the later erection of runestones.39 These visible (and thus indisputable) claims to ownership would have strengthened the socio-economic and political position of those who were able to acquire the best land, facilitating the creation of the hierarchical societies that emerged during the first millennium. The economic boundaries of the farm could also extend far away, not merely to the outfields where animals were grazed, but also to a wider network of outlands in marginal areas (such as the forest, or even the deep ocean hunting grounds) that provided special resources in the form of raw materials. Although situated at considerable distance from the home farms, the agreed exploitation of these regions was nonetheless a component of regular life in rural settlements.40 Considering the sheer scale of the Scandinavian landscape, it is difficult to understand how regional leaders could have managed to co-ordinate the defence of the areas that lay under their dominion. Although scholars have begun to draw out the evidence for territorial defence in recent years, this material itself presents something of a paradox.41 While the Migration Period was characterised by the construction and use of the numerous hillforts that have been documented across Scandinavia – a phenomenon that must to some extent be associated with martial activity – their use rapidly declined in the period preceding the Viking Age. A few hillfort sites, such as that at Hedeby, continued to be used, and the fortification at Birka is exceptional in being constructed during the eighth century, but the overall picture clearly indicates a shift in defensive tactics. The ephemerality of the defensive landscape during the Viking Age should not be taken to indicate that elites were less concerned with protecting their territories. On the contrary, it indicates that concern was no longer placed on the fortification and defence of a few hardpoints, but instead on observing and containing the movements of hostile forces across large swathes of territory. The obvious example here is the Danevirke, controlling access to and from the Jylland peninsula, but similar constructions can be observed elsewhere. In Östergötland, for example, the Viking Age saw the replacement of a string of Migration Period fortifications by a multi-component system of earthworks and pile barricades (the so-called Götavirke), designed to oversee land routes and waterways. Place-name evidence for the emergence of royal manors also indicates the existence of numerous elitecontrolled sites, which would have been home to armed groups that could be

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mobilised in times of conflict. Though underrepresented in scholarly research, it is also likely that networks of lookout and beacon sites were operating on a local and possibly even regional scale, allowing messages to be quickly transmitted across the landscape. While some effort would have been expended in patrolling and monitoring these extended defensive systems, the relatively unpopulated nature of the landscape would have led to the formation of territorial buffer zones between regional polities that could absorb and delay incoming forces.42 Other, more subtle deterrents were also encoded in the landscape. Among the settlements of the island belt south of Danish Fyn, an area that formed a kind of border zone against the Ottonian Empire, more than 85% of the cemeteries are oriented towards the sea (this is not unavoidable, even on an island). It seems that the dead themselves were watching over the water, reinforcing the defences of their community. A similar ‘use’ for the dead might be found at Birka, where burials have been found built into the fabric of the rampart of the hillfort. One of these was a shaft grave containing a man and a horse, marked by a standing bauta memorial stone, which would have visibly ‘emerged’ from the wall. The stone was respected during subsequent phases of rampart reconstruction, and left as a visible monument within the feature, perhaps indicating that the individual interred in the grave was thought to imbue the fortification with power. Inanimate objects may have been utilised in the same way, as perhaps implied by the discovery of a ninthcentury wooden phallus within the Danevirke main rampart, during excavations at Thyraburg in 1972.43 These interpretations imply that the landscape of power and defence was both a physical and cognitive construct, and one in which the political ownership of space was much looser than those which exist in nation states today. At the same time, however, the cultural landscape may have been infused not only with the presence of the ancestors but also with ‘unseen’, remembered objects, which functioned to strengthen territorial claims and perhaps to even provide protection in times of conflict.

An Economy of Things The nature of the Viking economy has been subject to continuous debate, with a gradual realisation of what might seem obvious, namely that the economic motors of the Scandinavian world worked in different ways with variation both regionally and over time. Prior to the introduction of a formal monetary system, the practice of barter is often assumed to be a constant feature of low-tech and predominantly rural economies, but this is a simplification that obscures a deeper richness in Viking-Age structures of exchange. If we review the evidence from later medieval Scandinavian documents, it is clear that in the countryside there were very sophisticated systems of exchange that combined standard units of value with very varied means of payment, all bound up in elaborate networks of reciprocity and obligation. One such unit of ‘commodity money’ was the kýrlag, or ‘cow value’, the sum agreed upon as the value of a single head of cattle.When property was bought and sold, its worth was expressed

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in kýrlag, but materially paid in commodities that were in turn matched against the same scale. While such a transaction might well include the changing hands of actual livestock, the total sum could be made up of other items such as cloth, butter, silver bullion, or coinage – the latter traded by weight rather than any face value. This is not barter, which relies on far more arbitrary local agreements and negotiations. Although our sources for the kýrlag system come from Norway in the fourteenth century and later, by comparison with other areas of Europe, such as early medieval Ireland, it is highly likely that something similar operated in Viking-Age Scandinavia.44 Below the level of major transactions, for example involving land and property, other kinds of systems were employed. Most Viking-Age households would have been essentially self-sufficient in meat, butter, and dairy products, grain for both food and beer, and (up to a point) textiles, with a little surplus that could be used for exchange. However, some common commodities would have needed to be acquired from outside the home or farm.These included cooking vessels, shoes and other leather goods, raw iron, and whetstones. Specialist items such as lathe-turned wooden bowls and other kitchenware, combs and items made of bone and antler, and basic household products of low-cost metals such as copper, brass, lead, and tin could also be sought outside the domestic economy.45 Markets provided a forum for these kinds of extramural transactions and would have been held regularly at a variety of scales within the wider social structure of districts and territories. Some items could be obtained from specialist craftworkers, itinerant peddlers, and the like, and these transactions may have required standardised payment in silver or, later, coin. For most exchanges, however, farm surplus would have been traded on a local scale along the same lines as the kýrlag in miniature.This latter presupposes a knowledge of the needs of others – matching one’s own needs and surplus against what others have to trade and what they want in return. Because not every desired commodity would have always been available, some transactions would have incurred an agreed obligation to provide goods in the future. The resulting networks of structured debt would have been carefully maintained within rural communities, and indeed we see them clearly in the Icelandic sagas where they often occur as catalysts for neighbourly disputes and occasionally violence. While many different commodities could be traded as part of transactions, silver was especially valued as a medium of payment. One of the characteristic economic developments of the Viking Age was the massive increase in silver coinage imports to Scandinavia, from a handful of Roman and Continental issues in the eighth century to hundreds of thousands (perhaps even millions) of Arabic dirhams that flowed into the region from the east during the ninth and tenth centuries. This influx of silver really began around 800, ebbing and flowing at different times across the Viking world as sources of silver dried up, trade routes closed and opened, and political alliances shifted. Studies of the content of these coin imports have also yielded some interesting insights into the economic links between northern Europe and the Islamic world. Despite the vast quantities of silver found in Sweden, for example, even more coins have been found in the homelands of the western

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Slavs, which suggest that the latter may have experienced an economic boom so similar to that of Scandinavia as to effectively make them ‘southern Vikings’.46 The influx of silver into Scandinavia drove the development of a prestige economy of open display, and also a general system of bullion exchange. Although market centres such as Ribe and Hedeby began minting coins during the ninth century, the value of Arabic coins lay primarily in their potential use as bullion.This is demonstrated by the large numbers of coins that have been found to have been cut into halves or quarters, to be weighed during transactions. Dirhams represented a trusted form of payment – traders and merchants could be relatively sure that they were minted to a consistent quality, thereby facilitating trust and cooperation in mercantile activity. Such was the value of these coins to Scandinavian traders that (as is always the case in such situations) others sought to capitalise on their demands. We can see this in ninth-century imitation dirhams, minted in Khazaria at a time when the flow of silver from the caliphate had slowed, specifically created to satisfy the northern demand. Silver coinage was not the only form of wealth used in bullion transactions. Large numbers of hoards from across the Viking world have been found to contain pieces of jewellery and other personal ornaments, such as penannular brooches and arm rings, as well as whole or partial metal ingots. Sometimes this material was deposited whole as part of the hoard, but in very many other cases, it is found in pieces of various sizes (often referred to in this latter form as ‘hacksilver’). In recent years, a small but growing corpus of gold finds has also begun to emerge through metal-detecting surveys and excavations of manufacturing and trading centres. Previously thought to have been of marginal economic influence when viewed in comparison to the vast quantities of silver that were being moved through the Viking world, gold clearly held some importance as a medium of display and payment.47 Both textual accounts and funerary archaeology emphasise the importance of wearing one’s wealth, at least in certain circumstances.48 Considering the hundreds of Viking-Age hoards known across Europe, an obvious question concerns the motivations that lay behind the deposition of such great quantities of wealth, and why it was never recovered. This is perhaps most pertinent when we consider the material from Gotland, which as a whole has produced more buried silver than the rest of the Viking world put together. It seems clear that the majority of farmers were actively involved in this economy, making it virtually impossible that this phenomenon was solely concerned with the preservation of wealth. While some of these items may have been the VikingAge equivalent of stuffing money under the mattress, it is also worth remembering Snorri Sturluson’s thirteenth-century notation of what he called ‘Óðinn’s Laws’ on the proper treatment of the dead, which stipulated that ‘everyone should come to Valhöll with such wealth as he had on his pyre, and that each would also have the benefit of whatever he himself had buried in the earth’.49 There may also have been a ritual dimension to the hoards, conferring status during life as well as after death. Gold and silver are only rarely found in graves, for example, and the sagas contain several examples of people burying hoards for

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reasons other than mere concealment – in some instances, there seems to be an explicit intention for the owner not to return to them, and that they should in fact never be found at all. Given the obvious difficulties in extrapolating the motivations behind the deposition of these hoards, careful analysis of their landscape context and content is necessary in order to tease apart the circumstances that might have led to their concealment. For example, the largest concentration of deposited silver from Gotland, recovered as several hoards from Spillings, seems to have more in common with currency hoards, with its large quantities of hacksilver and bundles of arm-rings, in contrast to the prestige display hoards such as that from Hoen in Norway. It might also be significant that the Spillings hoards were concealed underneath a building, rather than in the open air as is more common, perhaps implying a continued (or intended) process of human interaction with the buried material. A key factor appears to be location, and also whether the material was buried inside a container such as a bag or a box – thus making it easier to retrieve – or simply placed in the earth, where it was perhaps intended to stay.50

Going to Market Local markets and fairs must have been a common feature of Scandinavian rural life for millennia prior to the Viking Age, and there is good evidence to suggest that such sites continued to be used throughout the period, but the first impetus towards established market centres can be found in early eighth-century Denmark.51 Around 710 CE, in Ribe at the midpoint of the Jylland peninsula, a number of regular plots of land were laid out along a cleared street in what was obviously a planned settlement.52 There has been debate as to whether the site was a seasonal or permanent foundation, but the balance of evidence is increasingly indicating the latter. Turf blocks had been laid out to stabilise the marshy ground and create a level surface, which seems a time-consuming and elaborate measure if the occupation of the site was only temporary. The plots of land were bounded by symbolic rather than functional fences of low wattle work, and within them packed floors of clay were trampled down. Booths were set up surrounded by wicker windbreaks to protect the fires that were lit inside, and it is possible that houses were also being constructed at the site from the outset. From the beginning, Ribe’s purpose was to create a concentration of craftwork and other artisanal activity, spatially focused for intensive production. Effectively an open-air factory for luxury goods and desirable trade items, it represented not only a direction of economic potential but also clearly an expression of power. Ribe was deliberate, organised, and planned – an observation which links in turn to the individuals or groups that must have lain behind such an undertaking, with further implications for the nature of the society that produced them. The latter half of the eighth century saw the emergence of Birka, on the island of Björkö in Lake Mälaren, Sweden. The site was founded in the 750s and developed rapidly over the following decades. The oldest sign of a town rampart dates to around 786, with the hillfort being added shortly afterwards. The area within the

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wall (known as the ‘Black Earth’ due to the presence of organic settlement waste that has stained the soil) has been investigated piecemeal since the late nineteenth century, and extensive excavations of the surrounding grave fields were made during the same period.53 This and subsequent work has allowed archaeologists to study the lives of Birka’s inhabitants, revealing streets of irregularly ordered houses and workshops running down to jetties by the lake shore.54 Of particular note is the evidence for Birka’s long-distance trading connections, which extended across the Viking world and especially to the east. Further evidence for these links has been identified in the ‘garrison’ area, adjacent to the hillfort. This may have had an early ninth-century phase as a Christian enclave (perhaps even including a church on the heights, as an inhumation cemetery there arguably suggests), but at least by the tenth century it seems to have been given over to a militaristic group whose occupation was focused on a large hall structure.Within the garrison area, a number of the graves have been found to contain military equipment from what is now western Russia and the Steppe region, including matching sets of gear that was clearly functional. Among the latter is a grave of a mounted archer with a composite bow of Magyar type and arrows that included Scandinavian examples, along with lamellar armour paralleled in what is now Georgia; the person appeared to have been buried in an ornate kaftan. When combined with various types of nomadstyle mounts that would have been fitted to belts or pouches, it seems that the group occupying the garrison area espoused a distinctly eastern material identity that may have served to distinguish them from the wider population.55 As Birka grew and prospered, so too other market centres were emerging. In Norway, near the opening to the great Vestfold fjord system that ultimately leads to Oslo, a major emporium was established around 800 at a place called Kaupang.56 Organised in orderly plots along the water’s edge and surrounded by cemeteries of varying character that extended onto offshore islands, this was one of the primary markets for southern Norway for the whole of the ninth century. Manufacturing was clearly going on there, including in precious metals, and there is evidence of transactions in bullion. At around the same time that Kaupang came into being, another community was established at Hedeby, near modern-day Schleswig; the site is situated today in Germany, where it is known as Haithabu, but in the Viking Age this was part of Denmark.57 The Royal Frankish Annals imply that the settlement may have been established in 808, when the Danish king Gudfred sacked the Slavic town of Reric and transported the merchants there to Sliesthorp – possibly Hedeby or a newly discovered royal site at Füsing.58 For much of its existence Hedeby was located to the south of the Danevirke, in the region between Danish, Slavic, and Carolingian (later Ottonian) territory. The settlement might have formed a kind of discrete cultural island south of the Danevirke frontier, which may have even been a politically neutral free trade zone.59 Hedeby is one of the most intensively investigated of all the Viking-Age market centres. Recent dating of material from the harbour suggests a foundation before 819, with a focus on plots at the water’s edge. Jetties were built to provide solid waterside installations and a firm beach frontage. Initially

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constructed as trestle bridges on piles, with trenailed cross planking, over time the jetties expanded into massive wooden platforms getting ever closer together. Originally all boats would have tied up along the long sides of the jetties, but as the latter expanded this was only possible for the smaller craft. By the tenth century, the larger sea-going boats had to moor at the very end of the platforms, end-on. The resulting wooden surfaces extending far out into the water were not merely for unloading, but also served as market spaces in their own right.60 Remarkable archaeological survivals enable us to see life in Hedeby harbour in close detail, from the swords that seem to have been thrown into the water as each new jetty was dedicated, to a snapshot of the market under attack. Around the year 990, a large warship burned right in front of the jetties, perhaps in battle, so close that the fire spread to the timber platforms. Blocking the harbour access, half of the ship was broken up, probably using poles pounded down into the wreck from smaller boats, and the pieces floated away to clear the path for shipping. The developments taking place at the water side are echoed in the wider layout of the town. It is clear that there were very frequent changes to the settlement’s layout and form. Buildings tended to be short-lived, being torn down and rebuilt on the same plots. By the tenth century, the general pattern seems to have been for workshops to front the streets, with dwellings in the yards behind – a design that is found in other Viking market centres both in Scandinavia (as at Sigtuna) and abroad (as at York).61 Later in the century, during the reign of Haraldr ‘Bluetooth’, the site was enclosed in the massive D-shaped rampart that survives today. Some 1350 burials are known from Hedeby, distributed across seven cemeteries.62 The majority are situated outside the wall to the south, mixing cremations and inhumations, the latter sometimes located between mounds. Dating from the late ninth and tenth centuries, these burials clearly include some Christian graves. Most do not include any grave-goods, though the area also holds spectacularly pagan monuments such as an elaborate boat grave with a ship placed upside down over a burial chamber. A core group of 350 burials – including high-status chamber graves – extended from the harbour area into the settlement. The hillfort is associated with about 60 cremations under mounds, while a northern cemetery holds inhumations dating from the mid-ninth to the mid-tenth centuries. There seem to have been at least two tiers of market centres, judging from the distribution of high-end imports such as Continental pottery that would have contained luxuries like wine, and other status-loaded or expensive goods such as glass and quernstones. At the upper level are what have been called ‘nodal points of trade’, places like Kaupang, Ribe, Birka, Århus, Hedeby, and Truso where foreign merchants would do business.63 It is also at sites like these that we find bronzecasting and the production of glass beads taking place. At the second level are smaller trading sites that fed the larger nodes and receive products from them, without directly participating in the international trade itself. Such a focusing of the foreign networks made for easier control of the trade, the collection of taxes and tariffs, and the distribution of the proceeds – all of course linked to an increasing centralisation of power, but more particularly to a consensual agreement of the traders themselves

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who stood to benefit most. In contrast to this, the towns of the later tenth century represent not a continuation but a new start, and the beginnings of true urbanism in Scandinavia. For those living in market centres, reliance on the rural hinterland for food and raw materials would have driven regular trade and interaction between communities. Evidence from animal bone assemblages can shed some interesting light on patterns of supply and demand, as well as on the relationships between the inhabitants of market centres such as Hedeby and Birka and those of the rural communities around them. In the countryside, excavations on farmsteads and similar sites have revealed that people were eating good cuts of beef from young animals – the best that the estates could produce. In the markets the picture is quite different, with predominantly poor meat from older, draught animals: it looks very much as though the rural farmers were selling the low-quality food to the urban dwellers. The latter also supplemented their diet with pork, which clearly made up most of their meat consumption as pigs were relatively easy to keep in small pens. When one tries to plot ‘town-country’ relations in this way through the lens of trade in foodstuffs, it is clear that both Birka and Hedeby had a consistently tense relationship with their hinterlands over the whole life of the settlements. An interesting aspect of these Viking-Age centres, and one that remains a topic of debate, concerns their management.The archaeological evidence from Birka suggests a hierarchical population structure within the town itself, as perhaps demonstrated by the presence of extensive house terraces adjacent to the town rampart, excavations of which have yielded high-status finds.64 These conspicuously sited residences would have elevated wealthier members of the community above and away from the smoke and stench of the settlement, acting as a physical manifestation of social stratification within the urban landscape. Even the architecture – longhouses instead of the small rectangular structures found in the ‘Black Earth’ below – set these people apart, with the occupants living in what were effectively urban villas. However, so far no evidence has been recovered from any market centres to suggest a noticeably ‘elite’ presence within the settlements themselves; there are no particularly large or extravagant structures or substantial housing compounds, for example. What does this say about the relationship between market centres and local or regional rulers? Does this somehow imply that socio-political hierarchies within urban settlements were less pronounced than those in the rural landscape? The answers to these questions have yet to be fully developed, but an interesting possibility is that these sites, while possessing some autonomy, were monitored and at least to some extent managed by elite groups situated nearby. Birka, for example, may have been governed from Hovgården, which lies approximately 1.5 km to the northwest of the town on the island of Adelsö, and a high-status hall has similarly been identified at Husby, around 1 km from Kaupang. Recent archaeological fieldwork at Füsing, Jylland, has identified what seems to have been a royal settlement dating to the eighth to tenth centuries, situated across the Schlei estuary from Hedeby.65 The relationships between these sites and the Viking Age market centres require further study, but the presence of royal bailiffs within certain settlements (as noted at

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Birka in the ninth century) may indicate a degree of management and governance. Perhaps tolls or taxes were extracted from settlements in exchange for military protection. While the influence of elites must have been moderated by their physical distance from the settlements, it is possible that this rather ‘detached’ relationship would have been mutually beneficial, namely by allowing trade to flow freely without a perceived threat of intervention by rulers. A final common characteristic of these market centres is their relatively short lifespan.Whereas a number of settlements established by Scandinavians in areas such as England and Ireland developed into important regional centres that remain influential today, all of those described above, with the exception of Ribe, were abandoned by the end of the eleventh century. In nearly all cases, the decline of the Viking-Age centres seems to have been presaged by the establishment of new urban communities in the immediate regional landscape. Birka, for example, was superseded by Sigtuna, Hedeby by Schleswig, and Kaupang perhaps by the foundation of Tønsberg – though in practice these ‘transitions’ were probably not so straightforward. The exact circumstances surrounding the abandonment of the early market centres are largely unknown. It is possible that the growing power of regional kings and the Church led to trade and commerce becoming more closely managed, drawing or forcing traders and merchants to the newer towns. Hedeby’s decline may have been accelerated by an attack by the Norwegian king Haraldr Sigurðarson in 1050, and another by a Slavic force in 1066, but the truth of the matter is far from certain.66 At Birka, occupation in the ‘garrison’ area similarly seems to have ended in conflict and fire during the late tenth century, but it is clear that this event did not trigger a rapid abandonment of the town itself.67 In most cases, it seems that a gradual process of decline, perhaps punctuated by singular episodes of abandonment, marked the shift to the new urban sites that had become the focus of power within the landscape. These fledgling towns began to emerge in the late 900s. In contrast to the earlier market centres, a notable feature of these new settlements is their clear associations with royal power. Sigtuna, for example, which lies around 30 km to the north of Birka, was probably founded around 980 and shares some similarities with the place whose power it would eclipse. Like Birka, Sigtuna was a centre of manufacturing and trade. There is also no evidence for a royal residence within the town itself, but instead around 4km to the west at Fornsigtuna (‘Old Sigtuna’). However, the rapid construction of the town, rather than a slower, organic process of development, indicates a powerful influence behind its foundation, something also implied by the probable presence of a king’s official on-site from the outset, as well as the existence of a mint. Despite having been founded prior to the widespread adoption of Christianity that seems to have accelerated during the eleventh century, Sigtuna, like other new towns of the period, swiftly became a centre for the new religion, with a bishopric being established around 1070.68 A similar pattern of development can be seen at Lund in Skåne, which was also founded in the late tenth century. As with Sigtuna and Birka, Lund seems to have overtaken some of the functions of an earlier settlement – that at Uppåkra, which lay around 5km to the south. The new foundation also appears to have occupied a similar area to that

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of its predecessor – about 40ha, enough to support up to 70 farmsteads of typical size. The circumstances of Lund’s emergence are not clear, but it is possible that its establishment is a reflection of Sveinn ‘Forkbeard’s rebellion against his father Haraldr during the 980s: a new king asserting his authority, with specific reference to a reorganisation of the landscape and the creation of a new royal centre in partnership with the Church. While archaeological evidence can tell us much about the processes of everyday life in Viking-Age towns, as well as various activities such as manufacturing and trade, it also allows us to ponder the wider implications of living in these special places. We must consider, for example, whether the inhabitants of these large market centres felt a sense of citizenship in their homes. There are certainly signs of different artistic – and even culinary – traditions flourishing in each place, testifying to some sense of local identity. We might also turn to the extensive evidence for foreign clothing and dress accessories in the Birka burials, especially among the occupants of the wooden chamber graves. Much has been made of these finds, and it is of course possible that some of the graves belong to foreign merchants, either temporarily in town on business or perhaps permanent residents looking after their interests, or else mercenaries bought in from abroad as protection. Indeed, when viewed in relation to a later medieval model, it would not be surprising to find whole quarters of trading settlements that possessed marked ethnic distinctions. However, while there is no doubt of Birka’s cosmopolitan character – matched by similar sites elsewhere in the Viking world – scientific analyses suggest that most of the population were from Scandinavia, though by no means only locals from the Mälar valley.69 However, rather than simply seeking out evidence for ‘foreigners’ at Birka, perhaps it is more important to question what the notion of being ‘foreign’ actually means in this context, since the settlement itself might have been relatively alien to the rural communities that surrounded it. By extension, we should consider whether this differentiation extended into other areas of life – were Birka and its analogues spiritually distinctive too? Were there social habits acceptable to market-dwellers but frowned upon in the countryside? We should not assume that ‘urban’ life was necessarily seen as more sophisticated than its rural counterpart, especially with a high degree of social interchange between them, but some differences must have been evident.70 There is compelling evidence these sites could mould and reform social practices and perceptions, perhaps as a result of their more cosmopolitan composition. For example, it seems that living in larger market centres had major implications for the lives of women. In Norwegian rural cemeteries, female graves make up about 20% of the total where sex determinations can be made, but in Birka the proportion is up to 60% across the urban grave-fields. In other markets such as Hedeby, the figure is lower at 38%, but still significantly higher than in the countryside. What does this ‘urban’ visibility of women mean? Some scholars suggest that it might depend on textile production, and the shift of very specialised, high-end spinning to the new market centres – perhaps even that this provides one of the main rationales for their very creation.71 Market centres may also have played a prominent role in the establishment of Christianity in Scandinavia. Birka, as noted above, was a focus of early Christian

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missionary activity from the ninth century. According to the literary narrative, the first chapel at Birka (and indeed in the whole of Scandinavia) was constructed by Hergeir, a prominent resident who was converted by the monk Anskar during the latter’s first visit to the town in 829, and a more substantial church was later built by Anskar himself. The site of Anskar’s church has yet to be located, but recent work has raised the interesting possibility that Hergeir’s estate and chapel lay a few hundred metres to the north-east of Birka at Korshamn, where geophysical surveys have revealed evidence for a large hall structure with an adjoining fenced area. Excavations at similar elite residences across southern Scandinavia, most notably that at Tissø, Denmark, have shown these areas to contain structures that are interpreted as private cult buildings. If the narratives of Anskar’s missionary efforts hold true, then Korshamn has the exciting potential to shed new light on the diffusion of Christianity within Scandinavia.72

Ships and the Sea In the popular imagination, probably no object (other than the illusory horned helmet) is connected with the Vikings more than the ship.While land transport was of course fundamental – along paths and tracks that had been used for millennia – the maritime nature of Scandinavian society and its links with the sea are obvious, and primarily a factor of geography. On rivers as well as the ocean, there is a real sense in which the people of the Viking Age inhabited a water world – something which also extended beyond the practicalities of travel and transport to the realm of ritual, with offerings made to the shifting powers of wetlands and bogs.73 The classic Viking vessel of movies and books is the longship, with a great sail on its single mast and rows of oars along the sides, often crested by a line of fixed shields. Such ships certainly existed, and grew exponentially in numbers in the course of the Viking Age, but in fact more common by far were smaller, simple rowboats. Built of overlapping strakes of timber, often pine, fixed in place by iron clench rivets – a technique known as clinker – in technological terms these little vessels were longships in miniature. Used for local transport, fishing, small-scale cargo journeys, and the like, these were the everyday river and coastal vessels of Viking-Age communities. Some would have used even more basic vessels, in the form of dugout log canoes, some of them with expanded sides.74 These are not something we readily associate with the Vikings, but they may have been among the most common watercraft of all. Until the eighth century (though the exact dating is still open to debate), sails do not seem to have been used in Scandinavia.While great ships such as the Nydam boat from Denmark and the seventh-century ship from Sutton Hoo in England were almost comparable in size to Viking vessels, they were solely oar-powered.75 These were the kinds of boats that brought Continental settlers to Britain during the declining decades of the Roman occupation, and which ferried the little armies whose battles resulted in the great Danish bog sacrifices. Rowboats with large crews could make reasonable headway over short distances – across the Kattegat or the English Channel, for

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example – but they were not made for the open sea.Vessels for regional travel, perhaps even small warships, are also shown on the early carved picture stones from Gotland. The first indication of sails comes from the Salme boat graves in Estonia, dated c.750, on the basis of a clear keel construction which is a concomitant of wind power. From the mid-eighth century onwards, the sail became the primary propulsion method for Viking-Age shipping. The Salme II ship set the initial pattern – a boat some 16 m long and quite broad amidships, accompanied by a smaller craft that may have been used as a ship’s boat.76 The Salme vessels originated in central Sweden, and these were the kinds of craft that could be commissioned by a major landowner or a wealthy magnate, crewed from their retainers or the men of the district. Comparable ships, spanning the transition from oar- to sail-power, have been found in the Mälar valley boat burials from Vendel,Valsgärde,Tuna, and other sites.77 Our best-detailed evidence for ninth- and tenth-century Viking ships comes from the great Norwegian burials east and west of the Oslofjord. The oldest of them, buried at Oseberg c.834, seems to have been something akin to a royal barge – a stately vessel used for offshore travel, though equally viable as a warship; richly carved and in a superb state of preservation, it is one of the most famous Viking ships of all. The Gokstad ship, dating to around the turn of the tenth century, is a much more practical craft, the kind of mainstay of the raiding parties; a similar but more fragmentary ship from the same time has been found at Tune in Viken.78

The Oseberg ship under excavation in 1904, Vestfold, Norway. Photo by Olof Væring; licence cc by-sa 4.0

FIGURE 2.2

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For the fledgling kingdoms of Scandinavia, control of the sea represented an important aspect of royal power, in terms of both its development and maintenance. This may have been especially important in Norway, where dominance of the north-south communication route described by Óttarr would have allowed rulers to establish numerous local centres of power from which they could monitor and manage maritime traffic. For these sea-kings, dominion over the sea was just as, if not more important, than controlling the land.79 In the late ninth century, purpose-built warships appeared – slim, dangerous vessels designed for fast movement in shallow waters, and maximum manoeuvrability. Two examples are known from Hedeby, preserved in the harbour and also in burials; the Ladby grave from Denmark preserves imaginative details like the iron spirals that adorned the mane of its dragon figurehead; and there are at least three late Viking-Age fighting ships from Roskilde. Ranging in length from around 17 m to an astonishing 37 m (Roskilde 6, the largest Viking vessel so far discovered), at the upper end of the range they could have transported crews of over a hundred.80 While warships formed the basis of raiding potential and political sea power, especially with the larger fleets of the later Viking Age,81 the steady work-horses of the maritime diaspora were heavy cargo ships. Shorter than the warships, with a deeper draught and much broader beam, the knarr was the vessel that took up to 60 tonnes of trading goods to the emporia of the Baltic and North Sea coasts, as well as settlers to the colonies of the North Atlantic.82 Although overshadowed in the popular imagination, it is the ocean-going cargo vessels that really embody the voyaging capacity and entrepreneurial spirit of the Vikings.

Language and Literacy The sheer scale of the Viking world, and the diaspora that gradually resulted from the combined forces of commerce, exploration, and robbery-with-violence, naturally raises issues of communication. There was no single, uniform language across Scandinavia during the Viking Age, but the various dialects and regional variations of what we today call Old Norse were nonetheless mutually intelligible. The language that was later preserved in medieval sagas, law codes, and other documents was a development of this earlier speech and again has survived in several different geographical traditions.83 Runic scripts had been used in northern Europe since at least the Roman period, appearing as claims of ownership on weapons and other personal items. Based in part on Latin, the angular runic letters were not designed to be written with a quill and ink on parchment, in the manner of the Continental book cultures, but instead to be easily cut into wood or stone. Never intended for long-form record keeping, the runes developed for shorter messages: at first simple statements – a name cut onto a comb, for example – and later for memorial texts on standing stones.They were also employed in more everyday contexts, scratched into slivers of wood for use as cargo labels, promissory notes, and IOUs, even personal messages of affection or gossip; they also appear as casual graffiti, with a similarly profane range

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of subject matter as today’s equivalent. Formal memorial stones began to appear in the Migration Period, and by the Viking Age runic monuments are known from most regions of central and southern Scandinavia. The majority of the runestones, several thousand in number, are situated in the Mälar Valley and surrounding regions of central Sweden, with a focus on the eleventh century and the period of increasing Christian influence.84 While the inscriptions vary greatly in detail, they allow scholars to begin to understand the world as it was seen through Viking-Age eyes, without the preconceived biases that are so evident in the accounts of foreign observers. With their inscriptions detailing personal relationships, qualities, and activities, these monuments stand as perhaps the ultimate demonstration that identity at the time was expressed through connections between people and communities, and through them to the land itself.There are many examples of the scale over which such social networks could be created, such as the erection of identical runestones more than 30 km apart. Some events recorded on groups of stones form discrete schools of carving and design all their own, an example being the so-called ‘Ingvarr stones’ of the Mälar Valley in central Sweden. Almost 30 in number, and possibly more, these commemorate men who died in the course of an ill-fated Viking expedition far to the east in the early eleventh century, commanded by a young captain called Ingvarr. There has been considerable speculation as to where the Scandinavians went, their objectives, and their fate (current interpretations range between an intervention in Rus’ politics, or else a massive raid on the Caucasus and an attempt to set up a Viking realm in what is now Georgia) but it is clear that it was regarded as exceptional and also that it ended in disaster. As word trickled back to the Mälar districts from which the fleet sailed, large numbers of runestones seem to have been commissioned as memorials to those who did not come home. The design and inscriptions are very similar right across the group, despite their distribution over a large region, to the extent that there seems to have been a defined ‘Ingvarr style’ of consistent display – remarkable evidence for communal mourning in an agreedupon manner, perhaps suggesting respect for Ingvarr’s powerful family in something resembling patron and client relationships extending across the heart of Svealand.85 Like any other monument, runestones acted as a medium through which to convey multiple messages, but there is a clear emphasis on kinship relations, land ownership, and inheritance rights. While the inscriptions that survive on the weathered faces of the stones today can be translated and read in the same way as any text, the use of space and colour might have encoded both ostentatious and more subliminal messages. The intertwining serpents found on many rune stones have similarly been argued to represent individual family groups, allowing distinctions to be drawn between the individuals whose names are carved on the animals’ bodies. The relative status of family members on a runestone, for example, might have been indicated by the position of their name in the design, or by being painted in a certain colour. In this we can perhaps begin to identify tensions within family groups over individuals’ right to inheritance, or the social position of an illegitimate child in relation to their half-siblings. The designs themselves may provide valuable information

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concerning the lives and deaths of individuals recorded on the stones, for instance in the association of wolves and ravens with inscriptions relating to battle.86 But what about other types of literacy? The casual runic inscriptions – the love notes and toilet-wall humour – suggest that quite a few individuals (at least of a certain social standing) had a knowledge of such scripts, and that writing was used as an everyday means of communication. It would not have been uncommon for the elite to be fluent in several languages, and possibly other scripts too. Historical sources indicate that some Scandinavian leaders spent significant periods of time in the court of the Carolingian kings, and the exchange of hostages as part of diplomatic negotiations may have similarly placed individuals in a position where they were exposed to Continental culture.87 The biography of the ninth-century missionary Anskar also indicates that, at the end of his first mission to Sweden, he brought home a number of boys in order to educate them in Christianity. He is also described as later buying Danish and Slavic boys in order to train them in the ways of the Church.88 The implication of this is that some Scandinavians would have been able to speak, read, and write in Latin. The recovery of bone styli from Birka and other locations in Scandinavia, furthermore, implies that some people wrote on soft writing surfaces such as wax tablets, suggesting the existence of other forms of written information that are now lost.89 Whether such styli were used by visiting merchants and travellers, missionaries, or by Scandinavians themselves is open to debate, but there is no reason to assume that these materials were employed exclusively by foreigners. We can also consider languages that do not survive in textual form, but which must have been spoken by Scandinavians living and travelling across the Viking world. The monumental scale of trade that was flowing to and from the east, for example, surely implies that at least some must have been fluent in Slavic and Turkic languages and dialects, as well as in Arabic. Professional interpreters are mentioned in eastern sources. It is also surely likely that forms of ‘pidgin’ might have developed in order to facilitate interactions between merchants and local populations, leading to the creation of dialects that were spoken only by certain groups operating in specific contexts. It is not difficult to imagine how market centres such as Hedeby, Kaupang, and Birka would have been abuzz with these polyglot interactions, reflecting the cosmopolitan ambience of such settlements. In the west, there is similarly good evidence to suggest that the Viking raiding parties and fleets operating in the British Isles and on the European continent were multi-ethnic and, therefore, multi-lingual. It has been argued that these groups might have developed their own lingua franca, which would have allowed them to function effectively as militaristic forces while facilitating the creation of tight-knit group identities.90 Further evidence for the rich linguistic culture of the Viking-Age can be seen in its poetic traditions. What survives today was committed to writing in medieval Iceland, beginning at the end of the twelfth century, with a floruit in the 1200s and continuing in the centuries thereafter. The so-called Poetic Edda (a modern term) collects a number of mythological and heroic poems of anonymous composition, preserved across several manuscripts with a degree of variation between them. The

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narratives of the Eddic poems are difficult to interpret but may preserve stories dating back to the Viking Age (or perhaps even earlier), which likely existed as oral traditions prior to being written down.91 In some cases, it is possible to identify where the influence of Christianity has reshaped mythological narratives within the texts, but in others, it is difficult to untangle later interpolations from the ‘original’ compositions – in so far as there was ever a primary story to begin with. What is clear, however, is that at least some of the traditions are of great antiquity. When treated with due caution, the Poetic Edda therefore represents an invaluable resource that provides a tantalising insight into pre-Christian cosmology and ritual practice. The spectrum of mythological narratives covers the creation and preordained destruction of the cosmos, stories that describe rivalries and various exploits of the gods, as well as gnomic poems that shed light on contemporaneous approaches to ethics and morality. At the same time, however, it is painfully obvious that this material represents but a tiny piece of the complex ideological tapestry that must have informed many aspects of daily life during the Viking Age. In contrast to the Eddic corpus, skaldic verses were composed by individual authors, essentially semi-professional poets. Although these too are largely recorded in medieval Icelandic texts, the complex metre of the verses (which makes them hard to alter while retaining their sense) suggests that they are much more likely to have been preserved intact since their original composition in the Viking Age. It was common for kings and other elites to employ skalds to write praise poems boasting of their qualities and achievements. As one might imagine, these works were intended to have been recited in front of audiences at feasts and other events, in order to increase the prestige of the individuals who commissioned them. While even a cursory reading of the material reveals the obvious propensity of these poems to exaggerate the exploits of their subjects, they nonetheless offer valuable insights into an idealised Viking-Age society and culture as it was envisaged by the contemporaneous population. Skaldic poems were composed in a range of complex metres and rhyme schemes, and feature the liberal use of kennings – metaphorical expressions, often comprising a compound of two or more words, that were used to replace a noun for imaginative effect (thus the ‘whale-road’ as a kenning for the sea, for example). The heavy emphasis placed on kennings imbues these narratives with a great deal of dramatic flair, which once again speaks to their recital in front of an audience.92 Both Eddic and skaldic verse has also been preserved in a somewhat piecemeal fashion in one of the greatest literary works of the Middle Ages, the so-called Prose Edda written in the early 1200s by the Icelandic politician and historian Snorri Sturluson. Literally a handbook for poets, Snorri’s Edda analyses a range of verse structures and advises on appropriate content according to the intended context of its use – all accompanied by copious citation. Some of the poems quoted by Snorri are known elsewhere, others have survived solely in his work. Albeit produced in the Christian, highly politicised environment of Snorri’s world, his book represents one of the foundations for our knowledge of Norse spiritual belief and practice.93

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Probably the most famous works of ‘Viking’ literature are the Icelandic sagas, but these are not in fact products of the Viking Age at all. Like the Eddas, the sagas are all compositions of the thirteenth century and later, but largely taking the Viking Age – and sometimes earlier periods of the late Iron Age – as their theme; there are also sagas devoted to overtly Christian tales, and to the political history of the saga-writers’ own times. There are two main genres of sagas that ostensibly relate stories of the Viking Age: the sagas of Icelanders, with intricate and multigenerational narratives of family life in the North Atlantic world; and the so-called legendary sagas, which as their name implies blend the fantastic tales more familiar from European Romance with a much-distorted rendition of historical events in the North. The degree to which saga tales can be taken as reliable sources for the Viking Age is a subject of ongoing debate, and has occupied the inter-disciplinary discussion for a century and more. This book primarily deals with contemporary archaeology and history, and will thus largely leave the saga-world aside, but a full engagement with its vivid imagery and literary achievement will enrich any study of the period.94

The Rule of Law For a society so mired in a modern stereotype of extravagant violence, it is ironic that the key binding concept in the Viking-Age cultures of Scandinavia was in fact a respect for the law. Even the English word itself comes from Old Norse, and an orally codified system of legal structures formed the foundation of all community life. A key feature of Iron Age Scandinavian societies that would continue throughout the Viking period was the institution of political assembly and elementary democracy known as the þing (‘thing’).95 These assemblies were held at regular intervals at fixed points of the seasonal cycle, including in winter. As such, they were not only places for passing and amending laws, or prosecuting lawsuits, but also occasions when communities came together to trade, exchange gossip, participate in games, and conduct diplomatic and marriage negotiations. These þing sites can tell us much about social and political organisation in Scandinavia during the first millennium CE. As we have seen, it is thought that during the early Viking Age in Norway, at least some assemblies took place at the special form of rural settlement known as ‘courtyard’ sites, some 30 of which have been identified along the western coast. Courtyard sites comprise a number of longhouse structures arranged in an approximately circular array around an open space. They do not seem to have been permanently occupied, but rather to have been periodically used as gathering places. Each building has an area of 30–50m2 and is believed to represent the temporary lodging of a delegation travelling to the site as representatives of a smaller district. The use of these sites dates throughout the first millennium, implying a relatively stable and long-lasting social system with roots deep into the pre-Viking Iron Age. Several common features are found at more than one site, including a proximity to a major cemetery (sometimes even a location within one), containing unusual numbers of high-status graves that are

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perhaps the burials of community leaders. Many of the sites also have some kind of mound that seems to have been used as a location for collective feasting and probably public speaking. Other sites lack the longhouses and instead seem to have consisted of massive camping grounds. Hundreds of cooking pits – the remains of fires and meals in the open air – have been found in dense concentrations, again leaving an open space where the assembly itself presumably took place.96 When courtyard sites are studied in relation to later medieval records of þing assemblies and rural administration, it is possible to reconstruct a pattern of a single annual meeting of the ‘national’ population (in the sense of a discrete polity, however large that actually was), supported by three to five mid-level assemblies per annum and frequent meetings at a local level. At some of the excavated sites, for example at Bjarkøy, there is an exact correlation between the number of buildings in the courtyard and the number of local districts named in the later sources. In some instances, even the relative positioning of the different structures in a courtyard matches in miniature the geographical distribution of the districts that they represent – an astonishing indication of both political sophistication and cognitive map-making. A similar hypothesis has been proposed to explain the booths found at Icelandic assembly sites, which are argued to represent structures intended to house the delegate of a local farming community (some five to fifteen households). Like the longhouses of the Norwegian courtyard sites, it is even suggested that the spatial organisation of these booths at the Icelandic sites may provide insights into political homogeneity and/or factionalism. Given the prominent role of Norwegian communities in establishing colonies on Iceland, the continued study of these sites may yield interesting insights into socio-political organisation in the two regions as it diverged from its common roots.97 In Sweden a similar picture to Norway emerges in terms of social organisation, but manifested in slightly different form. Instead of courtyard layouts, in central Svealand we find no permanent structures at assembly sites, but rather a combination of mounds (for gathering, feasting, and proclamation), alignments of runestones, and often major cemeteries. Several of the Swedish þings are also spatially associated with water – especially rivers leading eventually to the sea – and also close to ridges and other land routes. While accessibility to these sites would have been vital, it is worth noting that at least some of these routes also functioned as royal roads upon which rulers would undertake regular tours of their territory, suggesting the strong association of assembly places with royal power. As in Norway, these sites are often associated with many variants of Ting-names, and also with names connected to types of local rulers – these latter probably reflect the need to maintain the places where assemblies would be held. A comparable system of folkland districts emerges, though apparently without a main þing for the whole polity.98 The institution of the þing was fundamental to political development in Scandinavia throughout the first millennium. The multi-functional purpose that assembly sites seem to have held for much of this period brought disparate groups together, not only in order to enact and reaffirm common laws but also in the formation of collective social identities that were strengthened through ritual,

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FIGURE 2.3 The greatest assembly site in the Viking world: Þingvellir in southwest Iceland. Photo by Peter Lopeman/Alamy.

mercantile exchange, and social interaction. In their potential role as mustering sites, they also strengthened the hand of local and regional rulers who were seeking to consolidate and/or increase their power. However, a key development of the Viking period was the physical and social separation of military activity on the one hand and law and cultic ritual on the other.These three sources of social power had been spatially and politically combined for most of the Iron Age, but by the end of the Viking Age would all be mutually distinct. Þing sites would come to be chosen for the location and development of royal estates, and ultimately also the siting of urban centres and bishoprics.

Violence and Society In popular culture, the Vikings are often stereotyped as being inherently violent.The rather tired cliché of the Viking warrior, arriving on foreign shores to engage in plunder, reflects the biases of the western scribes and chroniclers who experienced first-hand the brutalities of the early raids. Such stereotypes, however, often contain a kernel of truth, and in recent years, it has become increasingly apparent that violence and warfare played a significant role in Viking-Age culture. The study of early medieval conflict and violence has a troubled history. In the latter half of the twentieth century, as Europe struggled to recover from the trauma of the Second World War, deliberate attempts were made by scholars to steer away from studies of this kind – not least because they had been enthusiastically taken

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up by the Nazis, and thereby contaminated for serious research. In Scandinavia, this resulted in a ‘deafening silence’ on the subject of warfare, which reflected a genuine fear that, by studying conflict, scholars would somehow be seen as glorifying it.99 Outside of Scandinavia, the same period saw concerted efforts to rightly emphasise the artistic and mercantile achievements of the Vikings over their more militaristic activities, the latter of which had long been the focus of antiquarian and early twentieth-century study. As part of more general trends in the diversification of archaeological research, it was also argued that the perceived focus of conflict on male activity marginalised the agency of women and children. These perspectives had obvious merit, but scholars were arguably too successful in seeking to downplay the significance of warfare, and several decades of revisionism led to a notable dilution of violence in perceptions of Viking-Age culture. This led one scholar to famously quip that, by the 1970s, the Vikings had been reduced merely to ‘groups of long-haired tourists who occasionally roughed up the natives’.100 It has only been in the last 20 years or so that perspectives on conflict and warfare have been brought onto a more even keel.Violence is now increasingly recognised not only as a prominent facet of daily life during the Viking Age but also as one that was deeply ingrained within socio-political, legal, and religious structures. Scandinavian society at this time is often described as martial or militarised.101 In this respect, however, the Vikings were no more violent than their predecessors. As we have seen, there is clear evidence for organised raiding and warfare going back at least as far as the Bronze Age, and the evidence for large-scale military expeditions during the Roman Iron Age provides a convincing proxy for a relatively sophisticated form of military organisation from an early date. In the centuries preceding the Viking Age, however, an ostentatious form of martial identity seems to have arisen among the elites of Scandinavia. The evidence for this can be seen in the extravagant arms and equipment recovered during excavations at cemetery sites such as Valsgärde and Vendel, Sweden. It is argued that warfare at this time was likely small-scale but endemic, a situation that seems to have changed moving into the Viking Age. It is during this period that societies seem to have become institutionally militarised – the visually striking equipment of earlier centuries was replaced by more standardised, functional weaponry. Militaristic values perpetuated a glorification of violence, which underpinned and upheld the power of the aristocracy and the professional warrior classes. At the same time, the right of free individuals to carry arms meant that a large percentage of the population potentially could have been mobilised for warfare.102 During the Viking Age, the maintenance of elite power centred on a leader’s ability to recruit and support a retinue (Old Norse lið). These groups, bound to their lord by reciprocal oaths of obligation and patronage, could vary in size from the crew of a single ship to forces that were essentially small ‘armies’ in themselves. Lið were provided with food and shelter, and rewarded for loyal service, by their lord, and in some cases, these collectives might have lived communally in the halls of the elite. For the most part, they were likely made up of young men looking to obtain wealth, status, and social advancement. Several runestones,

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FIGURE 2.4 A variety of Viking weapons from Frøysnes farm, Bygland, Agder, Norway. Photo Museum of Cultural History; licence cc by-sa 4.0.

erected by members of a retinue in memory of their leaders or comrades, attest to the strong bonds of fellowship that could form among these groups as a result of experiences shared during their service. These identities might have been further signalled through group-specific material culture or behaviour. An example of how these identities might manifest culturally has already been noted above in relation to the ‘garrison’ area at Birka. Not only did those stationed there project an ostentatious eastern warrior identity, but they were also projecting a pagan affiliation that was unusual even by the standards of the time. Deposits of spearheads surrounding their buildings suggest allegiance to Óðinn, the war-god whose holy weapon this was, and at the very least an overt demonstration of non-Christian allegiance. It is interesting that this was being done during a period when we know Christian missions to have been present in the settlement.103 While the lið was a group of professional warriors, in times of conflict the strength of any individual group could have been bolstered by members of the general population. Indeed, in all likelihood, most ‘Vikings’ were not at all the seasoned fighters of the popular imagination. The majority of the free population were full-time farmers, working the land on a subsistence basis in order to ensure their continued survival with perhaps a modest surplus. These individuals could also be part-time Vikings, who might have engaged in raiding when they wanted or needed some extra income. Warfare may not have been only the domain of men. From Wagner’s Valkyrie heroines to Tolkien’s noble shield maidens, warrior women have a place in the Viking legend that is hard to shift, and this has perhaps become even more deeply ingrained in popular culture by the prominent martial role played by women in recent drama entertainment. Nevertheless, there is evidence from both texts and archaeology that suggests some Viking-Age women really did do battle on a serious basis. Beyond this, especially from contemporary metalwork images, there is no doubt at all that the image of the fighting female had a very real place in the Viking mind. While historical records are overwhelmingly androcentric in their focus on

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kings and the affairs of the state, tentative glimpses into the martial role of women can be found in several texts. One of these is an account by the Byzantine historian John Skylitzes, whose work survives in part in the later Compendium Historiarum, written by Cedrenus. In John’s account of a fierce battle between Byzantine and Rus’ forces in 971, he notes that the victorious imperials were surprised to find the bodies of armoured women among the Rus’ dead. Were this an invention, one might expect it to be used as a springboard for some tiresome homily, perhaps moralising on the supposedly proper place of women or making a classical allusion to Amazons. Instead there is no such annotation, only a sense of puzzlement: with all due caution, we should be open to the possibility that the Byzantine scribe meant exactly what he wrote, and had it furthermore on eyewitness authority. A second account of women in a military context can be found in the Irish source Cogadh Gaedhel re Gallaibh, a twelfth-century text that records the numerous wars between Viking groups and the Irish during the tenth and eleventh centuries.When describing a number of raiding parties operating in Munster during the tenth century, the text mentions a ‘fleet of the Inghen Ruaidh’, or ‘Red Girl’, presumably in reference to the woman’s hair colour. The text not only goes on to describe the activities of these fleets, which included various attacks on Irish communities and widespread slaving, but later also mentions (perhaps problematically, given the length of time between the two episodes) that two sons of the Inghen Ruaidh were killed at the Battle of Clontarf in 1014. In just two short sentences, this woman thus appears as a Viking herself, a ship’s captain, a fleet commander, and a mother of Vikings. If we can trust the source (and this is contested), it is an extraordinary insight into a remarkable life.104 There is also a growing corpus of archaeological evidence that links women with martial activity. A handful of burials containing individuals osteologically sexed as female and accompanied by weapons have long been known from across Scandinavia, but these are problematic to interpret for several reasons. The skeletons have not been definitively sexed (for example through DNA), some of the ‘weapons’ may actually have been tools, and there are also the general difficulties (naturally applicable to both sexes) in reading living identities from the constructed funerary tableaux associated with the buried dead. An exception to this is a recently re-analysed burial from Birka, chamber grave Bj.581, in which a seated individual had been interred in eastern dress, together with two horses, and surrounded by an unusual profusion of weapons including a sword, axe, battle knife, two spears, two shields, and an archery set. Excavated in 1878 and long held up as an archetypal warrior burial of the tenth century, in effect a kind of ‘ultimate Viking’, the occupant was always assumed to be male until an osteological study suggested that the skeleton was female, later confirmed through a genomic analysis that revealed XX chromosomes. If this person was universally interpreted as a warrior while thought to be a man, it is not logical to suddenly reverse the interpretation as soon as their skeleton is correctly sexed. The burial has been hotly debated, and naturally raises issues of gender, mortuary behaviour, and the nature of martial identity – but Bj.581 would appear to be the first really convincing archaeological case for an

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actual female warrior.105 We cannot know how many women actively participated in warfare, and at present, it seems most likely that any who did follow such a lifestyle were in a small minority. In conceptualising warfare and violence, it is also important to include individuals that we today would recognise as children. Viking-Age societies may have placed great emphasis on the period of adolescence, during which time children would take on adult roles according to their abilities. These included participation in warfare. There is good archaeological evidence to indicate that Viking-Age childhood was imbued with martial influences, most notably in the form of toy weapons and military equipment that have been recovered in archaeological contexts across the Viking world. As they approached adolescence, some children may have been employed among military groups to cook or maintain military gear in the same capacity as later medieval pages. Later, they might have gone on to serve as weapon bearers for older warriors, and in this way gain their first experience of warfare. Of course, participation in conflict brought with it many dangers, and double graves of adults accompanied by adolescents, such as that from Île de Groix, Brittany, or a father and son from the Repton army camp in England, may represent warriors and their weapon bearers who died while participating in martial activities.106

The Visual World When scholars attempt to gain a more complete understanding of the past, and especially the span of broad social and political change, there is a risk that the fine grain of regional and chronological variation gets lost in the temptation to generalise. Historical sources equally tend to provide either very narrow insights into the lives of a few individuals, or sweeping and highly partial observations that contribute little to our understanding of daily life as it was experienced by people across the spectrum of society. As a result, there is a risk of homogenising the identities of families, communities, or even entire societies. Happily, this picture is rapidly changing, with greater emphasis now being placed on studying the lives of previously marginalised groups, as well as trying to understand the multi-faceted meanings of objects and ideas for different people, living in different places, at different times. However, it is still very easy to forget that the people of the Viking Age valued their own individuality as much as we do today. There was no more a typical ‘Viking man’ than a ‘Viking woman’, something that is best understood when we study expressions of identity through the use of material culture. In recent decades, our perception of the Vikings has undergone a stark visual transformation, with increasing evidence for a strikingly vivid repertoire of clothing and dress. It is apparent that some people chose to signal their identities as members of particular social groups and sub-cultures, or to otherwise distinguish themselves from others. To this end they followed trends in fashion as closely as many people do today, using the same palette of style, colour, and dress accessories, to a degree that was naturally conditioned by their practical possibilities to do so based on their wealth and connections.107

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Textiles included a variety of woollen weaves, from patterned twill to more practical heavy cloth for outdoor wear. Linen was known and prized, with imported silks popular at the upper end of the scale. Furs were used both as full pelts cut to make cloaks, and more often as trimming on hats or cuffs. Fashionable effect was also produced by imitation fur, made by inserting tufted pieces of wool into the basic textiles; some of these shaggy additions could be dramatically over-sized, at the curious juncture of the cool and the ridiculous that we recognise from modern couture. There was no single dress custom for the Viking Age, especially for women, whose clothing could vary from simple shifts to multi-layered ensembles of underclothes, a kind of petticoat, and different forms of over-dress. These could either be draped around the shoulders – shawls of various kinds were also popular – or else be worn as essentially separate front and back panels of cloth held together with shoulder straps and jewellery. These dresses combined practicality (not least for the feeding of children) with style and display, being elaborated and decorated according to means or taste. Just as today, there were clothes for daily use and other, finer alternatives for special occasions or when appearances mattered (including in the grave). We know that a wide range of colours were available from vegetable dyes, with blues, greens and reds in particular being produced in many fine degrees of shades. Undyed cloth tended to be brown or a dullish cream, while the production of fine white linens was expensive. We know that exotic silks and brocades, imported from the Byzantine world, Persia, and even as far away as China, were used sparingly but to dramatic effect, sewn on as glittering cuffs and hems, shiny trimmings around the edges of the clothes. Silver and gold thread could be

FIGURE 2.5 Oval brooches typically worn by women, from the Birka cemetery, Björkö, Sweden. Photo Swedish History Museum; licence cc 2.0.

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incorporated in relief, the effects brought out especially in low light conditions indoors by the fire: the high-end dressers of the Viking Age would have shimmered as they moved. Masculine clothing included a basic combination of trousers – sometimes wrapped tightly with leggings below the knee – and a shirt, often topped with a cloak for warmth or protection from the weather. Heavy wool could be treated with fat for waterproofing. There is evidence for men adopting eastern fashions, including elaborate belts decorated with bronze plates of the type worn by the nomadic peoples of the Eurasian steppe, noted above as being found at Birka. Other eastern-style garments include kaftans and a form of extravagantly baggy trousers, evidence for which have been found in burials at Birka and on the Russian rivers, and clearly shown on several Gotlandic picture stones of the Viking Age. These clothes sometimes incorporated multiple layers of clashing, brightly dyed cloths attached to which might have been various tassels, brocades, or ribbons, resulting in a highly visual ensemble that promoted flair over practicality. This emphasis on exoticism and flamboyance is further reflected in body ornamentation and jewellery. A basic range of brooch forms can be discerned in the women’s burials: oval brooches worn at the shoulder, disc and trefoil brooches to hold together the shawl, and a variety of smaller adornments, all manufactured in different metals at different prices. The most basic items might be made of lead or alloy, with copper, bronze, silver (sometimes gilded), and actual gold appearing progressively up the scale. There were also regional variations, such as the animal head clasps and box brooches found only on the island of Gotland. Some pieces were made in several parts, occasionally of different metals, and could even contain pieces of brightly coloured cloth that would show through and contrast with an openwork cover.108 Men might wear a shoulder clasp for a cloak, or a ringed pin for the same purpose. Belts could also be decorated, with elaborate buckles and mounts, and other items such as sword harnesses were also covered in decorated mounts often in precious metals. Some of the more spectacular dress pins known from the Viking Age, used by Norse groups in Scotland during the tenth century, were so large that when used to fasten a cloak some 40 cm of metal might have projected from the cloth. In Scandinavia, we see copies of foreign metalwork designs being produced by local craftworkers, a case in point being that of the trefoil mount/brooch. Originally produced in the Carolingian Empire as mounts for sword belts and taken as plunder during Viking raids, many of these objects were converted into brooches back in Scandinavia, where they might act as a testament to the wearer’s participation in raiding (or, alternatively, an individual’s connections with a raiding party), providing them with increased respect and status. This is further attested by the later reproduction of trefoil mounts in brooch form within Scandinavia itself, demonstrating that members of the general population wished to draw on the prestige associated with these objects.109 In addition to appropriating or creating visually striking material identities through dress or personal ornamentation, the body itself could also function as a

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form of material culture. The use of makeup, for example, is well-known in many ancient societies, but this is not something that we might usually associate with the Vikings. Nonetheless, al-Ṭarṭûshi’s aforementioned description of his visit to Hedeby provides us with a marvellous eyewitness account of a stroll through the urban streets, alive with local colour and detail. Among the gems in his report are lively word pictures of the men and women he met, and an image of the Vikings at home such as we almost never find reproduced in the clichéd stereotypes: al-Ṭarṭûshi notes how both sexes wore eye makeup – presumably some kind of kohl equivalent – with what the traveller describes as a great enhancement of their beauty. There is also evidence to suggest that at least individuals took care to style their hair in a manner that was not merely conducive to hygiene.110 A unique insight into more permanent body modifications is provided by Ibn Faḍlān, who describes the appearance of the Rus’ that he encountered on the Volga River in 922. Having related the manner of the Rus’ dress and their weapons, Ibn Faḍlān goes on to state that ‘they are dark, from the tips of their toes right up to their necks – trees, pictures, and the like’.111 This is the only information that we have that may allude to tattooing among Viking-Age societies, which is not surprising given the unlikelihood that these would ever be preserved in the burial record. It is certainly not unreasonable to assume that tattooing might have been widespread, and we can only guess at the messages that might have been conveyed in these designs. Another form of body modification, which has been increasingly identified in the burial record, is teeth filing. This usually takes the form of lateral or diagonal furrows filed into the incisors and canines. As yet there are no clear contexts for this type of dental modification, but it seems to have been practiced only by men. It has been variously suggested that the process might have been undertaken as a show of bravery or hardiness, or perhaps as a signal of collective identity among merchants or raiding groups. However, the picture is further complicated by the fact that several individuals with filed teeth have been found to have been deliberately killed as part of funerary rituals and deposited in the graves of others. Such people are often interpreted as the enslaved, which if correct demonstrates that teeth filing may have been a practice that transcended social class and occupation (alternatively, they may have been war captives). For now, therefore, the questions surrounding this custom far outnumber the possible explanations for it.112 The artistic decoration of the Viking Age has been extensively studied, both from an art-historical perspective and also in social context.113 The design schemes and technical conventions of its execution have been divided into six broad styles, beginning in the late eighth century and continuing into the early 1100s. These art styles overlap in time – as one would expect of social phenomena – and they do not align neatly with the artificial chronological borders of the ‘Viking Age’. Named after the find-spots of objects decorated in a particularly characteristic manner, the evolution of the Viking-Age art styles traces a trajectory from the complex, writhing animal interlace designs of the Migration and Vendel periods, through ring-chain ornament and openwork interlace, to the more streamlined, gracile decoration of the later period with influences from the Continent.

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The primary styles of Viking-Age Scandinavian art (all dates approximate): • • • • • •

Oseberg: c.775–875 Borre: c.850–950 Jellinge: c.900–975 Mammen: c.960–1025 Ringerike: c.1000–1075 Urnes: c.1050–1125

The styles also appear in hybrid forms, mixed with the local traditions (or different imports) in areas of Scandinavian settlement, all across the diaspora. Especially vivid forms are found in Ireland (Hiberno-Norse) and England (Anglo-Scandinavian), and similar phenomena are also encountered in the eastern regions of the Viking world. Of course, these designs – which seem to have covered almost every available surface in the Vikings’ material world – were not passive. It is beyond doubt that the craftworkers of the Viking Age created – and repurposed – dynamic objects in a range of materials, with an eye to the embodiment of specific meanings. These were conveyed through the designs themselves, including metalwork examples that incorporate a kind of visual puzzle, but also through the medium of colour and even placement on the body. Whether referencing what we know today as stories from Norse mythology, or perhaps more personal, intimate statements of identity and social relations, these meaningful messages operated at a range of levels from the individual to the collective – matching their medium of expression from jewellery to the carved and painted ornamentation of furniture and architectural detail, vehicles, and organic items of all kinds. Given what we know of tattooing practices (as above), this presumably even extended to the human body itself.114 Many concerns, not least matters of ideology, power, and spirituality, are reflected in the ‘art’. The earlier styles, extending into the late ninth century and part of the tenth, have a clear reference world within the traditional beliefs of the pre-Christian North – the emphasis on animals, both real and fantastic; the twisting bands of interlace that some have compared to the intricate structures of poetic composition; the imagery that, at least in some instances, contains features identifiable from the mythological and heroic tales. As Christianity increased its foothold in Scandinavia (see ch. 5), the artistic conventions also begin to change, including an altered repertoire of imagery that gradually aligns with parts of a different religious iconography. In at least one example, the great pictorial runestone at Jelling on which King Haraldr ‘Bluetooth’ proclaimed his conversion of the Danes to Christianity, even the design of the monument itself resembles a book – the runes set out in horizontal rows rather than within interlaced animal bodies, and with patterns resembling the illuminated initials of manuscripts.115 Towards the end of the Viking Age, this adaptation became more pronounced, serving to confirm the links between image, meaning, and shifts in social situation. The final characteristic form of art, known as the Urnes style after the type-site in Norway, is very consistent across the stave churches of the late eleventh and early

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FIGURE 2.6 The late eleventh-century door of the Urnes stave church, Sogn og Fjordane, Norway, with its elaborate carving that gave its name to the Urnes art-style. Photo by Dmitry Naumov/Alamy.

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twelfth centuries, and perhaps it was actually created to adorn the new Christian houses of worship – a clear signal of religious allegiance and visible faith. Found on personal items such as brooches and pendants, it is also one of the major designs used on runestones with Christian inscriptions, especially in central Sweden. The Urnes style was perhaps projected (though not necessarily accepted) as a marker of an outward-looking, progressive attitude in tune with the spirit of the times, in opposition to the supposed conservatism of the traditional beliefs with their outdated visual repertoire. As with so many aspects of the Viking Age, the marvellous art of Scandinavia is vivid, dramatic, surprising, and beautiful – all dependent on the personal aesthetics of the viewer, of course. Again, as with so much else, it is also deeply political, and a material expression of changing social currents, ideas, oppositions, and codes.

Notes 1 Vestergaard (1991); Jochens (1995); Karras (2003); Jóhanna Katrín Friðriksdóttir (2020, chs. 2, 3). 2 Auður Magnúsdóttir (2001; 2008); Raffield et al. (2017a; 2017b). 3 Andrén (2000). 4 Raffield et al. (2017a; 2017b). 5 Auður Magnúsdóttir (2001; 2008). 6 N. Price (2020a, ch. 3). 7 Arwill-Nordbladh (1998). 8 Hayeur Smith (2004); Back Danielsson (2007); Moen (2019a; 2019b). 9 On gender, see Hjørungdal (1991); Arwill-Nordbladh (1998); Göransson (1999); Bagerius (2001); Hauptmann (2014). For studies of Viking-Age women, see Jesch (1991); Jochens (1995); Coleman and Løkka (2014); Jóhanna Katrín Friðriksdóttir (2020). 10 Clover (1993). 11 Lunde and Stone (2012, 163). 12 Stalsberg (1991); (2001); McLeod (2011);Thedéen (2012); Raffield (2016); Raffield et al. (2016); Hedenstierna-Jonson et al. (2017); N. Price et al. (2019). 13 For ‘literary’ women, see Jochens (1996); Anderson and Swenson (2002); Simek and Helzmann (2002); Jóhanna Katrín Friðriksdóttir (2013). 14 N. Price (2005). 15 Almquist (1965; 1974); Sørensen (1983). 16 Jochens (1991); Back Danielsson (2007); N. Price (2020a, ch. 5). 17 The most comprehensive study of the female life course is Jóhanna Katrín Friðriksdóttir (2020); see also Arwill-Nordbladh (2012). 18 Mundal (1988); Lindqvist (2004); Callow (2006); Mejsholm (2009); Hadley (2018); Raffield (2019a). 19 Gardeła (2012); Raffield (2019a); N. Price (2020a, 122). 20 Wåhlander et al. (2012); Hedenstierna-Jonson (2014). 21 Wicker (1998; 2012); Mejsholm (2009); Eriksen (2017); for al-Ṭarṭûshi’s observations on infanticide see Lunde and Stone (2012, 163). 22 Batey and Paterson (2012); Chenery et al. (2014); Falys (2014); Raffield (2019a); N. Price (2020a, 158–60).

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23 On Viking-Age slavery, see Foote and Wilson (1970, ch. 2); Karras (1988); Lindkvist and Myrdal (2003); Brink (2008b; 2008c; 2012; 2021); N. Price (2020a, ch. 4); Raffield (2018; 2019b; 2021; 2022; Forthcoming); Toplak, Østhus and Simek (2021); Biermann and Jankowiak (2021). 24 For Ibn Faḍlān’s discussion of the Rus’, see Montgomery (2017). Numerous references to members of the Irish aristocracy and clergy being taken for ransom can be seen in the Annals of Ulster (Mac Airt and Mac Niocaill 1983). For slavery and the silver trade, see several papers in Gruszczyński et al. (2021), and Delvaux (2019) on beads. 25 Bersu and Wilson (1966); Hemmendorff (1984); Naumann et al. (2013); Kjellström (2014); Raffield, Gardeła and Toplak (2021). 26 Orchard (2011, 241–7). 27 Jón Viðar Sigurðsson (2008). 28 Carter (2015). 29 Englert and Trakadas (2009). 30 Hayeur Smith (2020). 31 E. Andersson (2003); Øye (2010). 32 Walton Rogers (1997). 33 Bender Jørgensen (2012); N. Price (2020a, ch. 14). 34 E.g. Becker (1980); Bender Jørgensen and Eriksen (1995). 35 Andersson Strand (2011). 36 Arwidsson and Berg (1983). 37 Bayley (1992); Ottaway (1992); Gustafsson (2013); U. Pedersen (2016); Karlsson and Magnusson (2020). 38 K. Ambrosiani (1981); Ashby (2014a). 39 T. Zachrisson (1998). 40 Hennius (2021). 41 Hedenstierna-Jonson et al. (2013). 42 Ibid. See also Nørgård Jørgensen (2009); Olausson (2009); Raffield (2013a; 2013b). 43 The Birka rampart burial is discussed by Hedenstierna-Jonson (2006); on possible functions of the Thyraborg phallus see N. Price (2019, 181–2). 44 Gustin (2004); Skre (2011b; 2013; 2016; 2017). 45 Hayeur Smith (2019); Critch et al. (2019). 46 Graham-Campbell and Williams (2007); Graham-Campbell, Sindbæk and Williams (2011); Kershaw and Williams (2019). 47 Graham-Campbell (1995; 2011); Hadley and Richards (2016; 2021) demonstrate how such economies could map out across settlements, in this case semi-temporary winter camps. 48 E.g. Lunde and Stone (2012, 46); Audy (2018). 49 As noted in Ynglinga saga, ch. 8; Finlay and Faulkes (2011, 11). 50 Fuglesang and Wilson (2006); Pettersson (2008); Gruszczyński (2019). 51 Croix (2015b). 52 Feveile (2006; 2013); Croix (2015b; 2020); Ashby and Sindbæk (2020); Sindbæk (2020; 2022). 53 Arbman (1940–1943); Gräslund et al. (2018). 54 B. Ambrosiani (1992–); Holmquist Olausson (1993); Hedenstierna-Jonson (2012); Olsson (2017); Kalmring, Wendt and Holmquist (2021). 55 Olausson (2001); Holmquist Olausson and Åhfeldt (2002); Hedenstierna-Jonson (2006); Holmquist (2016). 56 Skre and Stylegar (2004); Skre (2007; 2008; 2011a). 57 Maixner (2012); Maluck and Weltecke (2016); Schietzel (2018).

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58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78

79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97

Royal Frankish Annals 808; Scholtz (1970, 88). Kalmring (2016). Kalmring (2010). Schultze (2011). Eisenschmidt (2010). Sindbæk (2005; 2007; 2008; 2010); Glørstad and Loftsgarden (2017); Ashby and Sindbæk (2020). Holmquist Olausson (1993); Kalmring, Runer and Viberg (2017); Kalmring, Wendt and Holmquist (2021). Rydh (1936); Brunstedt (1996); Skre (2007, 223–48); Dobat (2014). Hilberg (2016). Hedenstierna-Jonson (2006). Tesch (2016). Hedenstierna-Jonson (2016); T.D. Price et al. (2018). Hedenstierna-Jonson (2012). Øye (2010). Kalmring et al. (2017). Crumlin-Pedersen (1991); Crumlin-Pedersen and Thye (1995); J. Lund (2008). Crumlin-Pedersen and Jensen (2018). Bruce-Mitford (1975); Randsborg (1995); Crumlin-Pedersen and Trakadas (2003); Rau (2013). Konsa (2021). G. Larsson (2007); Norr (2008). Nicolaysen (1882); Brøgger, Falk and Shetelig (1917–1928); Christensen, Ingstad and Myhre (1992); Williams (2014). For a literature survey of other ship burial finds, see N. Price (2020a, 538, 543–5). Skre (2014, 2018, 2020). Crumlin-Pedersen (1997); Sørensen (2001); Crumlin-Pedersen and Olsen (2002). Ravn (2016). Crumlin-Pedersen and Olsen (2002); Williams (2014, 74–83). Palm (2004); Byock (2013, 2015). Jansson (1987); Spurkland (2005); Imer (2016). For runes in a magical context, see McKinnell and Simek (2004); MacLeod and Mees (2006); Pereswetoff-Morath (2019). M.G. Larsson (1990a; 1990b). Andrén (2000); B. Sawyer (2000); Jesch (2001); A-S. Gräslund (2002). Royal Frankish Annals, 826; Scholz (1970). Life of Anskar, ch. 9, 15; Robinson (1921). Artursson (1995). Downham (2009); McLeod (2014); N. Price (2016); Raffield (2016); Raffield et al. (2016). Acker and Larrington (2002); Gunnell (2005); Orchard (2011); McKinnell (2014); Larrington et al. (2016). O’Donoghue (2004, ch. 3); Whaley (2005); Clunies Ross (2008–). Jónas Kristiansson (1988); Byock (2005). Vésteinn Ólason (1998); O’Donoghue (2004); McTurk (2005); Clunies Ross (2010); Ármann Jakobsson and Sverrir Jakobsson (2017); Phelpstead (2020). Owen (2012); Sanmark (2017); Semple et al. (2021). Storli (2000; 2010); Semple and Sanmark (2013); Ødegaard (2019); Semple et al. (2021). Orri Vésteinsson (2013); Olsen (2015).

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3 TRADITION AND WORLD-VIEW

In the contemporary written record of the Viking Age, the view from outside Scandinavia, it is striking how often the Northern peoples are primarily distinguished by their religious identity. In the Latin of the Continental sources, the Vikings are pagani, ‘pagans’; in Old English, hæðena, ‘heathen’. We see a similar distinction in the earliest Arabic accounts of Viking activity in the Iberian Peninsula, which refer to the raiders as majus, or ‘fire-worshippers’. The term originally referred to Zoroastrians, but in a Viking context seems to denote the raiders as non-Christian infidels from a foreign land.1 These descriptions are the beginning of what would become the ‘othering’ of the Vikings, consciously setting them apart from the normative world of their monotheistic neighbours, victims, and trading partners. The pejorative use of a ‘devil-worshipping’ vocabulary not only fosters false perceptions of barbarism, but also – importantly – tells us nothing about what the Vikings actually did believe. In fact, the spiritual universe of the early medieval Scandinavians was not only both rich and strange but also completely integrated into the fabric of their daily lives. The ‘religion’ of the Vikings, as it existed prior to the widespread adoption of Christianity, has long-defied close definition. It is symptomatic that Scandinavian societies had no explicit word to describe their spiritual beliefs in any structured sense, and they were not encoded in religious texts. In pursuit of a closer reading of Viking pre-Christian beliefs, scholars have suggested terms of varying complexity and specificity, ranging from the cumbersome ‘non-doctrinal community religion’ to the more simplistic ‘belief system’. However, none of these have proved satisfactory thus far, in that they may ascribe far more consistency to this world-view than ever really existed. The deeply entwined nature of ritual and social practice meant that what we would today refer to as ‘religion’ fed into almost all aspects of daily existence, finding expressions in political structures, social interaction, and even warfare, to the extent it may be fundamentally incorrect to attempt to draw DOI: 10.4324/9780203483251-4

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a definition between ‘religious’ and ‘secular’ life at all. The closest Old Norse term for what we might today define as religion is forn siðr, which loosely translates as ‘ancient custom’, a sense of how things should be done. Given this lack of precision, it is not certain how the Viking-Age populations of Scandinavia would have viewed their own beliefs in contrast to those of other groups, even within their own cultural sphere. While spiritual ideologies were broadly similar across Scandinavia, evidence for variation in these, even at local level, is reflected in the myriad expressions of ritual practice and belief that we encounter in the archaeological record. The evidence for these actions provides an insight into the continuing dialogue that the Scandinavian peoples engaged in with their gods and the otherworldly beings that surrounded them.2 In contrast to modern world religions, there is little evidence to suggest that people were required to regularly worship the gods, whether in private or at public ritual sites, or even necessarily to approve of them. Certainly, the gods were perceived to demand respect, and it seems to have been acknowledged that any individual who wished to prosper in life (or have any chance of surviving to old age) would have been wise to pay attention to their needs. By undertaking and fulfilling ritual obligations, it was possible for humans to establish a kind of contract with the gods in the hope that the latter would provide them with good health and fortune. It is here, reflected in archaeology and text, that we may locate the core values of Viking-Age spiritual belief and practice. The armature on which all this was arranged can be seen not as an artificial canon of ‘Norse myths’ – which is effectively a creation of later scholarship – but rather a shifting, organic arena of stories and tales, a vast narrative of humanity and its relations with otherworldly powers, in which every person could find their place.

Cosmogony and the Norse Story-World Where did the Vikings believe themselves to have come from, and where did they believe their fate lay? Given that almost all our available mythological sources were written down in the centuries following the Christianisation process, untangling pre-Christian cosmologies from the later texts is difficult. The various narratives are both fragmentary and contradictory, and we have little idea whether they are in any way contemporary with each other. Furthermore, the tales in their final form often bear clear influence from the intellectual and religious currents of the thirteenth century and later. Nevertheless, with care it is possible to piece together at least some of the main elements of the stories that seem to have formed the core foundation of Old Norse spiritual belief.3 According to Snorri Sturluson’s Gylfaginning, part of his great poetic handbook known as the Prose Edda, the origins of the cosmos lay in the infinite expanse of Ginnungagap, the ‘yawning void’. This somehow contained a realm of fire (Musspell) and a realm of ice (Nilfheimr). Rivers flowed from both of these, and the resulting mix of heat and cold caused a great mist to rise. It is from this fog that the first being emerged, a giant named Ymir. Another creature, a cosmic cow

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called Auðumbla (her name means the ‘hornless one rich in milk’), appeared at this time. Auðumbla began to lick the salt rime that had formed in the void, and under her tongue the first of the gods was slowly revealed in the ice. This was Búri, who somehow produced a son named Borr. It was from Borr’s union with a giantess named Bestla that the first Æsir gods, the brothers Óðinn,Vili, and Vé, were created. Later, the brothers attacked and killed Ymir, and used his body to fashion the world. The giant’s skull became the vault of the sky, his blood the sea, and his flesh the earth. For a society in which violence could be a ritual expression as much as a political or social one, it is not surprising that the world was born of bloodshed. The Eddic poem Grímnismál also credits the gods with the creation of the first humans, whom they fashioned from driftwood found while wandering on the seashore of the world. The inconsistencies and gaps in these stories are apparent even from the very brief précis given above. The real structure of the pre-Christian cosmos is difficult to determine, but seems to have comprised a number of interconnected worlds.The gods lived together in Ásgarðr, which contained halls and homesteads for each of the divinities – it seems to have resembled the human world but on a suitably dramatic scale. The other worlds included Miðgarðr (the ‘Middle Place’, and origin of Tolkien’s Middle Earth), which was inhabited by humans; Jötunheimar, the ‘homes’ (curiously in the plural) of giants; a vague reference to Útgarðr, an ‘outer place’ of darkness and demonic powers; and an underworld, Hel, which may itself have comprised nine realms extending down into the earth. We know of at least one other world, an unnamed space beneath the sea, and there may well have been more that have left no trace in the sources. Although there is some debate as to exactly how the worlds were arranged spatially, it is generally agreed that they were bound together by the great ash tree Yggdrasil, which functioned as the foundation of the cosmos. Its roots stretched down through the worlds, and travel was possible both there and along its branches. The World Tree as a material symbol of belief is paralleled by the Irminsûl tree of the Germanic tribes on the Continent, and in myths found across the circumpolar region.4 As in many other polytheistic belief systems, each of the gods was ascribed with certain traits and characteristics. However, it would be a mistake to see them as specifically deities of something, as each god or goddess had many facets, activated according to circumstance.5 The pre-Christian pantheon (if such can be said to have existed in the Classical sense) was divided into two divine kin groups – the older Vanir and the incoming Æsir, though the latter confusingly appear first in the creation stories. According to Völuspá, they had once fought each other as enemies prior to combining their forces. The most powerful of the gods, Óðinn, was associated with kings and elites, and wisdom, magic, and warfare, while Þórr was commonly linked with thunder, the unpredictability of the weather, and with brute force. Other major figures include Ullr and Týr, but little is known of them beyond vignettes in the tales. The Vanir gods, such as Njörðr and the twin siblings Freyja and Freyr, seem to have been associated more with nature and fertility. However, individual conceptions of the

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FIGURE 3.1 A Þórr’s hammer pendant from Erikstorp, Ödeshög, Östergötland, Sweden. Photo by Gabriel Hildebrand, Swedish History Museum; licence cc by-sa 4.0.

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gods may have varied greatly. Freyja, for example, is often held up as a goddess of love – a kind of Nordic Aphrodite – when in fact she was far more directly associated with an earthier sexuality; she was also a huntress, a war goddess, and one of the guardians of the dead, both beautiful and terrible. There were many other gods whose character and roles are more obscure. One of these is the famous but mysterious being, Loki. It is uncertain whether he was a god himself – he may have been instead a giant, or perhaps a mix of both. He is a Trickster figure, playfully frustrating the gods’ plans, sometimes helping them, but always with a dangerous edge of malice and a mocking humour. Loki will be instrumental in shaping the fate of the cosmos, and will join the powers of darkness at the end of all things. A curious feature of the Norse gods is their very humanlike qualities.They were powerful but fallible beings, with limitations that meant they could be tricked and deceived, or even exploited by other gods, creatures, and spirits. Like the divinities of many ancient belief systems (such as those of Rome and Greece), the Norse gods were not believed to hold to any form of what we today would call a moral code, and there is little evidence to suggest that they expected people to adhere to one either.6 They were fickle and capricious in their behaviour, both towards each other and to humans.They readily engaged in behaviours that they themselves decreed to be unacceptable (such as breaking oaths or conducting adulterous liaisons), seemingly for no other reason than because they could, and with few exceptions there are no instances in which the gods acknowledge the long-term consequences of their actions.7 Óðinn openly delighted in his ability to trick and deceive, and it is clear that he favoured those who acted in similar ways: to be a lord of lies was to master the mind. The gods were also perceived to reward or punish humans as they saw fit, regardless of the levels of devotion shown to them. While upholding one’s ritual obligations was probably a good idea, to place trust in the gods was a risky venture at best. Divine life was as varied as the personalities of the gods, evident in their many adventures that would have both positive and negative outcomes. Eddic sources tell of the frequent conflicts between the gods and their enemies the giants, as well as with Loki. We read of the chaining of Loki’s son Fenrir, a wolf so powerful that he had to be bound to prevent him wreaking havoc on the world. We also learn of Óðinn’s unceasing desire for wisdom, which led him to pawn one of his eyes in order to drink from the Well of Mímir, the repository of all knowledge. He hung himself from a tree for nine days and nine nights, pierced through with a spear as a literal self-sacrifice, in order to gain the power of runes from a pain-induced vision of flame. Other myths deal with affairs of the heart, such as the god Freyr’s attempt to woo the giantess Gerðr as related in the poem Skírnismal, and the promiscuities of the various goddesses. Some of the most colourful exploits were those of Þórr, who would at one point attempt to fish for Jörmungandr, a sea serpent so massive that its body encircled the world.While these myths deal with the lives of individual gods, in different places and at different times, a constant theme is an increasingly urgent sense of passing time. It is clear that the gods’ actions are contributing to a much wider, more powerful narrative, and that everything they say and do will

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somehow have important consequences in the future. Rather than being removed from the physical world, the Norse gods were believed to move between the physical and spiritual realms, and perhaps sometimes even to appear in disguise before humans in order to influence the course of an individual’s fate. It is this sense of predetermined and unavoidable destiny that represents one of the most interesting aspects of Old Norse cosmology, and one that may have significant implications for our understanding of the ‘Viking mind’, for the destiny of the gods and all living things was to be destroyed.8 We have already encountered the terrible three-year Fimbulwinter, arguably a mythological reflection of the Migration Period turbulence that so heavily impacted Scandinavia. As devastating as this would be, the Fimbulwinter was only the first of a series of cataclysmic events that – according to the mythology – would result in the destruction not only of the world but also the entire cosmos. This was the Ragnarök, ‘the twilight of the gods’, and is worth addressing in detail not only for its unique place in world mythology but also as a crucial insight into the mental universe of the Vikings.9 The Eddic poem Völuspá and Snorri’s Gylfaginning tell us how Ragnarök will play out. Following the Fimbulwinter, the very fabric of the realms will begin to crumble. The World Tree shudders and groans. Loki, earlier bound under the earth because of his crimes against the gods, will break free from his bonds, as does the great wolf Fenrir. The land will begin to sink into the ocean, and the serpent Jörmungandr will quit the seas, spitting poison across the land. A multitude of demonic creatures will be released upon the world.Wolves will swallow the sun and moon, and giants and trolls of every kind will come forth. The sons of Muspell, led by the mighty fire giant Surtr, will tear a gaping hole in the sky, and the human dead in Hel will be summoned from their resting places. Everyone who ever drowned rises from the sea on a great ship named Naglfar, made from the fingernails of the dead, with Loki at its helm. All of these forces will come together for one purpose – to settle their scores with the gods in a great, final battle. Against them stand the Æsir and Vanir, alerted by the horn of Heimdallr, the ever-vigilant watchman at his place on the rainbow bridge that connects Ásgarðr with the human world. With Óðinn at their head, the gods ride out onto Vígríðr, a great plain that stretches for a hundred leagues in all directions. They are accompanied by the einherjar – those humans who had died a valiant death in battle and in doing so earned themselves seats in the halls of Óðinn and Freyja, where they feasted and fought among themselves in anticipation of this day. The tales relate the fall of the gods, locked in duels with their enemies. The hel-hound Garmr and the god Týr both slay each other, as do Loki and Heimdallr. Þórr kills Jörmungandr, but his victory is short lived, as in its death throes the serpent spews poison over him, causing Þórr to take nine paces into death (perhaps he descends through the levels of Hel). Freyr is killed by the fire giant Surtr after a fierce duel and Óðinn, the most powerful of the gods, is consumed by the wolf Fenrir. One of Óðinn’s sons, Vídarr, rushes to avenge his father and, planting one foot in Fenrir’s mouth, rips the beast’s jaw clean away. As the gods fall in combat,

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so too around them the numberless human dead fight and die again. As the killing continues, the giant Surtr lights a great fire that spreads across the worlds. Völuspá tells us that: The sun turns black, land sinks into sea; The bright stars scatter from the sky. Flame flickers up against the world tree; Fire flies high against heaven itself.10 The end result is dismally clear; nothing survives the Ragnarök. No matter how well the gods and the einherjar fight, everything is destined to be burned or drowned. At the end, all that is left are the tattered remnants of the worlds, which themselves disintegrate into nothingness. Just as the cosmos was formed in the empty, infinite void of Ginnungagap, so will all of creation return to it. The pre-Christian eschatology of the Vikings is almost unique in offering only the prospect of permanent ruin to all. In later times, however, it seems that a message of hope and salvation was appended to the Ragnarök myth. The latter parts of Völuspá and Gylfaginning tell of a new world rising from an endless sea. The landscape is one of pleasant meadows of self-sown grain, of rushing rivers and waterfalls. Some of the younger Æsir have survived, and they gather together in green fields to talk about the age that has passed. Two humans – their names mean ‘Life’ and ‘Lover of Life’ – emerge from the woods where they have somehow escaped the cataclysm, ready to populate the new world. Some scholars argue that the new world was an original part of the Norse traditions, though how anything could have survived Surtr’s fire is not explained, and the inconsistencies evident in the narrative imply a rather clumsy attempt to reconcile a bleak tale of calamity with the imported teachings of the Church. If this is indeed the case, then the psychological implications of an afterlife that ends only in death and destruction are worth thinking about.

The Invisible Population The pre-Christian beliefs of the Vikings melded the physical and supernatural worlds. Human beings shared these spaces – both Miðgarðr and the other realms that mirrored it – with an ‘invisible’ population of creatures and spirits, some of which were considered to play an active role in people’s lives. The most powerful of these beings were almost all female. The central importance of fate has been mentioned above, and it was determined by the Norns (nornir), three women who lived at the foot of Yggdrasil. Their names, Urðr, Verðandi, and Skuld, probably embody a sense of ‘Past’, ‘Present’, and ‘Future’, and their role was to decide the destiny of all living and supernatural beings. In order to do so, they are variously portrayed as weaving the threads of an individual’s life into a cloth, which was cut at the time of death, or by casting lots in a form of divination ritual.11 After the Norns, and perhaps fulfilling a similar though more local function,

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were the dísir, associated with the fortune of communities. They were venerated on an individual and familial level, and they would sometimes send messages and warnings to humans through dreams. There is some evidence to suggest that there were both friendly and malicious forms of dísir, the latter of which could bring great misfortune to those who angered them.12 Related to the dísir were the fylgjur, which may perhaps best be conceived as part of a fourfold division of the human soul. Literally translated as ‘follower’, a fylgja was a being that appeared to humans in female form (even for men) in order to communicate prophecies or warnings, usually during dreams. A kind of guardian spirit, the fylgja was linked to an individual and their family, sometimes across multiple generations. Another aspect of the personality was the hamingja, the embodiment of a human’s luck. Like the fylgjur it was a sentient being, and it could be inherited through a family or even ‘loaned’ out to someone in a time of need. In extreme cases, it might even desert the person to which it was nominally attached. Alongside this was the hugr, combining the essences of an individual’s thoughts and desires, and in this form could be projected out of the body. Finally, all these aspects of an individual were contained within the hamr, the ‘shape’ or ‘shell’ and representing the physical form of the body. Despite the implications, this need not be fixed, because some gifted individuals were believed to be able to shift their shapes, taking on the body of an animal to roam abroad.These might be wolves or bears for men, and often sea creatures or birds for women. It may be readily perceived that Viking-Age perceptions of the self could be radically different to our own.13 Other beings – the landvættir – were tied to place. They seemed to have functioned as some kind of guardian spirit that inhabited individual farmsteads, particular fields, or natural features such as a spring or rock. These could be roused to anger by humans that failed to respect them, but they could also be frightened away from their homes. In both cases the result would be detrimental, and as such it was necessary for humans to cultivate a good relationship with these spirits.14 The landscape was also populated by a range of supernatural creatures, many of which will be familiar to readers of fantasy literature today. These included the elves (álfar), which were perceived to frequently to interact with humans. Snorri’s Gylfaginning states that there were two different races of these beings – light elves (ljósálfar) and dark elves (dökkálfar), the latter living underground. They were neither overwhelmingly friendly nor malicious, and seem to have been able to intercede in human lives with varying consequences. Some sources imply that a form of standardised ritual, the álfablót, was dedicated to the elves, implying that they were regularly venerated, but it is unclear exactly what function this was intended to fulfil. Another well-known type of creature were the dwarfs (dvergar). Exactly what form these beings took is fairly unclear (Snorri suggests that they are a type of dark elf), and the connotations of small stature may not have attached to them in the Viking Age. They play a fairly active role in mythological narratives as skilled craftworkers and guardians of knowledge. Cunning folk with the capacity to be devious on occasion, they seem to have been generally helpful in fashioning many

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of the special tools possessed by the gods. They were thought to live underground, but occasionally had some interaction with humans.15 Decidedly less friendly were the ill-tempered ogres (þurs) and trolls, which seem to have lived in the wilderness and lonely places, especially up in the mountains. In the sagas these beings are sometimes associated with evil magic and sexual deviancy, and it has been argued that in this they represent a metaphor for all of the kinds of outlandish and excessive behaviour that humans are capable of, but seek to repress.16 In many countries today these creatures have been relegated to the realms of popular fiction. However, the concept of a ‘hidden people’ (huldufólk) that inhabit the boundary between the visible and the invisible worlds continues to play an active and legitimate role in the folk belief of many Nordic populations, just as it has for many centuries. Recent work has systematically mapped folk tales and legends in Iceland, showing that these traditions vary across the landscape in order to be made applicable to communities at a local level.17 Generally, they seem designed to serve as fables that advise people how to deal with their physical surroundings (for example by teaching children not too wander too far from the homestead, ostensibly for fear of being taken by trolls). While we cannot be sure how the invisible population was conceptualised in the Viking mind, the importance placed on respecting and venerating both spirits and the huldufólk indicates that these beliefs may have played a similarly influential social role.

The Ritual Landscape and its Agents In addition to an invisible population, the natural landscapes of Viking-Age Scandinavia also served as the arena for human interactions with the otherworldly powers. The scale and significance of open-air ritual sites varied quite considerably, from natural features of local significance, to more central places that were the focus of regional festivals, and even larger swathes of territory that were imbued with spiritual power. While there is little evidence to suggest that communities were required to follow regular ritual practices (in the same way that Christians might attend church), it seems that there was a fairly consistent calendar of major seasonal festivals throughout the year, particularly at the beginning of summer and winter, and at midwinter.18 These seem to have consisted largely of sacrificial rituals and subsequent feasting, a practice known in Old Norse as blót. Excavations at the church on Frösön (‘Freyr’s Island’) in Jämtland, Sweden, have provided some spectacular insights into such events. Directly under the altar of the medieval church, archaeologists found the stump of a large birch tree around which was strewn a multitude of animal bones, including those of pigs, sheep/goats, elk, and bears, together with some human remains. The deposits could be securely dated to the Viking Age. Analyses of the bones found that the animals had been butchered, likely as part of sacrificial rites that took place during the early autumn, late spring, and at around the time of the summer solstice, suggesting that cultic activities at the site took place at the changing of seasons.19 The exact nature of the rites is impossible to guess at, but it is difficult not to think of the sacrificial rituals

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described as taking place at Gamla Uppsala by the eleventh-century chronicler Adam of Bremen, who wrote of both animals and humans being slaughtered and hung in the branches of the sacred grove, a suggestion supported by mention of a ‘sacrificial tree [blóttré] of the Swedes’ in Hervarar saga. While Adam’s description has often been disregarded due to the potential for Christian bias and the fact that he was not present at the festival that he purports to describe (he was provided with the information from someone who claimed to have witnessed the rites), increasing numbers of scholars now accept that most of his account of the Gamla Uppsala rituals may well be based on fact. The discovery of the Frösö tree suggests that such rituals may even have been quite commonplace, and this might be what lies behind the frequent Scandinavian place-names that link the Old Norse word for sacred grove (lund) with the name of a god.20 Very few of these sites are known on the ground, but in the early 2000s, excavations carried out at Lunda in central Sweden identified what has been interpreted as a sacred grove situated on a hill, adjacent to a late Iron Age farmstead.21 These excavations yielded no evidence for large-scale sacrifices of the type mentioned by Adam of Bremen, but instead the site seems to have been strewn with small pieces of crushed material, including bone, burnt clay, iron slag, drops of resin, and rocks, as well as with intact items such as beads, arrowheads, and knives, presumably as part of votive rituals. These were scattered around a number of stone settings that may have served as something akin to altars. While the typology of the beads and arrowheads suggest ritual activity taking place throughout the seventh to ninth centuries, radiocarbon dates indicated that the site had been in use for a much longer period of time – perhaps from as early as the Bronze Age and certainly from the early Iron Age.This indicates that certain ritual places could remain active foci of activity for a millennium or more, becoming deeply embedded within the spiritual landscape. Not only trees, but also rocks, and springs were venerated due to their association with the spirits and other supernatural creatures that were perceived to inhabit them. Features associated with water, such as streams, rivers, bogs, and lakes, seem to have held a special role as liminal sites within the ritual landscape, where boundaries became blurred. As we have seen previously in relation to the large weapon deposits made in Danish bogs during the early Iron Age, the ritual importance of these locations stretched back far into prehistory. During the Viking Age, the continuing concern with such places can be seen in the depositions of metalwork and weapons in water.22 Some scholars have argued that lakes in particular may have been perceived as representing gates to the otherworld, avenues of communication with the chthonic powers. One of the most extensively studied sites of this kind is Tissø, Denmark. The name means ‘Tyr’s Lake’, implying an association with this one-handed war god, and numerous finds of weapons around the western shore of the lake indicate its particular importance as a focus of votive offerings. Tissø was also the site of a late Iron Age royal residence and associated cult building, to which we shall return below.23 Islands also seem to have been numinous places, situated on the ‘other side’ of the liminal boundaries presented by water. This suggestion finds support in De

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Administrando Imperio – a treatise on Byzantine domestic and foreign policy written by the tenth-century emperor Constantine VII.The document describes a group of Rus’ performing sacrifices at St. Gregory’s Island, which lies on the River Dnieper in Ukraine. Having traversed the series of perilous rapids, the Rus’ land on the island and sacrifice cockerels before an oak tree, pegging arrows into the ground around it. We have already noted islands named after the gods Freyr and Týr, and there are many others, including places relating to Njörðr.This may indicate that the islands themselves possessed some cultic connotations, perhaps accounting for the evidence of repeated ritual activities at the site of the tree beneath Frösö Church.24 Some open-air sites seem to have incorporated what can be best described as special ‘stages’, which were specially constructed for ritual performances. In recent years, two examples have been discovered in central Sweden. The first is at Götavi, Närke, where archaeological excavations identified a clay platform dating from the eleventh century, constructed in the middle of a small marsh. The late dating for the site is quite extraordinary when considered within the wider context of the Christianisation process, demonstrating continued adherence to pre-Christian practices in parts of central Sweden in the face of deep-seated religious change.The clay surface was laid over nine parallel lines of stone packing that had been dug down into the marsh.25 The construction of the platform led to creation of what was effectively an artificial island that may speak again to the liminal association of such sites. The place-name translates as ‘sanctuary of the gods’, and this site seems to have seen frequent ritual sacrifices, as demonstrated by chemical analyses of the clay surface that showed great quantities of fat and blood to have been spilt there. The platform was enclosed by a series of posts, and evidence for burning around its edges imply that fires and smoke may have been utilised to restrict visual access to the rites that took place. A similarly restricted site, situated in a liminal position within the landscape, is that noted above as having been identified at Lilla Ullevi, Uppland.The name of the site translates as ‘the little sanctuary of Ullr’, an enigmatic god whose influence seems to have been particularly strong in eastern and central Sweden. The cult site consisted of a packed stone platform constructed on top of a rocky outcrop. From one end of the platform, two lines of stone projected outwards to form an enclosed space that looked directly out over a natural cliff edge. Within this enclosed space were four postholes that may have supported a raised platform where rituals took place. Numerous postholes around the area suggest other monumental constructions, perhaps to obscure lines of sight or to define zones of exclusivity and access to observers. The enclosure was surrounded by buried deposits of iron amulet rings, knives, and – curiously – ice crampons. As at Götavi, evidence for burning around the stone platform may indicate that fires were lit during the course of ritual proceedings.26 While situated out in the open, these sites speak to conceptualisations of barriers and limitation of access. By managing movement in this way, it was possible for the political leaders who presided over ceremonies to assert social and political hierarchies within a ritualised context. In this, the spiritual landscape could be actively shaped and manipulated to serve the interests of the elites.

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Ritual activities could also take place within a range of structures, of which the most important was perhaps the farm or homestead itself. Families made offerings to the spirits inhabiting the land surrounding the farm, such as the elves or landvættir, in an effort to ensure their prosperity. Several sources suggest that these private rituals were the responsibility of women, including the Völsa Þáttr tale recorded in a thirteenth-century version of the Saga of St. Olaf, itself preserved in the Icelandic Flateyjarbók manuscript. Here, a highly sexualised fertility ritual involving an embalmed horse’s phallus is presided over by the mistress of the farm.27 Away from the homes of individual families and local communities, there are also structures termed hof or hov in Old Norse. The etymology is relatively obscure but it might have been applied variously to cultic structures and feasting halls, perhaps in recognition that these served overlapping functions.28 Over the last few decades, a small number of such specialised cult buildings have been identified in the archaeological record. The best-preserved of them was found during excavations in the early 2000s at Uppåkra, in Skåne, Sweden.29 The site was in use from the third to ninth centuries, during which time the relatively small, rectangular ‘cult structure’ (measuring around 13 m × 6.5 m) was rebuilt several times. The Uppåkra excavations have produced a rich finds assemblage, much of it from within the ‘temple’ building; these include imported glassware, a gold bracteate, a silver and gold beaker, and over a hundred guldgubber. The latter are tiny gold foils featuring humanoid figures and animal motifs, that seem to have been fixed to the posts of the structure. These foils are a major signal of ritual practice, found at many sites of this kind, and the motifs seem to be linked to individual estates, perhaps deposited as a kind of calling card or a statement of ritual or official observances. While Uppåkra is thus far unique in many ways, a handful of broadly similar structures have been noted elsewhere. At Tissø, two successive fenced enclosures, dating from the eighth and ninth centuries, were found west of the large hall that formed the nucleus of the Viking-Age royal residence. In both phases the enclosures contained a small structure that likely functioned as a cult house. The fact that the enclosure seems to have been accessed only from the hall itself speaks to the direct links between pre-Christian cult and the aristocracy. This combination of what seems to be an elite residence with an associated enclosure and ritual structure has also been identified at other sites and suggests some kind of pagan equivalent to the private chapels of the later medieval nobility.30 Given that relatively few purported cult structures have been identified thus far, their specific function as foci of ritual activities must be contextualised with those of the aristocratic complexes to which they belong. Indeed, many if not the majority of major ritual performances probably took place actually within the great feasting halls of the elite – a high-end version of the local farmhouse ceremonies. Many famous examples of these hall structures are known from Scandinavia, ranging from early Iron Age sites such as that at Gudme, Denmark, to those that have their origins in the Migration Period and Viking Age, such as Borg at Lofoten in Norway, Lejre and Tissø in Denmark, Gamla Uppsala, Järrestad, and Helgö in Sweden, and Hofstaðir and Hrísbrú in Iceland. These structures were the locus of

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aristocratic power, where the elite and their retinues lived and feasted, and many were rebuilt over the course of several centuries. The dual purpose that these halls served as both ‘secular’ and ritual structures probably accounts, to some extent, for their large size. The bow-sided hall at Gamla Uppsala, which was in use from the sixth century until the end of the eighth, was constructed on a substantial artificial terrace that elevated it above the surrounding landscape. The building itself measured 50 m in length and 12 m in width at its widest point, with entrances nearly 3.5 m across. The hall at Borg in Lofoten, Norway, the largest known from Viking-Age Scandinavia, was truly monumental, measuring over 80 m in length.31 Insights into the type of rituals that might have taken place at these hall sites have been provided by excavations at Hofstaðir in northern Iceland.32 The site exhibits a remarkable level of preservation that has opened an unexpected window onto an unusual and extraordinary place with strong ritual overtones – this may have been representative of what went on at other sites of this kind, and as such merits a detailed review here. Hofstaðir was settled soon after 940, with the construction of a hall, smithy, and sunken-floored building. Between the 980s and 1030s the hall was greatly expanded, but gradually over time. The main building was lengthened and a smaller hall constructed nearby, a larger smithy was built and a new latrine dug. From this second phase onwards, there are indications of a much bigger population for the complex, but also a suggestion that this was something seasonal, and that the hall was purpose-made for large gatherings of people on specific occasions. This is supported by the size of the hearth, which was not really sufficient to have heated the structure. Osteological analysis of a number of cattle skulls recovered at the site indicated that the animals had been poleaxed and then decapitated, presumably as part of a ritual sacrifice, following which the heads were displayed around the site. The killing of the animals would have required at least two people, as each animal had been simultaneously struck between the eyes and decapitated from the right-hand side, in a manner calculated to produce large sprays of arterial blood. The technique has nothing to do with conventional butchery for meat and was intended to make a violent spectacle. Several sagas describe the killing of animals in blót rituals, and the bathing of oath rings in their blood, a textual emphasis that finds dramatic support at Hofstaðir. Marks on the bones suggest that the oxen were killed with a sword, another indication of the importance of the place because it would have been potentially damaging to such a costly weapon to use it in this way. Some 35 such crania were recovered from the excavations, bearing witness to many years of such rites – radiocarbon dating suggests that the sacrifices may have been spread out over as much as a century. It also appears that the offerings were held in the second half of June – these were summer rituals during the period of permanent sunlight. Many other finds testify to Hofstaðir’s unique status, though some are hard to interpret; for example, the site has large concentrations of cat bones, found nowhere else.33 The killing of cattle seems to have come to an end at the same time as the adoption of Christianity, suggesting an obvious link between the introduction of the new faith and the decline of such public pagan spectacle. The site was dismantled and abandoned in the 1070s, when the buildings were taken apart and each structure was ritually closed with burials of animal skulls.

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The great investment in resources on the part of those who were responsible for the rites at Hofstaðir speaks to the political importance of ritual events and their function as conspicuous displays of aristocratic power. Most of the sacrificial bulls killed at the site were brought in from outside the district, and specialised butchery patterns observed in the rest of the animal bone assemblage similarly imply that meat was brought to the site ready-processed for feasting. Environmental studies on the animal bones reveal that the pigs kept on-site were being fed on trout, a diet that produces exceptionally fatty pork. This is an uncommon practice, with no other regional parallels, and indicates that the pigs were being purpose-reared for their meat to be used in high-status feasting. Hofstaðir is in addition the only site to preserve evidence for the consumption of suckling pig, another delicacy. These findings can be contextualised by the more recent study of the Viking-Age agricultural landscape of the Mosfell Valley in western Iceland, which has shown that agricultural practices around the large hall at Hrísbrú were oriented around cattle rearing and barley cultivation (a crop that is difficult to cultivate in the Icelandic climate), likely to provide large quantities of food and alcohol for feasting activities.34 While the discussion above has treated various different ‘types’ of ritual site as discrete entities, it is worth emphasising that many of the different elements described here can be combined in the same landscape. For example, the possible sacrificial tree (or even a grove) located on ‘Freyr’s island’ is situated on Lake Storsjön not far from the island of Norderön, the name of which is also linked to a major deity. Around the lake, furthermore, are numerous farms with names that imply an association with cultic activity. At least five of these incorporate the Old Norse term hof, while another three possess names that are associated with the gods Óðinn and Ullr.35 While these sites would have been of ritual significance in their own right, they clearly did not exist in isolation. This admixture of different elements of the ritual landscape can also be seen on a much more local level at Gamla Uppsala. According to Adam of Bremen, the site featured both a ‘temple’ and a sacred grove, the former of which is described as being literally covered in gold.36 While this structure may not have been a specialised cult building so much as an aristocratic feasting hall, occupied either permanently or during specific cultic festivals, Adam’s description of the golden temple may be to some extent given credence by the fact that excavations at several sites, such as Gudme in Denmark, have identified gold droplets among the ruins of hall buildings, implying that something made of this metal had melted when the buildings burned. As we have seen above, other cultic structures, such as that at Uppåkra, may have been richly decorated with guldgubber foils. Another landscape feature of note within the immediate area of the hall is the sacred lake at Myrby, which lay immediately below the cemetery ridge upon which the great burial mounds were raised, which may parallel other sites such as Tissø in Denmark. In combining so many sacral elements, it may be that the area around the Uppsala mounds and terraces was seen as a mythological landscape in reality rather than metaphor, a liminal place where political and ritual power was concentrated and maintained through repeated rituals and festivals.37

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There is little evidence to suggest that any of these ritual activities were administered by a ‘priest’ class, although there is reason to believe that certain rites were undertaken by specialists. Instead, public ceremonies seem to have been presided over by members of the aristocracy, whose legitimacy in this capacity was reinforced by their notional patronage of the god Óðinn – indeed, by their literal descent from him, or from other divinities such as Freyr. Rulers were perceived to embody the gods, allowing them to act as intermediaries between the divine and the wider population.38 A number of visually striking helmets and other war-gear from the seventh century onwards have been argued to have incorporated a subtle symbolism relating to Óðinn (in this case, his offering of an eye for wisdom), and it is possible that allusions to other gods were also present in the material culture of the elites.When worn during ceremonies and ritual feasts, these objects would have served as a powerful reminder of the divine associations of kingship.39 Both textual and archaeological sources indicate at least one class of religious specialists who seem to have played a consistently important role in the everyday mediation of supernatural power, through the practice of sorcery. There are many forms named in the later texts, including galdr and gandr, but the most powerful was a complex package of different techniques grouped under the collective term seiðr. Over 60 terms for sorcerers are known, but the most common seem to have been the feminine völur (sing. völva), or ‘staff bearers’, reflecting what is thought to be the tool of their trade – the magic staff.The motif of the staff-bearing völva appears in a number of sagas, and several dozen finds believed to represent these tools have been identified in burials and at ritual sites across Scandinavia.40 The primary role of the völur seems to have been to act as seers, seeking out the future or events taking place at great distances, by means of sending out their spirits while their bodies lay in trance. In this the magic staff may have served as a kind of symbolic distaff, used to wind back the soul into the body at the ritual’s conclusion. In some sagas, völur are described as itinerant ritual specialists who travelled from district to district, selling their services for both hospitality and other payments such as precious jewellery. Such was the power of the völur that even the gods were believed to consult them, and it is telling that the Ragnarök narrative is provided to Óðinn by a seeress. Given its connections to fortune telling and prophecy, seiðr could serve other functions, too. The völva was believed to have the ability to actively intervene in the lives of others, for example by healing the sick or causing the death of an enemy. There is also evidence to suggest that magic could be used to create love spells and potions that could be used in seduction. How exactly the völur practised their art is not certain, but a number of scholars have argued for a direct parallel between seiðr and the shamanic practices of the Sámi and other circumpolar societies.41 Their performances may have been aided by the use of hallucinogens, as suggested by a burial excavated outside the late tenth-century fortress at Fyrkat, Denmark. Here, in a rectangular, clay-lined grave, a woman had been placed on a wagon bed. She was accompanied by a range of grave goods including jewellery, white-lead paint (make-up?), amulets, bowls, a wooden box, and a possible metal staff (although this was fragmentary). At the woman’s

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waist were several hundred henbane seeds that had perhaps been deposited in a pouch. Henbane is known to produce mind-altering effects when consumed, and its inclusion within this clearly special grave must be significant. Although this is thus far unique within a Scandinavian grave context, burials with a similar array of goods are known from elsewhere, including Birka and Klinta in Sweden and Veka in Norway.42 While seiðr seems to have been mainly the domain of women, there is also evidence to suggest that it was practised by a minority of men. This came at a cost, however, and male magic-working brought with it complex forms of dishonour, social disgrace, and connotations of cowardice. It has been suggested that the fulfilment of a seiðr ritual may have involved sexual acts, with the practitioner acting in a receptive role, and this might partially explain why the art was largely practiced by women. In compensation, male practitioners of seiðr seem to have been imbued with a strange sort of power which perhaps derived from the liminal position that they occupied between genders, seen most clearly in the fact that the lord of seiðr was Óðinn himself, who had learned its power from Freyja.43

Living with the Dead One of the most striking features of Viking-Age culture is the elaborate and highly individual treatment of the dead. Prior to the conversion period, there seems to have been little centralised management of burial rites at any level of society.The dead could be buried in isolated, single graves, sometimes in small clusters along the boundaries of farmland, near settlements; along routeways through the landscape; or alternatively in massive cemeteries comprising hundreds or even thousands of graves. A significant portion of the population, perhaps more than half, never seem to have received any kind of burial that we can now trace; perhaps their remains were disposed of in water or exposed to the elements, or else burned and their ashes scattered. Equally diverse was the nature of burials themselves. Pioneering work in the 1990s demonstrated that burial customs varied between regions and even individual settlements.44 The rites could differ according to a number of factors, including social status, ethnicity, and perhaps others that are not immediately obvious. From the larger cemeteries, at economic centres such as Birka for example, it is clear that a good deal of planning and zoning is present in the grave fields. Over 3,000 burials are known from Björkö island on which the settlement is situated, including more than a hundred chamber graves, at least 200 inhumations, and a similar number of coffin burials, alongside the ubiquitous cremations. Ideologies and practices associated with death and burial found even wider expression in the Scandinavian settlements of northwestern Europe, the North Atlantic, and among the Rus’ in eastern Europe. During the Viking Age, burial took two main forms – cremation and inhumation – of which the former dominated.45 The dead were burned on a pyre, sometimes accompanied by lavish quantities of material goods, as well as animal and even human sacrifices. In most cases, a mound was raised over the ashes, but it was not uncommon for the remains of the pyre to be raked through or otherwise sorted

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in order to extract pieces of bone and material, either to be cleaned and placed in a container before being put back on the pyre, or to be interred elsewhere. At Klinta on Öland, Sweden, for example, the remains of a man and woman cremated together during the early tenth century were carefully sorted following the burning of the bodies. The woman’s remains were deposited within the original pyre site and covered by a mound, while the man’s remains were interred under a second mound a little way away from the burning site.46 In other cases, we see goods being added to the burial assemblage after the body had been burned. New research on Swedish burials, for example, has shown birds’ eggs to have sometimes been placed on the pyres of the deceased.47 Another curious feature of many cemeteries is that they contain ‘graves’ that have been found to contain only very small amounts of burnt material, or none at all. In these cases, it seems that the dead were being burned elsewhere, with only a small portion of the remains being kept in order to be later interred, throwing into question just how Viking-Age societies perceived and interacted with what we would today call cemeteries. Graves could be accorded a variety of markers, ranging from the mounds that might have been raised over funerary pyres to wooden posts and large bauta stones. On Gotland, we see the unique tradition of erecting carved picture stones over some graves. Other graves were marked by stone settings.These could be rectilinear, ovoid, triangular, or circular in shape, or constructed to resemble ships.The use of stone settings in this way is most famously demonstrated at Lindholm Høje, Denmark, where almost all of the graves within the cemetery were thus marked.48

FIGURE 3.2 The Lindholm Høje cemetery in northern Jylland, Denmark. Covered by a sandstorm, the original stone settings are almost completely preserved. Photo by Andrew Dutton/Alamy.

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During the earlier part of the Viking Age, inhumation was uncommon, but gained in popularity over time, perhaps in part due to the influence of Christianity. The dead were interred in simple earth-cut graves, sometimes placed upon mats of bark or in shrouds. Others were interred in wagon beds, or within specially constructed wooden chambers, and more rarely within small boats or even ships. Graves could contain one or occasionally more people, buried in a variety of body postures. The dead could lie supine, on their sides, or even be seated, and they could be accompanied by a range of grave goods, including clothing, jewellery and personal ornaments, weapons, feasting equipment, gaming boards and pieces, agricultural implements, riding gear, household goods, textiles, boxes, buckets, and chests, and food and drink. Other objects seem to have been of symbolic value. It is also not uncommon to find domestic, agricultural, or wild animals, either whole or in parts, included within burials. Despite the evident variety of burial rites, other graves feature individuals who seem to have been accorded an altogether different kind of burial. Sometimes described as ‘deviant’ burials, they have captured the interest of both scholars and members of the public alike.These graves are all in some way unusual, either by virtue of the body’s placement and treatment, the absence of a grave-cut or grave goods, evidence for violent death such as hanging or decapitation, or by the deliberate desecration of a corpse.Various reasons have been put forward to explain this kind of treatment. As noted above, for example, a number of decapitated (and sometimes bound) individuals found placed alongside or within the grave of another person have been interpreted as slaves, sacrificed in order to accompany their owners to the afterlife. In other cases, individuals found covered in large stones may have been perceived as somehow ‘dangerous’, with the stones being intended to prevent them from rising from the grave to trouble the living. Individuals found decapitated, hanged, or otherwise killed violently may represent the victims of judicial killings. Recent improvements in isotopic and ancient DNA analyses now allow us to better understand the relative social status and lifestyles of the deceased, and the application of these techniques to both new and well-studied skeletal assemblages will undoubtedly shed further light on those individuals who were, for whatever reason, singled out for distinctive or unusual treatment in death.49 It is clear that extravagant rituals accompanied both cremation and inhumation. Even before the funerals themselves could take place, the burial place had to be prepared. For the simplest earth-cut burials, a grave had to be dug, and for cremations, significant quantities of wood needed to be gathered in order to build the pyre. For more elaborate graves the preparation process was more time consuming. To construct a chamber, such as those found at Birka, the area had to be excavated, and the grave lined with wooden panels or planks to provide stability for the whole structure. In the case of ship burials, the vessels had to be hauled up on to dry land and positioned within a ready-dug trench. Sometimes, ‘boat’ burials did not incorporate a functional vessel at all – grave cuts or stone settings designed to imitate boat shapes are not unknown, and in some cases, it seems that boats were destroyed prior to the burial and placed in pieces within the grave. The great ship

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burials, such as those from Oseberg and Gokstad, Norway, and Ladby, Denmark, had burial chambers constructed on the decks of the ships themselves. The example on the early tenth-century Gokstad ship took the form of a tent-like structure made of large planks, while the chamber in the Ladby ship burial, constructed in c. 925 on the island of Fyn in Denmark, seems to have been made of panels that were carved and painted. In the days leading up to the funeral, significant attention would have also been paid to the deceased themselves. Although it is impossible to guess at the range of processes that must have been involved in preparing the dead for their final journey, some insights into these are provided by Ibn Faḍlān’s description of the Rus’ chieftain’s funeral. He notes that the corpse was placed in a grave for ten days, dressed simply and accompanied by food, drink, and a musical instrument (for his entertainment while ‘waiting’?). During this period, the community was occupied in making his lavish funeral garments, including a silk caftan with gold buttons and a silk cap lined with sable furs. On the day of the funeral, the corpse was exhumed and dressed, and then carried to a ship where he was laid on a bed within a tent.50 In the course of the funerary rites, many artefacts were deposited with the dead. From Oseberg we find a vast array of goods – tapestries, sleighs, beds, a four-wheeled wagon, chests, and buckets, as well as various agricultural and household tools. Given that the Oseberg grave was plundered in the centuries following the burial, that so much material remained implies that the assemblage that accompanied the two women buried there must have been very great indeed; it is notable that no items of costly metalwork remain. Even a relatively modest burial might have seen an individual buried with jewellery, weapons, or items of personal significance.51 The sacrifice of animals as part of funerary rituals, while relatively commonplace, always represented an economic investment, sometimes at scale. At Gokstad alone, twelve horses were killed along with six hunting dogs, two birds of prey, and two peacocks – the latter an especially exotic element. At Oseberg ten horses and three dogs were found decapitated on the foredeck of the ship, and a further three horses and an ox, similarly beheaded, were found outside of the vessel. Similarly, at Ladby, eleven horses were killed around the prow, their bodies dumped in and about the ship, together with three or four dogs. These rites find agreement with Ibn Faḍlān’s description of the Rus’ funeral, where he observed the bloody slaughter of a dog, two horses, two cows, a cock, and a hen. The methods used for killing of these animals – decapitation in the case of Oseberg and Gokstad – were calculated to generate significant quantities of blood, speaking to the theatrical nature of rites that were deliberately designed to leave an impression on the observers.52 The sacrifice of captives or enslaved persons as part of funerary proceedings would have also acted as a conspicuous demonstration of wealth and prestige. The killing of both animals and humans may have served to create a sense of dysphoria, heightened by chanting, singing, or other displays of ritual ecstasy, as well as by intoxication with alcohol or other substances. As Ibn Faḍlān noted, the crowds attending the Rus’ chieftain’s funeral were thoroughly drunk, having spent the ten days leading up to the funeral consuming significant quantities of a fermented drink called nabidh.53

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The dead would then be either buried or burned. Again, Ibn Faḍlān attests to a range of rituals surrounding the cremation process, with the ship containing the Rus chieftain being first approached by a naked man – a relative of the deceased – who walked backwards towards the ship with his face averted and covering his anus with one hand (presumably an act of protection), and then set fire to the ship. After the pyre was lit in this way, the rest of the observers threw burning brands onto the vessel. Similar communal action may be evidenced at Ballateare, where the mound sealing the burials of the man and woman seems to have been constructed of turves brought to the site from some distance away, perhaps by the attendees themselves. As noted above, most cremation burials were finally sealed by mounds, though not necessarily before the remains were disturbed or processed in some way. Despite the evident complexity of the funerary process, the completion of the rites themselves did not mean an end to interaction between the dead and the living. Indeed, in some cases this seems to have been specifically intended. At Oseberg, only half of the ship was covered in a mound, leaving the burial chamber and prow of the ship exposed for some time. As a period of months or perhaps even years passed before the chamber was sealed and the mound completed, visitors could attend to the dead and their possessions.54 This kind of interaction would have been facilitated by the placement of prominent burials at focal points in the landscape. At Gokstad, excavations have recently revealed that the grave was situated only 500 m from a beach market, meaning that people would have regularly returned to the vicinity of the burial. While we can only guess at the nature of activities that may have taken place in these instances, in some cases it is clear that graves were re-entered or reopened with the specific intention of extracting skeletal material, grave goods, or to otherwise interfere with the burial. While the desire to plunder graves certainly may have motivated these actions in some cases, in others the act might have been undertaken in order to retrieve a particular artefact or heirloom. It has recently been argued that, in taking objects associated with the dead, an individual could emphasise ancestral links within their family or lay claim to the power and status of the deceased.55 Another reason to enter a burial may have been in order to deal with a troublesome reanimated corpse (Old Norse draugr) – a motif seen in several saga narratives. In Grettir’s saga, for example, the anti-hero breaks into a burial mound in order to slay its occupant, who had recently been terrorising the local population. Having killed the draugr, Grettir helped himself to the grave goods within the barrow.56 In other cases, the movement or removal of material might have represented something of a ‘curation’ of the dead, viewed as a form of social dialogue between the deceased and those who were visiting the grave. However, other forms of burial reopening seem to have been more aggressive acts intended to desecrate or destroy the deceased. In some instances, these actions may have been politically motivated, as has been suggested to be the case for the reopening of a number of the great ship burials, including Oseberg and Gokstad. Dendrochronological analysis of the spades used in the break-in at Oseberg (which were then left behind in the mound) has shown this event to have occurred in the late tenth century, more than 150 years after the burial. This period coincides with

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the turbulent reign of the Danish king Haraldr ‘Bluetooth’, who sought to expand his borders to encompass portions of southern and western Norway. Perhaps the break-ins represent attempts to exert control over the population by despoiling the graves of former aristocrats. That the Ladby ship-grave in Denmark also seems to have been opened and robbed at the same time as the Vestfold burials implies that the acts may have been planned as part of a campaign aimed at strengthening Haraldr’s claim on his kingdom.57 The significant variation that can be observed in burial rites across Scandinavia is repeated, in different ways, in the settlements established abroad. In eastern Europe, this is clearly visible along the riverine routes that connected Scandinavia with the Byzantine Empire and the Caliphate, in the numerous way stations and small settlements established to facilitate the trade. The cemeteries at these sites exhibit a degree of zoning by ethnicity that is also manifest in the external form of the burials.At the same time, many graves contain a complex mixture of material signals, blending objects from a multitude of cultures. At Staraja Ladoga, the ‘gateway’ from the Baltic to the Volkhov and Dnieper systems, grave fields are laid out along the river banks, both by the shore and on the heights behind. Some burials are situated for maximum visibility, dominating the skyline at the river bends on both sides of the settlement. Other graves, including those that appear to be fully Scandinavian in character, are sited at the water’s edge, directly opposite the core trading area. For travellers moving along the river, passing the burials on either shore, the funerary landscape would have been fully tangible.58 We find similar patterning in the cemeteries along the Dnieper down to Kyiv and the Black Sea, as well as on the second major eastern river route, which ran along the Volga to the Caspian. In the western European enclaves, Scandinavian settlers seem to have rapidly adopted some of the trappings of Christian burial practices. In England, only one clear example of a pre-Christian Scandinavian barrow cemetery is known – that at Heath Wood, Derbyshire, which may be associated with the actions of the ninthcentury Viking Great Army, active in England during the 860s and 870s. Also of interest is a large mass grave that has been identified at Repton, only 4 km from Heath Wood. The burial, which contained the disarticulated remains of over 260 people, is associated with the Great Army’s recorded overwintering in 873–4.59 Following the Scandinavian settlements of the 870s, incoming groups seem to have rapidly assimilated as grave goods begin to disappear, and attempts to monumentalise burials ceased; the use of mounds seems to have been replaced, at least to some extent, by the erection of stone crosses in Anglo-Scandinavian styles or with a special class of grave cover known as hogbacks.60 There are, however, exceptions, such as the small number of what appear to be Scandinavian burials inserted into prehistoric mounds, as at Aspatria, Cumbria, and Hesket, Cumberland, which date from the tenth century. The reuse of ancient burial mounds in this way may reflect attempts by settlers to harness the power of the ancestral populations that once inhabited the landscape, and through this to legitimise their presence.61 In Ireland and Scotland, we also see a fairly rapid divergence from the general pattern of mortuary practices observed within Scandinavia, but this is preceded by a phase of

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extensive non-Christian burial at sites such as Kilmainham-Islandbridge outside Dublin, and the scattered pagan graves of the Isle of Man, Caithness, and the Isles. While the settlers’ apparent readiness to abandon their traditional beliefs has been taken to indicate a fast and widespread conversion to Christianity, these changes might be better understood as a relatively prolonged process of negotiation that saw them integrating the trappings of new religious cultures into their pre-existing conceptualisations of the world.62 In the North Atlantic settlements, the picture is different again, with clearly diverging mortuary practices by comparison with Scandinavia and also a number of environmental factors that complicate our understanding of the sites. In Iceland, despite the thousands of settlers known to have lived there, only a few hundred preChristian burials have been found. One reason for this may be the extreme environment, with dramatic alterations in the landscape that have seen whole swathes of once-settled ground (and its graves) buried under volcanic lava and tephra deposits. Erosion and silting also play a major role, further obscuring the funerary evidence. However, some peculiar aspects of pagan burial in Iceland have been noted, one of which is the almost total lack of cremation graves.With a single arguable exception, all known Viking-Age graves from Iceland are inhumations – but the question is why? When the first settlers arrived, they came from countries with well-established cremation traditions that they would have followed all their lives. The island was then covered with trees, so there would have been no obvious shortage of wood (a factor for the later Viking Age). At present, the answer is that we simply do not know, though it seems unlikely that it lies in some bias in the recorded data – it is hard to imagine that archaeologists have missed all of them. Furthermore, most of the excavated graves do not have mounds, and it is hard to tell if they were ever built, though the space between burials suggests that they were once covered in this way. Erosion may well have removed most of the barrow soils over the centuries, but it seems that where mounds were present, they tended to be small. Icelandic burials also exhibit special artefactual customs, with unusually large numbers of swords, coins, silver, and especially the burial of horses. These animals were usually interred in a separate grave of their own, adjacent to that of the person who was perhaps their owner. Many of the burials have small wooden structures built over them, again a deviation from what we believe to be the case back in Scandinavia (though some may have gone unrecorded in earlier excavations).There are also relatively frequent boat burials, especially in the north of Iceland, where farmers seem to have been laid to rest in small fishing vessels. The Icelandic graves also seem intensely personal, with few but very carefully selected objects. Frontier societies like Iceland (and the Faroes), especially in the early years of the settlement, are unusual places, in which people are forced to shape new identities or maintain old ones with particular clarity. In the pre-Christian graves, perhaps we are seeing this in action: a treasured comb that someone’s parents brought from Norway, some pebbles from a favourite trout stream, the blade from a time when grandfather faced a wilderness that now seems tamer – all the material ways in which to make an imprint on the land.

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Patient work over the last few decades has succeeded in turning one of the major keys to our understanding of Icelandic burials of the pre-Christian period, namely their predictable situation in the landscape. A few burials were almost always made close to the farmstead, perhaps 100–300 m from the buildings. The dead interred here are mostly the middle-aged and elderly, buried with few artefacts of limited variety. By contrast, the majority of graves are situated at the boundaries of properties, from 300 m away to fully 1500 m from the farm itself. The burials here include people of all ages, with many and varied objects accompanying the dead. The pattern seems to be that the earliest graves cluster near the buildings, perhaps representing the first settlers, staying close to their homes in death as in life, and buried with only few possessions because most were needed too badly for the living to give up.The later graves are all at the margins, marking the borders of ownership in a structured, established society.63

Imagining the Afterlife But what did the Vikings believe lay in store for the dead following their consignment to the earth or the fire, the sky, or water? The exact nature of the preChristian afterlife (or perhaps more precisely a range of alternatives) is very difficult to discern, and our knowledge of this, like almost every other aspect of Norse ideology and cosmology, relies heavily on later medieval texts.64 Unlike Christianity, the traditional belief systems of Scandinavia did not really incorporate a conceptualisation of an afterlife that was underpinned by one’s moral conduct in life – there was no consignment to a form of heaven or hell, a good or bad place, in the form that some would recognise today. Rather, a select portion of the dead seem to have travelled to Ásgarðr, where they would reside in the halls of Óðinn and Freyja. These individuals were the einherjar – those humans who, as noted above, had died a valiant death in battle. Half of them would travel to Óðinn’s residence of Valhöll, ‘the hall of the slain’, better known in its Victorian misspelling as Valhalla, where they would spend the afterlife feasting and fighting in daily battles in preparation for the Ragnarök. The other half of the battle dead would reside in Freyja’s hall of Sessrúmnir, though what they did there is unclear. The nature of the afterlife for the rest of the population is uncertain, but it seems in all likelihood that they travelled to Hel, a vast underworld that may have incorporated nine realms. There is little evidence to suggest that there was anything particularly unpleasant about Hel (though Snorri tries hard to depict it as such, adding some lurid details that are clearly invented), though there are some connotations of mist and cold that do not sound terribly enticing. The similar name to the Christian Hell is puzzling, but should not be taken to imply a Norse abode of the damned. Not least, both saga literature and Eddic poetry clearly state that mortal heroes, prominent people of both sexes, and even slain gods (such as Óðinn’s son Baldr, the best and brightest) will go there. The sources also contain hints of afterlife alternatives, such as a watery realm governed by the sea-god Aegir and his wife Rán, which seems to be the place where the drowned were gathered – presumably waiting there until it was time

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to board Naglfar, the terrible nail-ship, at the Ragnarök. In Iceland and parts of Norway, there are also holy mountains mentioned as places that certain prominent families would ‘die into’, their spirits entering the rock to dwell inside in what appears to be considerable comfort. These effectively seem to be personal afterlives set aside for the rich, the equivalent of the post-mortem social stratification that we see in the family vaults for wealthy patrons in Christian houses of worship. Some entire sections of humanity are also largely missing from the textual afterlife.We know worryingly little about what happened to women after death, perhaps because of the gendered bias of the later Christian authors who provide our sources. A single text mentions a woman anticipating meeting Freyja, but otherwise one must presume that they went to Hel like everyone else. The numerous high-status burials of women imply that their imagined destination was little different to that of men. Perhaps surprisingly, the unfree do seem to have a specific afterlife, as an almost throwaway line in an Eddic poem mentions that the thralls will reside with Þórr – though this may just be an insult whereby Óðinn contrasts his patronage of the high-born with the thunder-god’s lowlier adherents. It is not difficult to see how this perception of a complex, varied afterlife would have jarred with Christian sensibilities, and it may be for this reason that we see something resembling Heaven, albeit presented in a form that the pagan Norse would have recognised well, appearing in latter portions of Völuspá and Snorri’s Gylfaginning.The latter mentions three halls named Gimlé, Sindri, and Brimir (the first of which is also noted in Völuspá), which were situated in the new world that arose from the sea in the wake of the catastrophic events of the Ragnarök. These halls, whose residents would spend eternity in pleasure, are presented as being intended for those people who lived a virtuous life, and in this the parallels with the Christian Heaven are clear. Both Völuspá and Gylfaginning also refer to a place resembling the Christian Hell, though at different points in their respective narratives. In Gylfaginning Snorri juxtaposes the delights of Gimlé, Sindri, and Brimir with a hall named Náströnd (‘Corpse Strand’), a dark and vile place with walls made of snake spines.The serpents spit poison into the hall, through which oath-breakers and murderers are forced to wade. Although this conceptualisation of the afterlife might well represent Snorri’s Christian faith rather any genuine aspect of earlier belief, it is interesting that the same hall also features in the early stanzas of Völuspá, raising the interesting possibility that the pre-Christian Norse did really conceptualise some kind of punishment for those who committed the very worst crimes. Wherever the living were believed to travel to after death, their time spent in Valhöll, Sessrúmnir, or anywhere else, was only to be temporary. As Völuspá clearly states, the cosmos would someday be consumed by Surtr’s fire, leading to the final and permanent death of all things.

The Good Viking? Whether we conceptualise the traditional beliefs of the North as religion, spiritual practice, or simply as custom, they unite to form an over-arching world-view

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that clearly informed every aspect of life in late Iron Age Scandinavia. But if this was nothing less than a particular understanding of reality itself, what impact did it have on the experience of being in that world? Watched over by morally capricious and temperamental gods, and residing alongside a multitude of dangerous and unpredictable beings, the people of the pre-Christian Viking Age evidently believed themselves to be on a path towards unavoidable and permanent destruction. How did they reconcile these ideologies and perceptions of the afterlife with their actions? The importance of the social bond has been emphasised above, with precise articulations of kinship both real and contracted.To these may be add the connections of marriage and concubinage, and the construction of foster relationships. Men, and to a lesser extent, women, could also be bound together by a peculiarly formal kind of friendship, which carried its own benefits and obligations.65 All this was manifest in the built environment through institutions such as the hall, with its culture of hospitality, reciprocity, and demonstrable largesse – all linked in turn to expressions of social hierarchy, expressed in poetry and narrative, and embodying notions of the ‘good’ and the ‘civilised’.66 When this is extended into the eschatological aspects of Old Norse belief, we have seen already that the Vikings placed great stock in the concept and power of fate, a force that even the gods themselves were unable to influence. If it was widely believed that one’s destiny was predetermined, then a kind of free will might lie in actively embracing the fate that was always meant to be. If this really did nurture a kind of proactive, even aggressive, fatalism, then this may explain the prevalence of risky activities such as warfare and exploratory travel, and their glorification in runestone inscriptions. To die in such circumstances might have represented a ‘good’ death, a fulfilment of the best kind of fate, that – in reality – was in part shaped by one’s own actions.67 This may in turn link to notions of the ancestors, a special class of the dead whom one might aspire to one day join; even Adam of Bremen mentions that particular mortal heroes were worshipped after death.68 If this was indeed the case, then it is not difficult to imagine how many aspects of ‘Viking’ activity might have been underpinned or justified by fatalistic ideologies that glorified bravery and honour in the face of an inevitable end. This suggestion is worth bearing in mind as we explore the voyages and exploits of those who left Scandinavia in the pursuit of a better life through plunder, trade, and migration.

Notes 1 In calling the Vikings majus, there is also a possibility that Muslim chroniclers possessed some knowledge of Scandinavian ritual practices or funerary customs; Pritsak (1990). 2 Steinsland (2005); Hultgård (2008); N. Price (2014a). 3 For a selection of handbooks and guides to Norse mythology, see Simek (1993); Orchard (1997); Larrington (2017). For detailed studies of the ambiguous cosmogony and cosmology, see Nordvig (2020a and 2020b); Lindow (2021, 18–64).

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47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62

63 64 65 66 67 68

Jelicic (2017). Ramskou (1976). Zachrisson (2003); Aspöck (2008); Gardeła (2011; 2013b; 2013c); Naumann et al. (2013). Montgomery (2000; 2017, 35). For more on the complexities of ’grave-goods’ and identity, see Lund and Moen (2019), with references to a larger discussion. Price (2010; 2014b). Montgomery (2017, 35). Gansum (2004). Klevnäs (2016); Aspöck et al. (2020). Byock (2009, ch. 18). Bill and Daly (2012). N. Price (1998); Androshchuk (2013, chs 1, 8). Richards (2004); Jarman et al. (2018). Bailey (1980); Lang (1984); Richards (2003); Redmond (2007). Raffield (2013a). Bersu and Wilson (1966); Graham-Campbell and Batey (1998, chs 7, 8); Owen and Dalland (1999); Wilson (2008, ch. 2); Harrison and Ó Floinn (2014); Paterson et al. (2014); Steinforth (2015a); Harris et al. (2017). On Icelandic burials, see Þóra Pétursdóttir (2009); Adolf Friðriksson (2013); Maher (2013); Eldjárn (2016); Rúnar Leifsson (2018). For the Faroes, see Purkhús (2021). The classic text on Viking-Age afterlife beliefs is Ellis (1943), still unsurpassed. For further study, see N. Price (2020a, 258–67). Jón Viðar Sigurðsson (2017). Herschend (1997; 1998; 2001). Bek-Pedersen (2011); Ashby (2015). Nordberg (2013); Laidoner (2020).

4 THE VIKING DIASPORA

We have seen earlier how the Viking Age has been characterised above all by the great ongoing population movements out of (and back into) Scandinavia during the eighth to eleventh centuries. Once described as an ‘expansion’, with its inescapable connotations of process and directed purpose, more recent readings in Viking scholarship view this very firmly as the gradual, relatively serendipitous unfolding of a diaspora.1 Over 300 years, this would see people from what are now Norway, Sweden, and Denmark leaving Scandinavia, principally in order to seek out wealth, land, or general personal improvement abroad, but also for a variety of other reasons. Not all of these movements were entirely voluntary; some were temporary and later reversed, while still others were never intended to be permanent but became so. At the same time, it is clear that there were also people heading in the opposite direction – immigration into Viking-Age Scandinavia is one of the great neglected stories of the period.2 These decisions, whether motivated individually or collectively, would take Scandinavians beyond the boundaries of their known world. In time, this process would lead to the creation of new cultural identities, as those born in the young settlements developed their own perceptions of what it meant to be an Icelander or Greenlander. Equally, these same people found their perceptions of ‘home’ changing over time, and the nature of their links to Scandinavia altered with them.3 The process by which these ties were first expressed, supported, and eventually let go is one that charts the overall trajectory of the Viking Age itself. Alongside the notion of a Viking ‘expansion’, the second traditional element in the movement of Scandinavians out of their homelands has been the manner in which this has usually been seen to have started: the first raids on Western Europe. As with the corrective reading of a diaspora, this perception too has necessarily required adjustment in the light of the last few decades of research. In fact, the earliest large-scale journeys now appear to have been undertaken to the east rather DOI: 10.4324/9780203483251-5

FIGURE 4.1

Map of the Viking diaspora, showing mar itime and overland routes from Scandinavia. Produced by Tom H. Lundmark.

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than the west. Our exploration of the Viking diaspora thus begins around 750 CE, close on half a century before the traditional ‘beginning’ of the Viking Age. It is at this time that we first find evidence for a serious Scandinavian presence on the arterial river systems of what is now north-western Russia, and the beginnings of major raiding activity along the southern Baltic coasts.

The ‘First Vikings’ in the East The Baltic Sea had formed an arena of cultural contact, interaction, and exchange since at least Neolithic times and probably earlier. Bronze-Age peoples certainly traversed its waters in every direction, trading goods and ideas along sophisticated communication networks. Such connections probably included political links, perhaps marriage relations, even long-distance systems of slave-trading. Scandinavia, especially in the south, was firmly connected to the Baltic shores, and through them to the European Continent. Naturally, this continued into the Iron Age: we have already seen the extent of Northern entanglements with the Roman Empire, and the ways in which they unravelled – or were tenuously maintained – after its decline. In the centuries immediately prior to the Viking Age, however, these interactions seem to have accelerated and taken on more concrete, lasting form. There were clearly Scandinavians moving around the southern Baltic littoral, though not necessarily actually settling there. For example, on the island of Saaremaa, Estonia, the earliest Scandinavian influences appear in grave finds dating from the fifth and sixth centuries. At Viidumäe on the western coast of the island, deposits at a possible wetland sacrificial site from the seventh to ninth centuries include dress accessories with mixed Scandinavian and local influences, again suggesting a probable ‘Swedish’ presence from an early date.4 Early Scandinavian-style burials, containing objects likely manufactured in eastern Sweden, have also been identified during excavations of cemeteries at sites such as Grobina, Latvia, and Wiskiauten, Kaliningrad, implying that trading contacts with these centres were already wellestablished by the mid-eighth century. Over 2,000 grave mounds are known from Grobina alone, where finds have been identified that imply the presence of trading contacts with, or even immigrants from, Sweden and Gotland.5 Something similar also seems to have been going on at Truso, in modern Poland,6 and there are signs of Scandinavian activity all along the north German shore.7 In the far eastern Baltic, the Gulf of Finland was already known to the Scandinavians in the context of their links with the region to the north. The Åland islands – the extended archipelago spanning the waters between modern Sweden and Finland – had long acted as a cultural and maritime bridge, anchored in the heartlands of the Svear in eastern central Sweden. In the Viking Age, Åland had an independent identity similar to that of Gotland or Öland, but was nonetheless closely integrated into the Scandinavian cultural arena.8 The Finnish peoples were culturally distinct but also strongly connected through trade in the products of the lakelands and taiga forests, especially furs.9

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At the eastern extremity of the Baltic, passing the Finnish coast to the north, the Scandinavian traders seem to have gradually come to prefer one arena of interaction above others, an area that marked a shift from general contacts to a more proactive and lasting presence. From the Gulf of Finland, the Neva River (on which St. Petersburg would be founded centuries later) leads directly east into Lake Ladoga, Europe’s largest body of fresh water. The lake in turn acts as the point of navigable access into the Volkhov River, flowing into its southern shore. About 15 km upstream, it was here that a major trading settlement was founded around 750, at Staraja (‘Old’) Ladoga, which from the very beginning seems to have included a major Scandinavian population alongside ethnic Slavs and others. Known in Old Norse as Aldeigjuborg, from around the 780s the site seems to have emerged as an important and distinctly multicultural riverine port; the original centre of Rus’ presence in the east.10 It is currently unclear precisely why the Scandinavians chose the Ladoga route as the site of such expanded investment in the eighth century, in preference to the numerous other points of eastward riverine access offered by their contacts along the southern Baltic shore. The most likely reason, however, is probably because it avoided the dense concentrations of defended hillforts (and thus tolls to be paid in return for safe for passage) that characterised the waterways of the western Slavs and Balts.

FIGURE 4.2 Medieval fortifications at the heart of the Viking-Age settlement of Staraja Ladoga, on the Volkhov River, north-western Russia. Photo by Lev Karavanov; licence cc by-sa 4.0.

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Excavations in Ladoga have identified two different types of Viking-Age houses. The first, which are large, rectangular structures with long central hearths, are not recorded elsewhere in the region and as such have been interpreted as having Scandinavian origins, while smaller houses with a corner fireplace are attributed to Slavic residents.11 The ethnically distinct burial grounds along the river have been discussed in the previous chapter. This was a kind of frontier establishment, a rough and ready place where people came to try their luck.The dramatic signalling of ethnic affiliation also might suggest an element of tension in Ladoga, perhaps danger. It was a trading centre that gradually became something more than its founders perhaps intended, shaping the beginnings of a radically new identity: that of the Rus’, which we shall explore further below. Evidence for metal-, antler-, and bone-working and glass making, as well as finds of silver dirhams, attests to the function of the settlement as a major port of exchange.12 The site would remain a fundamental link in the exchange of goods between the northern lands and the Islamic Caliphate throughout the Viking Age and into the later medieval period, when it would come under the influence of the powerful city of Novgorod to the south. Not all of the Scandinavians who passed through the Baltic were engaged in trade. On the Estonian island of Saaremaa, mentioned above, excavations between 2008 and 2012 revealed two remarkable graves that appear to represent the resting places of Swedes who perished on a raiding expedition (or perhaps a truly disastrous diplomatic mission) during the mid-eighth century. The find is unique and gives us an unprecedented insight into what the ships, crews, and material culture of such forces might have looked like at the very start of the Viking Age. As this book goes to press the Salme finds are still under analysis, but they undoubtedly represent one of the most exciting early Viking discoveries for many decades.13 Originally located on a spit of sandy terrain projecting out into a heavily trafficked sound between islands, two clinker-built boats had been buried parallel to the shore and only a few metres from the water. Probably covered with mounds, they would have been visible from a distance and must have remained a landmark for sailors over many years. The two vessels were of different sizes, but from the context they seem to have been deposited at the same time and thus probably resulted from the same event.The Salme boats together contained an astonishing 41 bodies, an enormous number by comparison with any other known formal grave from the Viking Age (no previously known ship burials had more than four or five occupants).The dead, all male, ranged in age from late adolescence to maturity, with the majority in their thirties, and thus represented men in their prime. Most of the skeletons showed signs of major physical trauma consistent with battle injuries, indicating that these men died in combat. The fighting had evidently been at least partly maritime in nature, as the sides of both vessels were studded with arrowheads, and the finds included a triple-pronged fire arrow of a kind used to carry wads of burning material into enemy hulls, sails, and rigging. The smaller of the two vessels (Salme I) was a rowing boat approximately 11.5 m long and 2 m wide. It contained the bodies of seven men.There is debate about their arrangement, but the bodies seem to have been placed sitting up on the benches:

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six of them in three pairs at the oars, some with their arms round each other’s shoulders, and the seventh man at one end who may have been the steersman. The men were buried with a handful of weapons and a range of personal items, and the boat also contained large quantities of meat. Amidships were the bodies of two birds of prey, very expensive and associated with high-status activities such as hunting. The second vessel (Salme II) was much larger, a true ocean-going ship 17 m long and 3 m across the beam. From the preserved traces of a keel, it seems very likely that the larger of the Salme boats was powered by sail. At one end of the boat (it is hard to tell the prow from the stern), 34 men were buried in at least four layers, laid side by side down in the hull.The deposit contained more swords than men, all of very high quality, with a great deal of gilt ornament. Gaming pieces were strewn over the bodies, and in one case bundled in a bag at the hip. At the centre of the pile was a man with terrible battle injuries, laid down with weapons and jewellery of spectacular quality. Unlike the others, there were no gaming pieces over his body, but in his mouth was a single example, the king piece. The whole pile of corpses was covered by a large piece of coarse textile, perhaps a sail, over which was constructed a kind of mound made from shields, placed with overlapping boards to form a wooden dome over the dead. Each shield boss had been hammered flat, and many of the weapons were deliberately bent. Around the ‘shield mound’ were a number of dogs that had been killed in various elaborate ways, presumably sacrifices to accompany the dead. The boat also contained large quantities of seabirds and fish. The fact of the careful and elaborate burial rituals surely implies that the men were interred by their countrymen, and the undisturbed nature of the find suggests that the Scandinavians retained sufficient influence over the region to prevent the desecration of the graves. What could the Salme ships mean? The weapons, jewellery, and other items are all of a kind found and manufactured in central Sweden, principally in the Lake Mälaren region, and the results of recent isotope analyses are consistent with this hypothesis (with the exception of four of the men, who seem to have come from Gotland).14 The circumstances of the discovery – the blade trauma on the bodies, the arrowheads in the hulls – clearly suggest that they were killed while raiding the Estonian coast. From the style of decoration present on the weapons, the finds can be dated to around 750, and thus mark our earliest evidence for this kind of activity. An alternative view argues that the Salme burials were created over a longer period of time, perhaps years, and that they exhibit shared cultural traditions as might be expected in the interactive environment of the Baltic.15 Thirteenth-century Icelandic sources, such as Snorri Sturluson’s Ynglingasaga, relate the early history of the Svear kings and include mention of maritime raids on Estonia. In one episode, the Swedish King Yngvarr is killed by Estonian militia, an event also mentioned in earlier texts. In the Historia Norvegiae, of similar original date, the location of Yngvarr’s death is specified as Saaremaa, in circumstances detailed in the ninth-century Ynglingatal poem.16 With the dead Swedish king lulled by the song of the waves, the location by the water hints at circumstances astonishingly close to the reality of the Salme graves.Yngvarr is normally thought to have

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died around 600 so there is little possibility that he was the Salme ‘king’, but the poem serves to place these events against a backdrop of such raiding going back well over a century. In a metaphorical sense, the Salme finds can thus stand for the true beginnings of the Viking raids – not literally as the first of their kind, but as a symbol of a phenomenon that had deep historical roots and a home in the Baltic waters around Scandinavia itself.These eastern contacts would be particularly longlasting, as we shall see, but even their earliest phases found a ready expression centuries later in the medieval Icelandic sagas.17

The Early Raids in the West The traditional historical trajectory of the early Viking raids in Western Europe is well known. According to insular sources, the assault began with a sudden outpouring of violence along the English and Irish coasts in the late 780s and 790s, which was for the most part directed at monastic institutions. As related above, the first recorded attack took place in 793, with the plunder of the island monastery at Lindisfarne in Northumbria. The only other clear record of early contact is preserved in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle and concerns the murder of a king’s reeve by the crews of three ships from Hordaland (the region around modern-day Bergen), which landed on the Wessex coast at Portland perhaps as early as 789. The entry is ambiguous, and this episode may represent the violent result of a misunderstanding between the reeve and the Scandinavians rather than a full-scale raid.18 The English scholars who recorded the raids present them as sudden and unforeseen events, and if we were to believe the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, then contact between Scandinavia and the British Isles had been almost non-existent prior to this time. However, as we have seen, this is misleading. After Lindisfarne, attacks are recorded around the coasts of northern England, and above all in Ireland. Many synthetic accounts of the early raids employ distribution maps of the Vikings’ targets, sometimes connected by helpful arrows emerging from Scandinavia and sweeping through the coastal waters of Western Europe. While not inaccurate in themselves, these kinds of representations tend to present an illusion of process, reinforcing the notion of ‘the Viking raids’ as a somehow coordinated venture, the result of centralised decision-making or direction from the Scandinavian homelands.This cannot have been the case, not least because such centralised bodies did not then exist at any scale other than the local. What, then, were these raids, and who were the raiders? This is a question that has occupied Viking scholars for decades, in part because it contains within it the larger issue as to the ‘origins’ of the Viking Age itself. Maritime raiding was not in any sense a new phenomenon for northern Europe and was clearly already occurring in the Baltic well prior to Lindisfarne. In reality, there was no sudden commencement of such activity in the 790s. Indeed, there is evidence to suggest that the monks at Lindisfarne may have been familiar with their attackers. The reasoning behind the choice to target monasteries was, on one hand, fairly obvious: these places were undefended, unfortified, wealthy, and often constructed in isolated

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FIGURE 4.3

Map of Viking raids and operations in Western Europe. Produced by

Neil Price.

locations. This meant that the raiders were generally able to land, attack and loot their target, and then retreat to the sea long before local levies (if there even were any) could be mustered to oppose them. The choice to attack monastic institutions

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was therefore one of simple pragmatism. As one Viking scholar has succinctly put it, the raiders wanted to acquire wealth and survive the process.19 However, given the relatively rudimentary nature of maritime navigational techniques, any Viking group would have been extremely lucky to make landfall at a monastic site by happenstance. As such, we must take seriously the notion that the Vikings targeted these sites because they knew precisely where, and what, they were. We have already noted how the cleric Alcuin lambasted the English nobility not only for their impious actions but also for aping the fashions of the Viking raiders. This in itself provides a strong indicator of early contact across the North Sea between Britain and Scandinavia, supported by finds of imported jewellery in Anglian England. Further evidence for this has been provided by recent isotopic analyses of 78 skeletons excavated at the Bowl Hole cemetery, which is situated at the royal site of Bamburgh, a mere 9 km to the south east of Lindisfarne. The burial ground was in use from the mid-seventh to the early ninth century – that is, before the period of significant Viking raiding in England. Interestingly, the results of the analyses suggested that five of the individuals buried there, including a child, possessed isotopic signatures that are most similar to those found in Scandinavia.20 While such analyses can provide only a broad range of origins for any given person, individuals like these may have been the reality behind Alcuin’s comments on the English admiration for northern foreigners. Given that the Salme excavations have now provided evidence for the use of heavy, ocean-going ships from at least the mid-eighth century, we should not be surprised to see pre-Viking contact between England and Scandinavia. A full crew of oarsmen could have propelled the ship at 5–6 knots, or about 10 km/hour, and not much less with only a half-crew. Under sail, the maximum speed would have been about ten knots or higher. This means that the North Sea crossing from Scandinavia to Britain could have been made in a couple of days, even in relatively unfavourable conditions. The early Viking raids were probably undertaken by groups who had previously traded with the same English institutions that they were attacking, generating a familiarity that was later put to violent ends.21 Recent research has suggested that early contact with the Scandinavians may, in fact, have been much more intensive and widespread than has previously been believed. A number of late eighth- and early ninth-century Mercian charters, granting land to individuals and monastic institutions in Kent (which at this time was under Mercian control), demanded that obligations of military service were met in order to protect ‘against seaborne pagans with migrating fleets’ (contra paganos marinos cum classis migrantibus; an interesting choice of words).22 Crucially, one of these charters, granting privileges to churches and monasteries at Clofesho, dates to 792 – the year before the Lindisfarne attack. It is difficult to conceive that the ‘seaborne pagans’ should refer to anyone other than Scandinavians. More remarkable still, the very specific wording of the charters implies that raiding groups may have been operating in south-eastern England for some time, such was the need to construct fortifications against them. Why, then, with the exception of the incident at Portland in (perhaps) 789, do we find no evidence for Viking activity

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in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle? It has been suggested that the evidence for early Scandinavian attacks may have been whitewashed from the historical record in an attempt to portray the later ninth-century rulers of Wessex as the main victims of Viking raiding. If this compelling argument is correct, then the scale and nature of early Viking activity in England may have been very different to the ‘official line’ provided by court records.23 Interestingly, the results of this study find support in other work suggesting that the raids on England were not launched in a north-south direction from Norway via the Northern Isles, but instead hugged the European coastline and came to the British Isles from the south.24 Clearly, there is much we have still to learn about how this early phase really played out. On the Continent, the Frankish expansion north during the reign of Charlemagne had brought the borders of the Carolingian Empire close to the territories of the Danish kings by the end of the eighth century. There is evidence for cultural contact with Scandinavia in the form of shared burial customs and artistic styles from as early as the fifth and sixth centuries, and the rise of emporia such as Dorestad in the seventh century must have facilitated trade with the North.25 Dorestad saw a surge in growth following the Frankish expansion into the region into the early eighth century. Evidence for exotic imports such as glassware, high-quality pottery, and Rhenish wine has been recovered from excavations there, speaking to the long-distance connections that the emporium possessed at this time, and it has been argued that the Frisians played a key role in the establishment of the early VikingAge trading centre of Ribe in western Denmark.26 The earliest diplomatic contact between the Franks and the Danes seems to have been established in 782, when the emissaries of a king named Sigifrid appeared at the royal court.27 Over the next few decades, a volatile relationship would develop between the Carolingians and the Danish kings, leading Charlemagne and his successor Louis the Pious to expend significant time and energy in attempting to maintain the balance of power along their northern borders. Several proxy wars took place in the territory of the Abodrite Slavs, which lay at the southern end of the Jylland peninsula in the trans-Elbe region, as both the Danish and Frankish kings attempted to exert their influence over the buffer zone between their territories.28 This attempt to check the growing power of the Danes, however, could not prevent Vikings from attacking the Frankish coast. A raiding party is recorded as plundering Aquitaine in 799, and it seems that Charlemagne was forced to establish a coastal defence system on the northern Gallic coast in 800. A fleet was also established to protect the Elbe in 808. While many of the early raiders seem to have initially met with great success, it was by no means a risk-free occupation. Journeys by sea were always hazardous, and we can only guess at how many ships left Scandinavia never to be heard of again. Assuming that a raiding fleet survived the sea crossing in order to reach its target, then there was also the chance that the local population would put up some resistance. In some cases, things could go spectacularly wrong. In 794, for example, a Viking raiding party that attacked the monastery at Monkwearmouth-Jarrow was driven back to its ships when one of its leaders was killed by the monks, who in this case seem to

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have attempted to defend themselves. As they put out to sea, the ships were wrecked by a storm, driving the survivors back to shore where they were massacred by the locals.29 Whether this reflects a true representation of a raid gone wrong or rather the chronicler’s manufactured example of divine punishment is a matter of debate, but the episode nonetheless exemplifies the many dangers that such attackers faced. The raids did not exist in isolation, as simple smash-and-grab endeavours disconnected from what was going on in Scandinavia. What were the socioeconomic, political, and ideological mechanisms that underpinned them? These questions have been the subject of debate for decades. Various theories have been put forward, ranging from the advent of new sailing technology to demographic and environmental pressures, ideological opposition to Christianity, economic motivations, or political weakness in target areas. None have yet proved fully convincing, and it is almost certain that no single explanation could ever hope to explain such a complex phenomenon. In reality, the early raids were probably driven by numerous factors in combination, reaching some kind of tipping point in the mid-eighth century to produce a powerful driving force that inspired increasing numbers of individuals and collectives to embark in search of wealth abroad.30 The early Viking raids have left very specific traces in the archaeological record of Scandinavia itself, in finds of insular jewellery, ecclesiastical plate, and metalwork such as the ornamented covers of holy books.31 The latter had been ripped from their original contexts to be reused as ornaments, pierced for suspension as pendants, or provided with pins to turn them into brooches. We do not know what happened to the books themselves, and these prime products of the monastic scriptoria were probably either just discarded on-site or else kept as curios for their coloured illustrations. There is no reason why the Vikings would not have known of their value to the Christians, and the investment of time in their creation would have been obvious, so it is even possible that some of them were ransomed back (as was the case of the Codex Aureus, a gospel book taken from Canterbury by a Viking army in England and later ransomed by an ealdorman named Ælfred during the late ninth century). Reliquary shrines of Insular manufacture are found recycled as jewellery boxes, some even with runic inscriptions such as one from western Norway inscribed with a woman’s name: ‘Rannveig owns this casket’. These may have been elegant presents from a Viking going courting back home, but might equally have been acquired by the women themselves, either in Scandinavia or on their own travels.32 More dramatic still are the finds of five fragmentary croziers, all dating from the eighth to ninth centuries, turning up on market sites such as Hedeby, Lund, Stavanger, and Helgö. The context implies that these were exotic curios used as trade items, while others have been recovered from burials. One such is the boat grave of a woman from Setnes near Trondheim; the burial dates to the tenth century but the crozier was at least a hundred years old when it went into the ground, suggesting that these pieces of high-status loot were carefully curated once they arrived in Scandinavia. Not least, the fact that these objects were the personal property of bishops provides graphic evidence of just how hard-hitting the monastic raids really were, with senior churchmen presumably among the casualties.

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The spoils of raiding, however, were not confined to precious metalwork, and could also include perishable commodities. Monasteries would have contained stockpiles of products that the monks made and traded with the outside world. It has been convincingly argued, for example, that the desire to obtain salt might have represented the main motivator for repeated Viking raids on the coast of Brittany during the early ninth century,33 and there is comparable evidence relating to wine and other provisions. Plunder also took the form of captives, either for ransom or enslavement. The archaeological evidence for slave raiding has yet to be fully realised, but historical sources clearly show that it took place. In writing to the Bishop of Lindisfarne following the raid of 793, the monk Alcuin promised to ask the Holy Roman Emperor Charlemagne to intercede in order to secure the return of boys taken by the raiders.34 The quantity of captives in this instance, and perhaps during most of the early raids, was probably not great, but moving into the ninth century we see increasingly large numbers of individuals being captured. The Annals of Ulster note, for example, that very many captives were taken during Viking raids on Ireland in 821, 831, and 836, and the historian Ahmad al-Rāzī tells us that, during a Viking assault on Seville in 844, the raiders spent seven days sacking the city, killing the men and enslaving the women and children.35 While some captives were likely ransomed back to their home communities, many others would find themselves funnelled into a vast maritime trading network that would see them transported to be sold abroad, either to be exploited in Scandinavia or one of the Viking overseas settlements, or to satiate the demands of the vast eastern slave markets.

Fighting for Frankia, Invading England Following the earliest raids, there was a slow escalation in the frequency and size of attacks, especially in Ireland and the Western Isles of Scotland. Much of this activity took place in symbiosis with similar assaults on the Continent – either as part of simultaneous raiding events or sometimes alternating between the two regions. Given that the Frankish and English coasts are separated only by a few kilometres of water, it should not be surprising to learn that many of the larger Viking groups recorded as operating in the British Isles were also active on the Continent, and vice versa, moving between kingdoms as opportunities for plunder and settlement presented themselves and disappeared. Moving into the 820s and the 830s, the scale of raiding fleets began to steadily increase, and it is not long before the annals begin to document several large Viking ‘armies’ operating in Western Europe. In the Frankish Empire, Louis the Pious had assumed the throne in 814 on the death of his father, Charlemagne, and thereafter made generally unsuccessful attempts to defend his kingdom from external threats. His efforts were hampered by the increasingly rebellious Bretons and other peoples that inhabited the peripheries of his Empire, as well as by civil wars with and among his sons.The number of Viking attacks also increased greatly during the 830s.36 The emporium at Dorestad in Frisia was sacked in 834, and again in 835, 836, and 837, while attacks on the

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island monastery at Noirmoutier, Brittany, became so intensive that the monastic community was evacuated. It was not long before escalating raids forced the Carolingians to adopt a policy of granting fiefdoms (at first, in Frisia) to Danish ‘princes’ – presumably exiles, major land-owners, and power-players from the emerging polities of southern Scandinavia – in an effort to prevent incursions into the interior. In return for their lands, the Scandinavian warlords were tasked with protecting the coast from further Viking attacks. As one scholar has put it, the poachers were employed to act as gamekeepers.37 This policy of containment would be employed as an attempt at mitigating the Viking threat throughout the ninth and tenth centuries. Occasionally it worked – one Scandinavian leader named Hemming, for example, is recorded as being killed while defending Walcheren in 837 – but most often it failed miserably, as the ‘gamekeeper’ Vikings merely invited in more of their countrymen, working from the security of a fixed base. Louis’ death in 840 would see the fragmentation of the Empire into several individual kingdoms, compounding the Carolingians’ inability to deal with the Viking threat. The years following Louis’ passing saw massive Viking attacks up the Seine and Loire. It is also at this time that the first raiding groups started overwintering in Frankia, with a fleet establishing a base at Noirmoutier in 843. In Frisia, Viking fleets from Denmark penetrated the Elbe and destroyed Hamburg in 845, the same year that the Seine Vikings conducted a successful siege against Paris. The large quantities of plunder obtained during these raids are represented in the hoard of gold and other metalwork deposited in a dried-up bog at Hoen in Norway around 875.38 Most of the coins it contained had been assembled in Frankia during the 840s, the height of the Viking assault, but were then subsequently combined with beads from Scandinavia and a magnificent Carolingian trefoil brooch that was probably also loot. The latter shows signs of long wear before it was finally buried. The whole hoard appears to be a product of violent interaction with the Carolingian Empire of Charles the Bald (one of Louis’ sons), and is entirely lacking eastern or Slavic influences. There are a few Byzantine elements, but these were almost certainly acquired in Frankia. When most such booty would have been melted down, the Hoen hoard serves to remind us of just how much of Europe’s material wealth flowed north during the raiding campaigns of the ninth century. By the 860s, it is clear that the situation in Frankia was becoming desperate, summarised succinctly by the monk Ermentarius of Noirmoutier, who described how ‘the number of ships grows: the endless stream of Vikings never ceases to increase. Everywhere the Christians are the victims of massacres, burnings, plunderings: the Vikings conquer all in their path and nothing resists them’.39 Biases and the possible tendency of European chroniclers to exaggerate the ferocity of the Viking raids aside, it is clear that numerous fleets were operating on the Continent with impunity. In an effort to combat the massive forces that were cruising the Frankish rivers, Charles the Bald instigated a programme of fortification construction, including the building of defended bridges on the Seine. Excavations at Pont de l’Arche have identified the stone foundations of one of the landward citadels

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that were situated at each end of the bridge to manage access to two rivers at this location.40 These measures slowed the rate of attacks, and in part shifted the focus of Viking attentions to the English kingdoms. According to the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, England had been the target of an increasing number of raids from the mid-830s. The year 850, however, marked the beginning of a new phase in Viking activity. If the historical record is to be believed, this was the first year that a raiding army overwintered in England. The following years would see incursions by increasingly large fleets, and in 865 (roughly coincident with the successful closure of the Frankish rivers), a force described by the Chronicle as a micel here (or ‘great army’) arrived in East Anglia, where it overwintered having made peace with the local population. The period 866–878 was one of political and military chaos in England, but also one of the best-documented episodes in the entire Viking-Age history of Scandinavian overseas activity. The historical narrative is well known and will be recounted only very briefly here.41 Having overwintered in the small kingdom of East Anglia, in 866 the Great Army travelled north, capturing the city of York and taking control of swathes of the countryside. In 869, the army turned back towards East Anglia, where it fought against and defeated the armies of King Edmund. By 874, the ruler of Mercia, one of the larger English kingdoms, had been driven into exile, allowing the Great Army to gain control of his territory. The army then divided, with some elements heading to Northumbria in 876, with – in a crucial development that would have enormous long-term consequences – the apparent intention of establishing landholdings. Another division of the army is recorded in 877, when eastern Mercia was split between a number of factions. Western Mercia seems to have been handed over to an English puppet, an earl who ruled on the army’s behalf. In 878, the remnants of the Great Army, under the command of a leader named Guthrum, made a bid to conquer Wessex, the great polity that controlled much of the south. After years of war that pushed the defenders (and with them, the reality of an independent England) to the very brink, the Vikings’ advance was finally halted by King Ælfred and the remnants of the West Saxon armies. After a number of early English defeats, the Vikings were beaten in a decisive battle at Ethandun (possibly Edington, Wiltshire). The surviving members of the Great Army retreated to Cirencester in Gloucestershire, and in 879 they departed to settle in East Anglia, following the brokering of a peace treaty with Wessex. This outline provides the barest sketch of an extraordinarily vivid story, which the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle enables us to follow sometimes at a monthly level of resolution. However, this wealth of documentary sources has also recently been matched by archaeological advances in our understanding of the Viking forces involved. For much of the latter half of the twentieth century, scholars generally regarded the Great Army as a small and relatively insignificant fighting force. While this perception ran somewhat contradictory to its evident influence in shaping the political landscape of England through conquest and warfare, it reflected a genuine desire to explore other, non-violent aspects of Viking-Age culture.42 In the 1970s, the early, minimalist hypotheses seemed to be confirmed by the identification of the Great

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Army’s overwintering camp of 873–874 during excavation work at Repton church in Derbyshire. The camp took the form of a small (0.46 ha) enclosure protected by a substantial D-shaped ditch and bank up against what had been the river, incorporating the church of St. Wystan into the defences as a kind of fortified gatehouse.43 In addition to the enclosure itself, a number of burials were found in and around it, including a mass grave (mentioned above in Chapter 3) containing the disarticulated remains of over 260 individuals interred within a modified Mercian mausoleum. Other, discrete burials around the church include a man interred with weapons, a Þórr’s hammer pendant, and a little pouch of animal bones that may have had amuletic meaning in a military context – not least the leg of a raven, one of the classic ‘beasts of battle’ and a symbol of the war-god Óðinn. The man had been killed in combat, either by a slashing wound to the thigh (which would have severed the femoral artery) or a thrusting wound through his eye socket. The man in the grave immediately next to him was younger, aged around 18–25, and genetic analyses reveal that he was probably the older man’s son. The latter’s grave seems to have been marked by a wooden post, and both burials were covered with a single cairn of stones.The mass grave situated to the west of the site was sealed by a stonecurbed cairn, around which seem to have been several offering pits, including a burial of what appear to be sacrificed children. Carefully recalibrated radiocarbon dates indicate that all the graves, including the charnel, relate to a single late ninthcentury event, and that all can feasibly be associated with the presence of the Viking army. That Repton was used as the burial place of the Mercian royal dynasty also suggests the targeted occupation of an important political and religious site.44 For decades, Repton remained the only overwintering site confirmed through archaeological excavation, and despite the results of this work still not yet being fully published, in time it came to be regarded as something of a type site.45 However, in recent years, it has become clear that the Repton enclosure may in fact be relatively unusual as a Viking fortification. This reversal in scholarly opinion has been driven by the identification of further camp sites in England, principally at Torksey in Lincolnshire, the site of the Great Army’s overwintering in the year immediately before their occupation of Repton. Surveys and excavations have not only recovered several thousand artefacts but have also established the extent and morphology of the winter camp.46 Large quantities of material, including fragments of decorated English metalwork, hacksilver, gold, silver dirhams cut up as bullion, bronze ingots, hack bronze, and lead weights, all testify to the processing and trade of loot.Torksey has also produced over a hundred tiny styca coins from Northumbria, which are usually only found in small quantities. Prior to their arrival at Torksey, the Viking army had been in Northumbria and had probably collected the coins there. All the coin dates, both English and Arab, agree well with the timing of the Army’s occupation of the camp. Numerous finds of gaming pieces suggest leisure activities, while loom weights and spindle whorls speak to the production of textiles – a task that was necessary even while operating in a hostile landscape. The finds have been recovered across an area measuring around 55 ha, situated on high ground adjacent to the River Trent. Unlike Repton, Torksey has yielded no evidence for

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fortifications, but the site seems to have been protected by the river to the west, and marshland to the north, east, and south. The size of the camp alone implies that the occupying force must have been very large indeed. Excavations at another camp located at Aldwark in NorthYorkshire have confirmed the initial findings made at Torksey.47 The new site comprises a sub-rectangular enclosure of around 31 hectares. Excavations have recovered a range of material that speaks to the similar processes of manufacturing and trade that have been identified at Torksey, including a hoard of ninth-century coins, hacksilver, metalworking detritus, and over 280 weights.The date ranges from the coins imply that the site was occupied in around 875, and thus, it may conceivably have been occupied by the groups that left the Great Army in 874 in order to campaign and later settle in Northumbria. In mid-2021, the discovery of a fourth Viking camp from England was announced, in the Coquet Valley of Northumberland. As-yet unpublished, it strengthens the picture built up from the other three installations. The cumulative image of larger, dispersed camps also enables a re-evaluation of the mound cemetery at Heath Wood, located a few kilometres from Repton. Once argued to have related to a breakaway faction of the Great Army, or another force entirely, it may be effectively part of the ‘same’ camp spread out across a wider area, with multiple foci of occupation.48 Although the results of excavations at Torksey have allowed important advances to be made in the study of the Great Army and other large Viking forces, significant questions remain concerning how this and similarly sized groups were supplied in the field.49 While the recovery of fishing weights at Torksey implies that the army was (unsurprisingly) engaged in subsistence activities, it is almost certain that regular foraging expeditions would have had to have been made in order to procure supplies.50 It has also been suggested that the Great Army’s decision to overwinter close to royal estates may have represented a strategic concern with obtaining food and that the regular peace negotiations with the English might have included demands to be resupplied (as seen for example in Frankia).51 However, the evidence for manufacturing and trade at Torksey and Aldwark also implies a degree of symbiosis and collaboration with surrounding communities, something which the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle entries hint at with unease. There seems to have been trade with the local population, and perhaps further afield. Both sites are well-placed to take maximum advantage of major riverine communication routes, thus offering a unique insight into the workings of a mobile Viking force, including its internal economy and craft activities conducted as it moved and temporarily halted.52 While broadly engaging in similar activities as the isolated raiding parties that had come before them, it is clear that the armies and fleets of the mid-ninth century differed from their predecessors in several ways. From the few boatloads of raiders that characterised the 790s and early 800s, in the written sources these forces now began to be numbered in the hundreds of ships – a scale of operations that the new work from the winter camps would seem to confirm. Why the scale of Viking forces increased so greatly remains an important but largely unexplored question, but it is possible that frequent internal wars between the expanding petty kingdoms of Scandinavia were responsible for politically displacing large numbers of people.

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While some of these would eventually head to the early Atlantic settlements, others moved south and west. Unlike their predecessors who perhaps operated on a seasonal basis, these newmodel fleets remained in the field often for years at a time. The archaeological evidence from these sites reveals several key features of the ‘armies’: they numbered many thousands of individuals; they consisted not only of armed combatants but also families (including children); there were also craft specialists and artisans present, meaning that these forces were capable of generating and maintaining their own economies through both plunder and trade. It has been recognised for some time that, rather than being organised hosts with clear aims and objectives, Viking fleets often comprised numerous, independent groups that operated together for short periods of time with a view to achieving mutual goals.53 There is no sense in which they can be considered to have represented ‘national’ forces, nor were their actions influenced by an overt consciousness of shared Scandinavian heritage. Instead, individual crews were bound to their leaders, and each other, by reciprocal oaths of loyalty, focussed on small groups within larger conglomerates.54 They were not organised solely by geographical origin, but also likely comprised individuals from many different regions of the North, including outside of Scandinavia. The resulting loose-knit networks of allegiance that formed between disparate groups were ephemeral and prone to fragment, when one party or another perceived their side of the arrangement to be terminated. Similarly, while individual jarls are occasionally mentioned in the sources, there is little evidence for any form of overarching command structure that placed a single leader in a position of superiority over all others. In this, the modus operandi of these fleets has been argued to be similar to that of the early modern pirate groups that were active in the Caribbean during the so-called Golden Age of Piracy of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.55 When viewed within their wider context, the objectives of these large Viking fleets were clearly different to those of the early raiders. Collectively, these groups were complex social and political entities, constantly negotiating their diplomatic relationships in reaction to fluctuating circumstances. Camps such as Torksey were in fact larger than many contemporaneous towns, and certainly bigger than any of the fledgling urban centres in Scandinavia.56 In this, they might be better understood not as ‘armies’ but as mobile societies in their own right – a sort of semi-independent pirate polity – an interpretation that fits with their ultimate objectives.57 While obtaining plunder through conquest and coercion was certainly a major concern, the transient lifestyle that they pursued implies a search for something more significant than loot: land.

The Danelaw and the Kingdom of York The Great Army’s settlements in Northumbria, Mercia, and East Anglia marked the beginning of several decades of Scandinavian rule in eastern and northern England. The scale of their overall settlement has been the matter of some debate,

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but archaeologists and geneticists have suggested that, by the end of the tenth century, around 20,000–35,000 people may have settled in Yorkshire, Lincolnshire, Norfolk, and Suffolk alone.58 Like the groups that travelled to England as part of the Great Army, those arriving in the decades following the peace with Wessex were of a mixed demographic, including substantial numbers of women and family units.59 Although hypothetical maps of the Scandinavian settlements can often be found both in textbooks and online, their actual geographical extent is not known with any certainty. The southern extent of the Scandinavian territories seems to have been bounded, at least initially, by a treaty agreed between King Ælfred of Wessex and the Viking leader Guthrum, at some point between 878 and the latter’s death in 890. Known today as the Danelaw, literally the land under Danish jurisdiction (though the term was only retrospectively applied), the boundary between Wessex and Scandinavian East Anglia ran ‘up the Thames, and then up the Lea, and along the Lea to its source, then in a straight line to Bedford, then up the Ouse to Watling Street’, although it is almost certain that this boundary was quickly negated by further conflict and diplomatic negotiation between various factions.60 In eastern Mercia, the western boundaries of the modern counties of Northamptonshire, Lincolnshire, and Derbyshire may have represented the extent of Scandinavian control. In this part of the country, power seems to have been divided between numerous, autonomous political factions whose power bases were located in nodal regional settlements. In the north of the Danelaw lay the so-called ‘Kingdom of York’ in Northumbria, the area settled by the branch of the Great Army that had divided up the land after it had overcome the regional militias. Its boundaries are similarly difficult to determine, but they may have been considerably less extensive than the notion of a ‘kingdom’ implies.61 Certainly, the area around the city itself, renamed Jórvík, seems to have come under the influence of the York kings. The dynasty ruled over territory that perhaps stretched south to the Humber and north to the Yorkshire Wolds, essentially contiguous with the northernmost frontier of the Danelaw. The York elites are known to have possessed westward links to Viking groups in Ireland, but the northernmost portion of Northumbria may have retained its independence as an Anglian enclave ruled by the earls of Bamburgh.62 Areas of north-western England, including the modern-day counties of Lancashire and Cumbria, have yielded evidence for Scandinavian settlement, and the Wirral seems to have acted as a major entry point to these territories from the Irish Sea.63 Currently, the archaeological record provides no clear picture of the settlement process. Did this consist of Scandinavian integration with the regional populations of Northumbria, Mercia, and East Anglia, or a more aggressive domination of the landscape?64 Research at Cottam in the East Riding of Yorkshire has shown how the process of establishment may have played out at least in some contexts.65 The site, which for much of the ninth century was the location of an Anglian settlement and periodic market, seems to have been occupied by Scandinavians on two occasions. The first of these, during the 860s or 870s, left its mark in the form of weights and weighing scales, as well as pieces of silver bullion, and in this, it is

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deeply reminiscent of the nature of occupation at sites such as Torksey and Aldwark. Indeed, the excavators hypothesise that the assemblage may reflect a brief stay at the site by elements of the Great Army, perhaps during its incursions into Northumbria. The second phase of Scandinavian occupation, which took place fairly soon after the first, saw the re-establishment of the Anglian settlement further up the valley, and the construction of a new farmstead.The latter was fronted by a wide ditch and internal bank, which may have been topped by a palisade, and a gateway structure. That this was in no way a defensive feature is demonstrated by the shallow depth of the ditch and a lack of any evidence for other fortifications around the other limits of the site. Rather, this construction seems to represent something made specifically to impress visitors approaching the site. Evidence for a continued Scandinavian influence is provided by a number of Anglo-Scandinavian-style finds, including three ‘Norse bells’, a Jelling-style copper-alloy disc brooch, and lead disc-brooches similar to those found in York. Whether this represents evidence for the presence of a new rural Scandinavian elite, or instead demonstrates efforts by the existing English population to adopt a new lifestyle is a matter of debate, but the changes taking place at the site may to some extent mirror those observed elsewhere. It is clear that the Scandinavian settlement and consolidation of the landscape was a complex and multi-faceted process, that included the installation of ‘puppet’ English figureheads for de facto Scandinavian rule. The English rulers of Mercia and Wessex were similarly quick to consolidate their position during the early years of the Viking settlement, and it is clear that the years of uneasy relations with the Vikings were imbued with many shades of compromise, occasional collaboration, and general interaction. In order to reinforce his position, Ælfred instituted the construction of a system of defensive strongholds or byrg (sing. burh). These were designed to act as a refuge for local populations in times of attack and may have been largely intended to deny the Vikings access to food sources and to thereby force them to open battle.66 Later, these fortifications would also serve as springboards from which campaigns could be launched into the Scandinavian territories. The establishment of Viking power in the north and east of England had a profound effect on the identity and culture of the region, aspects of which are still visible in the landscape today. One of the greatest legacies of the Scandinavian presence is that of language. Hundreds of place-names still bear Norse elements, the most common of which are -by and -thorp. Whether this implies the large-scale foundation of new settlements in the wake of the Scandinavian land-taking is a matter of debate, but at the very least these new names speak to large-scale cognitive changes in the way that populations perceived the settled landscape. Urban settlement was a major part of the Scandinavian presence, most obviously in York, which was developed from a more modest Anglian enclave into a thriving market town and commercial centre with far-flung international contacts. Excavations in the city’s waterlogged deposits have revealed centuries of intensive occupation, and a maze of streets with densely packed dwellings, workshops, and trade properties.67 Further south, in the Midlands, a group of market centres

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collectively known as the ‘Five Boroughs’, comprising Nottingham, Derby, Lincoln, Leicester, and Stamford, seem to have emerged as the commercial heart of the Danelaw.68 The street-names of many towns follow a model probably set by York, though with a greater proportion of names that include Danish elements.69 The economy of the major towns seems to have been characterised by close collaboration with the countryside communities, as we might expect from a polity that was settled and organised as the result of a relatively coordinated set of actions, albeit within a possibly fragmented system of political control. Detailed mapping of the finds indicates a strong concentration of bullion in rural areas, in a distribution that is closely matched by discoveries of female jewellery of Scandinavian type and mercantile weights commonly found in Viking contexts.70 The expansion of a silver economy and the amount of bullion in circulation can be seen in the material. In the 860s–870s, very small quantities were being weighed – perhaps one or two dirhams worth, or about 6 g – but from the 870s onwards we see that units of between 20 and 40 g were common, up to the limits of what Viking-Age balances could handle. In some urban areas there is some evidence for attempts by the York and East Anglian kings to introduce a monetary economy that mimicked those used in English Mercia and Wessex. However, this does not seem to have found widespread use outside of urban hinterlands, perhaps speaking to the realistic limits of these kings’ power.71 There is also good evidence for the manipulation of cultural identity through the creation and use of new material styles. Archaeological excavations in Lincoln have identified mass production of dress accessories that exhibited a mix of Scandinavian, English, and European influences, speaking to the formation of a cosmopolitan urban profile. The discovery of English-style brooches incorporating Scandinavian design elements has similarly been taken to indicate that certain material schemes could have been deployed variously according to different social contexts and that this may have carried political connotations.72 Anglo-Scandinavian styles are also evident on a wide range of monumental stone sculpture, used both in funerary contexts and on free-standing crosses, presumably commissioned by new elites integrating themselves into the cultural and religious environment.73 Also of note is the creation of a wholly new type of burial monument, the hogback tombstone mentioned previously, which, with an exception of a single find in Ireland, is unique to northern England and lowland Scotland. At a basic level, they appear to mimic wooden grave covers, but it has also been argued that their design draws on architectural and artefactual styles as seen on houses, Christian shrines, and reliquary caskets, and even on small objects such as strike-a-lights.74 It is uncertain as to whether there was a tradition of such funerary architecture in Scandinavia, and they seem to be a uniquely insular type of monument. We do not know exactly who commissioned the hogbacks, whether a merchant elite of York, a new Anglo-Scandinavian aristocracy linked to York and Dublin (but if so, why has only one example been found in Ireland?), or perhaps a multi-ethnic rural elite in Northumbria, allied to the Hiberno-Norse kings. The answer may be a combination of all the above, perhaps with different regional hogback traditions, though a marked Scandinavian element is beyond doubt.

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While it is certain that many Scandinavian settlers came to some accommodation with the Church and may have quickly adopted Christianity alongside or in preference to their existing beliefs, evidence for continued adherence to traditional value systems is seen in the form of the nearly two dozen Þórr’s hammer pendants that have been found in England.75 Along with the evidence of cultic place-names, such as Toreswe (originally Torsví) in north Lincolnshire, these finds clearly suggest that the Norse gods were not only known but also actively worshipped in Viking-Age England. Finds of deposited weapons and other metalwork from rivers, streams, and bogs may similarly reflect a continued ritual concern with wetlands of the type discussed in Chapter 3.76 The symbol of Þórr’s hammer also appears on more than 30 examples of coinage minted in the Viking Kingdom of York. On the latter issues, the symbol is shown alongside a sword which may represent the weapon of St. Peter, thus producing a syncretic image of divine protection covering the full spectrum of contemporary belief; alternatively, the sword may simply speak to the threat of force. Despite the widespread settlement of Scandinavians, the control that they exercised over eastern and northern England had waned substantially by the midtenth century. Early efforts by Ælfred of Wessex to annex the southern portions of the Scandinavian territories were continued by his children, Edward the Elder and Æthelflæd, following his death in 899. Edward would come to inherit the throne of Mercia on his sister’s death in 918, and further territorial gains by his successor, Æthelstan, would see all of England come under the rule of Wessex in 927. Although the Kingdom of York and eastern Mercia would remain contested for some time, these territories were finally subdued by the mid-950s.The hybrid identities that came into being from the ninth century onwards – ‘Anglo-Scandinavian’, ‘Hiberno-Norse’, and many others – gradually lost their focus and emphasis in material culture, to survive after the eleventh century in memories and folklore.77

The Irish Sea Further west, the Irish Sea was an arena ofViking activity where events in many ways unfolded in symbiosis with the situation in England and Frankia, not least because many of the same Scandinavian groups were involved.78 In addition to Ireland itself, this crucial waterway was bordered by Wales, parts of Scotland, and included a chain of islands from Man to the Hebrides, which in the Viking Age were intermittently associated with the other archipelagos of Orkney and Shetland, further to the north. The scale of this multicultural region, the wealth of material, and not least the results of especially extensive archaeological excavations make for an excellent case study and warrant a closer look at the realities of Viking interactions here. In Ireland, as elsewhere, monastic institutions bore the brunt of the initial raids, with historical sources revealing a fairly sustained pattern of attacks throughout the early years of the ninth century. In contrast to the apparently docile monastic communities of England, however, it is clear that those in Ireland were prepared to defend themselves, and the raiders seem to have met defeat almost as often as

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they were successful. The Annals of Ulster, for example, record the defeat of raiding groups by local forces in 811, 812, and 825, and in this, they perhaps portray a more realistic image of the inherent dangers associated with this activity than that provided by the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle. In the absence of serious settlement across large swathes of the countryside – there was never an ‘Irish Danelaw’, or for that matter the endless campaigns of the English wars – instead the Viking contacts with Ireland took on a different character. From around 840 onwards, along the coasts and rivers we begin to see the construction of so-called longphuirt (sing. longphort), literally meaning ‘ship bases’.79 Their name probably conveys their original function, fortified strongpoints to which one could retreat in safety, and most went fairly quickly out of use. A few of the longphuirt, however, would endure, and it is in these pirate enclaves that we see some of the seeds of Ireland’s first towns, at Dublin, Cork, Wexford, and Limerick. One of the more ephemeral sites has been identified at Linn Duachaill, near to modern-day Annagassan, in Co. Louth, around 60 km north of Dublin. Limited investigations there have confirmed the location of a substantial fortification, likely the longphort recorded in historical sources as being established in 841, but the nature of the occupation itself has not been ascertained with any certainty.80 More extensive excavations have been undertaken at Woodstown, which lies on the River Suir around 5 km west of the modern city of Waterford.81 Archaeological work at the site in advance of motorway construction identified two adjacent D-shaped enclosures, occupying an area measuring some 460 m in length and 150 m in width. Although less than 10% of the longphort was excavated, the Woodstown site has provided a uniquely valuable insight into the origins and development of HibernoNorse settlement in Ireland. The site seems to have been occupied as a permanent settlement from the late ninth to early tenth century. Two phases of defensive ditches and banks were identified, implying a martial element to daily life at the site. That the ditches in both cases were allowed to silt up rapidly, however, implies that defensive capabilities were not a major concern. Although many archaeological features had been damaged by ploughing, the identification of postholes and slot trenches indicates the presence of wooden buildings that may represent domestic structures or workshops, including one of a type similar to those from the urban foundations at Dublin and Waterford. There was significant evidence for a range of industrial activities, the archaeological signature for which closely resembles those at Torksey and Aldwark. Manufacturing processes undertaken at Woodstown included working in silver, glass, and wood, together with ship repair. There was also evidence for trade in the form of hacksilver, weighing scales, and over 200 lead weights. Outside the enclosure was found one of the most lavish ‘warrior’ burials in Ireland, an individual accompanied by a sword, axe, spear, and shield. When taken together, the archaeological evidence speaks to a community engaged in manufacture and trade, but one with militaristic overtones. The evidence for successive phases of defences is suggestive, and it is not unlikely that some of the metalwork being traded or processed at the site may have been obtained through violence. While Woodstown seems to have initially enjoyed some success, the abandonment

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of the site may reflect the increasingly tumultuous political relationships between Viking forces and the Irish during the late ninth and early tenth centuries. It is also possible that the eventual abandonment of the Woodstown longphort may have been linked to the rise of Waterford to the east. Any chronological relationship between the two settlements, however, is at present unclear and will only be better understood through further research.82 Not all longphuirt were located in coastal regions. Historical sources record Vikings establishing bases on Lough Rhee and Lough Neagh, and potential sites have been identified on the Shannon and Glasha Rivers at Athlunkard near Limerick and Dunrally, Co. Laois, implying a concern with penetrating deep into the Irish interior, presumably in order to raid and obtain plunder. Dunrally, apparently a fortification constructed during the 850s, possesses a large, D-shaped defensive ditch, while geophysical survey at Athlunkard has identified a possible D-shaped enclosure, with finds from the area including a spearhead, a spearbutt, an iron ring, a woodworking axe, and silver ingots.83 A feature of many postulated longphort sites, both on the coast and inland, is the presence of a ‘citadel’ – a smaller enclosure situated within the larger fortification, the function of which is unknown. The site of some of these enclosures (that at Linn Duachaill, for example, being around 80 m × 35 m) bears a striking resemblance to the Repton enclosure, raising the possibility that the latter may represent a smaller fortification within a much wider encampment.84 If that is indeed the case, then the Irish longphuirt sites have significant potential to inform our understanding of Viking armies and fortifications elsewhere. When considered collectively, however, the longphuirt raise numerous questions. What was the primary function of these Scandinavian bases? Were they military sites in their strictest form, or were they also trading centres intended to facilitate the movement of goods? This debate has yet to be resolved,85 and it is possible that too much emphasis has been placed on attributing a single function to these sites. As we have seen in the cases of Torksey and Aldwark, the sites inhabited by Viking armies could also be centres of manufacturing and trade. Rather than focusing on raiding and trading as binary concepts, we would do well to acknowledge that those Vikings who engaged in maritime piracy and warfare would have likely been the very same individuals who appeared at market sites and emporia to sell or trade goods that they had obtained through force only a short time previously. Perhaps the longphuirt are material evidence for a type of strategy that centralised the redistribution of both plunder and trade goods, facilitating the growth of extensive maritime trading networks. If this was the case, then this may go some way to explaining the settlement pattern of Viking groups in Ireland, which seems to have been largely confined to the immediate hinterlands of the longphuirt. While it is of course possible that Scandinavian settlers did establish landholdings in the wider landscape, adopting local housing styles and material culture in a way that would make them archaeologically ‘invisible’, Vikings may have found it more beneficial to harness Ireland’s economic potential without seeking any form of direct rule. Given that Irish social power had never been based on control of land, other than certain symbolic sites of prehistoric fame,

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but rather on control of people, a different approach to that employed in other regions was perhaps necessary. By creating gateways through which trade and wealth could flow in and out of the Irish interior, there was significant potential for the elites based at these sites to enrich themselves through the redistribution of goods (the most prominent of these likely being the enslaved), which in turn allowed them to dominate maritime trading routes. With their presence in Ireland becoming increasingly entrenched from the midninth century onwards, Scandinavians became progressively involved in dynastic conflicts as mercenaries. The power of the Dublin Vikings grew, leading them to undertake campaigns into southern Scotland.This rapid rise to supremacy, however, was followed by an equally rapid decline. The 870s and 880s witnessed increasingly frequent conflicts with Irish forces and also other Scandinavian groups, which were followed by internal feuds fuelled by the ambitions of competing factions within Dublin itself. Relations with the indigenous Irish population seem to have declined even further, and in 902 the rulers of the kingdoms of Leinster and Brega came together in order to expel the Vikings from their base, forcing them across the sea to Scotland and northern England. According to the Fragmentary Annals of Ireland, some of them were allowed to settle in the Wirral by the permission of queen Æthelflæd of Mercia, perhaps with a view to preventing future Viking attacks on western Mercia by way of the River Mersey.86 A possible insight into the Dublin Vikings’ time in exile is provided by the Cuerdale hoard – the largest hoard of Viking silver known from the British Isles. Deposited around 903–910 on the banks of the River Ribble, Lancashire, around 20 km inland from the coast, the hoard comprises around 40 kilos of silver in the form of coins, hacksilver, ingots, and jewellery. A large quantity of the coins originated from York (which possessed strong links with the Dublin Vikings), and they seem to have seen little use before being buried in the ground. Could this massive deposit represent some of the combined wealth of the exiled HibernoNorse Vikings who were operating in northern England at this time? Further evidence for the Scandinavian presence might be seen in the Huxley hoard, found in Cheshire. This consists almost entirely of Hiberno-Norse style arm rings and was probably broadly contemporary with the Cuerdale hoard. The recorded settlement of exiled Dublin Vikings in Cheshire and the Wirral provides a possible context for the finds.87 In 914, Scandinavian attacks on Ireland resumed. The former Dublin Vikings soon joined the fray and managed to regain their lost territories, integrating these into a powerful ‘sea kingdom’ that encompassed not only areas of Ireland but also Scotland and influence over the Kingdom of York. From this point on, Dublin and the other coastal enclaves each maintained a fleet of ships that would have required constant influxes of new crew-members, beyond the available manpower of the settlements themselves. Costs were met with a complex tax system based on the urban garðar, which may refer to a cluster of plots, and also by active service on mercenary operations. In the late tenth century, the Irish ‘city-states’ seem to have functioned through a policy of turning former enemies into customers, and a new

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focus on commercial interaction with the Irish communities of the interior. The Irish kings quickly appear to have reached an accommodation with the Vikings, using their coastal ports as gateways for prestige goods with which to support their own fragile political economies. The relationship was mutually beneficial, but not unstrained, and there are constant references to minor (and sometimes major) violence between the Scandinavians and the local peoples, alongside the complicating factor of Irish civil strife. Over time these divisions blurred, leading to the emergence of a distinctive Hiberno-Norse identity in the towns. The complex evolution of the longphuirt, from pirate bases to thriving commercial centres, is evident in the archaeological record of major Irish cities such as Dublin. Developed in 841 from an existing Irish settlement, the town was named after the ‘Black Pool’ (Gaelic Dubhlind) around which the Scandinavians erected a defended enclosure. A second site nearby also gave access to the water, and the two would quickly combine. Over a hundred burials have been found at various sites around the outskirts of the settlement, including weapon graves, and a number of women and children interred along the boundaries. Isotopic analyses indicate that these early Dubliners were not only Scandinavians but also included people from the British Isles.88 The largest cemetery, in what is now the Kilmainham suburb of the city, has produced fully half of all the furnished Viking graves in Ireland, and a fifth of all Insular graves overall.89 At least parts of the Kilmainham cemetery were laid out in parallel rows, some of the graves apparently being marked with standing stones.The vast majority of the burials date to a short period of use before 850, and can thus be linked directly to the longphort established in 841. Most of the buried dead were male and equipped with weapons, among them many swords. Some of the men were also buried with smithying tools, and unique finds include a Byzantine seal that perhaps came from a finger-ring – an exotic item for a wealthy Viking. Beyond the clichés of ‘warrior graves’, these men were clearly professional fighters, and many of them bore clear signs of injuries sustained in battle – one wonders if this is what the as-yet undiscovered cemeteries for Torksey or Aldwark would look like, at least if they had been occupied longer. The Dublin settlement quickly consolidated into a busy townscape, and excavations at two sites especially – Fishamble Street and Wood Quay – reveal a distinctive type of small, rectangular house with wattle walls, benches, and a central hearth that seems to be typical of the early Irish sites of this kind.90 Finds include detritus from craftworking of all kinds, suggestive of long-distance trading contacts. The inhabitants lived on food brought in from outside the city, and at least in the early years, there seem to have been good relations between town and hinterland. There are also other signals of the symbiosis between the Vikings and at least some elements of Irish society. We have earlier seen evidence of the ambiguities of Viking attitudes towards what we would readily identify as towns. In Ireland, where the newly founded Norse settlements most purely resemble urban centres, we find intriguing parallels for this blurring of settlement nomenclature. Here again, terminology is problematic, with a broad semantic range in evidence. The sort of

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language that would refer to urban centres in Latin (civitas, urbes) was co-opted in Ireland for ecclesiastical centres, and this extended to Irish words such as cathair, which could describe a city, a monastic settlement or even a high-status dwelling. Baile was used to denote an urban site in the Middle Ages, and still today, but this also embraces ‘townlands’ as an administrative unit. When the Viking ports are explicitly mentioned in the sources, words emphasising defence (dún) are often employed, rather than anything with economic overtones. Crucially, there is no shift in terminology when the Viking coastal ‘towns’ take on serious urban status in the High Middle Ages, though the word longphort is exclusively used to refer to the defended camps of the early incursions. Not until the Anglo-Norman influences of the 1170s and later do we see the importation of English urban terminology, and this clearly comes from outside. In short, there is no specific word for ‘town’ in the early medieval Irish sources either. At the approximate centre of the Irish Sea itself is the Isle of Man, occupying a critically strategic position for those plying the waters between Ireland and mainland Britain.91 From the mid-ninth century onwards, Scandinavians seem to have settled there in increasing numbers, quickly achieving a political takeover. To judge from their many burials on the island, this process was probably violent as well as swift, with weapons a frequent funerary gift. At Balladoole, a large boat grave was even cut down through a pre-existing Manx cemetery, destroying the earlier graves – a clearly deliberate act which involved smashing a number of stone-lined cists.92 Further evidence of such signalling can be seen at a local, landscape level in the parish of Jurby, where burial mounds seem to have been placed on the coastal ridge to mark territorial units.93 As in Ireland, there is little evidence for the Scandinavian-style longhouses that are so commonly found in the North Atlantic settlements. Only one such building has so far been found on Man, at a site known as the Braaid.The structure is poorly dated and lies in the vicinity of a rectangular structure and another that resembles an Iron Age roundhouse. It is uncertain, however, whether the longhouse was occupied simultaneously with the other structures or whether it succeeded them. Either way, it seems that the site experienced a relatively rapid decline, with occupation later becoming focused on a series of small huts, occupied perhaps seasonally or as a shieling.94 Until the middle of the tenth century, the burials on Man have a clear nonChristian character. One even includes what appears to be a human offering, a woman killed at the grave mound, and another may be the burial of a sorceress.95 However, the ethnicity of their occupants is not always unequivocally signalled. From the 950s onwards, the influence of Christianity becomes more evident, most obviously in a remarkable corpus of stone crosses and grave slabs that incorporate pagan imagery in the iconography of the new faith. Scenes from the Ragnarök, such as Óðinn’s death, are apparently employed as symbols of the decline of the old gods (or as depictions of Hell), juxtaposed with the triumph of Christ over his enemies. Elsewhere we see stone sculpture decorated in Scandinavian-style animal imagery and burials with Scandinavian objects situated in churchyards. As in many

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of the other settlements, Scandinavians assimilated rapidly, either merging with the existing population or adopting its traditions alongside their own cultural legacy.96 On the eastern shore of the Irish Sea, Wales was also subject to Viking attack, though at nothing like the scale of Ireland.97 The Welsh historical sources record a number of raids against local princes, increasing in intensity into the late tenth century. Scandinavian place-names, a few graves around the coasts, and a handful of hoards, suggest more than casual passage. However, to date, the only sustained Scandinavian settlement appears to have been on Anglesey, itself a Norse placename meaning Ongul’s Island. Archaeological work at Llanbedrgoch, Red Wharf Bay, and Penmon has revealed different aspects of a Norse presence, clearly interacting with local peoples in ways both peaceable, commercial, and violent. Llanbedrgoch in particular has produced evidence of a fortified enclosure, with stone-footed buildings and debris from metalworking of various kinds. Silver-working waste and silver fragments suggest that it may have functioned as a trading port for the exchange of commodities. Isotopic analysis on skeletons from burials there clearly shows that this was a multicultural population, including individuals from the British Isles and Frankia, with perhaps a majority (the sample size is small as yet) from Scandinavia.98 Combined with more ephemeral settlement traces along the coasts, it is possible that we can see a modest array of temporary markets and trading locales, facilitating much more regular contact between Viking groups and local populations than previously supposed. While the Scandinavians never fully settled Wales in the same manner as the Danelaw, or even established large enclaves as in Ireland, it seems that instead they inserted themselves into the existing social, political, and economic networks – not only for profit but also as a means of ensuring safe havens and harbours on the eastern side of the Irish Sea.99

Scotland and the Isles The waters surrounding what are now the Northern and Western Isles of Scotland were a major thoroughfare for maritime traffic throughout the Viking Age.100 While the island chains of the Shetlands, Orkneys, and Hebrides were the focus of intensive Viking activity and settlement, the exact nature of these processes as they played out throughout the ninth and tenth centuries – and beyond – is unclear. Scenarios envisaging a relatively peaceful coexistence between Norse settlers and indigenous populations have been proposed, as have those involving the outright genocide of the local people.101 Even the date of the Viking settlements has been debated.While generally presumed to have taken place in the early decades of the Viking Age, given the historical evidence for early raiding on monastic institutions in the Hebrides, there is very little archaeological evidence to support this assertion. Following the period of initial contact, whenever this may have been, a serious attempt seems to have been made to settle the Scottish Isles. Studies of ancient DNA taken from samples of Viking-Age burials from Norway have shown that women played an important role in the immigration process, with a high proportion of

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shared genetic lineages in the present-day population of the islands.102 Another factor that may speak to the scale of the Norse presence in the Northern Isles and the Outer Hebrides can be seen in place-names, which are almost all Scandinavian in origin. The implications for a complete takeover seem obvious, but place-names are difficult to date. Whereas in England the compilation of the Domesday Book in the eleventh century allows scholars to tentatively identify place-names that may have genuine origins in the Viking settlements of the ninth and tenth centuries, no such document exists for Scotland. Archaeological work at the site of Bornais on South Uist in the Outer Hebrides, however, has begun to shed some light on the early Norse settlement of the Western Isles. The site had been occupied during the fifth to sixth centuries by Picts, but the Viking Age saw a sequence of large houses being constructed on a settlement mound a short distance to the north.While there was some evidence for activity on the site of the houses during the seventh to eighth centuries, in the mid-ninth to mid-tenth centuries a partially subterranean, bow-sided longhouse was constructed of the type that is so familiar in many other Atlantic contexts. This was succeeded by another, similar structure in the mid- to late-eleventh century, and a hundred years or so later by a straight-sided rectangular structure.While there is no evidence to suggest interaction between the indigenous population and the Norse settlers, the suggestion that Viking activity did cause more widespread abandonments of the landscape prior to the establishment of the settlement at Bornais cannot be ruled out. However, the partially subterranean nature of the buildings, which is wellsuited to the exposed local environment of the Uist machair, may imply that the settlers had harnessed the local knowledge of a resident indigenous population.103 The picture is no less complicated when we look to the Northern Isles. The initial date of landfall in the Orkneys and the Shetlands is unclear, but there is currently little evidence to suggest a Viking presence prior to the mid-ninth century.104 The years following the settlements would see the establishment of a Norse ruling dynasty and – at least according to later sagas – the creation of the Earldom of Orkney, which would remain a powerful political force into the early Middle Ages. It is from this later period that the main written sources concerning the VikingAge in Orkney date. Of these, Orkneyinga saga provides an account of the supposed conquest of the islands by Haraldr hinn hárfagri, ‘Fairhair’, in the late ninth century, followed by the history of the earldom throughout the Viking Age and into the medieval period. However, this source cannot be taken as direct history, but rather a retrospective narrative combining oral legacies with later propaganda, and the very existence of an early earldom has been questioned. Unlike the Scandinavian settlements in England and Ireland, no urban centres were founded in Scotland and the Isles. Instead, we find the traces of beach markets, relatively simple affairs of basic, temporary structures along the strand at reliable harbours and waterways. Probably dating back to Norse contacts with Scotland in the pre-Viking period, these deceptively rudimentary sites were vital conduits for trade and exchange, not least in timber which seems to have been a major commodity. As in the Western Isles, the Scandinavian settlers seem to have intentionally

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situated their new homes in close proximity to pre-existing Pictish settlements, as at Old Scatness and Jarlshof in the Shetlands, and at Buckquoy and Pool in the Orkneys.105 Evidence for continuity in Pictish art styles following the Scandinavian settlement at Buckquoy has been taken to indicate that, in at least some cases, the Vikings settled among the local population instead of displacing or killing them.106 It has similarly been argued that a diasporic Scandinavian community was established in the tenth century at Quoygrew, on Westray, Orkney, where the indigenous inhabitants quickly acculturated to the use of imported goods such as soapstone vessels and Norse-style combs. However, continuity is again suggested by the survival of traditional pastoral and agricultural practices, implying a mediation of cultural contact between new arrivals and the existing community.107 Into the tenth and eleventh centuries, the Northern Isles came to be increasingly, perhaps exclusively, dominated by Scandinavians. Some, like the inhabitants of the fortified sea stack at Deerness on Orkney Mainland, seem to have lived as pirate fisherfolk, seasonal Vikings in the classic mould. Indeed, communities like this are mentioned in the later saga sources.108 Substantial farm complexes have been found at sites on the Bay of Skaill, where the occupants were adapting not only to local conditions but also maintaining symbolic links to Scandinavia and the wider Viking world (ceramics from Normandy have been found there, for example).109 The nearby mound of Snusgar was made artificially using midden deposits and consolidated with layers of earth and stone, the whole forming a solid core for the foundations of a structure. Common to Norway, these mounds have been identified in a number of North Atlantic settlements, including the Faroes and the Northern Isles.110 It has been argued that the settlement mounds observed at Skaill and elsewhere were used by immigrants to lay claim to political power. In essence, the settlement mounds represented a cumulative record of the inhabitants’ presence – an incontestable claim to land.111 Elsewhere in Orkney and Shetland, at sites such as the Brough of Birsay and Jarlshof, Norse magnates were expanding their authority to found substantial complexes of farms and what were essentially manorial buildings.112 The Norse settlements in Scotland and the Isles brought considerable economic changes, with new textile industries and farming regimes, as well as a serious emphasis on deep-sea fishing – all practices with ultimate origins in Norway, though adapted to local circumstances; stockfish seems to have been especially popular.113 Alongside these altered lifeways, new patterns of mortuary behaviour came in with the Scandinavians. Boat burials are found in Orkney (notably at Scar), with a single example from Shetland, and another from Ardnamurchan on the Scottish mainland.114 Utilising smaller vessels than the great ship burials of Scandinavia, these nonetheless represent considerable investment of resources in small fishing communities, and also very visible statements of identity. In addition to the Ardnamurchan boat burial, tentative evidence for Viking activity in western Scotland may be represented by 13 Viking-Age burials at Loch Lomond. The graves were originally marked by wooden posts and enclosed by a ring ditch. There are indications that some kind of structure may also have stood

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within the confines of the grave-field, with the excavations yielding evidence for wood, shale, and metalworking.115 The first phase of burials within the enclosure were made during the ninth or tenth century, and while the origins of the occupants cannot be securely determined, a potential link to late ninth-century Viking activity is provided by the Annals of Ulster, which records a force of Hiberno-Norse besieging and plundering a fortress at Dumbarton, some 12 km to the south of Loch Lomond, in the year 870.116 The 2014 discovery of a spectacular hoard in Galloway provides further evidence for the presence of Viking groups in this part of Scotland. The hoard, which likely dates from the early tenth century, was deposited in two separate layers, the top of which took the form of several dozen ingots and Hiberno-Norse arm rings as well as a unique gold pin in the shape of a bird. The second portion of the hoard was concealed in a silver Carolingian vessel, which was wrapped in textile before being deposited in the ground. Inside the vessel, themselves carefully wrapped in leather or textile, were numerous finds including gold and silver jewellery, beads, glass amulets, a gold pendant, and a rock crystal jar. Why the hoard was concealed, and why it was never recovered, remains a matter of speculation, but the ecclesiastical nature of a number of the items indicates that they may well have been plundered from a monastic institution during a Viking raid.The Galloway hoard thus brings this corner of western Scotland firmly into the sphere of Scandinavian activity and influence during the tenth century.117 In the Scottish central belt, there is further evidence of Scandinavian interactions with local peoples, and hints at the Norse assumption of leading roles in the community. Five hogback tombstones, of the kind familiar from the northern Danelaw and the Kingdom of York, have been found at Govan near Glasgow.Who commissioned the monuments is of course uncertain, but Govan’s importance as the ecclesiastical epicentre of the Kingdom of Strathclyde suggests that they were ordered by members of the elite who were making deliberate connections with Scandinavian symbolism. Further hogbacks are known from Alloa, on the River Forth, and from Teviotdale, near Dundee.118 At the most fundamental level of all, the system of thing-based assemblies and the legal institutions that went with them has also been traced across the Northern Isles and in parts of the mainland.119 Some 30 possible thing sites have been located, with an emphasis on Shetland and Orkney, the areas of heaviest Norse settlement, but the Scottish west coast is also well represented. The location of the sites often reflects Norse ideas about liminality and the importance of water, as well as particular notions of landscape organisation.The Viking presence in Scotland and the Isles was not only a physical one but also psychological and ideological, linking the incomers and their descendants with a new concept of ancestry and, one assumes, home.

From Andalucia to Aachen The Viking engagement with Western Europe is almost always discussed in terms of the English and Frankish kingdoms, the cultures and polities of the Irish Sea, and Scotland and the Isles. One area in particular, however, is often overlooked: the

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Scandinavian encounter with Iberia and the Mediterranean.120 The archaeological evidence is almost non-existent, and the textual record is a complex, multicultural palimpsest of chronicles from the Frankish, Galician, Asturian, and Arab worlds that additionally stretches over hundreds of years, with a long afterlife in other traditions including that of Icelandic saga literature. The first known Scandinavian incursion to the south occurred in 844, when a fleet based on the Loire looted their way along the Frankish shore, before raiding the northern coast of Iberia, plundering the coastal settlements of the Christian kingdoms along the Bay of Biscay and in Galicia. Driven back by a determined defence, instead of returning to their Frankish strongholds the Vikings continued their voyage, down the coast of what is now Portugal. Much of Iberia had fallen under Muslim control centuries prior to the Viking Age, in a wave of invasions launched from North Africa under the expansionist Umayyad Caliphate.When the latter was in turn overthrown at the very start of the Viking Age by the Abbasids, who ruled from Baghdad, the Iberian territories declared a form of independence, forming their own emirate with a capital at Córdoba. The 844 raid was thus the first direct contact that we know of between the Vikings and the Islamic powers in Iberia. At first the assault seems to have gone well, with successful attacks on Lisbon and Cadiz, before the fleet turned into the River Guadalquivir and made for Seville. After sacking the city in a week-long haze of destruction, killing and enslaving the inhabitants, the Vikings were ambushed by an Andalusi relief force and suffered heavy casualties. A handful made it to their much-reduced fleet and managed to attain the open sea, while the survivors of the Arab attack were executed in the retaken city. The Scandinavians returned to the north, clearly deterred by a level of effective resistance that they were not used to seeing in Frankia. Although the 844 raid may have been followed by an inconclusive diplomatic overture involving an Andalusi envoy sent to a Scandinavian court in Denmark (or possibly Ireland), nothing seems to have come of this.121 It would be 15 years before the Vikings made another attempt on Iberia, this time on a scale so ambitious that the expedition must rank as one of the largest ever mounted in the Viking Age.122 In 859, a major fleet of perhaps 60 or so ships left its bases on the Atlantic coast of Frankia and headed south, initially following the same route as the 844 raid. The composition, motives, and command structure of the fleet are uncertain, and what little data we have comes from much later sources. In Norman and Icelandic tradition, the force was commanded by two brothers, allegedly sons of the semi-legendary Viking warlord Ragnarr Loðbrók.123 One of them, Hásteinn, appears in other texts and was almost certainly a real person, though whether he was really connected with the Mediterranean raid is another matter.The other, Björn, probably appears in contemporary Frankish sources where he is shown as a commander fighting on the Continent immediately prior to 859 – he has become known to history by his nickname, Björn járnsíða, ‘Ironside’, which might be contemporary but was first recorded long afterwards. Having failed in an attempt on Santiago de Compostela, the Vikings plundered along the Iberian coast far into Andalusi waters. They attacked Seville, but unlike their predecessors they

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did not tarry on the Guadalquivir, but instead made for the Gibraltar Strait. Passing through unopposed, they thus became – so far as we know – the first Scandinavians to enter the Mediterranean from the west. After initially raiding on both shores, including a prolonged North African episode in the tiny kingdom of Nakūr in what is now Morocco, the Viking fleet followed the Iberian coastline, taking in the Balearic Islands before over-wintering in Frankish territory on the delta of the Rhône. Into 860, the Vikings headed east, raiding towns in Tuscany before disappearing from the historical record for almost a year. Fragmentary references, not least in a key Arab source, suggest that they entered Byzantine waters, possibly spending time in Greece, and in one account even reaching Alexandria in Egypt. Reappearing in 861, the Vikings sailed back through the Gibraltar Strait, though this time losing the majority of their ships in a running sea battle as they forced a concerted Andalusi blockade. After the ‘Great Raid’ of 859–861, Iberia saw only sporadic Viking activity during the tenth and eleventh centuries, with a series of isolated raids along the western coast and no further incursion into the Mediterranean proper. The Christian kingdoms in the north, however, were frequently attacked, including a long period in the 960s when a large Scandinavian force repeatedly overwintered near Santiago. The Viking adventure in today’s Spain and Portugal, then also one of the frontiers between the Christian and Muslim worlds, in some ways followed the same pattern as their contacts with Frankia, but clearly never developed (in any sense) to the same degree. The explanation for the much longer, more intensive, and destructive presence of the Vikings in the Frankish Empire can be found in an interplay of many factors. Its complex political geography, as it evolved through the successive rule of Charlemagne and his descendants, had a distinct impact on the capacity of the Carolingians to counter the Viking threat. As we have seen, Charlemagne’s death in 814 saw his united empire, which stretched from the Pyrenees to the Elbe River, pass to his son Louis the Pious. It was during the latter’s reign that the empire began to fragment, a period characterised by trouble along the frontiers and civil wars within – of which the Vikings were quick to take informed advantage. The chaos and imperial division that followed Louis’ death in 840 have been explored briefly above, and only began to stabilise – at least in terms of external threat – more than 20 years later with Charles the Bald’s eventual successful resistance and the departure of the Scandinavians for England. The cultural and political affiliations of the Viking-Age Frisians are also relevant here. Scholars have increasingly argued for the fundamental role that Frisia played as an intermediary between the Frankish Empire and Scandinavia, and through this for the formation of a hybrid regional cultural identity that asserted independence from the former and affinities with the latter.124 A study of hoards and stray finds has shown how evidence for the use of bullion in Frisia not only demonstrates the flexible role that local populations played as economic intermediaries but also that this material may represent the physical presence of Scandinavian settlers or groups moving between parts of the Continent and the British Isles.125 Another possibility

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is that of active Frisian participation in ‘Viking’ activity.126 Historical sources in fact refer to one of the alleged leaders of the Great Army – Ubba – as dux Fresorum or Ubbe Fresicus, suggesting some link between this individual and Frisia.127 Given the Frisians’ intimate connection with and knowledge of the North Sea, it would not be surprising if individuals and collectives signed on with Viking forces for raiding. In this, it is clear that the multitude of roles played by the Frisians within the wider cultural milieu of the Viking Age, not only as victims of attacks but also as active agents of economic change and, potentially, as raiders themselves, remains to be fully explored. Charles’ own death in 877 came at a time of further division as a result of the ambitions of the Carolingian elite, in particular in the German territories. The realm that had once belonged to Charles’s brother, Louis the German, had been inherited by his sons and enjoyed only an unstable peace. At the same time in England, the shaky truce that resulted from the end of the wars with Wessex and the creation of the Danelaw meant that large numbers of Vikings began looking for new targets. They returned to Frankia in strength, and for six years launched successive waves of attacks that penetrated deep into the Rhineland. Even the imperial palace at Aachen, the seat of governance chosen by Charlemagne himself, was briefly overrun. The palatine chapel there, which still stands today complete with the same bronze doors through which the Vikings entered, was used as a stable for their horses.128 Although Charles the Fat (one of Louis the German’s sons) would come to claim almost all of the formerly united Frankish Empire through inheritance, in practice military successes were still far and few between. A second Viking siege of Paris, which began in 885 and lasted a year, was bought off with silver by Charles, in an act widely regarded as a cowardly betrayal of the citizens’ long resistance.129 In 887, the unpopular emperor was deposed in a coup, and the empire itself fell apart, disintegrating once again into a number of autonomous kingdoms. It was not until the 890s that the pressure on Frankia was finally relieved, with several successful Frankish and Breton victories over large Viking forces, and the departure of a second, massive Viking fleet to England in 892. The rulers who succeeded Charles in various parts of the former empire would not only have to deal with each other but also a continued Viking threat from a new quarter, in the form of forces coming from rapidly consolidating Scandinavian kingdoms. It is against this backdrop of political turmoil that Viking enclaves were established in Normandy and, briefly, Brittany during the tenth century.130 The establishment of the former came about in 911, after nearly ten years of renewed fighting with the Vikings. In a move that would prove to be disastrously naïve, the Frankish king Charles the Simple negotiated a truce with the Scandinavians based on the Seine and granted them territory there in return for protecting the river against further incursions from their countrymen. A charter from 918 mentions one ‘Rollo’ – a Latin approximation of the Norse name Hrólfr – as their leader, and he was granted more land in 924. The new inhabitants of Nordmannia, today’s Normandy and literally the ‘land of the Northmen’, were

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only occasionally true to their word, and in fact the Scandinavian population of the region continued to grow.131 Under the rule of Rollo’s son, William Longsword, the Norse domains were extended all through the Cotentin peninsula in 933. The incomers rapidly assimilated with the local population, forming a distinctive new Norman culture. Few material traces remain of them today – a handful of recognisably Scandinavian objects in burials, weapons presumably offered in riverine rituals, and some destruction levels in towns and monasteries that testify to Normandy’s violent origins.132 The Duchy of Normandy prospered with successive generations of Rollo’s line and effectively challenged Carolingian power in the north so as to secure their borders against external threat (an ironic reversal of the Frankish motives behind the original land grant).133 A century and a half after the founding of Normandy, the polity’s horizons expanded dramatically. In the context of a dynastic dispute following the death of the English king in 1066, a Norman claim to the throne was pressed by Rollo’s descendant William the Bastard, later known as the Conqueror. His successful invasion, defeat of the English at Hastings, and assumption of the throne, changed the course of European history and cemented the future of the longest-lasting Viking dominion of all. Much shorter-lived was the brief Scandinavian occupation of Brittany, the semiindependent province of Celtic-speakers that had long maintained an uneasy coexistence with the Franks on whose north-western border they resided.134 Just as Frankia was plunged into civil war on the death of Louis the Pious in 840, so the Bretons also seized the chance to assert a version of home rule – and, like the Franks, came under heavy Viking attack. Of particular concern, as we have seen, was the island base established by the Scandinavians on Noirmoutier, a monastic site near the mouth of the Loire, which gave them a semi-permanent foothold at this strategic point. Over the following decades, Breton relations with the Vikings would adhere to the same complex pattern as in the divided empire itself, shifting between conflict, temporary alliance against mutual enemies, and wary truce. Brittany was briefly occupied by Scandinavians in the 880s, but they were ejected after a few years. Following the founding of Normandy, whose settlers often launched joint raids with (and sometimes against) Vikings based in Brittany, Scandinavians who were not seeking a settled lifestyle moved from the Seine to the Loire, intensifying pressure on the Bretons. After four years of escalating violence, in 919 Brittany was completely overrun by a large Norwegian force, with fighting recorded in the main settlements, in forts, and along the Frankish border.The capital of Nantes was formally handed over to the Viking commander, Røgnvaldr, and thereafter Brittany becomes a textual void for the next 20 years. After several attempted rebellions, it was not until 936 that an exiled Breton army arrived with English support to retake their home. Over three years of vicious fighting, the Vikings were gradually expelled, in battles that have left archaeological traces as at the Camp de Péran, a circular fortress destroyed in the fighting.135 The archaeological evidence from Brittany is distinctly martial in character – weapons in the rivers, what seem to be the burials of warriors, and most spectacular

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of all, the only ship burial on the Continent. At the Île de Groix off the south coast, a man was cremated in a boat together with an adolescent male, dogs, and birds, accompanied by numerous weapons and some 24 shields, apparently of local manufacture. The grave was covered by an elaborate mound with lines of standing stones, and it has been suggested that it was the burial of one of the occupation’s commanders, possibly even Røgnvaldr himself. The objects in the ship indicate a very wide contact net for the dead, covering most of mainland Europe and with extensions into the Rus’ territories of the east. Although there would be intermittent raids for some time afterwards, Brittany was never again occupied by the Scandinavians. Was it a ‘Normandy’ that failed, or something else entirely, a kind of throwback to the pirate camps of the English wars? One of the least-studied regions of the diaspora, new work may yet reveal new dimensions of the settlement, but it was clearly prominent in the Viking mental map of Western Europe, at least for a time.

The Opening of the North Atlantic As the term implies, the disparate regions of the Viking diaspora followed quite disparate trajectories. While Viking raids in the British Isles and continental Europe would continue with varying intensity through the ninth, tenth, and eleventh centuries, the northern reaches of the Atlantic Ocean experienced a very different kind of Viking Age.136 We have already seen above how the Western Isles, Orkney, and Shetland were quickly incorporated into the wider sphere of the diaspora. They are situated on the natural sailing route south and west from the Norwegian coast, and also form part of the northward journey back to Scandinavia if coming from the Irish Sea. In the more open waters of the North Atlantic, both the Faroe Islands and Iceland seem to have been discovered by Scandinavians early in the ninth century. While Viking raiders were plundering their way around the coasts of the British Isles and Frankia – and possibly in the course of such activity – reports were coming back to Scandinavia of new lands further out to sea. It is unclear to what degree the Faroes and Iceland were uninhabited when they first came became known to the Norse. A contemporary tradition, recorded in the early ninth century by an Irish monk and geographer named Dicuil, claims that from at least the 700s they had been the abodes of Christian hermits, papar, seeking a contemplative isolation; a similar tale is found in a twelfth-century Icelandic text, describing the situation in the country at the time of the first Norse settlements.137 From archaeological research, it is now clear that at least some people really had lived, however briefly and at an unknown scale, on the North Atlantic islands prior to the Viking Age. Evidence for cereal cultivation has been found in the Faroes, dating to sometime in the fourth to sixth centuries, and the growing of crops implies a relatively extended stay.138 The sheep that the Norse found on the Faroes may also have been brought there by the papar. Enigmatic cross carvings found in Iceland have been argued to similarly relate to these first settlers, but the evidence

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is inconclusive. It is not known whether any of these individuals remained on the islands when the Norse arrived – no indication of this has been found so far – but if so, they did not stay long. Our archaeological sources for the settlement of the islands are hard to date conclusively, with a perhaps undue reliance on tephrochronology (the dating of volcanic deposits) correlated with the medieval written record. The latter is retrospective, in part legitimating, and filtered through the Christian worldview and contemporary political context of its composition. Two works, in particular, the Book of Settlements (Landnámabók) and the Book of Icelanders (Íslendingabók), are especially informative to us, though the late date of their composition during the twelfth to thirteenth centuries raises obvious issues regarding source criticism, and these texts are best used as a means of contextualising our interpretations of the archaeological record, rather than informing them. Traditionally, the settlement of the North Atlantic began during the ninth century with the settlement of the Faroe Islands and Iceland. Greenland would be settled later, during the tenth century, and this was followed by the establishment of at least one settlement in North America around the year 1000 or shortly thereafter. The more favourable climatic conditions of the medieval warm period meant that the Faroe Islands were a productive environment at the time of the initial settlements. The first Norse incomers established their farms on the coast, at sites such as Niðri á Toft near Kvívík, and Á Toftanesi in the village of Leirvík. Excavations have revealed the longhouses to have adhered to the distinctive Scandinavian-style layout that characterised those elsewhere in the North Atlantic – curving, bowsided structures, a central hearth, and benches running along the length of the sides. Given that the settlers would have sought out the most favourable locations to establish their farms, in sheltered locales with good access to the sea, on a level plot of land for the farm and cultivated fields, and with access to upland grazing, it is not surprising that the settlement pattern remained relatively static throughout the Viking Age and into the medieval period.139 The siting of the Faroes on the major sailing route for ships heading from Scandinavia or the Scottish Isles to Iceland means that they were frequently visited by the merchant vessels that plied the North Atlantic trade. Evidence for the islanders’ ability to access long-distance trading networks is suggested by finds of imported soapstone utensils likely originating from Norway, a ninth-century imitation dirham coin, and amber beads, which have been recovered during excavations at Á Toftanesi and Sandur, respectively.140 The settlement of Iceland, which lies almost 700 km to the northwest of the Faroes, took place during the late ninth century.141 If the written sources are to be believed, the island was settled by Norwegian exiles following the unification of the country by Haraldr ‘Fairhair’ around 870. This date is mostly supported by the archaeological record, which until recently indicated that almost all of the evidence for the Norse presence on Iceland overlay (and thus post-dated) a massive volcanic tephra layer dating – rather conveniently – from 871 ± 2. While the west coast represented the main focus of early settlement, however, recent archaeological work on the eastern coast of the island, in Stöðvarfjörður, has yielded evidence for

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a Scandinavian-style longhouse that dates to the early ninth century. This work has yet to be published, but it carries an obvious significance for understanding of Icelandic history. At present, it is uncertain whether the longhouse was a permanent or temporary (perhaps seasonal?) habitation site. Perhaps it was used as a basecamp by groups participating in fishing or whaling expeditions, or for walrus-hunters whose quarry lay on the western coast of the island.142 Despite this, the general picture of the settlement of Iceland remains relatively consistent with the traditional narrative (for now).While there may have been early attempts to establish settlements of some kind of the east coast, it is the western coast, as noted above, which represented the primary focus of the Norse landtaking (ON landnám). As in the Faroes, the best units of land were quickly claimed by the earliest settlers, who may in turn have sought to expand their landholdings by settling dependents (either family members or, as indicated in Landnámabók, manumitted members of the enslaved population) in more marginal locales.143 The use of such tactics speaks to the ‘frontier’ nature of early Icelandic society, with individual kinship groups jockeying to consolidate and expand their power and status as part of an early medieval land grab. The initial period of settlement is generally considered to have lasted until 930, when the first Icelandic assembly was established. The demography of the Norse settlers in the North Atlantic has long been a topic of debate. Though really comprehensive aDNA studies of Viking-Age burials in the overseas settlements have yet to be conducted, genetic studies of the contemporary populations have yielded some interesting findings. Unsurprisingly, many of the settlers seem to have originated in mainland Scandinavia. DNA signatures of the modern Faroese suggest a Norse origin for a strong majority of the male population, with a comparable figure for Iceland. However, when the evidence is combined from texts, genomic studies, and personal names, a complex picture emerges of the first settlers in Iceland. People certainly travelled there from all regions of Scandinavia, including Gotland. There seem to have been Sámi migrants in considerable numbers, perhaps unsurprisingly in a Norwegian context, and reinforcing the suggestion that communities there were very much more integrated than has traditionally been understood. Small numbers of Franks and Saxons also seem to have gone to Iceland, but this too should not surprise us: the Viking world was a cosmopolitan place, with common patterns of migration for much the same reasons of economy, opportunity, and affection as people travel today. Coercion should also not be overlooked. DNA research reveals that a very large proportion of female settlers in Iceland, probably a clear majority, had a genetic heritage from Scotland or Ireland. While a good deal of intermarriage and multicultural relationships can be expected, it is nonetheless striking that the first settlers seem to have been comprised very much of ‘Scandinavian’ men and ‘Celtic’ women, a pattern that demands explanation.While consensual relationships in search of a new life must certainly have been formed, the scale of the male/female genetic (ethnic?) imbalance surely suggests at least some element of force – a bleak picture of kidnapping and slavery in the context of raiding and Norse overlordship in these areas of Britain.144

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When settling in a new environment, the Norse would have faced many different challenges. In the North Atlantic, resource availability and management was one of the most crucial aspects of daily survival. As the Icelandic settlements expanded into less-favourable areas, there is some evidence to suggest that they sought to mitigate for poorer growing and grazing conditions by situating their farms at a greater distance from one another. These efforts to ensure viability in terms of subsistence capabilities, however, may have had adverse effects as the communities inhabiting individual farms found themselves isolated from the wider milieu of Icelandic society.145 Timber was also in urgent demand, and as the Icelandic landscape became rapidly denuded of trees from the tenth century onwards, it became necessary to develop new adaptive strategies to support social growth. Turf became the primary building material, while peat was burned in order to heat houses and provide a source of fuel for metalworking. Naturally, access to and use of these materials were closely monitored and managed by landowners. Timbers were also brought in from abroad, for example from Norway, in order to provide the framework for those timber halls that we do see in the archaeological record. Driftwood also provided another source of housing and boat-building material, with the earliest Icelandic law codes (the Grágás) providing extensive legislation regarding rights to collect this material from the coastline.146 Another commodity that might have been traded internally within Iceland is iron.While many sites have yielded evidence for small-scale iron working, implying that metalworkers routinely processed their own bog iron in order to make tools as and when necessary, a few farms located near natural sources of bog iron seem to have served as large-scale smelting works, the products of which could be traded with other farms.147 As we have seen, the core of the Scandinavian judicial and administrative system was the þing assembly, with roots far back into the earlier Iron Age. As the Norse began to expand across the North Atlantic, they brought this practice with them, but with some crucial adaptations. The key difference lay in the balance between popular governance and the influence of royal elites, in that the insular settlements had no kings (a truly remarkable innovation at this time). In the Faroes and on Iceland, the basic parliaments of the assemblies were the primary arenas of social and political power, in both regional and centralised form, where the law was upheld by chieftains called goðar.The main assembly in the Faroes was established in the ninth century at Tinganes, a promontory outside the modern capital of Tórshavn, and still today the site of the central government offices. In Iceland, the ‘national’ assembly was the Allþingi, set up in the tenth century on a dramatic lava plain which employed the vertical wall of a volcanic fault as a sounding board, amplifying the voices of the speakers below it; it is known today as Þingvellir. The bold social experiment of a land without kings also brought with it new problems, as evident in the famous sagas which are full of neighbourly disputes over land and other petty conflicts, quickly spiralling into bloody feuds of generational

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FIGURE 4.4

Map of the North Atlantic settlements in the Viking Age. Produced by

Neil Price.

reprisals. By the thirteenth century, the country was locked into an endless spiral of civil wars that were ended only by the population’s subjugation to the Kingdom of Norway. Another unpredictable element was the presence of outlaws, whose predation on the settled farming communities could at times be destabilising. There are many stories of farmers banding together to fight them.148 In the late 900s diasporic Scandinavians, especially Icelanders, began to look further west still, perhaps prompted to seek new lands for settlement as the valleys began to fill with established farms. Sometime in the second half of the century, the landmass that we now know as Greenland was discovered by Norse sailors who had been blown off course in a storm, and in the 980s the first real expeditions there were mounted by the notorious and troublesome individual known to history as Eiríkr rauði, or Erik the Red. It seems to have been him who called the as-yet unsettled country Greenland, on the principle that people might be more likely to go there if it had a pleasant name. It helped that the land was then rich in arable potential around the coasts, as well as offering abundant resources in the form of reindeer, seals, and walrus. The first landfall on the south coast led to the development of the confusingly named Eastern Settlement, which eventually grew to some 500 farms. Further to the north, the so-called Western Settlement would

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see another 100 or so farmsteads established, with a scattering of occupation in the region between them.149 Many aspects of the Greenlandic settlements replicated how the Norse lived elsewhere in the North Atlantic: the focus on valley farms, access to the sea (a necessity in Greenland), infield and outfield agriculture, and the familiar architecture of turf-walled longhouses on stone foundations. Some of the buildings were quickly combined into modular, multi-room structures, probably to conserve heat. Animals were kept both indoors as part of the dwelling buildings, or in separate structures; clearly, the settlers were trying to adapt to the prevailing conditions, which at times were harsh. Even the most prosperous Greenlandic farms, during a relatively warm climatic upturn, were never more than three bad seasons away from starvation (a preoccupation that is found in the medieval texts too, such as the Saga of the Greenlanders).150 Over time, the Norse left a clear ecological imprint on their new, western home, introducing foreign plant species and impacting the environment as they tried a variety of methods to ensure survival through the severity of the winter months.151 The Greenland Norse stand out from their fellows in the other North Atlantic enclaves in several ways. Their burials are remarkably elusive, at least from the early decades of the settlement before the establishment of the Christian church. They also seem to have been unusually literate, to judge from the numerous runic inscriptions of personal names on objects, or tallies of items – clearly, keeping track of the material accoutrements of life, as well as who owned what, was important in this frontier environment.152 Despite the challenges of living in such a harsh place, the Greenland territories were maintained for several hundred years. However, over time the population became increasingly isolated from the outside world. There is evidence to suggest that the Western Settlement experienced a steady process of decline during the fourteenth century, and pollen analyses suggest that the flora that was introduced by the Norse declined in the Eastern Settlement from the fifteenth century.153 It was around this time that contact with them was lost. The ultimate fate of the settlements remains a topic of debate. It has been suggested that increasingly hostile encounters with the Thule peoples, who were migrating into the area from the north, might have driven the Norse population to leave the area. Another hypothesis is that deteriorating climatic conditions may have led to widespread starvation and abandonment of land. Given that the Greenlanders were not entirely self-sufficient, climatic deterioration would have increased their reliance on regular trade with the outside world. However, the fate of the Greenlanders may effectively have been sealed by the decline of the walrus ivory trade, as the opening up of new mercantile routes provided European markets with easier access to other sources. When traders were able to make bargains in places more accessible than Greenland, the maritime traffic first slowed and then ceased altogether.154 Faced with increasingly bleak prospects, the Greenlanders may have decided that their best chance of survival lay in abandoning the settlements while they still could.

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The Rise of the Rus’ At the beginning of this chapter, we reviewed some of the earliest evidence for a Scandinavian presence beyond their homelands – that of the trading settlements that arose on the eastern shores of the Baltic Sea. As important as Staraja Ladoga remained throughout the Viking Age, the site would become merely the jumping off point for much longer journeys to the south – a sort of base camp from which travellers would depart seeking to access the great markets of the Steppe, in addition to those of the more distant Byzantine Empire and Abbasid Caliphate. In time, a new kind of society emerged along the riverine routes to the south – that of the Rus’ (from which the modern word ‘Russia’ derives). The main historical source for their origins is the so-called Primary Chronicle, which was probably compiled during the twelfth century. It is a clearly unreliable narrative, filled with medieval propaganda, retrospective legitimisation, and other issues of source critique that make it difficult to parse historical reality from later invention. In outline, the Chronicle describes the Rus’ as arriving on the shores of the eastern Baltic around the 860s and quickly imposing a tribute system on the indigenous Slavs. They were driven off, but after a period of infighting the Slavic tribes allegedly sent emissaries to the Rus’ asking them to bring order to their land. Three brothers – Rurik,Truvor, and Sineus – are said to have been chosen to rule. Rurik occupied an island north of what would later become Novgorod (Holmgarðr in Old Norse), and would take control of his brothers’ territories upon their deaths. Again according to the Chronicle, he was succeeded by a relative named Oleg, who expanded the Rus’ territories along the Dnieper River, making his new capital at Kyiv.155 The historical narrative for the origins of the Rus’ as presented by the Primary Chronicle has been hotly debated, especially regarding their ethnicity. For many decades opinions were divided between a ‘Normanist’ camp that advocated strictly Scandinavian origins for the Rus’, and others that argued for a more Slavic background, though the latter is now seen more as a politically inspired position of the Soviet era (albeit with modern echoes). Today, scholars generally acknowledge that the Rus’ were a blend of different ethnic groups, but with a clear, original, and dominant presence of Scandinavians including in command positions. It has also been argued that it may be necessary to further distinguish between transient groups of Scandinavian Rus’ and the landed polity of what is sometimes called Kyivan Rus’, as two separate but interconnected entities.156 As their fledgling state continued to grow it would come into increasing contact and conflict with the Turkic peoples that inhabited the lower reaches of the Volga, Dnieper, and other routes into the Black Sea. These included the Khazars, who had migrated into the lower Volga region during the seventh century, as well as the Bulgars, who were initially one of the primary trading contacts for Scandinavian merchants. To the south and west, around the shores of the Black Sea, lay the lands of the Pechenegs and the Magyars. It has only been since the downfall of the Soviet Union in the 1990s that these semi-nomadic steppe tribes have been recognised as a significant political and cultural influence in the east during the Viking Age.157 All

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FIGURE 4.5 Map of the Rus’ polities and the Scandinavians’ eastern contacts. Produced by Tom H. Lundmark.

of these groups, however, played a vital role in trade, diplomacy, and the frequent warfare that took place in the region throughout the period of Rus’ expansion and consolidation. Like the Rus’ they were vying for power while attempting to maintain a favourable relationship with the Byzantine Empire, which was also concerned with strategically expanding its territories in the Black Sea region. The tenth century would see the Rus’ state become a major player in an increasingly complex and fluid political arena of diplomatic negotiation, betrayal, and warfare. At times they would wage open war on the Khazars, whose presence on the routes between the Black Sea and the Caspian was a constant source of tension. From the early tenth century onwards, the Rus’ launched a number of large-scale raids in the region, and in 943 a particularly large assault on Bardha’a, in what is now Azerbaijan, seems to have been conducted with the intention of establishing some kind of control

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over the area. The Rus’ force is recorded as capturing the city and then spending several months plundering the surrounding countryside, before being driven out after illness devastated their camp.This kind of skirmishing would continue far into the eleventh century. As we have seen, the clothing and military fashions of these peoples seem to have made a deep impression on Viking culture. Ornate silks and kaftans have been found in graves across Scandinavia, while depictions on Gotlandic picture stones of warriors wearing the wide, baggy trousers that characterised eastern fashion similarly imply that Viking dress codes were infused with an element of exotic flair. The finds from the garrison area of Birka, furthermore, demonstrate that the warriors living there wore the lamellar armour that was particular to the mounted steppe nomads of Eurasia. That the individuals from the garrison must have spent some in the east is implied by the discovery of an archer’s thumb ring, which was specifically designed to be used with the short, recurve bows of the type used by horse archers. This suggests not just the adoption of an exotic form of dress as an identity statement, but also of a knowledge of military tactics that would have been unfamiliar on the battlefields of Western Europe.158 When the archaeology of the Rus’ settlements is considered, the significant Scandinavian component in their complex ethnic identity emerges clearly.159 Excavations at settlements including Staraja Ladoga and Gnëzdovo have identified Scandinavian-style finds in both occupational and burial contexts. The impression that we get from Ibn Faḍlān’s physical description of the Rus’, in addition to that of their equipment and their customs, similarly implies that this particular group of individuals, at least, were of Scandinavian extraction.160 The Rus’ brought with them hides, pelts, and other high-value imports, including honey and perhaps ivory, from the northern lands. With them also came captives – mainly women, whose brutal treatment is described in graphic detail by Ibn Faḍlān.161 They, and other trade goods, were exchanged for the products of the Caliphate and the Byzantine Empire, including silks, beads, cowrie shells, personal ornaments such as belt fittings, carnelian, glass, and above all silver, which made its way back to Scandinavia in the hands of the merchants.162 The early Rus’ site of Holmgarðr, comprising a trading post protected by a fortification of logs laid in ditches, has been identified at Gorodishche, which lies around 175 km south of Staraja Ladoga on the Volkhov River, just to the north of Lake Ilmen. Fragments of baking ovens found in the fills of the enclosing ditch have been dendrochronologically dated to 889–947, making the site clearly a secondary establishment to Ladoga further north, and presumably marking the beginnings of Rus’ expansion along the rivers. Artefacts of Scandinavian origin have been recovered there, including many cult objects that indicate the active observance of rituals relating to the Norse gods. There seem to be connections with central Sweden and the Mälar Valley – the heart of Svealand – which is not unexpected, though these incomers were also obviously living alongside Slavs and others of more local origin. Perhaps ethnicity was not as important as social status and their roles in these new settlements of mercantile enterprise.

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By the early 900s, the settlement at Gorodishche began to expand beyond its boundaries, and the original insular, fortified enclosure transformed into a very different foundation that would grow to become one of the great cities of European Russia. Novgorod, meaning ‘new fortress’, spanned the hills either side of the Volkhov River, reaching serious scale around 950. For many years, the archaeology of the city, characterised by its waterlogged deposits preserving wood, textiles, and other organics, essentially represented our material knowledge of the Rus’. It was a planned settlement, with paved wooden streets winding through the town, linking complex urban plots of fenced yards with multi-storey buildings. Alongside the tools, toys, and other fascinating items that are rarely preserved elsewhere, perhaps the most spectacular finds of all were hundreds of thin pieces of birch bark inscribed with messages in Cyrillic – the correspondence and personal notes of the citizens. Included among these finds were the writings and drawings, preserved on several pieces of bark, of a six- or seven-year-old boy named Onfim.While Onfim’s scribblings date from the thirteenth century, they nonetheless provide a unique insight into what must have been the hopes and ambitions of many children living during the early medieval period and Middle Ages. The birch bark letters demonstrate that Onfim was learning the Cyrillic alphabet, as well as how to spell out his name and simple sentences. However, like so many other children, he clearly became bored during his lessons and started daydreaming, leading him to draw a picture of himself on horseback, casting a spear into an enemy as he trampled them under his horse’s hooves. Perhaps Onfim dreamed of one day becoming a member of the druzhina – the mounted warriors of a leader’s retinue, who he might have seen accompanying their lord through the city. The settlement of Kyiv, which lies in Ukraine some 900 km to the south of Staraja Ladoga, seems to have developed from an initial fortified nucleus during the late 800s, at a time when the Volkhov and Dnieper trade was gathering pace. Essentially a conglomeration of what were once separate villages, by the end of the ninth century the town boasted a defended hilltop citadel and extensive mercantile quarters along the river, all steadily expanding. The ethnic composition of its inhabitants is not easy to determine, but the presence of a Scandinavian elite seems clear, though, in general, the population appears to have been rather integrated.163 As the power of the Rus’ grew, Kyiv arose as the primary node in the northsouth river trade, in part balanced by Novgorod to the north, and this process also seems to have brought with it a cementation of Rus’ identity in a more formalised sense than before. During the reign of Jaroslav I in the eleventh century, Kyiv’s fortifications were augmented with multiple circuits of defences; one of the monumental portals, the Golden Gate, survives in heavily reconstructed form and today represents a prominent symbol of Kyivan identity and Ukrainian heritage. For the Scandinavians operating in Rus’, life in the east, like that in the other Viking settlements, introduced new challenges and possibilities. We have already seen how cultural traits and social customs can develop their own unique trajectory as part of a ‘frontier’ lifestyle, and it has been suggested that women might have adopted new roles among the mercantile groups of the east. They are mentioned

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FIGURE 4.6 The Golden Gate of Kyiv, Ukraine. Reconstructed in Soviet times, this imposing structure formed one of the main gateways to the Rus’ capital. Photo by Tibor Bognar/Alamy.

several times in Ibn Faḍlān’s description of the Rus’, with his first-hand observations of their fashions and jewellery. This implies that groups of Rus’ merchants travelling south to the Byzantine Empire, like those which lived among the large raiding fleets of ninth-century Europe, included families – an interesting observation that has not received the attention it deserves. The role of women as traders among these groups has been argued based on finds of trading equipment, such as scales, in female graves from the Rus’ territories.164 Given the transient lifestyle pursued by these groups, there would have been obvious benefits to having multiple members of the household with the knowledge and expertise to conduct trade. For those women living and travelling along the riverine routes of the eastern Viking world, the ability to survive and prosper may have been dependent on the dissolution of traditional social boundaries and norms, allowing groups to adapt to the unpredictable rhythms of life in a rapidly changing landscape.

Mikligarðr and the Caliphate The riverine activities of the Rus’ spread across eastern Europe along a complex network of waterways that began in the Baltic and by various routes – through the territories of today’s Poland, the Baltic States, or northern Russia – accessed the

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great arterial systems of the Dnieper and the Volga. In the course of the ninth and tenth centuries, their footprint extended as we have seen from the initial market gateways such as Ladoga to larger establishments such as Gnëzdovo, to the great towns of Kyiv and Novgorod, but also to a wider pattern of smaller settlements and way stations extending almost to the Urals. In the course of this expansion, the unique ethnic identity of the Rus’ was both created, shaped, and changed, still with a Scandinavian core but gradually becoming something new, in and of itself, in the acculturating melting pot of the river world. However, beyond this mercantile drive and its dispersed lines of control, Rus’ operations were always directed towards something larger, with which they existed in an uneasy symbiosis that included varying degrees of both cooperation and conflict: the two great superpowers of the east, the Byzantine Empire and the Caliphate of the Arabs. The Dnieper provided the most direct northern access to the Empire, and – whatever the route taken to enter its main channel, often including portages between lesser waterways – the river was the primary conduit of most of the western trade that ultimately originated in the Baltic. Kyiv’s strategic location spanning the Dnieper was crucial, allowing the Rus’ to dominate the traffic at that point. South of the city, in the middle reaches of the river as it flowed into the Black Sea, was a sequence of up to 12 fierce rapids that necessitated repeated delays as boats had to be dragged ashore, unloaded, and then moved on land to bypass the churning water, before being reloaded and launched again.The Dnieper was dammed by the Soviet Union in the 1930s, but photos of the original riverscape survive that make it clear how hazardous a feature the rapids really were. Other dangers were encountered too, as of course the slow portages made the merchant convoys vulnerable to attack by the nomadic Pechenegs through whose territory the river ran. Casualties from their ambushes are occasionally mentioned in runic memorial inscriptions set up back home in Sweden, by those who had made it back. The passage of the Dnieper rapids has also left a different kind of commemorative trace in a remarkable tenth-century Byzantine document, written in Greek by the emperor himself, probably as a sort of confidential foreign policy guide for his successor. The De Administrando Imperio, ‘On the Administration of the Empire’, is a mine of information but its pages also include a list of the Dnieper rapids with their dramatic names recorded phonetically in what appears to be Old Norse – presumably as told to the Byzantines by the incoming Rus’. In a wonderful coincidence, the name Aifor, from the Norse eifors, ‘Ever Fierce’, also appears on a Gotlandic runestone relating the death of one Ravn who had sailed the river.165 With the rapids behind them, northern travellers skirted the western shore of the Black Sea before reaching the city itself. By the time of the Rus’, Constantinople already had six centuries of history as an imperial capital, and had grown to a conurbation without parallel in the European world. Heavily fortified with multiple circuits of walls, including along its waterfronts, it presented a sight to astonish any visitor. Walking its streets would take hours, passing through bazaars and markets, monumental buildings on a Roman and Greek model, a massive circus or racetrack, numerous orthodox churches, with the basilica of Ayasofya or Hagia Sofia at the core

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FIGURE 4.7 The Hagia Sofia in Istanbul, Turkey. Now a mosque, in VikingAge Constantinople it was the primary basilica of the Byzantine Empire. Runic inscriptions inside bear witness to the presence of the Varangian Guard. Photo by Michele Burgess/Alamy.

of the palace complex. In the tenth century, Constantinople was arguably the largest city in the world; the Scandinavians called it simply Mikligarðr, the ‘Great Place’.166 We can only speculate as to the ways in which new arrivals would have intermingled with Constantinople’s cosmopolitan population. Although the Rus’ depended on the markets of the Byzantine Empire to ensure their continued survival, disputes led to frequent conflicts, and Imperial sources record the Rus’ as conducting several major attacks on Constantinople. There likely existed an element of tension between visiting Rus’ and the Imperial administration that varied in intensity according to prevailing geopolitical circumstances. While Rus’ traders were sometimes granted privileges and subsistence allowances while staying in the city, on other occasions they were banned from residing there at all, with their movements and activities being much-more tightly controlled.167 A tantalising insight into the inherent threat presented by the Rus’ can be found in the Patria of Constantinople – a series of accounts of the city, of varying age, that were collated in the 980s. In one of the books, we are taken on an anonymously composed ‘walk through’ of the bustling city streets. Coming to the Forum of Theodosius, the author describes a great equestrian statue, apparently brought to Constantinople from Antioch. On the statue’s plinth there was a scene (one assumes some kind of military conquest or triumph; the statue was destroyed when the city was sacked during the Fourth Crusade), which the author interprets – in a tone that conveys a real sense of conviction – as ‘the final days of the city, of the Rhos who will

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conquer this city’.168 It seems that the Rus’ were, at least in the mind of this one anonymous citizen, perceived as presenting a very real threat to the city’s existence, with memor ies of previous conflicts becoming ingrained into Constantinople’s urban fabric. In the late tenth century, the Rus’ prince Vladimir married into the Byzantine royal family, accepting baptism and adopting Christianity as the religion of the state. The Rus’ would be further drawn into the Byzantine world. The emergence of the word ‘Varangian’, apparently used by the Rus’ to denote new arrivals from Scandinavia, demonstrates the continued separation of the state from its ninthcentury roots. By the end of the Viking Age, the lands of the Rus’ extended from the Black Sea to Lake Ladoga. Varangian groups would regularly traverse the river systems of the kingdom, seeking either to conduct business at one of the many markets now established along the major rivers or to travel even further south to reach Constantinople itself. Many Varangians would find themselves entering into the service of the Empire as mercenaries, and in time they would even come to form the emperor’s personal bodyguard. For a young Scandinavian noble, service in the Varangian Guard became a prerequisite for social advancement back home – Haraldr Sigurðarson, later to become king of Norway and earn his nickname harðráði, ‘the Ruthless’, was probably the most prominent example.169 Some of these Varangians left their posthumous mark in runic memorials erected in Scandinavia, as their comrades honoured fallen brothers.170 Others arbitrarily commemorated themselves, for example in the graffiti dotting the fabric of Hagia Sofia. Several runic inscriptions are known within the building, most of them situated in the upper gallery where the royal family attended public ceremonies, accompanied by the Varangian Guard. The most famous of the texts – carved by a man named Halfdan – is scratched into the balustrade overlooking the nave, and others have now been identified.171 Made, perhaps, in a stupor of boredom as the Varangians awaited the conclusion of some long-winded religious ceremony, this everyday piece of bravado serves as a poignant reminder of the incredible journey that was made by so many of Halfdan’s contemporaries in search of wealth and status – a journey from which, as the runestones in Scandinavia remind us, many would never return. For all Byzantium’s undoubted attractions and opportunities for lucrative reward, there were other alternatives. Another river route lay open even further east, affording the Rus’ access to the Volga system and ultimately the Caspian Sea. On its south-eastern shore, travellers found themselves at the outer frontier of another mighty empire, the Abbasid Caliphate. The Rus’ seem to have encountered the far eastern routes quite early in the ninth century, when the Caliphate’s power stretched from Tunisia in the west to Uzbekistan on the steppe. Its capital lay at Baghdad, actually an Abbasid foundation since the 760s, and Arab texts describe how Rus’ merchants would disembark their ships at the Caspian shore and proceed there overland by camel.172 At its zenith in the ninth century, Baghdad and its extensive extramural suburbs supported a population of nearly a million people, a rival to Constantinople. Enclosed

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within a double circuit of defensive walls, the main commercial and residential areas formed two concentric rings inside the fortifications. At their centre lay the caliph’s palace, administrative buildings, and the main mosque. The region of Baghdad had been a major trading hub since the time of the Sasanians and was situated within easy access of Asian, Indian Ocean, and Mediterranean exchange networks. During the Abbasid period, it became a major minting centre, and the silver dirhams struck there have been found as far afield as Hedeby and Kaupang.173 Another key city was Samarra, now in northern Iraq, established in 836. For a short time during the ninth century, this was the capital of the Caliphate, following rising tensions between the caliph and the local population. Strung out for several kilometres along the eastern bank of the Tigris, it differed greatly from Baghdad in its lack of geometric planning, and the main function of the settlement seems to have been as a home for the caliph and his armies.174 It is clear that the Rus’ were well familiar with their trading partners in the Arab world. Again according to the same sources, they knew enough of local conditions to pretend to be Christians, thus avoiding the tax placed on those without faith. The trade goods brought by the Rus’ seem to have largely mirrored the commodities exchanged with Byzantium, but with an even greater emphasis on the traffic in enslaved human beings. Exotic items (in a Middle Eastern context) such as furs and falcons were also popular. There is no way to gauge how many Scandinavians themselves made the journey into the interior of the Caliphate, but some certainly did so. Runic inscriptions are known from Sweden commemorating individuals who travelled to ‘Serkland’, a rather vague term for what was probably a vague place in the Norse mind, but which clearly indicates the Caliphate. This was probably the tip of the iceberg, and it is possible that the Rus’ ranged further still, into the main reaches of what in later times would become known as the overland and maritime Silk Roads. One source even says plainly that the Rus’ ventured to al-Ṣīn, China, though it is unclear which region was actually meant by that – probably the western Khaganate of the Uyghurs.175 In the other direction, the Rus’ brought back spices, silks and other textiles, a range of metalwork and pottery, and, above all, silver. As we have seen, nearly a million dirhams have been found around the shores of the Baltic (Gotland is saturated with them), and it is estimated that this represents a small fraction of the trade. Most of them were melted down and can be seen in new forms as jewellery shaped to northern taste.176 While the Scandinavian experience with the Caliphate seems to have been overwhelmingly based on trade, there is now some evidence to suggest that more subtle interactions were taking place. Analysis of a silver finger ring recovered from grave Bj. 515 at Birka, featuring a glass inset inscribed with Arabic script reading il-la-la, ‘for Allah’, has shown the object to have seen relatively little wear prior to being deposited in the ground.177 Was this ring a pretty curiosity, an exotic object purchased from a silversmith and brought back from the east as an expensive trinket or gift, or does it imply the physical presence in Birka of individuals actually from the Caliphate, raising the possibility of more direct cultural interaction? We will return to this find, and its potential implications, in the next chapter.

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Full Circle: Unknowingly into Another World With a beginning in the mid-eighth century, over little more than 250 years the ‘Vikings’ – in the broadest, term-of-convenience sense of that label – established a diaspora that extended from the Asian steppe to the shores of Greenland. Their settlements, kingdoms, and enclaves continued to expand and contract, some disappearing within a few years while others would have lasting impacts even to our own times. But one adventure in particular, while limited in scope, would have resonances like few others: the first European contact with North America. The story of the Norse presence in the New World is preserved in two of the great Icelandic tales, the Saga of Erik the Red and the Saga of the Greenlanders.178 What happened is well-known in outline – an unknown country west of Greenland, found by ships blown off course, with exploring expeditions and brief settlement to follow. In fact, the two sagas frequently contradict each other, with different versions of who first sighted land, who was the first to sail there, and even the number of separate voyages involved. At least the route they took is clear: west from Greenland for two days to a country of flat stones, which the Norse called Helluland (probably Baffin Island), then south past a long stretch of coastal forests and pristine beaches they called Markland (probably Labrador), and then finally to Vinland, the ‘land of (wild) vines’. Though it is the focus of Norse activity,Vinland’s location is never entirely clear, not least whether it refers to Newfoundland or – more likely – to somewhere further west or south; this problem has engaged scholars for a century and more.179 In the Saga of the Greenlanders, the picture is believably complex and involves multiple journeys to Vinland. According to its internal chronology, in 986 one Bjarni Herjólfsson was attempting to land at his family farm in southern Greenland when his ship became lost in a storm; sighting a rocky coast that must be far to the west of his intended position, he followed it south for a while without going ashore and then made his way back to Greenland. Acting on Bjarni’s reports, the first landfall is made by one of the most famous individuals of the late Viking Age, Leifr Eiríksson, ‘Leif the Lucky’. He founds a settlement called Leifsbuðir, ‘Leifr’s Houses’, which he then lends out to subsequent travellers. There are three voyages mentioned after Leifr’s: first by his brother þórvaldr, who remains there for three winters; then a major effort at settlement by the prosperous trader Þorfinnr karlsefni (his nickname means something like ‘a real man’) and his wife Guðríðr Þorbjarnardóttir180; and finally a fourth voyage, jointly led by Leifr’s sister Freydís. In the Saga of Erik the Red, which seems to have been written slightly later, all this is compressed into a single Vinland voyage. This time it is Leifr himself who first sights Vinland, but he does not disembark. Instead, the attempt at settlement is entirely by Þorfinnr and Guðríðr, who bring three ships with 160 settlers.This time two camps are mentioned, an overwintering site called Straumfjord and a longerlasting place called Hop. It is not hard to roughly combine the two sagas into a tale of several voyages with a more or less reliable cast of characters. It seems likely that the Norse established

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themselves in more than one place, perhaps making one substantial settlement with temporary way stations set up as they explored further. All the stories are vivid and rich in detail, human drama, and description, but one thing shines through to modern eyes: of course, this was no ‘discovery’, because Vinland was already inhabited. In both sagas, the Norse repeatedly encounter local people whom they call skraelingjar, a derogatory term meaning something like ‘savages’ (though there is no indication that this was used in the Viking Age, as it first occurs in medieval texts). In Erik’s saga, the two groups initially trade in peace before violence eventually breaks out over a misunderstanding; in the Greenlanders’ tale, there is lethal conflict from the start. There are deaths on both sides, and a common theme is that the Norse are ultimately forced to flee because of the indigenous resistance to their presence. From the literary record, it appears that the Norse community in Vinland was quite short-lived, a few years at most. It quickly became only a memory preserved by the Greenlanders, that eventually found its way into the Icelandic sagas. This remained the case until the 1960s when, after many years of searching, a Norwegian couple located the first and so far only Norse settlement in the Americas.181 L’Anse aux Meadows (the name is probably a garbled reference to an old French naval vessel) lies on the windswept shore of Epaves Bay at the northern tip of Newfoundland. Even now it might not seem like much – a few humps and

FIGURE 4.8 The site of L’Anse aux Meadows on Newfoundland’s northern peninsula, so far the only known Norse settlement in North America. Photo by Dan Leeth/ Alamy.

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bumps in the grass – but it represents something extraordinary, a kind of full circle, in the point of first contact between human populations previously divided by the Atlantic.182 There are eight buildings of turf, clustered in three groups around the curving bay, interpreted as houses and workshops, and a smithy located at a distance from the other structures, for access to running water and to minimise the risk of fire. One of the buildings might be a boat shed, and there is clear evidence for woodworking and ship repair. Two finds above all confirm the site as Norse – a ringed cloak pin of a classic type, and a steatite spindle whorl.There is also a bone needle, jasper fire-starters that probably came from Greenland or Iceland, and wood debitage that has been worked with metal tools. The site has excellent sea views, and access to marine resources, especially rich cod fisheries and eider colonies. It was the perfect place on the southwards coastal route of ships coming from Greenland, at the point where they could then sail on in several directions. Perhaps a hundred people could have lived there, or a little more, a number that fits quite well with the saga descriptions. The settlement could easily survive the winters, with its familiar wind-proof and insulated architecture adapted to the North Atlantic. It seems almost certain that L’Anse aux Meadows was not the only Norse settlement in North America – too many aspects of the site argue against it being their sole foothold. Where are the burials, or the evidence for animal husbandry? The sagas mention livestock, but if true, there is no sign of them on the site. Most scholars think it likely that L’Anse aux Meadows was a long-term base camp: a place to rest up, to resupply and provision, and to prepare for the winter ahead. In the spring and summer, expeditions could have set out to explore, looking for trade items, including exotic foods like butternuts (found in the excavations, but probably originating south of New Brunswick). Perhaps above all they sought timber to fell – a vital commodity in the denuded environments of Greenland and Iceland. Permanent settlement does not seem to have been an objective.183 The sagas that describe the American voyages are unclear about dates, and of course they are themselves medieval texts, but there is a general consensus that the action takes place sometime either side of the year 1000. Our earliest secure reference to Vinland – with confirmation that the name connects to wild grapes – comes from the 1070s, when it was mentioned in passing by the German cleric Adam of Bremen in his ecclesiastical history. Interestingly, he describes it as an island, notes that it was a place ‘visited by many’, and that he has heard about it from ‘the reliable reports of the Danes’.184 Since the majority of the North Atlantic voyagers seem to have come from Iceland and Greenland, this implies that at least a basic knowledge of a place across the western ocean was fairly widespread in the North within decades of the first Norse landfall. Until recently, the archaeological material from L’Anse aux Meadows had only a broad chronology, with objects of general late Viking-Age type and a radiocarbon date range from about 990 to 1050. However, in 2021, a new kind of radiocarbon calibration based on spikes in solar radiation enabled some of the objects to be dated precisely. Several pieces of wood relating to the Norse occupation were all

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shown to have been cut in the same year: 1021 CE.185 This is a decade or so later than the previous best estimate, though it is not seriously adrift from the sagas, but we should probably not become too fixated with this precise year. Clearly, it marks a period of major activity on the site, but it may have been established earlier, and can equally have been reoccupied afterwards. Something of this nature has been revealed in environmental studies analysing samples from a peat bog near the site. Diagnostic ecofacts and cultural deposits suggest that the Norse occupation may have lasted well over a century, though not continuously.186 This aligns well with an Icelandic annal that refers to Norse ships collecting timber in Markland as late as 1347, an activity that was apparently thought unremarkable. In an exciting development, the same region, rendered as Marckalada, was recently identified in the Cronica universalis, a Milanese work from about 1340. Rumours of somewhere west of Greenland really had reached the Mediterranean world, 150 years before Columbus.187 There is also another side to L’Anse aux Meadows, because it is clear that it was also intermittently occupied by indigenous peoples. They were there before the incomers, and they returned afterwards; they might even have been there at the same time. The Norse buildings were destroyed by fire, but it is not clear who did this – was it the last of the voyagers as they sailed away, or an entirely different act by the local people? They are believed to be the ancestors of the Beothuk, though this is uncertain: today we see them only in fragmentary glimpses in the sagas, and a few objects from the excavations. The presence of the First Nations people is felt in other ways too. A Norseman buried in Greenland was found to still have a stone arrowhead in his body – he must at least have lived long enough to make it home. Fur from the North American bison, a plains species, has been found in another Greenland grave. It cannot have originated in Newfoundland, and evidence for trade over long distances can also be seen elsewhere. Most dramatically, a coin minted for King Ólafr Haraldsson of Norway in the late eleventh century was found on a Native American settlement in Maine that was occupied more than a hundred years later. The coin was much eroded and pierced for suspension as a pendant – who knows how many hands it passed through, and for how long, to get there? In terms of evidence for trading contacts without settlement, finds of Norse whetstones, soapstone objects, and textiles have been made on indigenous sites along the northern coasts far into what is now Arctic Canada.188 At Nanook on Baffin Island, an unusual structure has also been identified that does not seem fully of Norse or Inuit traditions, but which contained a crucible for smelting metal – the Norse were clearly connected to the site, but in what way we cannot tell.189 There is no doubt whatsoever that the Vikings journeyed to North America in the early eleventh century and made a major camp in northern Newfoundland. They probably sailed to unknown ventures beyond, still to be explored. Equally certain is that there is also a First Nations story of this encounter, and this too may one day emerge from the archaeological record. In the course of the past 200 years or so, ‘Norse America’ has become its own saga, occupying a unique and at times highly problematic place in modern social identities.

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From a kind of prehistoric equivalent to the later European movements into the Americas, and a source of Romantic literary inspiration, the Norse presence has latterly been taken up to feed a spurious and racist founding myth of white supremacy.190 As with so much of Viking studies, the freight that their American adventure has been made to bear tends to obscure the archaeological and textual reality. The so-called Viking diaspora stretched from the desert plains of Serkland to the rocky, windblown shores of Newfoundland, and from the furthermost reaches of the Arctic to the northern coast of Africa. While many of those who left Scandinavia would have succumbed to the dangers and hardships inherent to long-distance travel, trade, and warfare, others managed to return with the riches and renown that they needed to improve their fortunes at home. Others still established new lives in foreign lands with varying degrees of success and longevity, and in so doing altered the development and long-term future of numerous other societies in deeply profound ways. While it is tempting to focus entirely on the people who, in varying degrees, ventured abroad in pursuit of wealth, fame, or land, it is equally important that we consider how these processes influenced socio-political developments back in Scandinavia. How did those ‘Vikings’ who never left the North adapt to – for example – shifts in the balance of political power instigated by the successful piratical endeavours of a particular royal exile? How did they absorb the new ideas and material culture that trickled down through society as a result of foreign contacts? In the final chapter, we shall explore how the peoples of Scandinavia were changed by those far-flung Viking activities, and how their world was transformed from one of small, regional polities and petty kingdoms to Christianised states modelled on their contemporaries in Continental Europe.

Notes







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17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30

31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41

42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58

Jackson (2019). Swanton (2000, 55). G. Williams (2008), 194–5. Groves et al. (2013). A theory originally proposed by Bjørn Myhre in 1993; cf. N. Price (2020a, ch. 9). Downham (2017, 5).The charters can be viewed online as part of the ‘Electronic Sawyer’ database, an online catalogue of Anglo-Saxon charters (http://www.esawyer.org.uk/). Downham (2017). Griffiths (2019). IJssennagger (2013, 69–70). Van Es and Hessing (1994, 104–5); Callmer (2008, 440). Scholtz (1970, 59). Jöns and Müller-Wille (2015); Melleno (2017). Swanton (2000, 57). For menus of alternative factors behind the ‘origins’ of the Viking Age, see Barrett (2008a); Sindbæk (2011); Ashby (2015); Raffield et al. (2017a); Baug et al. (2019); HeenPettersen (2019); N. Price (2020a, chs 9–11). Baastrup (2012); Pettersen (2014); Aannestad (2015). Jesch (1991, 46). Lewis (2017). Whitelock (1955, 779). Lunde and Stone (2012, 106); Mac Airt and Mac Niocaill (1983). For overviews of the Vikings in Frankia, see Nelson (1997); Renaud (2000); N. Price (2000a); Ridel (2002; 2014); Bauduin (2009); Cooijmans (2020). Maund (1995); Coupland (1998). Fuglesang and Wilson (2006). N. Price (2000a). Le Maho (2002). For historical sources on this period, see Campbell (1962); Keynes and Lapidge (1984); Swanton (2000). General studies of the Vikings in England include Hadley (2006); Richards (2007);T.Williams (2017).The latest treatments of the Great Army are McLeod (2014); Raffield (2016); Hadley and Richards (2021). For the debate concerning the size and influence of the Great Army, see P. Sawyer (1962, ch. 6); Brooks (1979); G. Williams (2008, 193–203). Biddle and Kjølbye-Biddle (1992; 2001); Jarman et al. (2018). Richards (2003); Raffield (2016). Raffield (2013a); G. Williams (2015). Blackburn (2011, 207–64); Hadley and Richards (2016). G. Williams (2015; 2020). Richards (2004); Hadley and Richards (2021, 162–77). N. Price (1991); McLeod (2007); Raffield (2016). Abels (1998, 132); Blackburn (2011, 240–1). McLeod (2007). Hadley and Richards (2016); Raffield (2016). Halsall (2003, 106–8); Raffield (2016). Hedenstierna-Jonson (2009b); Raffield (2016); Raffield et al. (2016, 37–40). N. Price (2014c; 2016; 2020a, ch. 12). G. Williams (2013, 17–19). Raffield (2016, 333). Kershaw (2009, 2013); Kershaw and Røyrvik (2016).

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59 McLeod (2011). 60 For the so-called Treaty of Wedmore, see Whitelock (1955, 380–1). General works on the Danelaw include Hadley (2000); Graham-Campbell et al. (2001); Raffield (2020); Hadley and Richards (2021). 61 Hall (2011); G. Williams (2013); Townend (2014). 62 Horne (2022). 63 Regional studies of the Scandinavian presence in England are unusually well-served by specialist volumes, though some are now in need of updating. For the northern counties, see Baldwin and Whyte (1985); Edwards (1998); Cavill et al. (2000); O’Donoghue and Vohra (2014); Harding et al. (2015). For the south, see Lavelle and Roffey (2016); for the south-west, see Gore (2001; 2015). 64 Margeson (1997); Townend (2014); Gregory (2017); Dale (2020). 65 Richards (2001a; 2001b); Haldenby and Richards (2016); Raffield (2020). 66 Baker and Brookes (2013). 67 Hall (1994; 2014) and references therein; Mainman (2019). 68 Hall (1989; 2000); Graham-Campbell et al. (2001). 69 Fellows-Jensen (2010). 70 Kershaw (2013; 2017). 71 Kershaw (2017, 187). 72 Kershaw (2009); Ten Harkel (2013). 73 Bailey (1980) and – despite the name – the regional volumes of the Corpus of AngloSaxon Stone Sculpture. 74 Lang (1976; 1984); H. Williams (2016). 75 For the relationship between the settlers and the church, see Abrams (2001); Hadley (2000; 2006). McLeod (2014, 243–80), has discussed the acculturation of the Scandinavian settlers to Christianity in some depth. 76 Raffield (2014). 77 Parker (2018). 78 For overviews of the Vikings in the Irish Sea, see Clarke et al. (1998); Larsen (2001); Downham (2007); Sheehan and Ó Corráin (2010); Griffiths (2010); Clarke and Johnson (2015). 79 Sheehan (2008); Kelly (2015). 80 Clinton (2014). 81 Russell and Hurley (2014). 82 Wall (2010, 41). 83 Kelly and Maas (1995); Kelly and O’Donovan (1998). 84 G. Williams (2008); Raffield (2013a); Kelly (2015). 85 S. Harrison (2013). 86 Matthews (2003). 87 Graham-Campbell (2011, 155); Graham-Campbell and Philpott (2009). 88 Simpson (2005). 89 Harrison and Ó Floinn (2014). 90 For the Dublin excavations, see P. Wallace (1992; 2016); Johnson (2004). On buildings, see Boyd (2015). 91 Fell et al. (1983); Wilson (2008). 92 Bersu and Wilson (1966, ch. 1); Tarlow (1997). 93 Griffiths (2010, 61). 94 Griffiths (2010, 66–7). 95 Graham-Campbell (2002); Griffiths (2010, 88–9); Gardeła and Larrington (2014); Steinforth (2015a); N. Price (2019, 118–19).

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137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156

157 158 159

160 161 162 163 164 165 166 167 168 169

Hermann (2010). Church et al. (2013). Mortensen and Arge (2005); Purkhús (2021). Stummann Hansen (1991); Blackburn (2005). For an overview, see Byock (2001). Frei et al. (2015). Orri Vésteinsson (2010). See J.T. Williams (1993); Helgason et al. (2000) and later works by the same team; Raffield et al. (2017a); Krzewińska et al. (2015). Orri Vésteinsson et al. (2014). Dennis et al. (1980); Mooney (2016). Smith (2005). Byock (1982); Miller (1990). For the settlement of Greenland, see Seaver (1996; 2010); Arneborg and Gulløv (1998); Arneborg et al. (2012). Buckland and Panagiototakopulu (2005); Panagiototakopulu et al. (2006); Hebsgaard et al. (2009). Schofield et al. (2008); (2013). Imer (2009; 2017). Schofield et al. (2013, 1127–8). Roesdahl (2005); Arneborg (2015). Hazzard Cross and Sherbowitz-Wetzor (1953); Pritsak (1981); Franklin and Shepard (1996); Duczko (2004). On the ethnicity of the Rus’ and the ‘Normanist’ controversy, see Rahbeck Schmidt (1970); Pritsak (1981); Montgomery (2000); Hillerdal (2009); Hraundal 2013; 2014); Klejn (2013); Melnikova (2013). The notion of ‘Ancient’ or ‘Kyivan’ Rus’ is based on medieval texts but became intensely politicised in Soviet times and continues so today. For the polity’s political history, see Raffensperger (2012; 2017). Hraundal (2014, 74–8). Lundström et al. (2009, 105–16). Although the literature on Rus’ settlement archaeology is vast, the majority is published in Russian or Ukrainian. For good overviews in other languages, see Hansson (1997); Duczko (2004); Brisbane et al. (2012); Androshchuk (2013); Makarov (2017). The Gnëzdovo material has recently appeared in two magnificent Russian-language volumes, Kaunov (2018–2021). Montgomery (2000); Price (2023b) and references to previous studies therein. Montgomery (2017). See Androshchuk (2013, 91–130); Androshchuk et al. (2016) for detailed discussions of Byzantine finds in Scandinavian contexts. N. Price (2000b). Stalsberg (2001). Moravcsik and Jenkins (1967); Androshchuk (2013, 119–20, 122). Blid (2016). Hazzard Cross and Sherbowitz-Wetzor (1953, 64–77). Bk.2; Berger (2013, 83); Hedlund (2019, 30). On the Rus’ use of the term ‘Varangian’, see Shepard (2008), 509. Blöndal (1978); Scheel (2015); Sverrir Jakobsson (2016; 2020) represent the widely differing poles of debate on the Varangians as a group. For a medieval version of Harald’s story, see Finlay and Faulkes (2015, 41–122).

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170 Källström (2016). 171 Svärdström (1970); Knirk (1999). 172 For this and other Caliphal sources on the Rus’, see Tibi (1996); Lunde and Stone (2012); Hraundal (2013; 2014). 173 Kilger (2007). 174 Petersen (2017). 175 Kovalev (2005); Romgard (2016); Hedenstierna-Jonson (2020). 176 N. Price (2020a, ch. 15). 177 Wärmländer et al. (2015); initial scholarly objections to the study’s conclusions, expressed online, have now been withdrawn. For the initial context of the ring see Arbman (1940–1943, 154–5). 178 Kunz (2008). 179 Brøndsted (1951). 180 Guðríðr was clearly a remarkable person, and by the end of her life quite probably the most travelled woman in the world – see Brown (2007); N. Price (2020a, 487–90, 503). 181 Ingstad and Ingstad (1985); B.L. Wallace (2005; 2006; 2009). 182 McAleese (2000). 183 For general studies of the Norse in North America, see Wahlgren (1986); Clausen (1993); M.G. Larsson (1999); Gísli Sigurðsson (2000); Lewis-Simpson (2003); N. Price (2020a, 486–94, 499–502); and papers in Fitzhugh and Ward (2000). 184 Bk. 4; Tschan (1959, 219). 185 Kuitems et al. (2021). 186 Ledger et al. (2019). 187 Chiesa (2021). 188 Sutherland (2000); Schledermann (2000). 189 Sutherland et al. (2015). 190 Barnes (2001); Campbell (2021).

5 CHURCH AND STATE

When viewed within its broader context, one of the most striking features of the Viking Age is the transformation of Scandinavian societies. Over the course of just 300 years, these developed from relatively small polities to fully fledged centralised states, controlled by royal dynasties whose power was cemented by the authority of a new institution – the Church. This process of social and political change, which was largely driven by warfare and internal power struggles among the elite, would substantially alter the Scandinavian world. In the middle of the eighth century, or perhaps even earlier, when the first merchants and raiders set out for the eastern Baltic, the patterns of Scandinavian power were very much regional in nature, comprising perhaps 40 or so petty kingdoms that were seeking to consolidate and strengthen their influence. Situated on the resource-rich coasts and river estuaries, or else on the fertile agricultural lands of the interior, these tiny polities were shaped by the geography of Scandinavia itself. As we have seen, it is clear that even by the 700s there were strong hierarchies in place that cemented the power of family-based local dynasties, backed up by their ability to put combatants in the field. References to Danish kings in Frankish sources have previously been taken to imply the existence of a fully operational and consolidated Danish kingdom by this time,1 but it is much more likely that the influence of these individuals was confined to relatively small territories. It cannot be denied, however, that the power of the Danish kings, and others across Scandinavia, was clearly growing at this time, driving a fairly regular and selfperpetuating cycle of civil wars and internal violence. There is no doubt that these domestic conflicts both generated and were sustained by Viking activity abroad. As internal rivalries deepened and flared up into violence, increasing numbers of royal exiles were forced to leave Scandinavia. Some of these would submit to and seek assistance from the Frankish kings, but many others would pursue a life of piracy,

DOI: 10.4324/9780203483251-6

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enriching themselves and gathering the loyal following that was necessary for them to make a bid for power on their return home.2 As successful leaders defeated their enemies or otherwise acquired new territories, so the numerous small polities of Scandinavia either absorbed their neighbours and grew, or else succumbed. The result was a steady decrease in the numbers of fledgling ‘states’ or petty kingdoms, at the same time as their relative size increased. Over the course of the Viking Age, it was this process that gradually shaped the countries that we today recognise as the unified kingdoms of Norway, Sweden, and Denmark. Given the dearth of textual sources (and the potential political biases of those that do exist) it is difficult to say with certainty when the centralisation of power was truly achieved. The Saga of Harald Fairhair, for example, records Haraldr as establishing hegemony over all of Norway in 872, precipitating an outpouring of would-be settlers into the North Atlantic. However, the extent to which Haraldr’s kingdom was truly unified is uncertain, not least because he would divide it between his sons to rule upon his death (an arrangement that, as we have seen elsewhere, rarely ended well). There is good evidence to suggest that in many regions power continued to rest in the hands of local leaders for some time.3 It has recently been argued that the core of royal power in what is now Norway was located along the western coastline, where sea-kings could monitor and tax the major north-south trading route that gave its name to the country – the norðvegr, or ‘north way’. It is surely no coincidence that the five manors associated with Haraldr ‘Fairhair’ in Old Norse sources are all situated near this sailing lane.4 In this, parallels can be drawn with the distribution of territorial power in Rus‘, which as we have seen was based upon the establishment and control of major trading posts and way stations along the Volkhov/Lovat/Dnieper riverine trade route. Ascribing a date to the political unification of Denmark and Sweden is more difficult. In Denmark, centralised rule seems to have been achieved by the midtenth century, though by whom exactly is uncertain. Certainly, Danish kings were able to initiate large-scale public works by the beginning of the ninth century. While the early date for the consolidation of the kingdom that had been argued for by some scholars cannot be ruled out, the extensive political upheaval that is recorded as taking place in Denmark during the mid-800s implies that there was still much to fight for in terms of power and territory.5 Sweden, on the other hand, remained fragmented well into the Middle Ages, despite the efforts of successive kings to assert their power over strongly independent regional elites.6 Although it is clear that the process of state formation had been ongoing even before the start of the Viking Age, the nature and direction of its long-term development in Scandinavia would be moulded by a combination of internal political trajectories and the influence of outside forces. The greatest of these was undoubtedly that of Christianity, which was first actively introduced into the north by Frankish missionaries during the ninth century. From this point onwards, the new religion became increasingly important as both an instigator and facilitator of social and political change in Scandinavia.

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Faith and Power By the time the influence of the Church had reached the borders of Scandinavia with the Frankish conquests of the Saxons in the last decades of the eighth century, Christianity was deeply ingrained within the governance and administration of Continental Europe and the British Isles. The new religion had first spread into the region during the fourth century, being adopted as the official state faith of the Western Roman Empire by Constantine the Great. Although the Empire began to disintegrate soon afterwards, leading to its slow collapse during the fifth century, Christianity persevered in Continental Europe, Ireland, and Scotland. In Frankia, the baptism of Clovis in 508 cemented the relationship between the newly united Merovingian Empire and Rome.7 In England, the settlements of people from northern Germany and southern Denmark would lead to a strong revival of pagan ritual practices and burial customs, and it was not until the end of the sixth century that Christianity began to regain a foothold in the region.8 It has been argued that the formation of the English kingdoms took place in tandem with the conversion process, which lasted through the seventh century. Possible evidence for a syncretic process of religious transition at this time can perhaps be seen in the inclusion of Byzantine silver featuring Christian iconography within the early seventh-century ship burial from Mound 1 at Sutton Hoo, which is otherwise closely analogous to contemporaneous pre-Christian boat burials in Scandinavia, such as those from Vendel and Valsgärde, Sweden.9 The development of close links between the Papacy and secular leaders can be seen in letters encouraging evangelism, as well as the receipt of gifts that may have strengthened obligations to Rome.10 Relationships between Christian rulers both in England and on the Continent were reinforced through dynastic marriages, newly-created bonds of fictive kinship (established, for example, by serving as godparents to each other’s children), and through exchanges of missionaries and monks. During the eighth century, English missions to the Continent were responsible not only for strengthening diplomatic links across the Channel but also in helping the message of Christianity spread into Frisia and Saxony.11 This increased cooperation between kingdoms served to draw the British Isles more firmly into a wider European Christian milieu, and in doing began to chip away at the cultural traditions that had previously been shared with the non-Christian communities of the North Sea littoral and mainland Scandinavia. The links between the Church and secular leaders were symbiotic. For kings, Christianity was politically useful as a tool for legitimising centralised power, and for establishing long-lasting bonds with fellow Christian rulers. The division of the landscape into an ordered system of dioceses facilitated the collection of taxes and revenues, and also allowed rulers to appoint political allies to powerful positions in the religious hierarchy. In time, the focal role of churches in the landscape served to restructure the lives of the wider population around a regular calendar of religious festivals and observances that were enforced through legislation, bringing the people under tighter control. Perhaps most importantly of all, the Church imbued

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kingship with divine sanction, establishing clear lines of dynastic succession that were, in principle, difficult to challenge. At the same time, the Church benefitted greatly from royal patronage. Ecclesiastical officials not only served as royal advisors but also presided over almost every aspect of the life course – births, marriages, deaths, and funerals, as well as royal inaugurations – and through this became indispensable to the administration of the kingdom. Secular leaders were also keen to make large endowments of land and wealth, from which the Church quickly grew rich, while the instalment of members of the elite in high positions within the clergy and monastic communities further served to construct mutually supporting and legitimising links between the two institutions. Of course, any notion of a shared identity did not prevent the kingdoms of the British Isles and Continental Europe from engaging in frequent warfare. In Frankia, the division of the Merovingian Empire following the rule of Clovis would lead to years of bloody civil violence. In England, frequent wars and dynastic disputes between and within the individual kingdoms continued throughout the seventh and eighth centuries, and would do so even after the first major Viking raids of the early 790s.12 As we have seen, frequent warring was also common between the Irish kings – a situation that raiders were quick to capitalise upon when mercenary opportunities presented themselves. As a result of centuries of missionary activity on the Continent and in the British Isles, churchmen would be able to apply the lessons learned elsewhere to the conversion of the North. Although it is clear that the Scandinavians were already aware of (and perhaps even familiar with) Christianity by the end of the eighth century, the conversion process would not be straightforward and involved numerous setbacks. Missionaries were often forced to review their approaches and modify those used previously elsewhere, in order to establish the crucial foothold that would allow the new religion to spread. Perhaps the most significant obstacle facing the conversion progress was the aristocracy and the models of royal power that supported them. Underpinned by pre-Christian belief systems, traditional Germanic kingship ascribed rulers with power over both secular and cultic matters. In a kinship-based society, these ideologies kept power thoroughly in the hands of the elites. It was these groups that missionaries needed to target in order for Christianity to thrive, as securing the patronage of the ruling classes would allow new beliefs to spread down through lower social strata. As we shall see below, however, they may have also exploited the peculiar eschatological beliefs of the Vikings, as well as attitudes towards death and burial, in order to promote Christianity among the many layers of Northern societies.

Scandinavian Contacts with Christianity While the first serious efforts to evangelise the North would not begin until several decades after the initial Viking raids into Western Europe, a preliminary attempt to introduce Christianity into Scandinavia was made in the early years of the eighth century. Unsurprisingly, given their proximity to the European Continent,

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it was the Danes who were the initial focus of missionary activity. Around 710, the Northumbrian missionary Willibrord, who had been preaching among the Frisians, made a journey to the Schleswig region, at that time the territory of the Danish king named in contemporaneous sources as Ongendus. Willibrord’s visit, described in his Life written by the monk Alcuin, was not successful, but he was apparently permitted to return south with 30 boys whom he presumably intended to train as missionaries.13 Nothing more is heard of any attempts to establish the faith in Scandinavia until 823, when the Royal Frankish Annals record Archbishop Ebbo of Reims as returning from a year-long mission to Denmark. Undertaken with the approval of both Louis the Pious and the Papacy, Ebbo’s mission had apparently been quite successful, as he managed to baptise a number of converts.14 Even at this early stage, it is possible that Christianity was making its way into Scandinavia through other means. It is worth noting that the interim years between Willibrord’s and Ebbo’s visits to Denmark were those which witnessed the upsurge in seaborne raiding that has traditionally marked the beginning of the Viking Age. As we have seen above, many of these early Viking attacks targeted monastic institutions. Evidence for the enslavement of monks and lay brothers is provided in a letter from the English cleric Alcuin to Bishop Higbald of Lindisfarne, written in 793, in which the former promised to try and help ensure the return of a number of boys taken during the Viking raid on the monastery in that year. While providing good evidence for slave-taking as part of Viking raiding, Alcuin’s letter also suggests that churchmen could open or harness existing diplomatic channels in order to communicate with Scandinavian elites and communities, implying a level of dialogue across regional borders that has yet to be fully explored.15 Further, evocative evidence for slave-taking is also provided by the so-called ‘hostage stone’, uncovered during archaeological excavations at the site of the island monastery of Inchmarnock in western Scotland. The image, crudely etched on a slab of rock, appears to shows a figure wearing mail leading another, possibly in chains, towards what looks like a Scandinavian-style longship. Although the find is undated, there is no reason to doubt the possibility that the individual who created the image was sketching out the aftermath of a Viking raid. For those Scandinavians who did not habitually engage in overseas trade and raiding, their first interaction with Christians might have been through encounters with captives, providing a limited context for familiarisation with Christianity and perhaps in some cases for cultural transmission between groups. We must, therefore, consider that some of the first ‘missionaries’ to Scandinavia might have been brought there unwillingly. Other possible evidence for early missionary activity may be represented by several items with Christian iconography that have been excavated at a settlement on the island of Helgö, in Lake Mälaren, Sweden, which was occupied from the Roman Iron Age to the early Viking Age.These include a Coptic scoop and an Irish crozier head.16 How these objects reached Helgö, and what they actually represent is a matter of interpretation. While it is tempting to ascribe them to the presence of early missionaries in central Sweden, the most likely scenario for the arrival of these objects in the Lake Mälaren region is in the hands of trading groups or raiders

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returning from the west.17 In this is worth noting that Helgö has yielded substantial evidence for long-distance trade from an early date; other finds recovered from the site include one of Sweden’s greatest archaeological treasures – a bronze statue of the Buddha, which had likely been made in the Swat Valley during the sixth century before making its way to Scandinavia along the eastern trade routes. Three years after Ebbo of Reims’ return from Denmark, a Danish king named Haraldr Klak appeared at the court of Louis the Pious. The Life of Anskar tells us that Haraldr arrived at the Frankish court seeking assistance from the emperor as he had recently been ejected from his kingdom during a civil war.18 He was apparently convinced, along with a great number of family and followers, to accept baptism. Upon being sent back home he was accompanied by Anskar, who established a monastery somewhere north of the Elbe. In 829, Anskar was sent to Birka at the invitation of a king named Björn, where he spent a year and a half preaching to the population, producing a number of converts including the king’s prefect, Hergeir. Anskar returned to Frankish territory and was appointed as Archbishop of Hamburg, which was amalgamated with the see of Bremen following the Viking attack on the city in 845. Anskar maintained an interest in evangelising the North and returned to Sweden twice before his death in 865.19 Further missions to the region would be conducted by his later successor, Gautbert. Although the Life of Anskar must be treated with caution given that it was written specifically to celebrate the man’s accomplishments and devotion, it provides some useful insights into what would be the first serious attempts to convert the populations of the North.There is certainly no reason to doubt that Anskar travelled to Birka and established a mission there, and a number of burials of both adults and children, clustered in an area to the north of the hillfort, have been argued to represent members of the early Christian population. Other evidence for Christian influences at Birka, including cross pendants and Rhenish Tating Ware jugs decorated with crosses (argued to be liturgical vessels), have been found in graves.20 As noted above, the possible magnate’s residence recently found at Korshamn, to the north of the town, is speculated to have been that of Hergeir himself, and if so then this provides a possible site for the location of the chapel recorded as being constructed in the Life of Anskar.21 Christianity would continue to make inroads into Scandinavia throughout the remainder of the ninth century and beyond. Historical and textual sources indicate that, in most regions, the catalyst for the spread of the new religion was the conversion of rulers. As we shall see below, in Denmark the Christianisation process dramatically accelerated under the reign of the late tenth-century king Haraldr ‘Bluetooth’, although it is possible that religious transitions had been taking place at a local level from a much earlier date. At Uppåkra, which in the Viking Age lay in Danish territory, the long-lived cult house went out of use in the early ninth century, perhaps as a result of a targeted Christian mission. Among the finds on the site were several objects with a Christian symbolic theme, and this could be evidence of an attempt to actively influence the ideologies of the local people. In Norway, the kings’ sagas indicate that the Christianisation process was initiated by Hákon góði, ‘the Good’ in the late tenth

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century, and that great swathes of the population would be forcibly baptised under the later rule of Ólafr Tryggvason. In Iceland, the population decided to officially adopt Christianity (albeit with some provisos) around the turn of the millennium. Despite the success of early missionaries in preaching Christianity at a local level in Sweden, the evidence for continued sacrificial rites at Götavi demonstrate that pre-Christian beliefs remained popular as late as the eleventh century. How the Christianisation narrative played out will be discussed in more detail below, but it is first worth briefly considering how churchmen managed to convince Scandinavian populations to part with their deeply ingrained, ancestral beliefs. While some Christian leaders such as Charlemagne would occasionally resort to enforcing the new religion at the point of a sword (as in the case of the Saxons in the late eighth century), conversion in early medieval Europe was on the whole a protracted but non-violent process. Early missionaries sought to spread the gospel, but did not necessarily expect their audience to adhere to its teachings. Converts were required to behave as Christians and observe the customs of the Church, but it was not primarily a matter of personal belief. The missionaries were even prepared to adapt their message in order to make the new religion more palatable to Northern society. Probably the most dramatic example of how this worked in practice can be found in Heliand (‘The Saviour’), a ninth-century version of the gospel written in Old Saxon and adjusted to suit its audience among the Germanicspeaking peoples. The familiar features of the biblical story are here reimagined in Northern context, from Jesus’ birth in Bethlehemburg, to his life as a ‘warrior king’ of recognisably Scandinavian type, and finally his return to the Lord’s dwelling in a great hall in the sky – the resonances with Valhöll are obvious; desert settings are similarly transmuted into forests.22 The syncretic fusion of Christian doctrine with local beliefs is a feature of later, historical conversion narratives and was clearly a deliberate tactic of the Church.23

The Vikings and Islam While the Christian missions to Scandinavia are relatively well documented in historical and textual sources, the emphasis that they inevitably place on a paganChristian dichotomy masks the evidence for other religious influences that may have been introduced, either indirectly or directly. The Northern relationship with Islam, for example, is a subject that has received far less attention than it deserves, given that we know Scandinavians were interacting with Muslims in the western Mediterranean and the east throughout the Viking Age.24 Both peaceful and violent encounters with these cultures would have brought Scandinavians into contact with Islamic architecture, iconography, places of religious worship, and scripture, as well as providing them with a knowledge of cultural traits and the Muslim calendar of ritual observances. This interaction would have been particularly intensive in the territory of the Abbasid Caliphate, and also in the multicultural lands of the Khazars, a people who largely practised Islam while the nobility apparently converted to Judaism.25 It is difficult to believe that at least some of the many

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Scandinavians travelling through these lands would not have been intrigued by the beliefs and cultural traits of their hosts. In addition to the trade goods that were flowing north along the riverine routes of the east, the most obvious source of Islamic influence was the vast quantity of silver that was making its way into and through Scandinavia during the Viking Age. This material has been studied almost exclusively from numismatic perspectives that focus on its role within exchange networks, but given the number of people that must have seen or used this material on a daily basis it is again difficult to believe that no thought should have been given to its origins, or to the meaning of the Arabic script that flowed across the silver dirhams that would have been changing hands in market places and urban centres. That these objects were recognised as exotic is demonstrated by the many finds of dirhams that had been converted into pendants to be worn as personal ornamentation.26 Further evidence that this material was in some cases actively recognised as originating from a very different cultural milieu is indicated by a small number of Islamic coins that feature ‘religious’ graffiti in the form of Þórr’s hammers and crosses. One of these finds – a fragmented mid-tenth-century Samanid dirham inscribed with a graffito depicting a hammer – has been found in the market centre of Kaupang, Norway.27 Many of the coins featuring Þórr’s hammer graffitos date from the first half of the tenth century, implying that they arrived in Scandinavia just as the Christianisation process was beginning to accelerate. Given that this is also when we see a profusion of Þórr’s hammer pendants being made and worn in Scandinavia, does this graffiti indicate a heightened awareness of the ideological influences embodied within material culture and the perception of these as some kind of threat? If so, then perhaps the graffiti represents an attempt to disarm the ‘power’ of the Arabic script in some way. Along with Islamic silver came other objects that might have been recognised as distinctly foreign in nature. These included items used in the bullion trade, such as scales and weights. Here we see a similar process at work in a different direction, in the presence of clearly faked ‘Arabic’ inscriptions (in reality merely scribbled lines) on counterfeit weights that imitated the real thing. They were presumably intended for an unsophisticated audience who knew only that ‘proper’ measures were marked by doodles of that kind. Thus, we see a parallel process in which the Islamic nature of the script was both recognised and misunderstood as it percolated into different sectors of Scandinavian society. Other imported trade goods included carnelian and glass beads, as well as cowrie shells. A single clay cup, possibly manufactured in Iran, is known from a tenth-century grave from Gotland, and a ninth-century glass vessel of Persian design has been recovered from grave Bj.542 at Birka.28 A small corpus of what might be described as ‘ritual’ items is also known. These include a number of bronze flasks from Sweden and the Åland islands, all bearing Islamic religious inscriptions. It is possible that these were originally manufactured to function in a liturgical context, perhaps to purify the water used in washing before prayer. A bronze object, interpreted as a censer, bears inscriptions invoking Allah that may suggest a ritual connection.

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What kind of meaning, if any, could these objects have had within the cultural milieu of Viking-Age Scandinavia? Although they might have originally had religious connotations, this of course does not necessarily mean that they continued to be used in this way.They may have been purchased as curios or as something to show off back home – tangible proof of their owner’s journey to the east. Alternatively, they may have been purchased for resale by merchants who counted on their exotic value, or looted from a Muslim settlement or place of worship by the raiding groups that we know were active both in Rus’ and the Caspian Sea. However, we cannot rule out the possibility that these objects were brought to Scandinavia by visitors from eastern lands themselves.While much thought has been given to the Scandinavian merchants, raiders, and groups of enslaved people that were journeying east, we know that the flow of human traffic was not strictly one way. Both Ibn Faḍlān’s description of his embassy to theVolga Bulgars and al-Tartushi’s description of Hedeby demonstrate that individuals and larger parties originating from the Caliphate were actively journeying north. The recent analysis of the silver finger ring from grave Bj.515 at Birka similarly suggests that objects were making their way almost directly to Scandinavia from their place of manufacture in the east – perhaps in the hands of individuals from the Caliphate themselves.29 In light of this, it is just possible that these objects speak to a short-lived or abortive attempt to introduce Islam into Scandinavian culture, either by means of diffusion through Rus’ groups operating in the east or by direct transmission to Scandinavia itself. At the very least, they may represent much closer, more personal contact between the Viking homelands and the Caliphate than has previously been considered.

The Viking-Age State The twin powers of Church and State, and the degree of separation advisable between them, have been two of the basic building blocks underpinning Western European nationhood for at least 1500 years. They were no less fundamental in the rise of the Nordic nations, and in the consolidation of their rulers as monarchs at the head of unified kingdoms. The overall progress of the Christianisation process is difficult to track. There was no linear process of mission and conversion in the transition to a new faith, nor can we necessarily speak of the replacement of one belief system by another, even in the late Viking Age. Just as it had been in Continental Europe and England in previous centuries, the spread of Christianity was heavily dependent on the cooperation of kings and the aristocracy. But, even then, the ‘official’ conversions of kings and other rulers, such as Haraldr ‘Bluetooth’ of Denmark in c.960, mask the rate at which the conversion process progressed. Changes in the balance of regional power, civil war, and assassinations all had the potential to disrupt or even halt the spread of Christianity until rulers more congenial to the Church’s objectives rose to power. In this, the evolution of the Danish kingdom during the late tenth century serves as a particularly focused historical laboratory that allows us to observe how the conversion developed in southern Scandinavia.

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As we have seen, the proximity of Denmark to the Christian states of Continental Europe meant that this was one of the first regions to be targeted by missionaries. Although Anskar is supposed to have established a church at Hedeby around 850,30 there is little evidence for a sustained Christianisation process itself until the late tenth century, when an abrupt shift in religious ideology seems to have occurred among the Danish aristocracy. The degree to which this was genuinely driven by individuals is hard to gauge at such chronological distance, a task made more difficult by the sources’ tendency to promote the actions of ‘big men’ above a reality that was probably considerably more nuanced and driven in part from below. However, it is clear that King Haraldr of Denmark played a significant role in the conversion. He had inherited the throne from his father, Gormr ‘the Old’, around 960 and seems to have agreed to baptism a few years later. It was probably a pragmatic decision rather than a true change of heart, as everything about Haraldr’s reign shows that he placed the effective exercise of power and control over all other considerations. A shift of faith was a means to an end, with a sensitivity for the way the political winds were blowing.31 The king’s ambition was manifested in many ways, including those which have left a considerable mark in the archaeological record, in the form of monumental building projects on a scale never previously seen in Scandinavia. The heart of his kingdom was the royal seat at Jelling in Jylland, a power centre during his father’s time and before, but which Haraldr set about expanding and consolidating. During Gormr’s reign, Jelling seems to have centred on a massive stone shipsetting, the largest in Scandinavia, an extraordinary 360 m long and 70 m amidships. The ‘ship’ had been laid out around a much earlier burial mound from the Bronze Age, hinting at a very deep ritual pedigree for the site. In the late 950s, the prehistoric grave had in turn been buried beneath a new and much larger barrow, which also partly covered the stone ship.There is also an impressive rune stone, commemorating Gormr’s wife, who predeceased him: King Gormr made this monument in memory of Þórví, his wife, Denmark’s adornment Whether the ‘monument’ refers to the great burial mound is impossible to say, but it seems more likely that it was the burial place of Gormr himself. When Haraldr succeeded his father, he made the earlier monuments the centrepiece of a much more substantial palace complex. It occupied a diamond-shaped area of more than 12 hectares, bounded by a huge stockade more than 1,440 m long. It incorporated the timber from more than a thousand trees, each of which were more than a century old and had come from managed woodland. The expenditure and labour resources lavished on this fortification alone are staggering, and its dendrochronological dates centre on the year 968, which is probably when the king’s new residence was laid out.32 Inside, running parallel with the wall, were a number of massive timber longhouses of a kind found elsewhere in Denmark at this time, a type that is characteristic for

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FIGURE 5.1 The power centre of King Haraldr ‘Bluetooth’ at Jelling, Jylland, Denmark. The church can be seen between the two great mounds, with the alignment of the stone ship setting marked out. Photo by Lars Madsen/Alamy.

Haraldr’s reign. In the 970s, while the enclosure was still new, a second monumental mound was constructed south of the first. Excavations have shown that this barrow was empty, and it seems that the earlier mound was opened and its chamber cleared around this time. If the northern mound had once been the resting place of Gormr, the fate of his body provides a clue to Haraldr’s power strategies. Between the two mounds he founded a timber church, an obvious symbol of the new faith, and the bones of an elderly man have been found in the chancel, interred in a prominent position suitable for a founder’s grave. Did Haraldr move his father’s body to the new site, thus retrospectively linking his lineage with the rising power of Christianity? The empty southern mound may have been raised as a kind of cenotaph for his mother, the paired mounds lending the site a monumental character in keeping with the royal burials at comparable palaces in Sweden and Norway. Next to the church, beside Gormr’s rune stone, Haraldr set up a new stone of his own, one of the largest in Scandinavia and a prototype for a new era. The inscription succinctly lays out his agenda and self-image: “King Haraldr ordered this monument made in memory of Gormr, his father, and in memory of Þórví, his mother; that Haraldr who won for himself all of Denmark and Norway and made the Danes Christian” We have no way of knowing if Haraldr’s claim to conquest and conversion was more of a boast than an actual achievement – and certainly some of his people stuck to the old beliefs – but the scale of his ambition is clear.

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FIGURE 5.2 The Jelling runestones, Jylland, Denmark, located between the great mounds. Photo by Casiopeia; licence cc by-sa 4.0.

In tandem with the edification of Jelling, Haraldr was also busy elsewhere in his kingdom. The Danevirke rampart on the southern border was refurbished at this time, with a connecting wall that linked it with the town of Hedeby, thus providing an integrated system of defence, trading node, and customs barrier, oriented towards the growing threat from the Ottonian Empire.33 Haraldr also seems to have been responsible for commissioning the bridge at Ravning Enge near Jelling, another Scandinavian record-breaker as the largest structure of its kind. Most ambitious of all was the programme of circular fortifications – six are known so far – that dotted the Danish landscape, including in Skåne across the water in what is now southern Sweden. The enclosure at Trelleborg on Sjælland gave its name to the type, but others have been found of identical size and plan at nearby Borgring, plus Nonnebakken on Fyn, Fyrkat and Aggersborg (the latter three times the size of the others) in Jylland, and Borgeby in Skåne.34 The Trelleborg fortresses have been investigated in great depth, but like the Jelling complex their ultimate purpose remains unknown. The fortifications have now been shown to date firmly from the reign of Haraldr, and their geometric, circular morphology, substantial ramparts, and gates situated at the cardinal points of the compass speak to a highly coordinated construction programme that must indicate a royal prerogative. All the fortresses identified thus far, with the exception of Borgring, have been found to contain internal structures – the so-called

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‘Trelleborg’-style houses that also occur in the Jelling enclosure.35 The fortresses may have played a role as staging points for Haraldr’s invasion of Schleswig in 983, or as defensive sites designed to protect his territory from external threats. Given the deterioration of the political situation in Denmark towards the end of Haraldr’s reign, the Trelleborg fortresses may have even been constructed to suppress the Danish population itself, and this may account for why all of the fortresses known thus far were situated in relatively densely populated areas, with good access to land routes and waterways. They also occupy prominent positions in the landscape, acting as highly visible symbols of royal power.36 Recent research has shown that the constructional techniques visible within the fabric of the fortresses are similar to those from Slavic fortifications in the western Baltic, and that pottery recovered within the walls at Trelleborg also speak to a Slavic presence.37 An isotope study of eleven individuals from the cemetery at Trelleborg, furthermore, has revealed that a number of them were not locals, possibly coming from Slavic regions and southern Norway, both areas under Danish control during Haraldr’s reign.38 Does this indicate that Haraldr relied extensively on mercenaries and other groups from the peripheries of his realm to support his rule? If so, then what does this say about the nature of his power? The consolidation of Haraldr’s reign in many ways seems to have been achieved by oppression. It has been suggested that the plundering of numerous highstatus graves such as those at Oseberg, Gokstad, and Tune was undertaken as part of a campaign of ideological warfare in which the ancestral power of local and regional elites, as well as their pre-Christian beliefs, were targeted for desecration.39 Excavations have shown that three of the Trelleborg-style fortresses, furthermore, were constructed on the sites of pre-existing centres associated with local elites. It is also around the time of Haraldr’s kingship that the high-status halls at Tissø and Lejre declined or were demolished.40 Given the dual function of elite sites as cultic centres in pre-Christian Scandinavia, their deliberate reduction may imply that Haraldr was intentionally targeting both the political and ideological power of his magnates. It is not difficult to imagine how the consolidation of royal control would have impacted on the wider aristocracy, whose more localised influence would be eroded by the ruling family. Towards the end of Haraldr’s time on the Danish throne, there was a substantial reorientation of Ottonian ambitions, that drew a significant threat away from the southern border. It is also noticeable that elements of German imperial iconography can be identified in the trappings of Haraldr’s power, thus exposing the dual tensions and emulation inherent in the difficult relations with Denmark’s most powerful neighbour.41 In this it is notable that Haraldr’s grandiose projects are almost exactly contemporaneous with the founding of Sigtuna in central Sweden by Óláfr skötkonung (‘the tax king’), a settlement that similarly reflects the ambitions of a young Christian ruler who subscribed to a very different model of kingship. One can debate whether Haraldr’s political and religious revolution was successful. He ruled Denmark (or at least Jylland) for two decades, and left his country a centralised state with a nominal monotheistic new faith. However, it

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came with a cost. The range of monumental building projects clearly functioned as projections of the Haraldr’s power and status, but over time the resources they absorbed seem to have exhausted the patience of the Danish people. Political tensions and domestic unrest increased throughout the latter years of his reign, before spilling over into full-blown rebellion in 987 or thereabouts: the revolt was led by Haraldr’s own son, Sveinn ‘Forkbeard’. The consequences were dramatic. At some point in the fighting, Haraldr was killed, and it is clear from the extensive fire damage uncovered in archaeological excavations that many of his grand projects were put to the torch.The mighty ‘Trelleborg’ fortresses survived only a few years.42 In general, the period seems to have been one of increasing militarisation, coupled with a substantial reversion to pre-Christian ways that many (or even most) may never really have abandoned.There was also a resurgence of Viking raids against the British Isles at this time, culminating in Sveinn’s invasion of England in 1013. In Norway, the conversion process ran along similar lines and almost in parallel with the situation in Denmark. After mid-tenth-century attempts to spread the gospels, it was not until the 990s – shortly after Haraldr’s fall – that the Church became more established in Norway during the reign of Ólafr Tryggvason. Perhaps against the background of resistance from traditionalists, Ólafr did not hesitate to effect conversions at the edge of a blade. Sweden kept to the old ways for much longer, far into the eleventh century in some areas, though there were clearly pockets of Christians worshipping there from the late 900s onwards. As part of wider developments in politics and religion, the later Viking Age also saw an acceleration of the move towards urbanisation that had begun in the eighth century. This was inextricably linked to three factors: the development of unified kingdoms, the influence of the Church, and the economic motors that bound them together in the cause of a national state. There is also a sense in which these late towns can be seen as ‘ports of faith’, a secure entry-point for Christian ideas and practices under royal patronage and protection, supported by an authority that emphasised the official line in religious belief. Hedeby in Jylland may have served as one such port. The Danevirke has preserved a detailed archaeological record of its successive phases and reworkings, with well-dated sequences that can be relate to historical events. As noted above, for much of its early existence, Hedeby was situated to the south of the main line of the rampart, which might have facilitated the formation of a truly multicultural environment. The new towns that emerged in the last 100 years of the Viking Age were clearly designed as manifestations of both royal and ecclesiastical power. Some of them seem to have been founded as more or less direct successors to earlier market centres – such as Roskilde after Lejre, and Sigtuna after Birka. The new centres quickly became focal points for the Church as well as nodes of secular administrative influence.43 There may have been a binary division of power structures between these new urban centres and rural areas, implicating both the nature of social authority and the role of religion.The process of state formation seems to have involved a collaborative action by the king, loyal nobility, the Church, and the new urban centres. Towns were focal points for Christian burials and services, and also the prime

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location for cult places, including churches, shrines, and sites of pilgrimage. The association of urban centres and the cult of saints was encouraged by the Church, with the early royal heroes of the conversion being rapidly canonised in order to become national figures and rallying points for religious unification. At the level of regional power, however, the local chieftains had the upper hand in combination with communities loyal to them, and an important element of the traditional religious beliefs with deep roots among the landholders.This may explain why Haraldr ‘Bluetooth’ sought to specifically demolish sites associated with rural elites, and perhaps also provides a context for the attack on the Birka garrison that took place in the late tenth or early eleventh century.44 None of this is to say that the earlier urban centres, such as Hedeby and Birka, simply ceased to exist. Some of them were still occupied by a reduced population for a century or more, perhaps reorienting their economic focus to provide a more traditional alternative to the ‘new’ towns. At Hedeby, there is evidence for expensive imports into the eleventh century, including glass vessels that may have originated from Italian workshops, attesting to continued high-status feasting activities taking place within the town during the late Viking Age.45

Christian Lifestyles Over the course of decades and, in some areas, centuries, the Christianisation process would radically alter the very social fabric of Northern society. Although the early missionaries seem to have been content to merely preach the gospel to those members of the community that would listen, by the end of the 900s and certainly from the eleventh century onwards it is possible to see the beginnings of very real change, as the growing influence of the Church allowed it to begin prescribing new types of thought and action. The basic instrument of conversion was the rite of baptism, administered by churchmen as a means to nominally to bring an individual or group into the Christian fold while simultaneously cleansing them of their existing beliefs. A crucial factor in the early medieval period was that a change of faith on the part of the baptised was not compulsory. Even forced baptisms, such as those that we see administered by eleventh-century kings like Ólafr Tryggvason in Norway, were considered as valid by the Church.46 As such, while baptism was evidently an important rite, it cannot be taken as an indication of religious conversion in the sense that we understand it today – churchmen seemed to have been more concerned with harvesting souls than attempting to effect long-term change in individuals. Perhaps as a result of this ethos, in addition to the aristocratic focus of the conversion process, there is little evidence for widespread changes to patterns of daily life in Scandinavia prior to the eleventh century.That the new cult largely seems to have remained the concern of the elite is indicated by the small size of early wooden churches in Denmark, which were probably only big enough to hold an aristocratic family rather than the entire community. In Sweden, the first churches were similarly built on royal estates.47 The transmission of the new

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religion among the aristocracy at this time probably reflected the patron-client relationship that existed between a ruler and their magnates, in that a lord or king would encourage their followers to accept the new religion, sometimes by force. Not all of those who were baptised, however, would have adopted the new faith with the alacrity of their contemporaries. Indeed, some newly ‘converted’ individuals likely maintained their existing beliefs alongside or in preference to Christianity. In contrast to the aristocracy, the general population is likely to have remained relatively disconnected from the new religion for some time. For many people, the introduction of a new god may not have been especially problematic, given the polytheistic basis of traditional belief systems, which placed an emphasis not only on the major Norse gods but also a plethora of spirits and other beings that might have found some resonance with the various classes of Christian angels. Others may have willingly submitted to missionaries’ insistence on initiatory rites, such as prime-signing, but continued to largely adhere to their traditional beliefs.48 Material evidence for religious syncretism and hybridity on the Scandinavian mainland is embodied in finds such as an otherwise unremarkable soapstone mould from Trendgården, Jylland, which dates from the late tenth century. The mould was intended for everyday casting of simple personal ornaments, in this case both Þórr’s hammers and cross pendants. That the mould contains two cavities in which to cast crosses and only one for Þórr’s hammers not only provides an insight into patterns of supply and demand but also of the open duality of religious practices in the years that Christianity began to make serious inroads within Danish society.49 Also of interest are a number of Þórr’s hammers that incorporate Christian iconography, as well as so-called ‘Þórr’s hammer crosses’ – examples of rather ambiguous-looking objects that seem to have been intentionally made to be taken either way. Such items could have been worn to signal adherence to multiple belief systems, something that might have been advantageous in particular social, political, or economic contexts.50 The steady influence of Christianity can also be seen in funerary ritual, though it would take generations for the traditional rites of furnished burial to be replaced. It is a myth that Christian graves were necessarily devoid of objects interred with the dead, at least during the Viking Age, but there was certainly a move away from cremation. There are signs of syncretism at least as late as the tenth century, and in some areas far into the eleventh. Crucifixes and crosses are found strung on necklaces along with images of the old faith, and it seems that many Scandinavians either initially incorporated the new god alongside the old ones, or else simply hedged their bets. Other patterns and combinations are seen across family lines, as for example when newly converted children had to make decisions about how to bury their parents who still adhered to the ancestral ways (Haraldr ‘Bluetooth’ is only the most famous example). One particular detail is significant, however, because the new faith offered a stark dichotomy of afterlife destinations that were entirely dependent on one’s conduct in life. It is hard to overstate how radical a departure this was from the traditional

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beliefs, which do not seem have to included much in the way of moral stricture at all. The context and circumstances of a person’s death may in some cases have set a soul on the road to Valhöll, Sessrúmnir, or Hel, but perhaps not even then. It is even possible that people could have expressed a choice. Moving into the eleventh century, overt expressions of traditional belief become much harder to identify in the archaeological record. The sacrificial platform discovered in the marsh at Götavi, discussed above, is fairly exceptional as an eleventh-century ritual site, but its very existence implies that the old practices may have remained prominent in certain regions. It is also impossible to disregard Adam of Bremen’s description of the dramatic rites that were taking place on a large scale at Gamla Uppsala in the latter half of the century. Elsewhere, however, it is clear that ideological change began to accelerate. In Jämtland, Sweden, the last pagan burials in the area around Lake Storsjön took place about 1030, and it is at this time that the sacrificial rites at the sacred tree found underneath Frösö church seem to have ceased.51 After a period of disuse, the ritual function of the tree or grove was superseded by the construction of the church itself, with the situation of the altar directly over the tree stump demonstrating a (possibly violent) transfer of ideological power to the new religion. By ‘converting’ ritual sites in this way, churchmen were able to move the focus of spiritual practices from existing sacral spaces or natural features into newly constructed churches, while often preserving a continuity of place. Icelandic sources similarly speak to priests and bishops blessing or consecrating lakes and springs, which may have held their own ideological connotations as sites of ritual practice.52 That this was a tried and tested means of effecting religious change can be seen in the use of similar tactics by churchmen elsewhere in early medieval Europe, for example in Lincolnshire, England, where in the seventh century a series of prehistoric ritual sites associated with ancient causeways in the Witham Valley were superseded by the establishment of churches at their landward ends.53 Probably the most dramatic signal of the new faith came in the form of runestones, which began to be erected in quantity towards the end of the tenth century with a floruit in the eleventh. A monument type with a long pedigree, they were soon employed in a new religious context. Of the more than 3,000 recorded examples, over 2,400 come from Sweden, with a clear focus on the lands around Lake Mälaren54. Predominantly raised as upright stones, they mostly feature designs of runes cut within bands that form the body of a serpent, and around half feature Christian crosses.55 As we have seen earlier in the case of the Ingvarr runestones, these monuments were mostly erected in memory of individuals who had died, and in some cases these may have functioned as a means of establishing rights of inheritance. Others were raised to commemorate construction of bridges – an act that is argued to have served as an indulgence that would hasten the path of an individual’s soul to Heaven. A small minority of runestones carry inscriptions that state how they were erected by individuals in their own honour, during their lifetimes; these are usually prominent men in the community, and form yet another element of the language of power.

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However, even within this Christianised context there is some small evidence for pre-Christian beliefs. Several stones incorporate invocations to the god Þórr and on one, the Stenkvista stone from Södermanland, a large hammer occupies the centre of the stone. Just as Þórr’s hammer pendants are thought to have emerged as a reaction to Christianity, these stones may similarly indicate a measure of ideological resistance to the changes that were taken place at this time. Outside of their role of memorials, the factors that gave rise to the proliferation of runestones is a subject of debate. In Sweden, where churches were not commonly constructed until late in the Christianisation process, the erection of many stones in cemeteries or over graves, as well as the incorporation of Christian iconography, has been argued to indicate attempts to ‘consecrate’ cemetery sites.56 At least one commemorative rune stone, U496 from Uppland in Sweden, was set above a burial within a rectangular setting of stones that effectively recreated a Christian grave plot of Continental type. Despite its distinctive form and evident Christian message, the interment was nonetheless made within an ancestral cemetery full of pagan graves, and it is possible that the raising of runestones provided a means through which Christians could be buried in traditional burial grounds until the latter were eventually replaced by churches and churchyards. That a number of runestones have been found incorporated into later medieval churches may indicate that efforts were made to ‘move’ the ancestors into a more Christian milieu. Just as pre-Christian ideologies had dominated many aspects of daily life prior to the conversion period, the introduction of new spiritual ideas and practices, and the enshrinement of these in legislation, would come to have a dramatic impact on everyday traditions and behaviours. Having initially established a firm foothold among the elite by the turn of the millennium, churchmen were able to begin enacting changes that would drastically alter the social and political makeup of Scandinavian society. One of the most significant of these was the enforcement of new marriage customs that championed monogamy and the sanctification of marriage. Although the extent to which polygyny and concubinage were practised across the entire spectrum of Scandinavian society is uncertain, the forced application of life-long monogamy and restrictions on sexual interaction would have certainly jarred with traditional perspectives on both formalised and informal relationships as they had existed prior to the conversion period.57 There was clearly resistance to these new norms among the elites. It is also possible that sexuality was ingrained within conceptualisations of Germanic kingship as an aspect of power, in which the ability of a ruler to mediate between the gods and their subjects was expressed through stereotypical demonstrations of masculinity and virility. In seeking to impose monogamy and suppress concubinage, the Church therefore entered into a power struggle with rulers who perceived this change as harming their ability to exert authority and leadership, and it is not surprising that in many cases lay rulers seem to have continued defying the rule of churchmen.58 In Iceland, these changes were met with resistance even among the clergy who, being unable to marry, had enthusiastically adopted the practice of concubinage.59 By the twelfth century, the lax attitude of the Icelanders in enforcing monogamy had become so problematic

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FIGURE 5.3 A Christian future: the eleventh- and twelfth-century Urnes stave church, in Sogn og Fjordane, Norway. Photo by Nancy Tobin/Alamy.

that Bishop Þorlákr went as far as to seek the intervention of the Archbishop of Niðarós, and later Pope Innocent III, in an attempt to curb their behaviour. This would not prevent the Icelanders or secular rulers from across Scandinavia, however, from engaging in concubinage and multiple-partner relationships, with the struggle to establish normative monogamy among the ruling classes continuing long into the Middle Ages. Linked to the Church’s attempts to reform social relationships were its efforts to effect change in attitudes towards children, and to suppress the practice of infanticide. It has been argued that, prior to the Christianisation process, a father had a right to refuse any child born to his wife or concubine, in which circumstances the child might be abandoned in a liminal location, such as the boundaries between cultivated and uncultivated land, or by bodies of water. While Christian rulers and the clergy seem to have initially allowed infanticide to continue under certain circumstances (such as when a child was born with severe physical impairments), various tactics were employed to discourage the practice. In addition to the outright prohibition of infanticide, in some regions new styles of abandonment were introduced. For example, the oldest Norwegian laws prescribed that a child could be baptised and then left outside the churchyard or within a grave, with relatives being encouraged to stay and pray for its soul until it died – the distress of which may actually have been more effective as a deterrent than any outright ban on infanticide. While it would take time for the Church to effectively suppress the custom, changing attitudes towards children are apparent even from an early stage, as at the Viking-Age cemetery of Fjälkinge in Skåne, Sweden, where both pre-Christian and

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Christian rites can be observed among the graves. The graveyard features a much greater number of children’s burials in comparison to other Viking-Age cemeteries, implying a change in mortuary practices likely spurred by the Christianisation process. That the Church possessed an active interest in ascribing children with agency is even more explicitly demonstrated at the eleventh-century church at Kattesund, Sweden, where infants were purposely selected to be buried in the area immediately adjacent to the church itself. Moving into the Middle Ages, it is evident that Christian rulers would become increasingly intolerant of infanticide, as indicated by early law codes that prescribed progressively heavy punishments for the practice. However, as with the institutionalisation of monogamy, these laws would take some time to come into full effect.60 Cultural perceptions and attitudes towards women may have also shifted alongside the Christianisation process. Unlike pre-Christian traditions that placed an emphasis on patriarchal rule and the importance of kin groups, it has been argued that Christianity gave value to the individual and, in principle, treated men and women as equals, and this may go some lengths to explaining why the ten cross-pendants known from Birka are all from female graves. Christian perspectives of the afterlife, which offered a hope of a happy and permanent existence in Heaven and the ability to influence one’s destiny through actions undertaken in life, may have also appealed to women given that the conditions for entering Valhöll and Sessrúmnir inevitably favoured men. Evidence for increased gender equality as a result of a shift in religious belief is argued to be represented in the proportionately high number of runestones that are recorded as being erected by women, as well as those which describe women commissioning the construction of bridges.61 However, some scholars have argued that any attempts by the Church to impose gender equality were quickly overridden by the singling out of women for harsher punishments in matters such as adultery. It has also been pointed out that Christianity robbed women of their role as ritual specialists and sorceresses, both within the home and among wider society, thereby rendering them submissive to the most powerful members of the clergy, who were invariably men.62 When set in their wider context, the prescription of monogamy, the curbing of infanticide, and both the promotion and diminishment of aspects of women’s agency can be seen as reflecting the wider concerns of churchmen in targeting the autonomy of the family unit – the core kin group which represented the focal point of daily social and political life in Scandinavia.63 Through this, Christianity came to dominate these relationships at all levels, allowing churchmen not only influence and power over the population but also introducing punishments and fines for an increasing number of transgressions. By superseding the authority of the elite in this way, the Church was similarly able to improve its own political position by driving a wedge between elites, their subjects, and the divine. Even economies came under their purview, as in the clear increase in demand for fish relating to the fasting prescriptions of holy days, and a consequent rise in the market for dried fish products.64

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Conversion in the Overseas Settlements While the late ninth and early tenth centuries represent something of a lacuna in the narrative of the Christianisation process in Scandinavia, this period saw those who had established settlements in Europe and the east begin to adapt to, and in some cases assimilate, the cultural traditions of the people among whom they had settled. In Kyivan Rus’, there is little archaeological evidence for a sustained Scandinavian pagan cult. Instead, as we have seen, Scandinavian elements of the Rus’ seem to have adopted a culturally diffuse identity. The extent to which Norse practices were incorporated with others must have varied from one community to another, but from ibn Faḍlān we can see that at least some groups seem to have practised Scandinavian-style funerary rites. However, it has recently been argued that many of the rituals described in ibn Faḍlān’s account also resemble those of Turkic peoples, potentially implying that Rus’ communities were developing their own syncretic rites that drew upon multiple influences.65 A fusion with Slavic beliefs may also be evident in a peace treaty conducted between the Rus’ and the Byzantine Empire in 944, recorded in the Primary Chronicle, in which the Rus’ swore an oath that invoked the god Perun – a Slavic divinity who was adopted as an equivalent to Þórr. That this treaty also invokes the Christian god, however, implies that the Rus’ were already beginning to adopt the new faith at an early stage, something supported by finds of cross pendants from tenth-century graves at Kyiv.66 In the east, as in the west, missionary activity seems to have been primarily directed towards the upper echelons of society, in a strategy of trickle-down conversion. Olga of Kyiv requested a visit from Ottonian clergy in 946 and was later baptised, forging stronger links with Byzantium in the process. Some of her successors wavered, including Vladimir the Great, but here too dynastic marriages were cemented by conversion. Towards the end of the tenth century, Vladimir ordered construction to begin on what would become the great cathedral of St. Sofia in Kyiv, the new centre of Christian dominance (and intermittent Byzantine influence) in Rus’. However, the implementation of Christianity in Rus’ politics also sowed the seeds of its eventual fragmentation, as the power of Novgorod and other independently-minded cities expanded in the Middle Ages.67 In Western Europe, the baptism of Viking commanders during diplomatic negotiations with Frankish or English rulers is recorded from the mid-ninth century. In 862, for example, a piratical leader named Weland (probably Völundr) and his family were baptised at the court of Charles the Bald. In England, the leader of the Great Army, Guthrum, was baptised in the presence of King Alfred of Wessex following the defeat of his forces at Ethandun in 878. Rollo would also famously accept baptism when receiving control of Normandy during the early tenth century. The agreement to conversion in these cases seems to have been a pragmatic move, undertaken either as a token of submission or in order to secure land, and did not necessarily reflect a real change in religious beliefs on behalf of the Viking leaders; in a bizarre turn of events, Weland would later be killed by one of his own men who accused him of seeking baptism in bad faith.68

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There is clear evidence to suggest, however, that many Scandinavians who settled on the Continent and in the British Isles from the late tenth century made some moves towards religious acculturation. As we have seen, in Normandy there is very little evidence to suggest a continuation of pre-Christian religious practices among the settlers. In England, it has been argued that elements of the Great Army were adopting elements of Christianity even while it was making war against the English kingdoms during the 860s and 870s. While this suggestion requires further exploration, there is good evidence to indicate that, following the settlements of the late 870s, Scandinavian elites at least were able to come to an understanding with the Church.69 Again, however, whether this indicates a real change in religious beliefs or a more politically motivated accommodation of new customs and traditions remains debatable.70 That pre-Christian traditions still continued to be practised in England has been noted above, and as late as the eleventh century, King Knútr was forced to pass a law that prohibited the veneration of pagan gods and natural features including rocks, springs, and trees – the very need for this law suggesting that these practices were still relatively widespread.71 Nevertheless, religious acculturation among the settlers can be seen in the general adoption of Christian burial practices, as well as moves by Scandinavian rulers to assume the trappings of English kingship, such as the minting of coins featuring Christian iconography. Even then, however, evidence for ideological dualism persists. At Repton, for example, it has been noted that dozens of tenth-century burials were constructed on top of or adjacent to the mound containing the mass grave associated with the Great Army’s overwintering of 873. These have been argued to represent the descendants of Scandinavian settlers who were attempting to associate themselves with or draw upon the power of what must have been regarded as an ancestral and decidedly non-Christian monument.72 Also of note is the combination of pre-Christian and Christian imagery evident on so-called St. Peter’s coins produced in York during the early tenth century, which feature both Þórr’s hammers and crosses. Given the much-discussed role of coinage in legitimising royal power, it is striking that the kings of York should have deliberately chosen to use this symbolism. That the York coins also (arguably) incorporate the sword of St. Peter alongside both Christian iconography and hammers perhaps speaks to the desires of these kings to convey their martial power and their independence at a time when the combined power of Mercia and Wessex was posing an increasing threat to Scandinavian-occupied Northumbria. In contrast to England, the Christianisation of Viking settlers in Ireland seems to have been a much more complex process. While this has often been interpreted as indicating that the Vikings in Ireland were somehow ‘more pagan’ than those in England, this was certainly not the case. Excavations in Dublin have yielded a mix of tenth-century objects associated with both pre-Christian and Christian beliefs, including a Þórr’s hammer and a whalebone statue interpreted as one of the Norse gods, as well as cross pendants and a wooden box incised with crosses. The survival and continuing function of ecclesiastical centres that existed in the vicinity of Dublin at the time that the settlement was founded there has been taken to imply that some

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settlers were happy to tolerate the continuing influence of the Church, which at any rate might have facilitated the mercantile ambitions of Scandinavian traders.73 While the Icelanders are widely cited as peacefully and unanimously converting to Christianity around the year 1000, the reality of the situation is of course more complex than later medieval sources would have us believe. The main source for this development is the Book of the Icelanders (Íslendingabók), which records that the decision to accept the new religion was made by the lawspeaker, Þorgeirr, in response to increasing unrest resulting from tensions between Christian and non-Christian communities. Interestingly, the conversion only took place on the proviso that the Icelanders could continue to practice pagan rituals in private, eat horseflesh, and expose unwanted children if they wished to (though according to the text these rights were shortly rescinded).74 As in mainland Scandinavia, early Christianity seems to have been a relatively private affair, with many farmsteads possessing their own churches. This would change, however, in the twelfth century when Iceland came under the jurisdiction of the newly founded archbishopric of Niðarós. As we have noted above, from this point onwards the ambitions of the Church to restructure Icelandic society on its own terms seem to have brought it into fairly frequent conflict with the populace, especially with regards to the failure of the chieftains and the clergy to adhere to Christian behavioural codes. Just as other Scandinavian migrants had to adapt to the cultural demands of life in new lands, so did the Icelanders find themselves having to negotiate new political and social relationships with each other and with the Church, while striving maintain some kind of continuity with their old ways of life.75 In sum, it is clear that by the eleventh century massive changes were being initiated across every level of Scandinavian society. As the Christianisation process began to gain traction in the North, these transformations would accelerate and, in time, begin to have real effects on the management and daily lives of communities. Despite this, it is necessary to reiterate that the Christianisation process was not linear, and in this it is not possible to accurately track the process of conversion among any particular Scandinavian population. In some areas, the authority of the Church may have been modest even in the closing years of the Viking Age. It has been suggested, for example, that the continuation of runestone carving in Västergötland, Sweden, until around 30 years after the foundation of the diocese of Skara in 1020 demonstrates this.76 While the construction of the first churches at this time shows the efforts that were being made to centralise new ritual practices in the landscape, people evidently remained tied to traditional sacred sites, employing the use of scattered monuments and focal places just as they had for centuries. It was not until the Middle Ages that the power of the Church became increasingly apparent, and even then it is difficult to establish the extent to which it influenced everyday practices, as well as the degree to which the numerous new laws and reforms were actually prosecuted. On the Baltic island of Gotland, for example, Christianity did not gain a really solid foothold for centuries, with pagan burial rites in use until the late 1100s. At times, both religions are represented on the same funerary monuments, either with deliberate ambiguity or perhaps attesting to

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genuinely syncretic beliefs. Even in the thirteenth century, only decades before the Swedes launched a crusade into the north against the Finns, it was necessary that the opening sentence of the Guta lag, dated c.1220, stated as its first legal stipulation ‘that we shall refuse heathendom and accept Christianity’. For the Gotlanders, old habits clearly died hard.

Viking ‘Empires’? The first of the true states in Scandinavia have sometimes been described as Viking empires: centralised kingdoms ruled by a single monarch, commanding a significant sphere of influence that included overseas territories.77 This is true up to a point, but we should not confuse these expanding polities with the more familiar imperial ambitions of much later European powers. The emergence of these new societies brought both opportunities and challenges for Scandinavian leaders, constantly raising the stakes in the dangerous games of power-politics that dominated the late tenth and early eleventh centuries. Haraldr ‘Bluetooth’ was among the first of these new monarchs, who had extended or consolidated his father’s lands not only in modern-day Denmark but also in southern Sweden and Norway. The latter was held in fief by client rulers, the Lade jarls, who themselves would play a formative role in the development of the Danish and Norwegian kingdoms. Haraldr’s ability to order the massive monumental constructions discussed above, including the Ravning Enge bridge, the Jelling enclosure, and the Trelleborg fortresses, attests to the control that he exerted over the population, unstable in the long term though it proved to be. As we have seen, it was perhaps this heavy handedness with his subjects, as well as his open proselytisation of Christianity, which fermented rebellion within his own borders. These problems were compounded by external threats – Haraldr lost control of the Danevirke and Hedeby to the Holy Roman Empire in 974, and soon afterwards the Lade Jarl Hákon Sigurðarson, who had been ruling Norway as a vassal since the killing of Haraldr ‘Greycloak’ in 975, cut ties with Denmark. Although Haraldr of Denmark made a successful incursion into northern Germany in 983, in 987 or thereabouts he was killed during the rebellion led by his son, as we have seen above. The end of Haraldr’s reign ushered in a new phase of properly ‘Viking’ activity in the North Sea region, though now playing out at a scale previously unseen. In place of small raiding expeditions or even the conglomerate ‘armies’ of the ninth century, the new attacks could be seen as genuine invasions undertaken as political strategies by developing kingdoms and nation states – in a sense, a Scandinavian transition to a medieval European arena. In 991, an event occurred which was to have long-term consequences, when a Viking fleet under Óláfr Tryggvason defeated English militias at Maldon in Essex and accepted a massive bribe in return for leaving the country in peace. This was to be the first of many ‘Danegeld’ payments that would come close to bankrupting England in the decades to follow – a state of affairs reflected in the quantities of English coins turning up in Scandinavian hoards.78

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Remarkable archaeological evidence for the raids of the late tenth and early eleventh centuries has been identified in the form of two mass graves from Weymouth and Oxford, England. The former contained more than 50 men who had been decapitated and dumped in an old Roman quarry pit.The grave has been dated to 970–1025, with isotopic analysis indicating that the majority of those buried there had been born outside Britain, possibly from regions as varied as the arctic and sub-arctic areas of Scandinavia, northern Iceland, Russia, southern Scandinavia, and the Baltic States.79 The mass grave from St. John’s College, Oxford, contained 37 men who had been viciously killed and then buried in a partially silted up Neolithic henge ditch. The radiocarbon date of c.1000, together with evidence for burning on some of the bones, led the excavators to argue that they represent victims of the St. Brice’s Day Massacre. This event took place on 13 November 1002 when King Æthelred, harassed by Viking raids and fearing that his life was in danger from the Scandinavian-descendant communities in England, ordered the death of all men of Danish extraction. A surviving charter from 1004 indicates that St. Frideswide Church in Oxford was burned down when members of the Danish community took shelter there, leading to the association between the event and the skeletons uncovered at St. John’s College. Despite this, there are obviously inherent risks involved in attempting to attribute any archaeological deposit to a specific day, and it is just as likely that the individuals at St. John’s College represent members of a Viking raiding party killed while operating in the area around Oxford – a suggestion that cannot be discounted by isotopic analyses.80 Whatever the truth of the matter, these extraordinary graves provide a chilling insight into the upsurge of conflict that took place in England at this time. It is not difficult to imagine how, for leaders like Óláfr Tryggvason, the large payments made by the beleaguered English could facilitate a rapid rise to power. In his case, victory in England was parlayed into an attempt on the Norwegian throne, coupled with an aggressive policy of Christian conversion.The new European context for such ambitions can also be seen in Óláfr’s decision to begin minting coins based on English prototypes, the first of their kind in Norway. Óláfr’s ambitions potentially set the stage for the rise of a second Scandinavian dynasty, but his reign proved to be short. Sveinn ‘Forkbeard’ had not forgotten his father’s lost territories, and Óláfr had also made an enemy in the form of Jarl Hákon’s son, Eiríkr, who had fled to Sweden and was living under the protection of Óláfr skötkonung, who had in turn formed an alliance with Sveinn. Around 999, a combined fleet of Danes and Norwegian exiles ambushed Óláfr at Svöldr. He was killed in the battle, in a moment that echoed long in the saga tradition, jumping in full armour from his flagship into the sea. The battle may be commemorated in runestone DR 66 from Aarhus, Denmark, raised in memory of a man named Fulr, who ‘found death when kings were fighting’. Norway was divided up between Sveinn and Óláfr, but much of it was held in fief by Jarl Hákon’s sons, confusingly also named Sveinn and Eiríkr. The fate of Norway over the next several decades would become dominated by dynastic struggles between Danish and Norwegian claimants to the throne.

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Having dealt with Óláfr Tryggvason, Sveinn ‘Forkbeard’ turned his attentions to England, where he conducted a number of large raids from 1004. This culminated in a successful invasion in 1013. Sveinn’s rule, however, only lasted five weeks before he died suddenly, ushering in more than two decades of extremely complex dynastic fighting for the control of his North Sea kingdom. Sveinn’s son Knútr was initially driven out of England, and the throne restored to the exiled English king Æthelred II. Knútr returned to Denmark, now under the rule of his brother, Haraldr, but in 1016 they led a second invasion of England. This was successful, and Knútr was crowned as king in 1017. He returned to Denmark in 1018 on the death of Haraldr in order to secure the throne, and in doing took a large tribute from the English in order to pay off his fleet. Evidence for this payment can be seen in a runestone from Orkesta, Sweden, which records a man named Ulfr who took payments in England from three leaders – Tostig, Þorketill, and finally Knútr himself. He continued to rule until his death in 1035, when Denmark and England were given to his sons, Haraldr ‘Harefoot’ and Harðaknútr, respectively, the latter of whom received the entire kingdom upon his brother’s death in 1040. Norway had been ruled by Knútr’s third son, Sveinn, who was ousted from his lands in 1035 by Magnús Óláfsson (later known as Magnús the Good), who then launched an invasion of Denmark. He and Harðaknútr later arranged a treaty somewhat unwisely stipulating that the territories of whichever of them who died first would be ceded to the other. Harðaknútr’s death in 1042 meant the rule of England reverted to the line of Æthelred II under Edward the Confessor, and Denmark was claimed by Magnús. In less than 20 years of fluid diplomatic negotiation and conflict, Knútr’s Danish ‘empire’ had disintegrated.81 Traditionally, Knútr’s death in 1035 brings us towards the last years of the nominal Viking Age. The Scandinavian settlements in the British Isles and Continental Europe had long since declined or, in the case of Normandy and Ireland, been absorbed culturally and politically into neighbouring polities. In the east, the culture of the Christianised Rus’ was becoming increasingly Slavic, further departing from any Scandinavian roots that it may have originally possessed.While the North Atlantic settlements retained much of their initial Norse flavour, in mainland Scandinavia the developmental trajectory of the emergent kingdoms of Denmark, Sweden, and Norway would continue to be modelled heavily on those of their southern, European neighbours. Internal conflict and dynastic power struggles continued, as did military expeditions such as that conducted into the Irish Sea by Magnús ‘Barefoot’ in 1058. The ongoing threat of seaborne invasion during this period is attested by the spectacular discovery and excavation of five late VikingAge ships in Roskilde Fjord, near Skuldulev, which were filled with stones and scuttled in order to form a barrier to shipping at three different times during the period 1050–1070.82 Also known from the two centuries after 1000 are a number of sea barriers comprising hundreds or even thousands of piles driven down into the beds of rivers or fjords in order to control the passage of shipping.83 These wellcoordinated approaches to territorial defence speak to an increasingly centralised form of military control – the leiðangr system, which obliged local communities to

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maintain warships, monitor coastal waters, and serve time in the fleet. While this system may have had antecedents in the early Viking Age, it seems to have become fully developed as a royal prerogative at some time during the late tenth century.84 If we were to follow the long-outdated,Anglocentric chronologies for the Viking Age that were once so influential in our perceptions of the period, then one last, great Viking expedition remained. In 1046, Magnús the Good’s reign of Norway was interrupted by the arrival of his uncle, Haraldr Sigurðarson, who had been living in exile in the east. Having amassed great quantities of wealth while serving in the Varangian Guard, Haraldr had returned home to claim the throne. A treaty was concluded, allowing the two men to rule together. Magnús died only a short time later, leaving Haraldr the sole king of Norway, where he earned himself a new nickname, harðraði, ‘the Ruthless’. He then attacked Denmark, now under the rule of Knútr’s nephew Sveinn II, entering into a war that would last nearly 20 years. It was during this conflict that Haraldr assaulted and burned Hedeby, though as we now know this probably did not have quite the terminal impact on the settlement that was once believed. A treaty was concluded between the two leaders in 1064, after which Haraldr turned his attentions to England, claiming a legitimate right to the throne based on his relationship to Magnús the Good, who had inherited Denmark on the death of Harðaknútr and through this a claim to England. In January 1066, the English king Edward the Confessor died, to be succeeded by an earl named Harold Godwinson. In response to this, Haraldr gathered an army and launched an invasion of England in September that year. Having landed at Ricall and then swiftly proceeded towards the city of York, on the 20th September, the Norwegian force was met at Fulford by an English army under the command of the Northumbrian earls Morcar and Edwin.While the site of this important but largely unknown battle has yet to be conclusively identified, material uncovered in recent decades at Fulford has identified a possible anvil and iron billets, among other finds, which might provide evidence for the recycling of broken or recovered equipment after the battle had ended.85 Haraldr was victorious in the ensuing fighting, and having subsequently received the submission of York, the Norwegian army turned south, only to be met a few days later, on the 25th September, by another English force at Stamford Bridge. This army, commanded by Harold Godwinson himself, had been force-marched from the south, where it had been awaiting the arrival of a different invasion force under the command of William, Duke of Normandy, who also sought to claim the English throne. The Battle of Stamford Bridge was vicious and drawn out, but ended in the decisive defeat of the Norwegian army. Haraldr Sigurðarson, the ‘last Viking’, died with an arrow in his throat, and the tiny remnants of his force were allowed to retreat to the coast, from there to Orkney and eventually Norway. Thus, the Viking Age in England allegedly ‘ended’ just as it had ‘begun’ – in a surge of violence and bloodshed – nearly 300 years after the encounters at Portland and Lindisfarne. The course of events over the next few weeks is well known. Following his victory at Stamford Bridge, Harold Godwinson was informed that the Norman invasion force had landed in Sussex. This left him no choice but to march his tired

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army back south, which gave William adequate time to establish a beachhead and consolidate his forces.The Norman and English armies met at Hastings on the 14th October, where Harold was killed and his army routed. Norman hegemony was established across the country in a process that would continue for many years, and William was crowned as King of England in London on Christmas Day. This set the stage for a new period of transition that would see English society transformed under Norman rule, with lasting consequences that are immediately apparent in the modern day.

The Old World Order As tidy and convenient as the English historical narrative seems, defining the end of the Viking Age is a far more complex matter.There was of course no single moment, day, year, or even decade during which the Viking Age can realistically be considered to have been ‘over’. Social and political changes that had been initiated over the course of three centuries continued to grind on, as did the characteristic forms of maritime violence and warfare that to some extent define the Viking Age itself. In a somewhat ironic turn of events, in 1069 the exiled English prince Edgar appealed to Sveinn Ástríðarson of Denmark to help drive the Normans from England. A large Danish fleet was despatched, which with the help of a rebel Northumbrian army managed to capture the city of York. William’s response was to launch a series of harsh, punitive campaigns into the north. The Danish army, however, was paid to leave England and return home, just as so many other raiding fleets had been before them. A further attempt to secure the English throne was planned by Knútr ‘the Holy’ of Denmark, who even raised an invasion fleet off the coast of Jylland for this purpose in 1085, but a rising threat of conflict with the Holy Roman Empire meant that his invasion was aborted. In the Scottish Isles, the Norwegian kingdom maintained control of and contested the Hebrides until the 1260s, while the Northern Isles remained a part of Norway until they were annexed by Scotland during the fifteenth century. In mainland Scandinavia, the consolidation of state power continued. Civil unrest and warfare remained relatively common, but these episodes of violence were interspersed with periods of increased stability that facilitated unification. In Denmark, the reign of Valdemar I during the late twelfth century would come to represent something of a golden age. Having secured the throne in 1158 following a decade of civil conflict,Valdemar immediately pursued a series of wars against the Wends in the southern Baltic, perhaps in order to direct the aggression of potential usurpers away from the throne. This provided him with the time that he needed to secure his hold on the country, and from this point on the Danish monarchy would continue to develop along a path that was even more closely aligned with European models of kingship, with the relationship between the Church and the Danish state becoming firmly cemented by the canonisation of Valdemar’s father, Knútr Lavard, in 1170. Denmark enjoyed a period of stability and prosperity under Valdemar and his descendants that lasted into the thirteenth century.86

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In Norway, the successors of Haraldr Sigurðarson would similarly continue to develop the kingdom along European, Christian models.87 The period 1130–1240, however, was dominated by civil wars, during which no fewer than 46 candidates of royal descent emerged to claim the throne. These wars were partly driven by the tradition of royal succession by election, which provided numerous claimants to the throne with some kind of connection that allowed them to make a bid for power. That only 12 or 13 of the contenders were the legitimate children of rulers demonstrates that the efforts of the Church to enforce normative monogamy among the laity were clearly meeting heavy resistance from the elite.88 While a Church-sanctioned succession law was introduced in an effort to curb the violence in 1163, conflict would continue almost unabated for another 80 years.89 It was towards the end of the civil war era that the Norwegian king, Hákon IV, decided to pursue an aggressive policy of expansion that included ambitions to annex Iceland and Greenland. Iceland had by this time experienced a sharp increase in social stratification, leading to the emergence of a small number of powerful kin groups. From around 1220, the island was plunged into a period of civil war as the powerful chieftains (some of whom were vassals of the Norwegian king) fought against each other for power. With the collapse of the Commonwealth, Iceland submitted to Hákon in 1262.90 Like that of Valdemar in Denmark, Hákon’s reign ushered in a period of peace and modernisation, facilitating the further consolidation of the state. In Sweden, regionalism prevailed fairly late into the Middle Ages, precipitating numerous civil wars between the Svear and Götar. Unlike in Norway and Denmark, there had been no clear attempt by any single ruler to Christianise the country during the Viking Age. Although a small number of sees had been established by the turn of the twelfth century, it is clear that ecclesiastical authority was confined to the south of the country, and tensions between Christian groups and those that held fast to traditional belief systems would occasionally flare up into full-scale revolts. Monasticism did not develop in Sweden until the 1140s, but in time the Cistercians would become highly influential in providing the monarchy with legitimacy and assistance in administrative matters.The inter-regional struggles between the Svear and Götar began to calm during the mid-twelfth century, but it was not until a hundred years later that royal political structures became more cemented. Despite this, civil wars initiated by various claimants to the throne within the royal family continued to break out, and it was not until the fourteenth century that a real measure of stability was achieved.91 To what extent, then, can the Middle Ages be considered as truly distinct from the earlier Viking Age? For much of the period, the state formation process in Scandinavia, which had arguably begun in the ninth century (and perhaps much earlier), continued to be set back by frequent civil wars, and many of the social changes introduced by the Church were adopted only with varying degrees of enthusiasm across the North. Overseas raiding and conquests continued, albeit as a form of national policy rather than as a means for small groups to secure wealth and status through piracy, but in many respects it seems that the developments of

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the Middle Ages represented merely a continuation of the those that had been set in motion during earlier centuries. Perhaps the fundamental difference between the societies of the Viking Age and the Middle Ages lay in ideology. By this we are not strictly referring to religious structures, but rather a composite shift in spiritual, social, and political consciousness, taking place over many decades and centuries, that set the people of Scandinavia on a new course. The main instigators of this change were undoubtedly rulers and the aristocracy, but ultimately the entire population was implicated and involved. As the agents of Christianity, the elite precipitated a slow but clearly perceptible shift towards a new type of society – that which was ruled by one king, with one god, upheld by the same administrative and political foundations that supported their Christian contemporaries in Europe.The legacies of the Viking-Age Scandinavians’ extraordinary run on the world stage still echo today.

Notes 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15

16 17 18 19 20 21 22

23

Näsman (2000); Melleno (2017). Raffield et al. (2017a, 321–2). Krag (2008, 647). Skre (2014), 37. Details can be found in the Annals of St-Bertin and the Annals of Fulda, among other sources; Nelson (1991); Reuter (2012). Lindkvist (2003). Wickham (2009, ch. 3). Naismith (2021, ch. 12). For a discussion of the Sutton Hoo burial and its similarities to similar Scandinavian sites see Carver (1992; 1998). Sanmark (2004, 56). Levison (1946) remains the classic study of the Anglo-Saxon missions in Frankia. See, for example, Swanton (2000, 56). Talbot (1954). Scholz (1970, 114). Although both Nelson (2009) and Downham (2017) have noted that these letters suggest diplomatic contact with Scandinavian groups prior to 793, the implications of this for the Christianisation process remain unexplored. Sanmark (2004, 21). O’Meadhra and Lamm (2011). The Life of Anskar charts the life of the first Archbishop of Hamburg-Bremen. It was written by his successor, Rimbert, at some point in the 870s; Robinson (1921). See Robinson (1921), also the Royal Frankish Annals, 826; Scholz (1970, 119). Gräslund (1996); Staecker (2003). Kalmring et al. (2017). Murphy (1992); Haferland (2010). A similar portrayal of Jesus can be seen in the Old English poem, The Dream of the Rood, and a visual representation of Christ as a warrior can be seen in the Stuttgard Psalter. Alex Sanmark (2004) has made persuasive comparisons between the first Scandinavian missions and the efforts of the Jesuits among the First Nations of the St. Lawrence River.

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24 Mikkelsen (2008). 25 While this suggestion was questioned for many years, an imitation Arabic dirham, minted in Khazaria around 800 and recovered from the Spillings Hoard, substitutes the phrase ‘Muhammed is the messenger of God’, usually found on such coins, with ‘Moses is the messenger of God’. See Westholm (2008, 139–42). 26 Audy (2018). 27 Mikkelsen (1998); Blackburn (2007, 67–8). 28 See Mikkelsen (1998) for a summary and discussion of these objects. 29 Wärmländer et al. (2015). 30 Robinson (1921). 31 Roesdahl (2008). 32 Holst et al. (2013); Jessen et al. (2014). 33 Gelting (2007); Roesdahl (2008); Jessen et al. (2014). 34 Nørlund (1948); Olsen and Schmidt (1977); Roesdahl (1977; 1980); Randsborg (1980); Svanberg and Söderberg (1999); Roesdahl et al. (2014); Christensen et al. (2016); Goodchild et al. (2017). 35 Goodchild et al. (2017). 36 Goodchild et al. (2017). 37 Dobat (2009). 38 T.D. Price et al. (2011). 39 Bill and Daly (2012). 40 Christensen (2004); Dobat (2009). 41 Dobat (2015). 42 Nørlund (1948); Jessen et al. (2014). 43 Tesch (1996); (2016); Christensen (2008). 44 Hedenstierna-Jonson (2006). 45 For a discussion of Hedeby’s decline, see Hilberg (2016). 46 Sanmark (2004). 47 Blomkvist et al. (2007); Gelting (2007). 48 Citing the Life of Anskar, Downham (2012) notes that some people might have accepted prime-signing but delayed baptism until the end of their lives, allowing them to make a rapid journey to heaven. This may provide a context for runestone inscriptions that record people dying in white clothes – presumably baptismal robes. 49 Grønlie (2006); Price (2014a, 186–7). 50 Price (2014a, 186–7). 51 Welinder (2003); Magnell and Iregren (2010). 52 Lund (2008). 53 Stocker and Everson (2003); Everson and Stocker (2011). 54 Gräslund and Lager (2008). 55 B. Sawyer (2000); Gräslund (2001; 2002). See also Jesch (2001). 56 Gräslund (1987). 57 See Jochens (1980; 1987; 1995) and Jesch (1991), among others, for the impacts of the Christianisation process on marriage practices. 58 Clunies Ross (1985). 59 Jochens (1995); Price (2005). 60 Jochens (1995); Mejsholm (2009). 61 See Gräslund (1991; 2003); B. Sawyer (1991; 1992); Jochens (1995); Staecker (2003); and Wicker (2012) for a discussion of the roles that women played in the conversion process.

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BIBLIOGRAPHY

General English-Language Works on the Vikings Andersson, G. (ed.) (2016) We Call Them Vikings. Stockholm. Brink, S. and Price, N. (eds) (2008) The Viking World. London. Foote, P. and Wilson, D.M. (1970) The Viking Achievement. London. Graham-Campbell, J. (1989) The Viking World. 2nd edn. London. Graham-Campbell, J., Batey, C., Clarke, H., Page, R.I. and Price, N. (1994) Cultural Atlas of the Viking World. Oxford. Hall, R. (2007) The World of the Vikings. London and New York. Hedeager, L. (2011) Iron Age Myth and Materiality:An Archaeology of Scandinavia AD 400–1000. London. Hreinsson,V. (ed.) (1997) The Complete Sagas of Icelanders. Reykjavik. Jarman, C. (2021) River Kings: A New History of the Vikings from Scandinavia to the Silk Roads. London. Jones, G. (1984) A History of the Vikings. Oxford. Logan, F.D. (2005) The Vikings in History. 3rd ed. London. Price, N. (2020) Children of Ash and Elm: A History of the Vikings. New York. Richards, J.D. (2005) The Vikings: A Very Short Introduction. Oxford. Roesdahl, E. (2016) The Vikings. 3rd ed. London. Roesdahl, E. and Wilson, D.M. (eds) (1992) From Viking to Crusader: Scandinavia and Europe 800–1200. Copenhagen. Sawyer, P. (1971) The Age of the Vikings. 2nd edn. London. Sawyer, P. (1982) Kings and Vikings. London. Sawyer, P. (ed.) (1997) The Oxford Illustrated History of the Vikings. Oxford. Williams, G., Pentz, P. and Wemhoff, M. (eds) (2014) Viking: Life and Legend. London. Winroth, A. (2014) The Age of the Vikings. Princeton. Readers seeking the current state of academicViking studies may also consult the proceedings of the Viking Congress, of which some 18 edited volumes have so far been published from 1954 to 2020. Peer-reviewed journals that regularly include papers on Viking topics include Fornvännen, Kuml, Medieval Scandinavia, Viking, Viking and Medieval Scandinavia.

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INDEX

Note: Italic page numbers refer to figures. Abbasid Caliphate 137, 141–5, 143, 162, 164 Adam of Bremen 26, 79, 83, 94, 148, 172 Ælfred of Wessex (King) 11, 13, 114, 115, 117, 176 Æthelflæd 117, 120 Æthelred (King) 180 Æthelred II (King) 181 afterlife, imagining of 92–3 agriculture: marginal conditions of Scandinavia 19; practice of 14 Åland islands 10, 99, 163 Alcuin 3 Anglo-Saxon Chronicle 103, 105–6, 110, 112, 118 Annals of Ulster 108, 118, 126 Anskar 48, 52, 161, 165 Archbishop Ebbo of Reims 160 Ardnamurchan boat burial 125–6 the Baltic Region 11, 22, 33, 99, 102, 156; arrival of Rus’ 137; civil conflict in 183; funerary monuments 178–9; grave fields in 90; Gulf of Finland 99–100; maritime raiding in 103; trade in 10, 101, 142, 145 Baltic Sea 99; eastern extremity of 100; eastern shores of 137 Battle of Stamford Bridge 5, 182 Birka: Black Earth 45; emergence of 42–3; evidence for foreigners at 47; garrison area of 139; occupation in ‘garrison’ area 46 ‘Birka girl’ 30

Bjarni Herjólfsson 146 Björn Ironside 127, 161 Black Sea 137, 138, 142 boat burials 125–6 Book of Icelanders (Íslendingabók) 132, 178 Book of Settlements (Landnámabók) 132, 133 British Isles 11, 32, 33, 52, 103, 106, 108, 120, 121, 123, 158; missionary activity in 159; Scandinavians settled in 177, 181; Viking raids on 131, 169 Bronze Age 14, 15, 57, 79 the Byzantine Empire 90, 137, 141, 142; peace treaty between Rus’ and 176; Rus’ relationship with 138, 143; trade with 139 Cedrenus: Compendium Historiarum 59 central Europe 23 Charlemagne 106, 108, 128, 129, 162 Charles the Bald 109, 128, 129 Charles the Fat 129 Charles the Simple 129 children, as social group 30 Christian burials 91 Christian iconography 158, 160, 171, 173, 177 Christianisation process 71, 80, 161–5, 170, 173–6, 178 Christianity 64, 70, 117, 144, 157, 158; educate in 52; establishment of 47–8; influence of 122; mythological narratives, influence of 53; Scandinavian contacts with 159–62

224 Index

Christian lifestyles 170–5, 174 civil wars 35, 108, 128, 130, 135, 156, 161, 164, 184 clinker technique 48 commodity money 39 community relations 25–33 concubinage 26, 27, 34 Constantine the Great 158 Constantine VII 80 Constantinople 142, 143 Continental book cultures 50 Continental Europe 33, 63, 106, 108, 109, 127, 128, 131, 150, 158, 159, 164, 165, 181; English missions to 158; Germanic tribes on 72; missionary activity on 159; Scandinavians settled on 177 cosmogony 71–2, 73, 74–6 cremation 85, 87, 89, 91 Danegeld payments 179 Danelaw 113–17 De Administrando Imperio 142 deviant burials 87 dísir 76–7 divine kingship 21 Dorestad 106, 108–9 Dublin Vikings, power of 120 Duchy of Normandy 130 dust veil of 536 19 early Iron Age (c.500 BCE–400 CE) 15, 79, 81 eastern Europe: burial rites 90; riverine activities of Rus’ 141; Scandinavian settlements in 85 Eastern Settlement (Greenland) 135, 136 Ebbo 160–1 Eddic verse 53 Edward the Confessor (King) 182 Edward the Elder (King) 117 England 114–17, 129, 159, 164, 180–3; artistic decoration styles 64; Christianisation of Viking settlers 177; establishment of Viking power in 115; fighting for Frankia, invading 108–13; Great Army in 176–7; Heath Wood barrow cemetery in 90; Hiberno-Norse Vikings in 120; mass graves in 31; relationships between Christian rulers 158; scale and nature of Viking activity in 106; Scandinavian settlements in 46, 124–5; seaborne raid on 3; significant raiding in 105; trade in 3;Viking raiding in 105, 106, 110

Finno-Ugric language 12 ‘Five Boroughs’ 115–16 forn siðr 71 Fragmentary Annals of Ireland 120 Freyja 72, 74, 75, 85, 92, 93 Frisians, cultural and political affiliations of 128 funerary assemblages 27 fylgjur 77 garðr 36 gender: and relationships 27; understanding of 29–30 Gibraltar Strait 128 goðar 134 Gormr ‘the Old’ 165, 166 Gorodishche 139; settlement at 140 Götar ethnic group 11, 21 Gotland 10; deposited silver from 42; spheres of rock crystal 37 Great Army 110, 114, 115, 129, 177; settlements of 113–14; site of 111 Greenland 147, 147–50; discovery of 135; Saga of the Greenlanders 146; settlements in 132, 136 Gudfred (King) 21–2, 43 Gudme, royal halls at 16–17, 17 Guðríðr Ϸorbjarnardóttir 146 Gulf of Bothnia 9 Gulf of Finland 99, 100 Guthrum 114 Gylfaginning (Snorri) 71, 75–7, 93 Hagia Sofia in Istanbul 143 Hákon Sigurðarson 179 Haraldr ‘Bluetooth’ of Denmark (King) 90, 157, 164–9, 166, 179, 182 Haraldr Sigurðarson (King) 144, 182, 184 Harold Godwinson (King) 182 Helgö 160–1 Hiberno-Norse settlement 116–18, 120, 121, 126 hidden people (huldufólk) 78 Higbald of Lindisfarne (Bishop) 160 Historia Norvegiae 102 hoards, ritual dimensions of 41–2 Iberian Peninsula 15, 70 Ibn Faḍlān, Aḥmad 32, 63, 88, 89, 139, 141, 164, 176 Iceland 25, 26; commodity trade within 134; settlement of 132, 133 Icelandic burials 91, 92 Inghen Ruaidh 59

Index  225

inhumation burials 85, 87, 91 Ireland 32, 64, 114, 116, 117; Christianisation of Viking settlers in 177; Hiberno-Norse settlement in 118; mortuary practices 90; Scandinavian attacks on 120; Scandinavian settlements in 46, 124–5; settlement pattern of Viking groups in 119;Viking graves in 121; Viking raids on 103, 108 Irish Sea 114, 117–23 Iron Age Scandinavian societies 54 Islam 162–4 Jelling runestones 167, 167–8 Judaism 162 Kingdom of York 113–17 kinship groups 25–34 Knútr the Holy (King) 183 Kyiv, settlement of 140 Kyivan Rus’ 137, 176 kýrlag 39–40 landvættir 77, 81 language 50–4 L’Anse aux Meadows 147–9 late Iron Age 8, 16–18, 25, 54, 79, 94 Leifsbuðir 146 lið group 57–8 Life of Anskar 161 Lindholm Høje cemetery 86, 86 lingua franca 52 literacy 50–4 Loki 74, 75 longphuirt 118, 119, 121, 122 long-range trading networks 15 Louis the Pious 108, 109, 128, 130, 160 Magnús Óláfsson (King) 181, 182 majus 70 male heterosexuality 29 maritime raiding 103–5 markets 40, 42–8; Birka, emergence of 42–3; distribution of high-end imports 44–5; establishment of Christianity in Scandinavia 47–8; foreigners at 47; jetties 43–4; neutral free trade zone 43; short lifespan 46; trade and interaction between communities 45;Vestfold fjord system 43 marriages 25–7 martial ideology 15 medieval texts 4, 27 the Mediterranean 127–8, 149; Muslims in 162

metalwork, depositions of 79 metalworkers 36–7 the Middle East 23 Miðgarðr 76 Migration Period 18–20, 33, 38, 51, 81; mythological reflection of 75 Mikligarðr 141–5, 143 militarised society 57 mortuary practices 90–1 Nazism 2, 5 Norrland 9, 11, 21 Norse myths 64, 71 North America 146; Norse settlement in 132, 147, 148;Vikings journey to 149 North Atlantic: map of settlements 135; opening of 131–6, 135; resource availability and management 134; settlements of 91, 125, 132 northern Europe 4, 7; economic links between Islamic world and 40; maritime raiding 103; runic scripts in 50 Northern Isles 106, 124–6, 183 North, traditional beliefs of 93–4 Norway 9, 13; conversion process 169; north-south communication route 50; social organisation 55 Óðinn 72, 74, 75, 84, 92, 110 ‘Óðinn’s Laws’ 41 Ohthere/Óttarr 11–13 Ólafr Haraldsson of Norway (King) 149 Óláfr Tryggvason (King) 169, 170, 179–81 Orkneyinga saga 124 Oseberg ship 49, 49–50 Ottonian Empire 39, 167 Outer Hebrides 124 oval brooches 61, 62 overseas settlements, conversion in 176–9 pagans 70, 81, 82, 122; burial rites 178; burials in Iceland 91; burials in Sweden 172; monuments 44; ritual practices and burial customs 158; rituals in private 178 pan-Scandinavian culture 5 ϸing (‘thing’) 54–6, 56 Poetic Edda 20, 52–3 polygyny 26, 173 Pope Innocent III 174 Ϸórr 72, 73; symbol of hammer 117, 171 pre-Christian beliefs 76, 159, 162, 168, 173, 177; cosmologies 53, 71–2, 73, 74–6; ideologies 173; imagining afterlife 92–3; invisible population 76–8; living with

226 Index

dead 85–92, 86; Norse story-world 71–2, 73, 74–6; North, traditional beliefs of 64, 93–4; pantheon 72; practices in central Sweden 80; ritual landscape and agents 78–85; traditions 70–1, 175, 177; worldview 70–1 Prose Edda (Snorri) 19 Ragnarök 19, 75, 76, 84, 92, 93, 122 Ragnarr Loðbrók 127 raids: archaeological evidence for 180; in British Isles 32, 52, 131, 159, 169; in Continental Europe 32, 52, 131, 159; early raiding in Baltic 50, 101, 103; early raids in the west 103–8, 104; in England 105, 106, 110; in Frankia 108–13, 128; The ‘Great Raid’ of 859–61 128; in Iberia 127, 128; Ingvarr’s raid 51; in Ireland 32, 103, 108, 117; late Viking-Age raiding in England 105, 181; in Lindisfarne 3; maritime raids on Estonia 102; Mediterranean 127; Rus’ raiding 32; in Scotland 108; smash-andgrab endeavours 107; spoils of 108; on Western Europe 97 al-Rāzī, Ahmad 108 Rígsþula (‘The Lay of Ríg’) 33, 34 ritual sites, types of 83 Rollo 129–30, 176 Roman Iron Age 15–17, 20, 57, 160 Rome 15, 158 Royal Frankish Annals 21–2, 43, 160 runestones 26, 34, 57–8; alignments of 55; with Christian inscriptions 66; creation of 37; erection of 38, 51; from Hovgården 32; Ingvarr stones 51; at Jelling 35, 64 runic inscriptions 29, 52, 107, 136, 144, 145 runic scripts 50 Rus’: archaeology of settlements 139; Golden Gate of Kyiv 141; map of polities 138; origins of 137; performing sacrifices 80; rise of 137–41; riverine activities of 141; Scandinavian elements of 176; Scandinavians operating in 140–1; slavetrafficking networks 32; unique ethnic identity of 142 Russia 12, 43, 99, 100; frontier settlements 30; riverine activities of Rus’ 141–2 Russian Primary Chronicle 137, 176 Saga of Erik the Red 146 Saga of Harald Fairhair 157 Saga of the Greenlanders 146 Salme boat burials 4

same-sex relationships 29 the Sámi 12–13; migrants 133; origins of 12 Sápmi 12 Scandinavian prehistories 13–16 Scotland 123–6; archaeological excavations in 160; Christianity persevered in 158; Irish Sea and 117, 120; mortuary practices 90–1; Norse settlements in 62, 125; raids in 108 sea-kings 50, 157 Second World War 56 secular leaders 159; links between Church and 158 seiðr 84–5 sexual identity, broader spectrum of 29 Sigifrid (King) 106 Sigtuna 46 silver coinage 40, 41 skaldic verse 53 Skylitzes, John 59 slave trade 15, 32 Småland 10, 11 Snorri Sturluson 53; Gylfaginning 71, 75–7, 93; Prose Edda 19; Ynglingasaga 102 socio-political networks 25, 26 Soviet Union 142; downfall of 137 Staraja Ladoga 30, 137; excavations at settlements 139; excavations in 101; Viking-Age settlement of 100, 100 statehood, rise of 6 Stockholm archipelago 10 Svear ethnic group 11, 21 Sveinn ‘Forkbeard’ (King) 47, 180, 181 Sveinn II of Denmark (King) 182, 183 Sweden 11; political unification of 157; regionalism in 184; social organisation 55 al-Ṭarṭûshi 28, 63, 164 tax system 120 Third Reich 2, 5–6 thralls 31, 33, 93 three-age system 13–14 Tissø, Denmark 79, 81, 83 trade: scale of 52; in slaves 15 trade goods 163 Trelleborg fortresses 167–9 Ukraine 80; Golden Gate of Kyiv 141; Kyiv settlement in 140 Uppåkra 81 Urnes stave church 64, 65 Valdemar I (King) 183–4 Varangians 144 Vestfold fjord system 43

Index  227

Viking Age 3, 4, 11, 15, 81, 97, 157, 162; academic writing on 30; Anglocentric chronologies for 182; in contemporary context 6; contemporary written record of 70; cultural milieu of 129; difference between societies of Middle Ages and 185; economic developments of 40; end of 5; gender stereotyping 28; importance of water and sea during 15; linguistic culture of 52; study of 2; traditional beginning of 99 violence: medieval conflict and 56; patterns of 35; in perceptions of Viking-Age culture 57; and society 56–60, 58

Vladimir the Great 144, 176 völur 84 Völuspá 75, 76, 93 warships 49, 50 weapons 15, 57–9, 58; depositions of 79 Western Roman Empire, power of 18 Western Settlement (Greenland) 135–6 William Longsword 130 Willibrord 160 woodworking 37 wool-based products, demand for 36 Ynglingasaga (Snorri) 102 Yngvarr (King) 102–3