Wulfwaru, scribe and storyteller, has recited a West Saxon rendition of the only surviving work of Cædmon — the earliest known English poet:
Below is the text of the poem, choose whether you would like to see it in the original Ænglisc, the modern English or in runes, which were still used in Cædmon's time, but as usage varied significantly there is no knowing which runes Cædmon may have used.

• Old Ænglisc
• Modern English
• Runic Ænglisc
• Manuscripts

Wulfwaru, scribe and storyteller, has recited a West Saxon rendition of the only surviving work of Cædmon — the earliest known English poet:
Below is the text of the poem, choose whether you would like to see it in the original Ænglisc, the modern English or in runes, which were still used in Cædmon's time, but as usage varied significantly there is no knowing which runes Cædmon may have used.

• Old Ænglisc
• Modern English
• Runic Ænglisc
• Manuscripts

Wulfwaru, scribe and storyteller, has recited a West Saxon rendition of the only surviving work of Cædmon — the earliest known English poet:
Below is the text of the poem, choose whether you would like to see it in the original Ænglisc, the modern English or in runes, which were still used in Cædmon's time, but as usage varied significantly there is no knowing which runes Cædmon may have used.

• Old Ænglisc
• Modern English
• Runic Ænglisc
• Manuscripts

Wulfwaru, scribe and storyteller, has recited a West Saxon rendition of the only surviving work of Cædmon — the earliest known English poet:
Below is the text of the poem, choose whether you would like to see it in the original Ænglisc, the modern English or in runes, which were still used in Cædmon's time, but as usage varied significantly there is no knowing which runes Cædmon may have used.

• Old Ænglisc
• Modern English
• Runic Ænglisc
• Manuscripts

The transcript below is from the early 10th-century "Tanner Bede", currently held at the Bodleian Library in Oxford (the hymn starting half way through the first line).  It is from this manuscript that most West-Saxon recensions of Cædmon's Song originate, although it is by no means the only source.



This is not the earliest of transcripts for Cædmon's Song.  The earliest source is either the one found in the 7th-century "Moore Bede", currently at Cambridge University Library, or the similar transcript in the "St Petersburg Bede" (or the "Leningrad Bede") in the National Library of Russia.  Both of these, however, are Northumbrian versions of the hymn.

The very last page of the Moore Bede contains a copy of the hymn on the first three lines.

The St Petersburg Bede is written in two columns, but the Ænglisc version of the hymn spans both columns at the bottom of the page.  The same page also has a Latin translation of the hymn.

• In The Beginning...
• Acquiring Some Status...
• A Year in the Life...

When Alan first applied to join, back in August'98, it occurred to me that it would be useful as a recruiting tool to record the impressions of a raw recruit as they joined and progressed within the group.

When it became obvious that Alan was indeed going to join up, I asked him if he would write a diary of his impressions and expectations.  What follows on the linked pages are his entries.

My intention was and still is to edit these as little as possible — I'm interested in real views, not a sanitized version for public consumption.  However, when Alan sent me 'In The Beginning...' he sent it as a MS-Word8 document which I could not handle.  Fortunately, I have a text editor which allows me to display files in their raw format — so I had the complete history of all the edits Alan had made; all I had to do was re-construct it into a document.  'In The Beginning...' is the document re-constructed by me and approved by Alan (no coercion involved).

The second installment, titled by me as 'Acquiring some status...', arrived in rtf format and just required converting to html — with a few minor tweaks for grammar.  As with 'In The Beginning...' I've added the odd comment here and there.  These are all enclosed in square brackets [ ].

• In The Beginning...
• Acquiring Some Status...
• A Year in the Life...

• In The Beginning...
• Acquiring Some Status...
• A Year in the Life...

• In The Beginning...
• Acquiring Some Status...
• A Year in the Life...

• In The Beginning...
• Acquiring Some Status...
• A Year in the Life...

• In The Beginning...
• Acquiring Some Status...
• A Year in the Life...

• In The Beginning...
• Acquiring Some Status...
• A Year in the Life...

Wychurst is Regia Anglorum's permanent site under construction near Canterbury in Kent.  Whilst it has its own dedicated web pages, this is an overview of Sceaftesige's involvement in the project.

Wychurst is a Saxon Manorial Burgh, that is a Saxon Longhall with attendant dwellings surrounded by a ditch, earthwork rampart and wooden palisade.  The buildings inside the fort will consist of a 60'×30' Longhall, stone Chapple, Bauhouse, Stables, Forge, and Bakery, whilst outside the ramparts there will be several artisans cottages.  The picture (right) shows an artists impression of the gate house as seen from the cottage. Work started on the project in early 2000 with the construction of the Gruben House (peasants hovel).  This was mainly an exercise to learn some of the construction techniques that would be required to build the Artisans cottage completed later the same year.

By June 2001 the oval for the fort (some 65 yards by 75 yards) had been rough cleared of timber, the ditch and pond dug, earthwork rampart constructed, and the area for the Longhall cleared and levelled.

In July 2001 the Society took delivery of 23 tons of green oak, rough cut to the approximate size and length needed to construct the Longhall.  In the week following the August bank holiday a gallant crew began work on preparing the main timbers for assembly.  Working on the main uprights, some 19' in length (when cut to size) and 10" square, and their corresponding crossbeams, some 16' in length (when cut to size) and 10" square, three sets were man-handled from their storage, cut and jointed.

October 2001 saw the second working weekend of the project.  With a large amount of additional manpower movement of the aisle posts and tie beams became a simple task.  This allowed rapid progress to be made in sizing and jointing the remaining two sets of posts.  In addition the manpower enable work to commence on cutting and jointing the aisle plates and all bar two of the eight were completed.

We also took the opportunity to hire a mini-digger which allowed us to cut a rear access to what will become our Living History Exhibit overflow and 20^th-century camping area.  In addition we managed to dig the holes for the posts, which was a learning experience in its own right.

 To bring yourself up-to-date, follow this link...

"Can you tell me about authentic dog breeds?"

I have been asked this question many times.  Unfortunately the answer is not short neither is it exact.  This is a short introduction with a pick 'n' mix of a few of the more important dogs around in the period.

To start with we must look at the early history of dog breeding.  The Egyptians were probably the first to initiate selective breeding with a particular look and ability as the end result.  This was some two thousand years BC.  The most notable of the breeds that survive today – almost untouched – are the Pharaoh Hound and the Ibizan Hound.  Both closely related to each other and are often referred to as Baleric Greyhounds.

The Egyptians are also accredited with the creation of the Great Dane, although the pictures on the temples and palaces of Assyrian Kings are probably Mastiff-Hound crosses, that later became known by that name.  Later in Greece, Aristotle wrote about dogs.  In his texts he gives an important insight into the idea of "breeds"; giving hounds and sheep dogs the same breed name.  Certainly in Greece, it would seem that dogs from an area were given a breed name as an expression of quality rather than standardized looks.

The Romans too were fond of dogs (apart from the unfortunate festival in June) and, along with the Phoenicians, helped move many dogs to different countries.  The most obvious breed linked with the Romans is the Mastiff – frequently depicted as a war dog complete with spiked collar.  A more unusual breed and probably the first terrier breed mentioned is the Maltese; the Roman Governor of Malta is documented as having owned one.  A further breed also existing in the area at the time was the Italian Greyhound, which can easily be mistaken for a Whippet (a breed which is not authentic).  The Romans were probably one of the first to acquire, out side of their native lands, the Saluki and the Sloughi (a depressed looking Greyhound).

Certainly many of the breeds made it to Britain with the Romans.  However, once the invaders left how long they would have survived is debatable.  Certainly the more useful would have been kept.  Through the intervening years with such a small genetic pool the chance of them remaining unchanged is non-existent.  Climate and social status would also have played a part, only the rich would have been able to feed a large Mastiff or keep a thin-skinned Mediterranean hound alive during the winter.  Britons of the time did not seem inclined to be as selective about breeding as the Egyptians.  When non-native breeds are mentioned it is more a status symbol.  These were usually given in pairs as gifts and there seems to be no mention of unusual packs of dogs (e.g. Pharaoh Hounds).  This would seem to indicate that any puppies were crosses with native dogs, resulting in the generic Lurcher (a hound/hound cross or herder/hound cross).

The types of dog used could be split roughly in to groups:

• Hunting dogs - those that were effective hunters either singularly or in a pack, using sight only (gaze hounds) or using nose, ears and eyes.
• Sheep herding dogs - any dog that could be taught to round up livestock.
• Sheep guarding dogs - these are primarily large and possess the cunning ability to blend in to a flock of sheep, consequently they are nearly always white and somewhat single-minded.
• Guard dogs - large, often mastiff type.

Many of the dogs were dual purpose, being capable of doing more than one job, this is particularly true of the Spitz types.  Frequently surviving in a hostile environment they had to adapt to live on little and do much.

Today's breeds that can trace their ancestry back to 'dark age' Britain and Northern Europe are few.  Even for some of these the claims are dubious.  In this country the Deerhound and Irish wolfhound are the most recognizable of the hounds.  The only other dog written about, that is a native breed, is the Corgi.  In the Code of Laws written around AD 900 a cattle dog is mentioned that fits the description.  Iceland, Norway, Finland and Sweden have more breeds available although these are predominantly of the Spitz type.  They include:

• Icelandic Sheepdog Widely considered to be an ancestor of the Shetland Sheepdog.
• Norwegian Buhund Bu means farm or homestead.  An all round herder/hunter first mentioned in AD 874.
• Norwegian Lundehund or puffin-dog.  This breed unusually has six toes and is thought to have originated from Canis Forus rather than Canis Familiaris.  There is a fatal genetic flaw in this breed and it is unlikely that is will continue to be bred.
• Finnish Spitz A hunting dog with an ear piercing bark easy to locate in dense woodland.
• Finish Lapphund Cousin to the Swedish Lapphund.  Both have a distinct collie cross look about them.
• Swedish Valhund Frequently mistaken for a Corgi and most certainly a close relation.  This Forest Dog was around in the 8^th and 9^th-centuries and exists today with little change.
• Samoyed Probably the oldest of the Scandinavian types.
• Siberian Husky a product of rigorous natural selection.  Through Belgium and France there is little information on exact types; only the Belgian Shepherd, referred to as the Black Dog of Belgium (probably meaning an ancestor of the Groenendael).
• Briard Very popular around 1,200 years ago and a big hit with the Mongolian invaders too.
• St Huberts Hound Modern day descendents are the Basset Griffon Vendeen and Griffon Vendeen, Grand.  (No exact dates available.)

Further afield there are many dogs of ancient origin that have not been mentioned such as the Komodor and Puli from Hungary and Russia, thought to be descendents of the Aftschowka of Eastern Europe.  These deserve a mention if only for their naturally unique Rastafarian coat.  They like many others are unlikely to have made the journey to Britain.  Very unusual dogs surely would have deserved a few words in one contemporary text or another.

It is very important to remember that dogs then would not have looked then like they do today.  They have been selectively bred for hundreds of years and some breeds almost completely lost during the First and Second World Wars have been recreated again (mostly the bigger breeds).  Dogs for Regia's historical period would probably had a distinct mongrel look about them compared to their modern day counterparts.  Size would also be different — in the main today's dogs are much larger.

If you want a dog that will fit in with Regia as an "authentic breed" (I use the term extremely loosely) then the local library and internet are both excellent starting points.  Do research your chosen breed; no obviously New World breeds (Labrador, Chesapeake, Chihuahua), Oriental breeds (Chow Chow, Pug, Akita) or modern breeds (Doberman, Pit Bull, Bull Mastiff, Whippet).  Remember, hunting dogs will chase, guarding dogs will want to protect, big dogs need a sizable house and bank balance, some dogs are hard to train, etc.  A perfect place to see the breed and talk to breeders is Discover Dogs in London early November.  Alternatively contact the Kennel Club, they should be able to put you in touch with breed societies.  I also have a list of breed advisers published through Dogs Today.  Also some dogs are not yet available in this country and some are on the import register and are likely to be expensive or very hard to obtain.

In all honesty, after looking at current photos of the "authentic breeds", a suitable dog is most likely to be found in a local rescue centre — that scruffy flea-bitten looking mongrel.  The Kennel Club also provide a Dog Rescue Directory complete with all the breed rescues and a few of the general rescues.  I have a copy along with a few more that are not listed.

-Elisabeth Da'Born

Ask the average twentieth century man in the street what are the causes of disease and the chances are that he will say “germs” or “viruses”.  Ask the average Anglo-Saxon and he would’ve said “elves”.  These are not the pretty little fairy folk of modern culture but powerful supernatural beings, marked with the mark of Cain, existing in the wild places beyond the tamed world of Man: the moors; the marsh; the forest; the night.  Many illnesses, but particularly the sudden mysterious onset of something crippling or deadly, were due to their invisible arrows.  In the Leechbook of Bald — surviving manuscripts which date from AD900-950 (though the Bald of the title may have been a physician to King Ælfred) — the following instructions are given to combat elf-shot with elecampane (Inula helenium):

"Go on Thursday evening after sunset to the helenium.  Sing the Benedicite and Pater Noster and a litany, and stick your knife into the herb.  Then go away.  Come again at the time for Matins; cross yourself and ask for God’s protection and go in silence, and if any sort of supernatural being or frightening creature meets you don’t say a word to him until you come to the herb.  Then sing the Benedicite, Pater Noster and litany again, dig up the herb with the knife still in it and go straight and quickly to church.  Put the herb with the knife still in it under the altar.  When the sun rises take it out, wash and make into a drink with bishopwort and lichen off a crucifix.  Boil in milk three times.  Sing over it the Pater Noster, Credo, Gloria and Excelsis Deo and a litany.  Mark it with the cross on three sides using a sword then let the man drink it.  Soon he will be well."

From this it can be seen that medicine was a highly ritual, pious yet essentially magical activity, conceived of as a battle against dangerous spirits.  The Christian influence is extremely strong in the Leechbook, less so in the Lacnunga (also circa AD900) — a poetic lay largely in praise of the nine sacred herbs:

1. Mugwort
2. Waybroad (Plantain)
3. Steem (Thyme)
4. Atterlothe (probably Bistort)
5. Maythe (Chamomile
6. Wergulu (Nettle)
7. Crab Apple
8. Fille
9. Fennel

All of these herbs were used to avert witchcraft, a variety of “venoms”, including the dreaded (and mysterious) “flying venom”, and “loathed things that roam through the land” (elves again).

Not all the herblore was quite so exotic — Yarrow for example was recognised for the useful wound herb it is.  Bone setting was quite advanced using soaked birch-bark which will harden around a limb to form a light but rigid cast.  Nor were the herbalist confined to treating just serious and mysterious illness: They turned their attention to cures for such various things as aching feet (mugwort in the shoes), wives who won’t shut up (the husband must fast and eat radishes), and baldness (bees burnt to ash and rubbed on the head with a paste of honey).

It’s not possible to give more than a taster of the strange and wonderful world of Anglo-Saxon medicine — a world that makes it plain that however much we think we understand them, we probably don’t — in such a short space.  The four surviving manuscripts: Bald’s Leechbook, Lacnunga, and Saxon translations of the Herbarium Apuleii Platonici, and On Schools of Petronius of Salerno, are available for serious research.  Alternatively, and much easier, Eleanor Sinclair Rohde’s Old English Herbals (Dover Publications 1971) will tell you most of what you want to know.  As a parting shot, interestingly, the Anglo-Saxon term for a sudden and devastating illness still survives; elf-shot was also known as elf-stroke, and in modern days just “Stroke”.

-Wulfwaru

• 1^st Contact
• 1^st Event
• 1^st Battle
• 1^st Witan
• 1^st Feast
• 1^st Training
• 1^st Jórvík

After the long and complex process which finally had me deciding to join an Anglo-Saxon era re-enactment group, I started the process of finding a suitable one to join.  Regia Anglorum was an obvious front-runner from the start, and the local Regium was listed as Sceaftsige.  I started rummaging around the internet for information about them and after discovering that the spelling is actually Sceaftesige, I eventually chanced upon an old 20^th-century web-site which looked like a long forgotten corner of the World Wide Web.  I started exploring, avoiding the long-expired adverts for companies which no longer existed, and eventually found a diary for a new member, written by a certain Alan Tidy, over a decade before.  Little did I know that, when I eventually joined, I would be requested to write the next diary of a new member by the omnipresent group leader Ketil Thorkulson.

Before I joined, I wanted to touch base with them get an impression of the group and the people within.  An e-mail to the membership officer as listed on the main Regia site went unanswered but I had found and dusted off an e-mail address on the old Sceaftesige site and thankfully, Ketil still checked that address.  Before long I was invited down to the Regia permanent site of Wychurst in Kent.

By the time I parked the car at the end of New Road, the dirt track on which Wychurst is located, I had learnt a bit more about Regia Anglorum, including seeing a few pictures of the Ealdorman of the group — a white-bearded man by the name of Kim Siddorn — and approaching the entrance to the Wychurst enclosure revealed that very man presiding over the works in the way an Ealdorman of old would have done — sitting in a chair letting everyone else do the work.

No-one was in period kit, as Ketil had previously explained, and the site looked as much like a Dark Age settlement as 1943 Stalingrad looked like a thriving bustling centre of economic activity. Regia’s equivalent of hundreds of slaves and serfs to help with the labour is 21^st-century power tools and construction vehicles.  Two men were putting up steel scaffolding at the entrance and one towering individual soon approached.  He looked like a Viking, a thick black beard and a glaring look straight out of the Dark Ages.  I probably stepped back a couple of feet, but soon he was upon me and tore my hand from my arm in what actually transpired to be a friendly greeting, this was the son of Thorkul, the Sceaftesige group leader known by his authentic Dark Age name of Ketil.

The visit round Wychurst served its purpose of getting to know Ketil, Kim and a few others.  At least it did not put me off and I returned home pretty sure that this was the group I was going to join, although a decision would wait until after my summer holiday.

• 1^st Contact
• 1^st Event
• 1^st Battle
• 1^st Witan
• 1^st Feast
• 1^st Training
• 1^st Jórvík

• 1^st Contact
• 1^st Event
• 1^st Battle
• 1^st Witan
• 1^st Feast
• 1^st Training
• 1^st Jórvík

Shortly after joining, I enthusiastically started to build a shield, it seemed straightforward enough, but after a few weeks I still only had random pieces of wood which would be as useful as deflecting blows as a cumbersome ironing board.  My first event was the Cranborne Chase Woodfair on the second weekend in October, three weeks after joining.  I still had zilch in the way of period kit, but Alan, with whom I’d been liaising since joining, said there would be equipment to borrow when I arrived at Cranborne Chase.  So all I had to do was get there.

Easier said than done, the postcode on the Fayre’s web-site took me to the village of Cranborne, and it was only by asking in a friendly pub that I knew how to proceed at all.  The directions the pub’s patron gave me had more twists and turns than Hampton Court maze but with the aid of a hastily scribbled, yet very informative map, I soon found myself following AA signs, only now did I dare breathe easy.  The signs directed me to a farm, and after a moments hesitation, I ventured further into the darkness until I found a campsite.  It was now pitch black and I was still not too sure that I was in the right place.  I parked the car and ventured into the darkness, focusing on one of many small campfires and approached it with caution — although not enough caution to prevent myself from walking straight into a rope which was cordoning off a part of the field.  I eventually found someone and asked if he knew where Regia Anglorum were.
    “Yes”, he said, “We’re here!”
Phew!

The next few hours saw me get acquainted with some of the members, including Alan, over a pint of some seriously strong cider that flowed in this corner of Dorset.  After the cider, we turned in for the night, I slept in a flimsy plastic tent, which meant I was a good five minute walk from the rest of the Regia members, who had pitched in the “authentic” section with their period tents.

Between 7 and 9 the following morning, I helped Alan make cups of coffee (very important), helped Ketil erect the wyc — the epicentre for Sceaftesige activity — and got to know a few of the other members including two who were still feeling the affects of too much cider the night before.

At 9, ropes were used to demark the boundary between 21^st-century Cranborne Chase and 11^th-century Lamerwic, the name of this village set in the Domesday year of 1086.  I was still in 21^st-century garb so was ejected from Lamerwic like a piece of unwanted garbage.  Alan soon prepared some clothes for me, and I was allowed momentarily to dart into his authentic tent to change.

My t-shirt, trousers and all accessories (wallet, keys, mobile phone and the like) were discarded in a corner of the tent.  Instead I wore a linen tunic, some woollen trousers and leather shoes.  The shoes were made by Alan himself and were comfortable enough when walking on grass, although gravel was unpleasant enough to make me think twice before attempting a journey to the port-a-loos situated in a gravel-rich car-park.  On top of the linen tunic, I wore one of Ketil’s old woollen tunics, complete with blood stains from some previous altercation in which he no doubt came off the better.  This was a welcome addition, as it was still rather nippy.  The trousers were a size 100, and the pull-cord required a lot of adjusting before I convinced them to stop falling down.  I helped the trousers by securing around my waist one of Alan’s leather belts.  Finally, a yank on the woollen tunic allowed it to drape over the belt, thus mostly obscuring it, in what is currently believed to be the style of the age.

I was now a fully clad 11^th-century individual, and stepped from the tent a citizen of the village of Lamerwic.

I was not yet a warrior, for the 21^st-century health and safety rules meant that proof of my self control with a 9-foot spear was first required.  I had never held a spear before, apart from a short Tanganyikan assegai which decorates my parent’s house, and so was completely new to everything involving fighting with mêlée weapons.  Because of this, I was expecting to be a non-fighting Lamerwic serf for the whole of the weekend.

I had met Kettlewell the Elder (Paul) in the cider tent, and once he had got over his hangover, he suggested I get to know the basics with him.  The first thing he went over was the target areas, unlike true Dark Age combat, the head, joints and lower legs are no-go, or no-stab, areas.  This is for obvious safety reasons and to preserve Regia’s membership, which could otherwise be adversely affected.  He invited me to stab his hand with the spear I was now holding, and I did so, getting his hand with the lightest of taps unless he held it by his head or some other no-stab area.  Half an hour of this was enough for me to learn the basics.  At 10:30 there was a training session in the central arena, both Kettlewells and many others went to entertain the public, but I was not yet ready, so Alan used this time to take me out of the way and have another session with him.  An hour later, I felt more at home with the spear and Alan was convinced I wasn’t a liability on the field.

The decision was not his, however, and the Master-at-Arms, a charismatic warrior straight out of some heroic Hollywood legend said it would have to wait until to-morrow.

In the meantime, I had to watch the main battle from the sidelines with another newbee — Jess — and help with the collection of firewood from a nearby copse.

• 1^st Contact
• 1^st Event
• 1^st Battle
• 1^st Witan
• 1^st Feast
• 1^st Training
• 1^st Jórvík

• 1^st Contact
• 1^st Event
• 1^st Battle
• 1^st Witan
• 1^st Feast
• 1^st Training
• 1^st Jórvík

I woke after a slightly warmer, if not more windy, night and before I knew what had hit me I was in the main arena with a spear and shield.  The Master-at-Arms examined my weapons, checking the spear point and the shield rim for any sharp areas which might cause actual 21^st-century injury.  After this I found myself facing a warrior in a bright red tunic — indicating that he was a more wealthy individual than me, maybe even a thegn or a baron.  This mattered now, he was the man who would determine if I could fight in to-day’s battle.  He started by saying two words:
    “Hit me”
I stabbed him in the stomach.
    “Good”, he said, “again”
I stabbed him in the chest, then in the hip.

After a while of this he then started attacking me, we both acknowledged each other’s hits.  After no more than 20 minutes, he said that was enough, and confirmed to the Master-at-Arms that I was battle-ready.

I didn’t even leave the arena, but found myself in a loose shield wall advancing towards another shield wall in a series of training sessions.  Alan (or Ulf I suppose, since we’re now in character) was our army’s leader, but I couldn’t understand a word he said.  Some mumble meant Advance, another incomprehensible shout meant Weapons Ready, I only knew what to do by mimicking the others.

I found myself facing a man with similar clothes as me.  He too was armed only with a spear, but something told me that this was no easy kill.  Two of us faced him, as he seemed distracted by the other I jabbed out, but he deflected my spear like shooing a fly.  Before I had recovered, a jab from a spear, maybe his, into my guts had me fall to the floor.

The next session followed in a similar vein, and it was only in my third session that I could claim a “kill”.  I’m still not sure that this was my kill, for the victim was cornered by three people, and as I jabbed into his buttocks, two other spears from two other warriors stabbed his front and he fell down a convincingly lifeless mass.

Another practice, I found myself alone and facing the backs of three warriors fighting off three more.  I approached, ready to stab them in the behind, when I suddenly realised that I didn’t know whose side they were on.  I hesitated, in what must have been obvious confusion, for the Master-at-Arms yelled at me, saying:
    “They’re on your side!”
But I didn’t know of whom he spoke, so just hovered there until one of the sides prevailed.  Luckily it was my side who won and I wasn’t then chopped to pieces.

Another time had me face, mano-a-mano, the same individual who I had faced before.  He was armed only with a spear, or so I thought, for as I jabbed at him, he dropped his spear, ran behind me, grabbed me and sliced me across my chest with a sword in what must have been the most visually pleasing kill of the day.

Soon, the thegn who had okayed me changed the game to a one-on-one combat.  By this time, the Master-at-Arms had joined the other team and he stepped into the arena with an obvious confidence.  Someone from our team stepped in, was stabbed, and had to withdraw.  This happened to about six more of our warriors, including Ulf.  The Master-at-Arms as yet undefeated.  I didn’t want to be last, so stepped in thinking that maybe he’d go easy on a newbie like me.  I saw a grin on his face, and he adorned my shoulder with an extra bruise before I realised the combat had even begun.  I retired.  No-one defeated him that round.

The final training session was an interesting one.  We all paired up with someone, one had the shield, and one had the weapon.  I was with Ulf, and had the spear.  This was the time when I had my first undisputed kill, for as Alan held the spear of our opponents, I circled round and stabbed them in the arse.  I repeated this two more times before I was eventually felled.  The next two rounds saw us get disposed of very promptly, first by the backstabbing Westcentingas who stabbed me in the back, and secondly by that same duo in more even combat.

The training was over, and I went back to the wyc for lunch.  Soon would be the battle.

Lunch was soup, and a very nice soup too.  Carole, wife of Alan and head of the wyc, had prepared the soup during the morning practice and seeing it poured into a wooden bowl I’d borrowed was a very welcome sight.  Being in the year 1086, the soup was sans potatoes, but did have orange carrots which I suppose can be forgiven — I just made sure I ate them before some smartalec member of the public pointed out that carrots weren’t orange in 1086.  This was a real danger, as there were many members of the public who were curious enough to ask intelligent questions.  One question I was asked was why there weren’t any potatoes in my soup — too close to the carrots for comfort!

Between our wyc and the neighbouring wyc of the Hæstingas, the Sussex Regium, Paul — another Paul — spent the whole weekend lighting and putting out fires, which never failed to draw a crowd.  He started by striking some high-carbon steel against a flint to get a spark.  Ordinarily this microscopic sliver of steel would cool and disappear into the aether before its heat could be harnessed, but Paul held a small square of charred linen, which caught and smouldered slowly. Then he placed it in a bundle of dry grass and blew upon it until it burst into flames.  All this time he answered questions from the curious public, and he was the only person to draw a crowd from amongst the 11^th-century population as well.

Half an hour before the battle, we mustered behind the row of tents.  Here we had our weapons checked once more by the Master-at-Arms and were then divided quite randomly into two groups – one would fight for the previous English king — Eadgar II “the Ætheling”, whilst the other would fight for the incumbent King William I “the Conqueror”.  Or rather, one would fight for Thegn Eadric and the other for Duke fitzAmos in a small skirmish forming part of Eadgar the Ætheling’s last attempt to re-claim the English throne.  I was very close to the spear point which divided the two teams, but found myself in Thegn Eadric’s shieldwall.

There are some in Regia who will never fight for a Norman, and a few of these people made themselves known by walking to the English side of the spear.  I personally see no problem in fighting as a Norman, a Norseman or an Anglo-Saxon, you can’t re-create a battle with only one side after all, but deep down I was happy that my first battle saw me amongst an English shieldwall.

We took to the field before the Normans, and marched up and down to please the crowd.  Some of us walked to the perimeter so the public could see our matériel, all as instructed by the Master-at-Arms, who was in the rôle of Eadric and therefore our army’s leader.

We re-formed the shieldwall in good time for fitzAmos and his retinue to approach.  The Duke was riding a horse, but his retinue were infantry in a loose shieldwall like us.  Thegn Eadric and the Duke stepped forward to discuss the situation: the Battle of Hastings was 20 years ago and we were berated for taking to the field.  I was only 5 or so yards behind the Eadric, and held my spear in a way that hopefully the audience interpreted as a loyal warrior ready to defend his master, but I was more concerned with not startling the horse, so my actions were somewhat muted.

The parley concluded, the battle begun as fitzAmos rode back behind his shieldwall.

I had been told that the battle was comprised of three sections:

• 1st Mêlée — a weapon on shield action where no-one dies.
  
• 2nd Mêlée — another weapon on shield action where no-one dies
  
• 3rd Mêlée — the final competative action where people die if hit.
  

1st Mêlée:
The shieldwall advanced with the heavily armoured troops on the left flank and us lightly armoured warriors on the right.  We soon found ourselves facing fitzAmos’ retinue, I thrust my spear against the white shield of the warrior facing me as my shield was also hit.  This continued until Eadric instructed us to withdraw.

Us lightly armoured warriors withdrew in good order, but the heavier troops kept fighting and Eadric ran out to restore discipline and had them reform some 20 yards from the Norman line, we then withdrew a little further.  The Norman Lord rode around us on his horse, but apart from that the two forces stood motionless facing one another.  Eadric walked up and down the line, telling us the next mode of attack: the heavy troops would advance, with the light warriors following three seconds later.

2nd Mêlée:
I counted to three and advanced, only to find myself facing the same white shield as before.  I turned momentarily to strike and a green, white and red shield to my left, and a spear got round my shield and brushed my stomach.  Ordinarily that would have been a kill, and I instinctively fell back whilst yelling “argh” in recognition of the hit.  I would have fallen to the ground and remained a lifeless lump for the rest of the battle had I not realised that it was still Mêlée № 2, and hits didn’t count.

We fell back again and were about to advance once more into the fray.  My heart was pumping, I hadn’t had this much exercise since climbing hills in Scotland five months ago, and I felt I could do with a few minutes respite.  This was provided, I am thankful to say, by the Norman Duke who rode out in front of Eadric and silently blocked our advance.  Despite being on a horse, he would have been an easy kill as his shieldwall was some 30 yards behind him, but this signified another parley and I leant on my spear making the most of the rest.

Parley over (I don’t recall what was said — something about us all being hunted down like the treacherous dogs we were), the mounted Lord retreated behind his shieldwall and the battle continued.

3rd Mêlée:
This was it, this was the deadly battle.  I heard Kim say something about weapons feeling heavy in the hand, but I felt okay after that small break.  This time I was on the right flank, and carefully kept the line of the shield wall as I advanced.  I fully expected to die, yesterday the Normans had prevailed and everyone was saying how a newbie always dies in his first few battles.  Right on cue, as I faced a line of Norman shields and spear points, a spear thrust past my shield and struck me on the thumb, continuing down to just past my wrist.  Again I exclaimed “urgh”, but since that isn’t the agreed target area, I continued fighting.  I looked to the left of the line as we fell back against the Norman onslaught, and saw one of the Westcentingas had fallen and was lying beneath his distinctive kite shield.

Somehow I found myself one of three members pitched against a single Norman, I hadn’t even properly registered this fact before he was felled by a forest of spears.  The three of us then circled round to flank the remaining Norman line, and found that only a couple remained.  I advanced toward them, approaching just as the final Norman soldier was felled not two yards from the observing public.  I looked around, expecting to see half the Duke’s retinue still fighting, or even a trap which would see us all cornered and stabbed in the back.  But the whole Norman army was dispensed.  Only fitzAmos himself remained, dismounted and locked into combat with Eadric.  I marched towards the two leaders, and soon I held one of many spears which surrounded him. Eadric now gave him the chance to live, but it was not taken and he was dispatched with a sword cut across the chest.

Eadric’s retinue was all-but intact.  The whole of Sceaftesige had survived.  It is practically unknown for a newbie to survive his first battle but so overwhelming was our victory that my survival seemed nothing special, although I wasn’t sure what had hit me.  I mentioned to Alan that I fully expected to be slain, and that I was slightly looking forward to the rest which dieing would present. 

The dead had arisen and the public were in the arena examining our weapons and armour.  We answered questions and let the curious spectators handle spears and shields; a kid asked to look at Alan’s sword; Alan duly handed it across and was rewarded by a swift jab in the guts.

Once the public had dispersed, a simple deathmatch was initiated, and I faced Alan over the rim of my shield.  He closed the distance and shortened his spear accordingly, my weapon was useless and he stabbed me in the buttocks.  As I fell to the ground, I heard him say:

   “Enjoy your rest”

Despite this, I was hailed as a lucky charm, a newbie who survived his first ever battle.  For the next few hours, “I survived” never strayed far from my lips as I made sure everyone in Lamerwic knew.

• 1^st Contact
• 1^st Event
• 1^st Battle
• 1^st Witan
• 1^st Feast
• 1^st Training
• 1^st Jórvík

• 1^st Contact
• 1^st Event
• 1^st Battle
• 1^st Witan
• 1^st Feast
• 1^st Training
• 1^st Jórvík

One week after our crushing victory over Nigel’s Normans, I attended my first Sceaftesige get-together, which happened to be the Annual meeting of the Witan.  Theoretically this is when important things are decided, but I had absolutely no idea what to expect, so I just took myself to the agreed locale, which happened to be just outside of Sceaftesige’s land-grant — in the neutral territory of Hampshire.

As is traditional, I started the day by getting lost, and almost found myself amongst a happening football game.  I thought about opening the gate and seeing whether the path continued, but the boisterous game seemed too dangerous and I turned around.  A normal Sunday football game looks far less appealing than spears and swords pointed in my direction by battle-hardened members of Sceaftesige.

I approached another building, negotiating a narrow alleyway sided by high chain-link fences and was relieved to see the black and yellow shields of Sceaftesige Garrison resting against Alan’s car. There was a newcomer, an individual who contacted Ketil at around the same time as myself, but who didn’t have the means to make it to Kent or Dorset.  Once he paid the hefty one-day insurance charge, he joined us in battle practice.

Both Kettlewell the Elder and Younger were there, as was Gareth.  Together with Alan, Mark (the new newbie) and myself, six people were ready for practice.  There were only five shields, so while a sixth was summoned forth by Carole, and whilst Alan introduced Mark to the concepts of re-enactment fighting just as he had with me a week before, the rest of us practiced.

A week ago, my tactic was to cower behind my shield and stay with the main shieldwall.  It had worked well in the battle, although a few of the training sessions had me stabbed, sliced and disposed of in other ways.  Now, as Kettlewell the Elder instructed us to dispose of our shields, I found myself fighting with only my quick feet, parries and wits for protection.  But to my surprise I was quite comfortable, facing three much more experienced fighters, I somehow found ways through their defences and repeatedly stabbed them in the chest, stomach, thigh and backside.  I was struck too of course, Gareth gave me a very respectable bruise just above the knee, he was surprised that it was a valid hit, thinking that it was on the knee and therefore an illegal hit.

Soon the spare shield, an old and battered relic from Alan’s past, was brought forth and all six of us could fight, spear and shield in hand.

A series of three-on-three actions followed, on a couple of occasions I demonstrated my ability to survive until it was three-on-one, and then heroically died in a frenzy of lashing spearheads and cries of “Kill ‘im!”.  Other fights had me die depressingly quickly, but I think I can confidently say that my ability to survive was better than my ability to kill.

I was also introduced to the “Bridge Game”, where our shields were used to demark a bridge.  Two from each team stepped forth to fight on the bridge, with the third in reserve.  As Mark thrust his spear into my stomach and as I fell lifeless into the torrent below (stepped backwards), I thought to myself that this is a lot of fun.  I expected it to be fun, but I am surprised as quite how much fun it actually is.  My regret is not finding it sooner.

We paused for a cup of tea, but apart from that continuously fought for the whole morning. My Philadelphia World Champions Baseball t-shirt was dripping in sweat, a stout bruise was developing just above my knee (thanks Gareth) and I was pathetically out-of-breath.  I don’t go to the gym, it is just too boring; if I am ever to keep fit — this is the way I’ll do it.

After a nice soup, fighting was over and the Witan could begin.  Witan — meaning wise man — is the name given to the annual meeting.  It is called a Witan because “Witan” is a nice Anglo-Saxon word, and to compensate for the lack of wise men who take part — I think.  Ketil, who had sat in silence for the last hour, started the session.  He sat at the head of the table with Alan by his side.  The children, who until now were playing on a computer were ejected from the room and the computer was usurped by Alan, who read out the minutes of the previous year’s Witan.  It involved a lot of actions on Ketil, which resulting in him sniggering to himself behind his beard.

As Alan read out the previous minutes, a few people made comments or jokes.  Ketil mentioned in passing that this Witan must be earlier than last year’s.  He also mentioned that this was the first Witan in a while which was quorate, although I’m not sure why that mattered.

Once the minutes had been read, he started to speak.  He started by saying “It’s been another year.”, and then confirmed that he’d completed none of his actions from last year.

Before he went on, I pointed out that if the previous Witan was later than this year, it can’t have been another year.  Ketil smiled (I knew I’d just made a mistake) and then demoted to me to slave.

“But” I said “I’m already a slave!” and then instantly thought “You idiot, I could have got away with that”

Alan and Ketil then took away my clothing privileges, as I didn’t own any period clothing, this was a problem.  I shut my trap.  I wonder if I’ll ever make Thegn…

The reports came in from all the officers:

• Ketil started with the group leader report.
• Alan continued with the 2iC report.
• Liz with the Authenticity Officer’s report
• Carole with the Wyc Officer’s report
• The Treasurer wasn’t in attendance so Carole also did that.
• Ketil and Alan, as joint training officer, made a two-word report on training.

After the reports came the elections:

• Ketil, in a big booming voice, started: “Who dares oppose me as group leader?” Well, he didn’t really say that but the result was the same — no-one did.
• No-one opposed Alan either.
• Carole pleaded that someone replace her as Wyc Officer — but no-one wanted that responsibility.
• Liz is the only one who has the expertise to continue as Authenticity Officer, I’m not even sure if the question was asked.
• The Treasurer was duly re-appointed too, as his name is on the bank account.

Then issues were discussed.  This was my time to shine.  The newly unopposed group leader looked at me and smiled in the same way as just before he revoked my clothing privileges.  He reminded everyone that he’d asked me to do a new members diary.  I confirmed that I’d have a go at it, but promised nothing (little did he know I’d already finished the previous three sections).  He also stated that Mark could also do one — it would have been interesting to see how our experiences differed, had he joined…

The next issue was the state of the Sceaftesige web-site.  Finding the Sceaftesige web-site proved particularly difficult when I searched, as previously mentioned, and it was agreed that something needed to be done.  A few people, including Mark, had ideas or offered to help in some way, but everyone expertly succeeded in sidestepping the issue.  Occasionally, after a suggestion or comment, Ketil would say something like “Sounds like you’re volunteering”, which was a very good way of shutting them up.

After a few minutes of this, and as the topic started to drift, I thought to myself that this is a silly situation, I have the skills to do a web-site — or at least I claimed to have — and I can probably find the time, so I took a gulp, and volunteered myself.  Hopefully my clothing privileges might be restored… But it transpired that the Web-Site Officer was called Marnie, and since she wasn’t there, I’d have to make the offer to her at some later date.

Ketil had just reminded us that he is the only group leader to control two whole modern counties (Berkshire and Buckinghamshire), and this was the next point.  There were seldom any battle practices in Bucks.  It was agreed to have more, but where and when was left for another day, and being a resident of the Royal County, I didn’t feel I had much to offer on this topic, so kept quiet.

• 1^st Contact
• 1^st Event
• 1^st Battle
• 1^st Witan
• 1^st Feast
• 1^st Training
• 1^st Jórvík

• 1^st Contact
• 1^st Event
• 1^st Battle
• 1^st Witan
• 1^st Feast
• 1^st Training
• 1^st Jórvík

One of the things that so endeared me to Regia Anglorum was the Wychurst Longhall in Kent, the idea of feasting on good traditional food with comrades around a hearth with stories being told was almost irresistible.  This is a four-year Regia tradition, held on a weekend in early January to celebrate Twelfth Night.

I had intended to make all my own clothes, but many weeks of effort resulted in only one tunic, and with Christmas out of the way, the need to get a move on with my other items became pressing. I recruited the help of a useful relative, and in good time for the feast I had 2 tunics and a pair of warm trousers.  Authentic socks weren’t required, which was good, and Alan once again leant me shoes, a belt and a very nice cloak.

I arrived in good time and once I’d staked a claim to a small corner of the nearby scout hall, inflated an air bed and dumped two bags in a way which would hopefully deter anyone else from taking the spot next to me, I started to say hi to people.

I collected a few things out of my bag and showed them to Alan, the first one was a knife.  A knife is useful in feasts, but I didn’t have an authentic one so rummaged through the drawer looking for a suitable alternative.  Before long I had found my grandfather’s old knife — re-handled by him — and sharpened so much that it was barely half its original breadth.  I had high hopes for this find in the darker depths of my kitchen drawer, but upon seeing it, Alan said something along the lines of:
    “I want to say this in the nicest possible way, but you buy the most awful things”
I took that as a no.

But when it comes to buying things, I’ve had rather a lot of success.  After the Witan, I had bought a spoon, a combat seax, many rolls of cloth for clothing and two shield bosses.  All of them had been passed, including the seax which got Alan’s praises when I presented it to him now.  Not only that, but a member of Milites de Bec — the evil Norman group — came over to ask where I bought it – that must be ringing endorsement.

I hung Holly around the hall, transported things up and generally stood about chatting to people. Before long, more people arrived and I went to get into kit.  Alan produced a piece of leather from his car and fashioned a belt there and then.  Together with his shoes and his cloak, my costume was complete.

Sceaftesige sat on our own table, away from the high and low tables of the honoured guests and from the roaring heat of the fire.  If anything this was good, the weather was extremely mild for early January and the hall was very adequately warm.  Next to the Sceaftesige table was that of Hwitmearum, towards the door was Y Cantref Breiniol, and hidden in the corner away from the door, and as far from the food as we could get away with, was the large retinue of the evil de Bec.

A few people were going from table to table photographing the individual groups.  They had to be quick about it, as at six o’clock a horn was sounded — this was the start of the feast and no-one was now allowed to take photos, use phones or other modern beepy things.

Then the feast began.  The only light was from the candles on the tables and the roaring fire in the middle, sparks shooting up towards the timbers and oak roof tiles.  The food was brilliant, especially the Norfolk dumpling, which I hope to find again at some point.  The food wasn’t traditional, mainly because no-one knows much about what they ate — the ingredients are known, but the recipes remain a mystery.

Various individuals of note decided to address the hall, from toasting the Queen, to singing 19^th-century songs, to hearing about the history of the Longhall, to harp playing, entertainment was varied, traditional, inclusive and inspiring.  One which I particularly liked was the story of taking the Bear (one of the longships) to the Lake District and the catalogue of disasters which followed.  But instead of telling the story as he might down his local pub, he translated all of the modern terms into historick ones which proved to be great entertainment for all.  It occurred when a great Bear was travelling south from a lake, or mere, where it was windy, some might call it Windermere.  Low-loaders became Land Lizards, punctures became injured paws and so it went on; much to everyone’s amusement.

I did feel we came as close as is feasible to a great Dark Age feast, but the modern world was never too far away.  I was particularly thankful during the night, as instead of an uncomfortable straw bed, I had a technologically advanced inflatable mattress.  I was slightly disappointed that my idea of placing a bag to get me more space had failed, and even more so during the night when he out-snorred everyone in the room.  But in the end I slept well enough to be fully refreshed, to enjoy breakfast, spill muesli over the floor, get to know the evil members of Milites de Bec and earn a few brownie points by cleaning the scout hall.

• 1^st Contact
• 1^st Event
• 1^st Battle
• 1^st Witan
• 1^st Feast
• 1^st Training
• 1^st Jórvík

• 1^st Contact
• 1^st Event
• 1^st Battle
• 1^st Witan
• 1^st Feast
• 1^st Training
• 1^st Jórvík

My shield, completed in Alan’s shed not one week before, had its first test on 28th Jan, when I stepped forth into the fray for the first time in 2012.  I had arrived the day before and spent the evening chatting, renewing friendships and making new ones.  With no spear, I was relying on Alan to lend me his, but as he was only attending one day, the need to forge new friendships would be crucial to my ability to take part on the Sunday, it wasn’t long before a spear was earmarked for my Sunday use.

Islip is the birthplace of King Eadweard III — Edward the Confessor — and a small mosaic above the village hall advertises the fact.  It was in 2005 that Regia first came to Islip, to commemorate Eadweard’s millennium and the society has returned in force each year since for training sessions.


I woke early on Saturday 28th January, thankfully not near anyone who snored, but my inability to fully inflate the mattress had affected my back, and a slight ache informed me of such.  I got straight into authentic gear, and exchanged a coin for a bacon roll with ketchup for breakfast.  The previous night had seen some rain, but to my relief the ground was not as muddy or as slippery as I had feared.

Practice started at ten o’clock and the first duty was for my shield to be checked.  As at Cranborne, shields and weapons must always be checked for sharp edges which may cause undesirable injury.  This was the first time my own hand-crafted shield was checked, and although I was confident, it was a relief when it passed.

Mêlée commenced, and I was stabbed and died many times.  The day took the form of a number of exercises, each slightly different.  Some would reduce everyone to one hit-point, whereas others would allow the more armoured individuals to endure all three.  Some would be “with honours” which I think meant we weren’t allowed to stab anyone in the back or sneak up on them — not that I was ever in a situation to do that of course.  After each skirmish, a few of the more experienced marshals, who were dictating terms of combat to the rest of us, would criticize or commend our tactics and actions, before altering the teams and maybe adjusting the rules.

Although I had been introduced to the Old Ænglisc commands at Sceaftesige’s Witan, I learnt them here.  They are what is thought to be the most likely Anglo-Saxon commands for the time:

Sounds like	Loose Translation	Action
A Wican	Stand to Attention	Feet together
Nameth Weapna	Make Ready	Spear on shoulder ready for combat
Stepan	Step Forth	Take one step forward in a defensive pose
Gengeth Forth	Advance	March towards the enemy
Reareth Weapna	Present Weapon	Spear ready, facing the enemy’s line

There were a few others, but they were few and far between enough for me to forget what they were.

I loved this.  For some reason, the part I liked the most is when we’ve Nameth’d Weapna and are Gengething Forth towards an enemy line who has already Reareth’d Weapna.  Something about marching un-armed and defenceless against a line of hostile pointy sticks is so different from anything else that afflicts our 21^st-century lives that for that split second — before the command Reareth Weapna made you a defensible line — you were in a completely alien situation.  At some point half way through the battle, I saw a black and yellow shield of Sceaftesige on the far side of the field.  My fellow group members had arrived.

The day proceeded in similar fashion.  We were divided up into teams — usually by allocation of a number.  Some games had but two teams, others had four or five.  Games we played included:

• Line fight:
  two teams advancing towards each other in classical shieldwall action.
  
  
• Castle game:
  two teams fight each other in the confined space of a castle, marked by spears on the ground.
  
  
• Kill-the-leader:
  up to five teams each have to fight and protect their group leader.  Once the leader dies, the whole group dies (some variations had the surviving soldiers of that team join the team who killed their leader).
  
  
• Bridge game:
  two teams fight on a bridge, demarked by shields or spears on the ground.
  

Occasionally they would try to ensure balanced teams from the start, by dividing us up into different groups of experience, and then they’d divide each group into two (or more) and set us against each other.

Regia Anglorum members are all given a passport sized membership document and for every day at a public show (such as Cranborne Chase) or a training day (such as Islip), your book would be stamped.  Stamps are used to demonstrate your experience in a certain weapon.  Before Islip, I had two stamps.

The Regia hit-system is somewhat related to stamps.  Only after obtaining 6 stamps with a two-handed spear are you allowed to take your spear test.  Once you’ve passed your spear test you gain your second hit-point.  You are also allowed to migrate to a short-arm once the spear test is passed.  The glamour of a sword mean that most migrate to short-arms as soon as they pass their spear test.

On one occasion, us two-handed spearmen were training separately from the short-arms, and it was therefore a given that the majority of us would only have one hit-point.  We then trained in shieldwall tactics against each other for the better part of an hour.  After this we then fought the short-arms, all of whom would have two hit-points and many who might have three (the third hit-point is dependent on the armour worn on the occasion).

We outnumbered the short-arms, but in terms of hit-points they outnumbered us by about two-to-one.  Their weight of experience also shewed, and the first time we faced each other we were steam-rolled over.  In theory, shieldwall fighting is easier with a spear, the advantage in reach this gave us, together with greater actual numbers, meant that defeat was not a foregone conclusion.  The next clash started with a boar-snout attack — a wedge of warriors charged through our line with intent to smash it.  But our trainers had planned for this, and the line opened and closed behind them, with the more experienced spearmen containing them.  The boar-snout was very close to me, but passed me by and we then received the rest of the short-arms in good order.  This time discipline held, and we eventually saw off the attack by weight of numbers.  I survived this skirmish — a rarity for the day — and we were all commended in the way we defeated a superior foe.

Islip was not just military training, numerous craft events were held.  People partook in less militaristic activities such as spoon carving, embroidery, leatherwork and arrow making.  Such activities were occupying Carole, Ketil and Liz whilst Alan, the Kettlewells and I were fighting in the mud of Islip football pitch.  I did manage to go and say hi to Carole and Liz, but was eager not to miss any of the combat so hardly said anything to either of them.  Hannah — the formidable Viking child of Hwitmearum — also consumed a lot of my time negotiating terms on which I should push her on the park swing.

After combat was finished, I took part in a leatherwork class where we learnt the basics of sewing and decorating leather straps and seax sheaths.  By the time this finished, everyone from Sceaftesige had gone home.


I was the sole representative of the garrison on Sunday, and rose early, exchanged another coin for another bacon bap and stepped out with a borrowed spear ready for the day’s fighting.

What greeted me on the steps of the village hall were three gentlemen, in football strips, one on the phone frantically trying to explain to his somewhat dubious acquaintance that there were “warriors” on the pitch and that he thought they’d “been had”.  The person on the other end of this conversation only seemed convinced when one of his mates photographed me in a threatening pose and sent it to him.

The idea that these people — who I assume were the away team — arrived at the designated football ground to find a dozen or so early morning Saxon warriors cleaning spears and donning shields, was an amusing one.

Because of the football, we were relegated to the far side of the cricked green — until now the area used for the archery — and started familiar practices whilst the archery was relegated to a dark corner of the field even further away.


Training continued pretty much as the day before.  Line fights ensued, I stabbed, I got stabbed, I killed, I got killed.  One feisty Cornish girl managed to stab me in the groin — the look on her face as I plummeted to the ground seemed to indicate that she was hurt more than I.  I wasn’t hurt, and since the groin isn’t a legal area, I could have continued fighting, but I was already collapsing to the ground by the time this thought had been properly processed and filed in the bureaucracy of my brain, so I took the hit.  It is a pity that I can’t say I was hit in the groin but carried on fighting — that’d be a worthy boast.

The same wasn’t true when, on the Saturday whilst fighting in a shieldwall, an enemy’s spear ricocheted off my neighbour’s shield and struck me square in the jaw.  This didn’t hurt so much as it shocked, I staggered back from the shieldwall, gave myself a once-over: no blood; no pain.  With this established, I re-entered the shieldwall (the head is not a legal area so I didn’t take the hit).  As is good practice, the guilty individual came up to me after the battle to apologise.

I found myself apologising on the Sunday, after my spear rode a little too high during a skirmish and I clipped someone’s helmet.  He was fine, but as soon as I heard the metal on metal “clink” I stumbled backwards, paralysed with shock at the fact that I’d come so close to someone’s head.  He could have dispatched me with ease, but he didn’t press home his attack and just let me stumble backwards.  I was in a daze, until I was brought back into the real world by the call of “Arrows! Arrows!” I had stumbled backwards into the archery area, directly behind the targets where live, sharp arrows were being flung in my direction.  That was not a good skirmish.

But apart from that I found myself improving.  I was dying a lot, and perfected my death screech to the extent that it was commended by someone, and one spear-jab I took to the leg brought worried apology from someone who thought it was a cry of genuine pain.

Towards the end of training on Sunday, the novices and veterans, who had been practicing separately for most of the day, joined up in a few final clashes.  As I advanced in one clash, I found myself facing the Master-at-Arms — Mike Everest — who had dispatched me and everyone else with so much effortless ease during the Cranborne Chase training.  To his right, perhaps of more concern, was the armour-clad baron of the evil Milites de Bec — Clanky.  This time in a shieldwall, with his attention elsewhere, I saw Mike’s kite shield leave a gap of about a foot and with confidence and speed absent from my earlier engagements, thrust through and stabbed him straight in the ribs.

He looked at me, and in a split second used a subtle facial expression to say “well done, but it won’t happen again”.  He wasn’t wearing a helmet, which meant he only had two hit-points, one more hit and I would have single-handedly dispatched one of the most formidable fighters on the field.  I tried, but failed, and it wasn’t long before Clanky’s winged spear felled me with a hard jab in my back, just shy of my spine.  That hurt!

There was one more chance for glory.  Throughout the weekend I had been dispatched time and again by flanking individuals who had circumnavigated the shieldwall.  I now found myself in a similar position as the enemy’s shield wall was broken in two just in front of me.  As one section fell back, I found myself behind the other section and gaily dispatched them one-by-one by stabbing them in the arse — three times each for good measure.  When I told Alan this, he said “very good, don’t do it again” — obviously not the done thing for a pitiful little spearman.

The final challenge at the end of the day was a bridge game.  As described above, the bridge was demarked by spears and shields on the grass and we fought, about four abreast, with the longest spears we could find.  I still had the borrowed 9’ spear and dispatched many opponents — including the person who had leant it to me.  I was dispatched myself, but before falling into the raging torrent of water below the bridge, managed to pass the long spear to a mate without fail.

We won the first engagement, and with every victory we lost a member of our group to the other side, but we went on to win every engagement without exception.  It also transpired that the guy who’d lent me his spear was dispatched by his own spear on every occasion — either by me or by someone I’d handed it to as I fell to my watery grave.

Now, fully trained in the art of spearmanship, I was ready to either face the Vikings of Jórvík or face the Saxons as a Viking of Jórvík — depending on which side I’ll be allocated to in three weeks time.

• 1^st Contact
• 1^st Event
• 1^st Battle
• 1^st Witan
• 1^st Feast
• 1^st Training
• 1^st Jórvík

• 1^st Contact
• 1^st Event
• 1^st Battle
• 1^st Witan
• 1^st Feast
• 1^st Training
• 1^st Jórvík

I did debate whether it was worth doing an entry about the Jórvík Viking Festival — arguably Regia Anglorum’s flagship event.  It wasn’t my first event after all.  But York was very different from Cranborne Chase, and probably very different from any other event.  The main battle is after dark, the hustlers and traders are in the city of York itself, in mediaeval buildings and in marquees in the city centre. 

The warriors and soldiers of Regia Anglorum, along with two other groups who tagged along — Crusade and Draum Broedr — stayed in a school just south of the city centre.  Alan drove Garath and myself there and we arrived at about five o’clock, about 1½ hours ahead of the key to the school.  Alan abandoned us there and fought through rush-hour York to his B&B. 

“This looks suspiciously like a queue for the key” was one comment as more people arrived, adding to the clumps of Regia members standing outside this otherwise peaceful primary school.  It could have been worse — some people were desperate for the loo!

Eventually the key arrived, and the doors were flung open.  We started to transport our belongings up to the school’s first floor hall.  We were allowed to park in the hall or the library, and although I had already plonked my stuff next to some scary papier-mâché heads, the idea of the library appealed and I moved in with Gareth.  This proved to be a good idea, the library was quieter, more secluded and probably much more comfortable than the open expanse of the hall.  We even had psudo-walls dividing it up into distinct cubicles that gave some illusion of privacy.

With beds inflated and new friends made, we headed towards the designated public house, which was a nice mile walk.  Knowing my priorities, this was the only place I had a map to.  We wiled away the afternoon drinking with two members of Oskorei (an unaffiliated group from Bristol) who were taking part as guests of Regia Anglorum — and who had occupied the neighbouring cubicle in the library.  Occasionally, I would concentrate on someone coming through the door to see if I could match them with any Facebook profile picture on the Regia page. 


Together with Cerdic and Dalla, the two aforementioned members of Oskorei, we ventured into York early on Saturday to meet Alan and to shop.  We started by going to the Merchant Adventures Hall, where we browsed some stalls and met some familiar faces, including Alan.  We then ventured to the St Sampson’s Square Marquee, where a more cramped collection of traders were selling their wares.  I was minding my own business, browsing wares, trying not to knock anything off tables with my new cloak, buying the odd nail for my shield, contemplating investing in a sharp knife for authentic eating, when a trader spotted me and said “nice cloak”, I looked up and it was Anwar Ali — the gentleman who had sold me the material for the cloak after an extremely complex logistical operation where I skilfully avoided postage charges by sending numerous e-mails and recruiting the help of a useful sibling.  It is good to know he recognises his products. 

After purchasing a brooch for the cloak and a belt, I left the hall and waited for Cerdic and Dalla.  Whilst waiting, I was asked by an innocent bystander where the battles were, but I did not know.  It was a flaw in the planning that those Vikings that the public might encounter can’t tell the public when and where the show is going to be.  I regretfully had to advise him to ask someone else. 


We walked back to the school (about a mile) collected shields, spears and dropped off purchases, marched back into York and joined the rest of the re-enactors outside Yorkminster.  We missed a chance to feature as some tiny background specs in a new BBC documentary series, whose producers were no doubt hoping to get some cheap shots of Saxons and Vikings. 

Somehow we ended up on the Saxon side, and before long we were marching through the city of York, occasionally yelling out the traditional Regia Anglorum cry which I had first heard at Cranborne Chase:
    “Vivat Rex”
    “Vivat Rex”
    “Vivat Rex Anglorum”
which for the non-Latin speaking amongst you means
    “Long Live the King”
    “Long Live the King”
    “Long Live the King of the English”
and is a cry still used in our coronation ceremonies to-day (Her Majesty The Queen was hailed with the words “Vivat Regina” in 1953). 

Then we were in the shadow of York Castle, where the Saxon line formed to face the Vikings of Eric Bloodaxe.  The sun was shining directly in my eyes, and I was forced to pull my hood up to have any chance of seeing the Viking army when they lined up to face us.  The line commanders told us that there would be two show clashes before competitive fighting began. 

We did a little more yelling:
    “Vivat Eadred, Rex Anglorum”
    “Long Live Eadræd, King of the English”

We marched towards the enemy and made as much noise and movement as possible.  I decided I’m not good at these fake clashes, they tire me out and I just find myself standing there with spear harmlessly and silently tapping the enemy’s shield.  It is something I need to work on — re-enactment is a performance and the audience don’t want a line of silent motionless people poke sticks at another equally vegetative line.  Luckily the Vikings facing us were better at it, and one of the Crusaders repeatedly hit my spearhead with his sword, thus making the kind of battle sound which is expected.

We backed off, only to have the Viking line descend upon us.  I performed in a likewise pathetic manner until the Viking line retreated.  There might have been some more yelling now, I can’t really remember, but soon we found ourselves advancing against the army of Eric Bloodaxe again, this time in competitive combat.


I fully expected to die again, and I soon found myself facing someone who fully expected to kill me.  His spear constantly aimed for my slightly exposed shoulder, either missing or bouncing off the rim of my shield.  The line seemed pretty quiet, I bided my time and waited for an opening for a quick spear jab.  A few did occur, but I had neither the speed nor the confidence to capitalise, but then someone rotated his shield just slightly for just too long and I pounced.  Thrusting in front of the Viking who was aiming for my shoulder, I managed to get my spear between the shields and square in his ribs.  He fell to the ground — my first kill in a public show.  His friends were soon falling at the hands of my comrades.

Their shieldwall started to fold as both flanks collapsed, we pressed on.  Weight of numbers began to shew and soon I found myself flanking an individual whose shield was facing her attackers in front of her.  Bringing my spear into a suitable location proved to take longer than I had planned, but I still managed to bring the tip into her stomach and felled her too. 

Soon there was a field of dead, one of whom was looking around the field in the way I might if I wanted to see what was going on after being killed.  I yelled “he’s moving, kill ‘im” and thrust my spear between his guts and the ground — he reacted appropriately with screams of pain and subsequent motionlessness.

I didn’t realise it at the time, but the battle which had just resulted in a glorious Saxon victory over the Viking host was a last-minute affair.  The original plan was for a normal Regia training session, but so many bystanders had been attracted to the castle by the parade through the city of York that some five-hundred were now accumilating around expecting a clash.  Somehow the powers that be arranged this in good time and our lines clashed in the way described above.  The training sessions followed the battle.

Still in view of the public, these training sessions were not really designed for their pleasurable viewing.  The first of these sessions was single combat, where I ended up facing someone with a sword each time.  I didn’t stand a chance and was easily dispatched by the first.  The second had the better of me too, he got me in the leg (usually a legal hit but this practice was torso hits only), and then sliced me in the jaw.  I expected a final decisive blow but he stepped back and opened his shield.  I didn’t know what to make of this, so I thrust at his guts and he fell in suitable fashion.  After he fell, he looked up and said “I got you in the back didn’t I?”  I hadn’t felt a thing!  Was that defenceless pose his way of asking why hadn’t I died?  Perhaps a sort of insult — “No point fighting you if you’re not going to take your hits!”.  I hate people to think I’m not taking my hits — it ruins their enjoyment of the event and makes me look like a git, so this troubled me.  It actually transpired that the defenceless pose was the result of his completely painless slice around the jaw, their society (the Crusaders) has a tradition of offering a free shot if they hit you in the head, as he had done by slicing my jaw. 

Following this was the traditional Islip-style training session, where we are divided into two teams and I get killed.  These proved exhausting, and we finished by three o’clock.  Alan, Gareth and me all went to York for a cup of coffee and a rest.  I procured some food before the big evening battle at the notorious York Racecourse. 


Busses ferried us to the racecourse, where we were welcomed by officials who told us to wait out in the wind and cold of the field.  Eventually they found some communal showers for us to wait in (someone described it as an Auschwitz moment — entering a room with shower heads with a horde of other people), but there weren’t any seats here either so it was little better. 

Eventually we went out and prepared for battle.  Both sides were given a team talk which outlined the chronology of the battle. 
    The Vikings would march on and line up at the top of the hill
    The Saxons would then march on and prepare to charge up the hill
    The negotiations would be fruitless
    The Saxons will charge up the hill
    The Vikings would beat them back
    The Vikings would charge down the hill
    The Saxons would beat them back
    Eric Bloodaxe will fight four champions and defeat them all
    The Saxons would look depressed
    The Vikings left flank would charge the Saxon right flank
    The ensuing mêlée would rotate the line of battle
    The competitive combat would begin
    The Saxons will win the battle
    Eric Bloodaxe is betrayed and killed by his bodyguard
    
It was dark and windy.  I marched on with the rest of the Saxon army and faced the Vikings at the top of the hill.  We were yelling out “Death to the Vikinga”, which I make sound quite pirate-like “Death to the Viking arrrr” and other slogans already described “Vivat Eadred, Rex Anglorum”. 

The Viking army looked formidable on the top of the hill with their huge banner fluttering in the wind.  To face it, at the top of the hill, with a line of Vikings either side silhouetted against the dark floodlit sky was an exhilarating feeling.  Even the comment from someone that they could smell the petrol from the longship ready to go up in flames post-battle failed to ruin the atmosphere — because the atmosphere wasn’t being immersed in history, it was being on a cold field facing your enemy across an expanse of grass, the smell of petrol, the bright floodlights, the crowds of onlookers couldn’t take that away; the comments about petrol and similar friendly banter between me and my comrade-in-arms only added to it. 

We charged up the hill.

The battle proceeded exactly as outlined, nothing eventful happened.  I was mournful at the defeat of the four Saxon champions, but how clear that was to the public is hard to know.  Once again I enjoyed it more once competitive combat started, the instruction that the Saxons will win gave me confidence, but didn’t affect my fighting much. 

The line split and I was left with a choice as to whether I should join the mêlée in the centre, or deal with a lone Viking flanking us.  He was fighting two Saxons and defending himself admirably, I advanced and stabbed him in the chest.  The two Saxons already fighting him disappeared, whether they thought the Viking was dead, were themselves killed, or ran off I can’t remember.  But the Viking wasn’t dead and he lashed out with his sword against my shield.  I had already stabbed him twice and this time my spear remained stuck in his chest, he continued to lash out in a futile gesture.  The fact that my spear was quite securely entering his heart was of little reassurance, I have not got a good track record of fighting one-on-one with swordsmen.  But he eventually collapsed, and I wasn’t risking anything.  I stabbed him in the chest again, and again, twisting the spear this time before leaving his twitching corpse and advancing towards the now all-but defeated Viking army. 

Around me were dead bodies, there was nothing else to do.  Unbeknown to me, Alan had been mortally wounded and Gareth was looking after him, but as he died, the Saxons were victorious.  At some point Eric Bloodaxe was killed by his mate, and we were told to loot the dead.  During the looting, a wounded Viking lashed out at a startled Saxon, who stumbled back with the knife wound.  I used the advanced reach of my spear to dispatch him.  My first thrust was parried away, but the second struck him in the chest and I pressed it home, more forceful than with the resilient Viking earlier, twisting it to make sure no life remained within him.  He yelled in pain before remaining motionless. 

The dead rose, I returned my looted sword to its owner and we ended with the traditional Regia charge towards the crowd.  Somehow, I was miles from the crowd line, so instead of the normal stepping forward, I charged direct towards one woman with a camera, stopping at the line where the rest of the army was.  I didn’t expect the round of applause which now erupted from the whole crowd, muffled slightly by winter gloves and muted by others’ cold hands, but I got the impression that they thoroughly enjoyed the show.  As we exited the field, the crowd witnessed the finale — the impressive consumption by fire of the Viking longship and subsequent fireworks display.

We returned our weapons to the school and went to the pub again for a meal and a drink.  I was absolutely knackered, I hardly had the energy to eat my meal.  Despite the cold wind, no-where to sit before the battle and poor organisation, I thoroughly enjoyed the show.  Dispite aching feet, pulled muscles and barely having the energy to eat a home-made steak pie, I’d do it again.

• 1^st Contact
• 1^st Event
• 1^st Battle
• 1^st Witan
• 1^st Feast
• 1^st Training
• 1^st Jórvík

When we set up the local branch of Regia Anglorum we wanted to tie it to a local settlement rather than just a county title.    At the time we were practising in the paddock of an 8th century church in Cookham, but rather than take it from the town we used the island fort of Sceaftesige.

This article sets out not only to describe what the group knows about the original Sceaftesege Garrison, but also how the information was found out.  Hopefully this will provide ideas to others who are looking for information on local historical sites.  (It will also confirm with referees of the Cthulhu game why the library use roll takes so long and what it means!)

Our total knowledge of Sceaftesige at the time of setting up the group was a single entry in "Britain Before the Norman Conquest" by the Office of Ordinance survey.  This was:

Sceaftesege SH903858

First port of call was the local library, checking the local history books there and then using the library computer to search for references in any of the counties books.  This drew a blank.  Next stage was to follow up the reference in the Ordinance Survey: Unidentified Forts of the Burghal Hildage, Medieval Archaeology 1964 Vol VIII (pp74-90).  Back copies of this journal where not available at local or county libraries, nor did any of the local 'antique' book shops in Windsor Eton stock it.  Most archaeologists I knew did not go back that far.

Eventually I found that the British Library holds copies of all major (and not so major) journals published in Britain.  They do not loan out these journals, you have to request to study them on site.  However if you can quote journal reference and page numbers they will photostat and send you extracts for a small fee.  This paper gave me a date the site was believed to exist from and some information why it may have been built.

Next stage was to try and establish how long the fort was around for.  I started by checking the Domesday references for Berkshire & Buckinghamshire (old maps show Cookham or Cockham to be part of the hundred of Beynhurst).  This showed no reference to the fort, so it probably did not exist by 1086.  The Domesday entry reads:

References from other sources gave that Æthelred II held a witan at Cookham in AD997, but no mention was found of a fort being there.

Next step was to try another resource that had come to light while checking out the local college library, the Berkshire CC Heritage Group.  Berkshire County Council has a Heritage Group under the responsibility of the Highways and Planning Dept.  Part of their role is to see what you could be burying when you seek planning permission.  The Historic Structures Records database and the Sites and Monuments Record are available by prior arrangement.  Mr David Hopkins of this dept was most responsive to my letters, providing the results from a database search and other information they knew of.  They viewed Sceaftesege as a temporary fort set up to guard the Thames, Cookham becoming the main development for the area.  A lot of the evidence for the site was covered in silt when the Thames Conservancy board dug a new lock in 1830.  The victorian view of conservation obviously differed to ours.  The database search provided the following information:

1. A find in Sashes field, 1830, =a number of skeletons, roman swords and javelin heads.  Now in possession of Lord Boston.
2. "An interesting but dubious report" on the proximity of a road from Silchester to Verulamium and that a settlement would be expected at Cookhams location.  I've since found other texts describing a roman road from Sante Albanestoe to Cookham with its course lost just after Cookham.
3. Nicholas Brooks work on the Unidentified Forts of the Burghal Hildage
4. Dredging of lock cut in 1856 uncovered a number of iron weapons dating to the period of the viking attacks and in 1860 spear heads were found in another dredging exercise.  Another in 1896 brought up a danish winged axe head and in 1958 a barbed spearhead was found while working on the island banks.  These were now in the possession of Reading Museum.

The next obvious move was for a few of us to make a trip to Reading Museum, sketch books and cameras in hand.  It was shut.  For the next 2 years.  Eventually from the council information office I found it was closed for renovation, all the exhibits were packed away, it wouldn't be opened for 2 years, no there was no else I could see, write to this address.  I wrote to Mr Cram at the museum, who did contact me, only to say they knew nothing of these finds, but that the new Dark Age section would have area finds when it opened in a few years time.  (Regia was invited to attend the re-opening parade a few years later, there was a few from Regia but only Kevin & Liz made it from our group).  I've since seen sketches of spear heads from the Thames, but not the barbed spear unfortunately.

It was at this time Martin Trepte a member of ours working for the Maidenhead Advertiser, came into contact with Luke Over, a local historian of note.  Luke was making a video of Cookham and its history and was keen to have us as living demonstration of the past.  We also lead off a sponsored walk from Sceaftesege island in full kit (okay we ditched shields & spears after two miles but the rest of the ten miles was done in kit, some members wearing mail).

Luke was able to pass on much information about the surrounding the area including the digging of the lock covering visible evidence of earth works and finds of spear heads and also a hammer head.  Some of these were with Reading Museum, others were with the British Museum.  Later there was an excavation of Sashes island but we couldn't wangle a way into it.  A lot of this information was then published in Lukes books "The Royal Hundred of Cookham" and "The Royal County of Berkshire".  In some ways this was useful and some ways disappointing as it included most of what had taken us time to find over the years, yet it added a lot more to our knowledge.

So what was found out of all this digging?


The work below is mostly taken from existing sources with some suppositions of my own.  Sceaftesiege is very much linked to Cookham and its history and there is a wealth of information and finds concerning this town and the area.  The details below are a summary and I hope to expand on them with time.

The name Sceaftesige (shaftsey) or Sceaftesege is thought to derive from "Sceaftes", a personal name and "ege", a common name ending for small islands on the Thames, also for nearby water meadows.  The current name for the area is Sashes Island, through the years there has been many variations on the spelling and form.

There have been buildings found preserved in peat from the Maidenhead area dating back to around AD620.  The local place names of Cookham, Waltham, Bisham, Hurley, Taplow and Holyport are all Saxon in origin.  At this point the Thames was a barrier between Mercia and Wessex, so Cookham was very much a frontier town.  That the site was important is shown by the evidence of a monastery being passed between the King and the Archbishop of Canterbury throughout the 700s; sometimes passed on, sometimes bequeathed and sometimes stolen!

Æthelred II (the Unready) held a Witan at Cookham in 997.  The palace used for this witan is thought to be under the paddock next to the old church (a former Sceaftesige practice site).  The information on this Witan comes from a will whose adjudication was part of the Witan.  Attending the Witan were 1 arch bishop, 3 bishops, 2 aldermen, 3 abbots and numerous lords from West Saxons, Mercians, Danes and English.  As such there is plenty of evidence for Sceafesege portraying a mixture of backgrounds in the group.  A number of burial mounds of individual people have been found in the area as well as the famous burial site of Tæppa in Taplow Court.

Sceaftesige came about in the late 800s, how long it remained for is unknown.  It is first mentioned in the Burghal hildage documents of 914-8 so it must have been built by this point.  If the Witan of 997 stayed at Cookham it was unlikely to be chosen in preference to a nearby fort, so Cookham had superseded Sceaftesige by this point.  It was the only island fort of the Burghal hildage covering a roman road and the Thames.  Not many years before its creation, the vikings had rowed up the Thames, past Sceaftesige and on to Reading, holding it from AD870 to 871.

I've not been able to find a translation of the Burghal Hildage document, but sources say the fort had a palisade of 1,375 yards, enough to cover half of the 54 acres of the current island.  As it was protected by water on most sides it already had good natural defences.  I've frequently seen figures of one man per ten feet of wall used for defences which would make the garrison around 400 strong.  This was a large army for the time so it was probably a lot smaller than this with many being vilagers called to the walls as needed.  Cookham from Domesday was 20 hydes, about 2,400 acres.

The earliest owner I've found is the Shire Reeve (Scirefas) Ælpheah, who passed on his lands to the king between 965 and 975.  From here it was a royal manor held.  The Domesday book states the area was owned held by the King still.


As a lot the information was in single lines here and there over the years, I'm missing a lot of the sources used.  To those people who's work I've missed, apologies and thanks.  Listed here are the principle texts used.

• The Unidentified Forts of the Burghal Hidage By Nicholas Brooks Medieval Archaeology 1964 Vol VIII pp74-90
• The Royal Hundred of Cookham — Luke Over. Published by Cliveden Press
• Domesday book — Berkshire. Phillimore edition
• Domesday book — Buckinghamshire. Phillimore edition
• Anglo Saxon Chronicles — Anne Savage translation Published by Coombe books.
• Anglo Saxon England — Sir Frank Stenton Published by Claredon Press
• The Story of Maidenhead
• The Royal County of Berkshire — Luke Over Published by Cliveden Press
• Middle Thames in Antiquity — R.F.Denington, S. Morgan Editors. Published Slough & Eton Branch of the Workers Educational Association.

-Dave Telford