Ælfgyva: The Mysterious Woman of the Bayeux Tapestry - Part II

By Paula Lofting

Welcome to the second part of the post concerning Ælfgyva, the woman, who over the years has caused many a historian to scratch their heads in wonder. For centuries people must have pondered over this scene, in the Bayeux Tapestry, where a slim figure, clad in what would appear to be the clothing of a well-bred woman, stands in a doorway, her hands are palm upwards as if she could be explaining something to a monk, apparently behind a doorway.  He is reaching out to touch the side of her face whilst his other hand rests on his hip in a stance of dominance and he looks as if he might be touching her face in a fatherly way, perhaps admonishing her for some misdeed, or perhaps he is slapping her?  On the other hand he could be caressing her face.

The text sewn into the tapestry merely states ‘where a priest and Aelfgyva…’ and the onlooker is left with no more than this to dwell on. So just what is the author alluding to? Why did he/she not finish the sentence?

In this piece of work we will examine one of the possibilities as to who this woman could possibly be and what was her role at the time of the conquest. There are a number of theories, all of which have been thoroughly discounted by others, myself included. I would like to examine here one particular source that alludes to her representing Emma, who, as I stated in the first of this series, had taken on the English name Ælfgifu upon marriage to King Aethelred. Eric Freeman in his Annales de Normandie explains through a story that was circulating in the fourteenth century that Emma had been involved in an unorthodox relationship with a bishop of Winchester and had proven her innocence through trial by ordeal. She was said to have achieved this by walking barefoot across nine red-hot ploughshares.

What followed is even more absurd: her son King Edward, who had instigated the trial and had always shown harsh resentment toward his mother, begged her forgiveness and was duly beaten by both his mother and the accused Bishop Ælfwine. So, could this ridiculous tale be the scandal that we think the Bayeux tapestry is referring to? Bearing in mind that it is only an assumption of a scandal, however, the lewd depictions that accompany the image would indeed strongly suggest a scandal.

My research of this strange anecdote has turned up no other contemporary source. Quite how it shaped its way into the fourteenth century, we will never know, but what it does show is how the medieval mind-set could so effectively create the believable in the unbelievable. If we were to take this story as having some basis in truth, it would be a credible subject, if not for the trial by ordeal which would have been impossible to survive. So, if we put that aside and concentrate on the rest of it, what do we have? Emma/Ælfgifu, depicted as a bishop-loving adulteress whose scandal has somehow enmeshed itself into the threads of the Bayeux Tapestry.

photo credit: Caroline Williams

Now here comes the why, the how and what for. If we consider the scene and its place in the tapestry, the images before it show Harold standing before William having some sort of discussion. Incidentally, Harold appears to be touching the hand of one of William’s guards, but that is another story we will go into in part three. Our gaze next rests upon Ælfgyva and our priest, who is definitely not a bishop, otherwise the tapestry would have read, Unus Episcopus, rather than, Unus Clericus. If we can imagine that the two men are deep in conversation about some important topic, could the image of Ælfgyva have been inserted to allude to something that may have been better known at the time? If it was meant to be a representation of William’s great aunt Emma, she may well have been referred to by the English artist by her English name and this would be plausible. 

Yet the insertion of a bishop touching her face and the lewd creature underneath them in the border is a strange way to portray so great and noble a lady such as the former twice Queen of England. Not only is she William’s great aunt, but also partly the basis for his claim to the English crown. Through her, he was a first cousin once removed to the reigning monarch, Edward the Confessor. It was because of this kinship that William sought acceptance as heir to Edward’s throne. Emma, in her time was often criticised but despite this, she was respected by her English subjects. It is not likely that she would have been denigrated in this way unless she was involved in something pertinent to the story of the conquest. And I think considering the lack of a contemporary insertion in the sources for this story, we can safely assume that there is no credence to this legend.

It would seem that there is no other connection with Emma and the tapestry and the absence of a bishop and the presence of a priest, although perhaps an error but this is unlikely, means that this cannot be the Ælfgyva story the artist is referring to. In my next post on the subject, I will be exploring with you, another Ælfgyva.

We must give credit to the intriguing artistry of the creator who at every turn and twist manages to confuse us all.

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Paula Lofting is an author and a member of the re-enactment society Regia Anglorum, where she regularly takes part in the Battle of Hastings. Her first novel, Sons of the Wolf, is set in eleventh-century England and tells the story of Wulfhere, a man torn between family and duty. The sequel, The Wolf Banner is available now. Paula is currently working on the third book in the series, Wolf's Bane

Find Paula on her Blog
on her Amazon Author Page

Aelfgifu of Northampton & Emma of Normandy: Strong Women in a Man’s World

by Kelly Evans

History would have us believe that very few women had a part to play in England’s story. Typically women took a back seat, relying on their fathers or brothers to make decisions on their behalf. And while this may be true (it was, after all, a patriarchal society heavily led by the male-dominated church), there have been more and more examples of women’s involvement in traditionally male-led areas of life coming to light. Recent evidence suggests that up to 50% of Viking attackers were women (McLeod, Shane 2011. Warriors and Women: The Sex Ratio of Norse Migrants to Eastern England up to 900 CE. Early Medieval Europe, 19(3)).

In my novel The Northern Queen, I focus on two powerful women who did as much to further their respective causes, and that of England, than most men. The novel’s main character, and to whom the title refers, is Aelfgifu of Northampton. Born around 990 CE to a wealthy and respected northern family, her father’s loyalty to the Danish invaders led to Aelfgifu marrying the son of the Viking leader. From the (very) little we know it was as much a love match as an astute political union.

A panel from the Bayeux Tapestry, showing the mysterious Aelfgifu.
Aelfgifu of Northampton is one of the five potential ‘Aelfgifus’ whom this panel depicts.

At the time of their marriage, Canute’s father Sweyn Forkbeard (grandson of Harald Bluetooth, whose initials comprise the Bluetooth symbol we see everyday) had decided to conquer England, partly as revenge for the death of his sister at the St Brice’s Day massacre in November 1002 (ordered by King Aethelred). Canute fought alongside his father, who eventually won, but died five weeks later.

King Aethelred the Unready,
Emma’s first husband.
Emma was Aethelred’s second wife.

Aethelred, who had fled to his wife Emma’s (our second powerful woman – more later) homeland of Normandy was invited back by the council or ‘Witan’ to rule. Canute fled to Denmark with Aelfgifu to raise money and men and a year later returned to conquer the country, defeating both Aethelred, who died, and his eldest son. But as a ruler of a mainly Christian nation (there were still small pockets of paganism left, mainly in the Danelaw) Canute’s council declared that the king must marry a Christian wife and abandon Aelfgifu, whom he had joined in a traditional pagan hand-fasting ceremony. The woman the Witan selected was Emma of Normandy, Aethelred’s widow.

Born in 985 CE in Normandy, she was sent to England when only a young girl as part of a bargain made between her brother, the Duke of Normandy, and Aethelred the Unready, the King of England. (Side note: the ‘unready’ part of his name doesn’t mean he was unprepared, it’s an Anglo-Saxon play on words meaning that he was ill-advised by his councillors: Aethelraed = well-counselled; Unraed = ill-counselled). Her marriage to a man 20 years her senior sealed a pact that would prevent Danish invaders using the ports of Normandy to prepare their attacks on England.

Emma receiving a book about her life
that she had commissioned
(Encomium Emmae Reginae).
Her sons look on.

Of course, like many political accords of the time, someone reneged and, being close to hand, much of the blame fell on Emma. She was advised to quickly provide Aethelred with sons in order to strengthen her position at court and this she did. But Aethelred had a first wife who gave him at least ten children and the odds of Emma’s boys rising to the throne were slim.

King Canute, Aelfgifu’s only
husband and Emma’s second.

Canute, despite agreeing to the marriage, did not abandon Aelfgifu. Instead he defied the council and gave her responsibility for ruling the north of England on his behalf. He even made her his regent of Norway from 1030 to 1035.

When Canute died in 1035, both Emma and Aelfgifu pushed for their children to be crowned. Emma had had her coronation oath changed to specifically exclude Aelfgifu’s sons by Canute from the throne. This meant nothing to Aelfgifu. Her first son with Canute, Sweyn, had died in 1035. But her second, Harold Harefoot, was ready, and already in England. Emma’s son Harthacanute was not; he had moved to Denmark to protect his father’s homeland from invaders.

Harold Harefoot

While Aelfgifu sent gifts of money and land to powerful men to gain their support for her son Harold’s claim to the throne, Emma sent letters begging Harthacanute to return and take the country. Harthacanute refused, choosing instead to remain in Denmark and leaving Harold the undisputed ruler of England. Harold was still relatively young when he came to the throne, a 20 year old with little military experience, and Aelfgifu effectively ran the country until Harold was able to assume full responsibility.

But Emma did not sit idly by. She invited her sons by her first husband (Aethelred) back from Normandy where they had resided since their father’s death years ago. Sadly the ploy failed, ending in the death of her son Alfred under circumstances still debated today. Emma even tried to discredit Harold Harefoot: in the book she had commissioned about her life, Encomium Emmae Reginae, she accuses Harold of being illegitimate, not in fact the son of “a certain concubine” of Canute (as she referred to Aelfgifu) but “was secretly taken from a servant who was in childbed and put in the chamber of the concubine, who was indisposed.”

The Northern Queen tells the story of these women: their lives, their families and their passion.

Edith of Wessex

My next novel, The Confessor’s Wife, continues the Anglo-Saxon tale with Edith of Wessex, wife of Edward the Confessor and member of the great Godwin family.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Kelly Evans was born in Canada of Scottish extraction but spent much of her life in London, England. She obtained degrees in History and English in Canada and continued her studies in London, focusing on Medieval Europe, landscape archaeology, and the Icelandic Sagas.

Kelly moved back to Canada eight years ago, shortly after which her first short stories were published. The Northern Queen is her first novel. Her work can be found on kellyaevans.com or via Nordland Publishing
Twitter: @chaucerbabe
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