On the night of November 25th, 1120, a festive mood reigned in the Norman port of Barlur. King Henry I 1 of England had concluded business in Normandy and was preparing to sail back across the English Channel. His 17-year-old son and heir, William Adeline, the only legitimate son of Henry and grandson of William the Conqueror, was among the nobles gathered to make the voyage. A proud new vessel called the White Ship had been offered by its captain, Thomas Fitz Steven, to carry the young prince and his entourage. Fitz Steven came from Distinguished Stock. His father had captained the Mora, the ship that brought William the Conqueror to England in 1066. King Henry allowed his son William, along with other members of the court, including several of Henry's illegitimate children and elite nobles, to sail on the white ship for the journey to England. Henry I considered going on the ship as well, but ultimately declined to change his own travel plans. The decision to let the royal air travel on the ship would prove catastrophic and would change the course of medieval English history and world history forever. As daylight faded, the white ship's highborn passengers delayed their departure with their rowdy behavior. They were in high spirits. The prince and his companions were celebrating recent successes in Normandy and indulging in what one account describes as copious amounts of alcohol. The young nobles and notably even the crew joined in the revalry. According to chronicler Orderick Vitalis, the rowdy sailors asked Prince William for wine, which he gladly provided in great abundance. By the time the ship finally prepared to leave Barflur, nearly everyone on board was roaring drunk. A few very literally sober-minded souls sensed danger and decided to disembark at the last minute. Among them was Steven of Bla, the king's adult nephew, who excused himself reportedly due to a sudden bout of illness, a stroke of fortune that would save his life. Some priests who came to bless the voyage were also chased away amid mocking laughter from the inebriated crowd. A bad omen noted by observers. Over 300 people remained packed aboard the white ship as it finally set sail into the dark, cold November night. The ship's late departure put it well behind King Henry's own vessel, which had sailed earlier. Eager to catch up and even overtake the royal ship, the revelers on the white ship urged Captain Fitz Steven to push the speed. The white ship was newly refitted and was reputedly one of the fastest and finest vessels afloat. Emboldened by drink and confidence, Fitz Steven obliged his passengers cheers and ordered the oresman to row at a furious pace. The sails were dropped to harness the wind, and the ship raced out of Barflur Harbor under cover of darkness, straight toward a known hazard in those waters. Moments later, disaster struck. The white ship's port side smashed into a partially submerged rock called Kilibou, a notorious danger lurking just off the coast. Timber hull planks cracked with a thunderous noise, and frigid seaater gushed in. In an instant, revalry turned to panic, and the great ship capsized violently, tossing passengers and crew into the black icy waves. What unfolded was a scene of medieval horror. Hundreds of souls were suddenly flailing in the water, screaming in the darkness as the ship broke apart. William Adeline's retainers had managed to launch a small boat and hurriedly bundled him in, determined to save the future king of England. Had they rode away, William might have survived. But as the little boat pulled clear of the wreck, William heard the cries of his halfsister, Matilda Fitzroy, Countess of Pers, who was struggling in the water nearby. Matilda was one of Henry's illegitimate daughters, not to be confused with William's royal halfsister, Matilda, the future Holy Roman Empress. Unable to ignore her please, William insisted they turned back to rescue her. The prince's bodyguards reluctantly obeyed and rode back, waiting their craft through a crowd of drowning victims. Immediately, a swarm of desperate survivors tried to claw their way into the overloaded lifeboat. The small craft capsized under the weight, dumping William, Matilda Fitzroy, and everyone else into the sea. In that moment, the hope of a smooth English succession vanished beneath the waves along with the king's only legitimate son. By dawn, nearly every passenger and crew member of the white ship had perished in the cold waters off Barlur. It is said that out of approximately 300 people on board, only one survived the wreck. That lone survivor was a lowborn French butcher from Ruan named Barald. By a twist of fate, Barald had been on the ship to collect debts owed by the nobility. He managed to cling through the night to a piece of floating wreckage until rescuers found him. From Barald's harrowing testimony, medieval chronicers pieced together the tragic story, likely adding significant embellishments to make the tale more compelling. For instance, it seems somewhat unlikely that Barald knew the full details of what happened on that dark night, including the prince's lifeboat incident. As for Captain Thomas Fitz Steven, according to Orderick, he briefly resurfaced amid the debris and to ask what happened to the prince. Upon learning that William Adeline had drowned, Fitz Steven refused to save himself. The captain allowed himself to sink beneath the waves, choosing death over the prospect of facing King Henry I with the news. Again, this testimony would have had to have come from Barald if it's to be believed as 100% factual. That said, this may be a situation where Orderic the Chronicler can be forgiven for adding his own spin. Had Captain Thomas returned to King Henry hat in hand and explained the situation, drowning would have been considered extremely merciful. When news of the catastrophe reached King Henry I, the king's reaction was one of profound anguish. Henry had crossed safely to England, unaware of the tragedy unfolding behind him. According to reports preserved by Order Vitalis and others, a messenger eventually delivered the heartbreaking news. Henry was told that his son and heir was dead along with two of his other children and many of his closest nobles. The king was so overcome by shock that he collapsed to the ground and had to be carried to his chambers wailing in grief. The impact on King Henry appears to have affected him profoundly, even beyond the succession crisis. And according to legend, he never smiled or laughed again for the rest of his life. At the end of the day, up to 300 lives were lost in the sinking, a devastating blow to the royal family and aristocracy. In a single night, Henry's dynastic hopes were destroyed. The heir to the throne of England and Normandy was gone, and with him perished a generation of young nobles. As one chronicler, William of Malmsbury lamented, quote, "No ship that ever sailed brought England such disaster." [Music] The immediate political aftermath of the White Ship disaster was a looming succession crisis of unprecedented scale. King Henry I had numerous illegitimate offspring, but after William Adeline's death, he had only one legitimate child left, his daughter Matilda. This Matilda, who was generally called Empress Matilda for her marriage to the Holy Roman Emperor, was respectable and capable. But the idea of a woman ruling in her own right was virtually unthinkable in 12th century England. Nonetheless, Henry moved quickly to secure the succession. In early 1121, less than 2 months after the tragedy, he took the political step of remarrying. Despite this second marriage, no new sons were born. Confronting reality, Henry gathered his barrens and made them swear oaths of loyalty to Empress Matilda as his successor. He did this multiple times in the years after the White Shipwreck, determined to make his lords accept a female heir. In 1127 and again after Matilda was widowed and remarried, the baronss of England and Normandy paid homage to her under Henry's stern insistence. Yet under the surface there was resistance, and many of the Angloorman nobles resented the idea of being ruled by a queen. Matilda's new husband, Jeffrey of Anju, was especially unpopular among the Norman baronage, who viewed Anju as a traditional enemy. Henry's careful plans belied a grim reality. His dynasty's stability had been fatally undermined on the night the white ship sank. Henry would rule for 15 more years after the disaster, but observers noted he became a harsher, more bitter man in his final decade. When Henry died in December 1135, the succession plan he worked so hard to put in place immediately fell apart. Despite their oaths, many of the late king's baronss were unwilling to uphold Matilda's claim. The idea of a queen pregnant, married to an anjavan count, no less, was too much for them. Seizing the moment, Steven of Bla, the same royal nephew who had survived by not boarding the white ship, raced across the channel to England upon hearing of Henry's death. Backed by a faction of powerful nobles and with the advantage of being on the scene, Steven claimed the throne for himself in 1135, usurping Matilda's rights. He was quickly crowned king in Westminster with considerable, though very clearly not universal, support from the church and aristocracy. Steven's usurppation of the throne unleashed a period of chaos that historians would later dub the anarchy. What followed Henry I's death was essentially a protracted succession crisis between King Steven and the dispossessed Empress Matilda. In 1139, Matilda with support from her half-brother Robert of Gloucester and others invaded England to contest Steven's crown. For nearly two decades, from the late 1130s into the early 1150s, England was torn by factional fighting, sieges, and lawlessness as the rival claimments vied for supremacy. The conflict devastated large parts of the country, and contemporaries immediately traced the calamity back to the shipwreck of 1120. In fact, the period we now call the anarchy may have been referred to with a sense of dark humor by some people living through it as the shipwreck. By 1148, the conflict ground into a stalemate. Steven held the throne but couldn't eliminate Matilda's influence. Matilda returned to Normandy, leaving the fight to her teenage son, Henry of Anju, the future King Henry II. Finally, in 1153, an exhausted Steven agreed to a compromise. In the treaty of Wallingford, Steven recognized Henry of Anonju, Matilda's son, as his adopted heir, bypassing his own children. In return, Steven would be allowed to reign as the king of England for the remainder of his life. This pact ended the anarchy and when Steven died the next year in 1154, Henry of Anju ascended the English throne unopposed as King Henry II. This smooth transfer of power marked the end of the Norman royal line and the dawn of the Plantaginate dynasty since Henry II was the son of Jeffrey of Anju. In effect, the White Ship tragedy set in motion a chain of events that replaced one ruling dynasty with another. Imagine a world with no Henry II, no Richard the Lionhe Heart, no King John and the Magna Carta. It's a totally different world. One which I'm confident to say none of us would have existed in. And at the end of the day, this was all because 900 years ago, a 17-year-old prince decided to let his crew operate a boat while under the influence. On a dark night in September 1327, the deposed King Edward II of England reportedly met a grizzly end behind the walls of Berkeley Castle in Glstershure. Whether he was executed in a cruel and unusual way, or whether he escaped and lived a long life of relative anonymity remains one of medieval England's most enduring mysteries. Edward II ruled from 1307 to 1327 and was a notoriously ineffective king. He squandered his father Edward I's hardone gains, suffering a humiliating defeat to the Scots at Banickburn in 1314. He also angered his nobles by lavishing power on unpopular favorites. Edward's unusually close relationships with these male favorites fueled rumors that they may have been his lovers. His failures and favoritism alienated even his wife, Queen Isabella of France. And by the mid1320s, England stood on the brink of chaos. In late 1326, Isabella and her ally Roger Mortimer led a rebellion, invading England from France to overthrow Edward. Landing in September 1326 with a small force, Isabella found hardly anyone to oppose her. Disgruntled nobles flocked to her banner, and virtually no one rallied to the king's defense. What remained of the king's support collapsed swiftly and Edward attempted to flee westward, but he was eventually captured while seeking refuge in Wales. He was forced to abdicate in January 1327 in favor of his 14-year-old son, who became Edward III. Edward II was imprisoned and after being shuttled between strongholds to thwart rescue attempts, he was eventually confined to remote Berkeley Castle in Glstershare. This castle would be the scene where this medieval English mystery would play out in dramatic fashion. On the night of September 21st, 1327, Edward II's jailers announced out of the blue that the former king had died in captivity at Berkeley Castle. His death was certainly convenient for the new regime. Word of Edward's demise reached Edward III's court within days. The king's body was hastily imbalmed and was presented for burial with no opportunity for close inspection. A royal funeral was held at Gloucester, and Edward was buried with due ceremony in a grand tomb at the abbey. For generations, it was accepted that the deposed king had indeed perished at Berkeley, likely eliminated quietly, thus removing any threat of his restoration. In 1330, when young Edward III took control of the kingdom in his own right, he even had Roger Mortimer executed and accused him of ordering his father's death. This cemented the official narrative of what happened. However, whispers soon arose that something far more horrific had happened behind those castle walls. Before long, a shocking story spread that Edward II was slain in an especially gruesome manner by the insertion of a red-hot iron poker into his bowels. Chroniclers vividly described this torture, supposedly chosen to leave no external marks. However, modern historians have cast serious doubt on this story, noting that the red-hot poker account only surfaced years after Edward's death. Many believe this was likely to discredit Mortimer, portraying him as a cruel, sick individual. Today, most historians consider it a myth rather than fact. And if he was executed, it's unlikely his capttors would have done it in a way that would have universally been considered barbaric. Most experts conclude that if Edward was eliminated at Berkeley, it was likely that he was simply suffocated in his sleep. However, the more interesting mystery isn't how Edward died in 1327. It's the significant evidence to suggest that he lived well beyond this time. Rumors began to swirl when in 1330, Lord Berkeley, Edward's jailer, admitted he had never been certain the king was dead. Around the same time, William Melton, the Archbishop of York, claimed to have received news that Edward was still alive. A few years later came the most sensational claim of all. An Italian priest, Manuel Fiesi, sent Edward III a letter asserting that Edward II had escaped from Berkeley Castle. As you may have been able to tell by the fact that Fieshi could write the English king directly, he was no ordinary priest. The Fies family was one of the most influential families in the Republic of Genoa and had close ties throughout Italy, France, and the Holy Roman Empire. They also produced a couple of popes, an astonishing amount of cardinals, as well as a number of rulers of Genoa. According to Manuel, Edward II was alive and well, living out his remaining days as a penitent hermit on the continent. According to this Fies letter, Edward's death had been faked with a corpse substitute and the king had secretly fled abroad, eventually finding refuge in a monastery. Importantly, Fies claimed that Edward II was living in the Holy Roman Empire and that his identity was known to the emperor and church officials. This letter by itself raises questions, but things would get even more bizarre. In 1338, Edward III had a bizarre encounter while traveling to meet the Holy Roman Emperor. He had an audience with a man calling himself William the Welshman, who purported to be the former king in disguise and thus Edward III's father. It's unknown what the result of this meeting was. However, the current Edward was 15 when the former Edward allegedly perished. In 1338, the former king would have been in his early 50s. And if this was indeed Edward III's father, he would have been able to easily verify whether this was the case. Regrettably, the historical record is silent on what happened next. If Edward II had indeed survived, his son may have found it politically expedient to keep this fact a well-guarded royal secret. This is perhaps the most interesting idea that father and son, the former and current king, met up one last time, caught up with one another, and then went their separate ways. Notably, the body of the person claimed to be Edward II is still intact in Gloucester Cathedral. So, it's technically possible to solve this mystery once and for all. That said, this would presumably require an agreement from King Charles III, which I personally don't see as likely to happen. Spear Halfock, an old English name meaning Sparrowhawk, was an 11th century Anglo-Saxon monk renowned for his exceptional artistry. He rose from humble monastic origins to become an influential cleric in King Edward the Confessor's England. This was thanks largely to his skill in painting illuminated manuscripts and crafting gold work. King Edward noticed Spear Halfox's talents and appointed him Abbott of Abbington around 1047. Notably, given his quick rise, many thought this promotion may have involved some behindthe-scenes bribes, a practice known as simony. For those unaware, simony is the process by which people buy official church offices. And while it wasn't officially allowed, the practice was common in Anglo-Saxon England. In general, this was purchased with more conventional forms of wealth. A wealthy family would make very generous contributions to the church and sometimes local secular leaders, and then by sheer coincidence, someone from the family would be a bishop. However, in the case of Spear Hafok, it appears that he may have in essence purchased the role through his ability to labor as a master goldsmith. By 1051, Edward selected Spear Halfock to be the new bishop of London. This was truly a remarkable ascent for a man whose only clear qualification for high office was his extraordinary craftsmanship and royal favor. Yet this meteoric rise was followed by an equally precipitous fall. Spear Haok vanished as suddenly as he had risen, allegedly running away with the very treasure meant for the king's crown and leaving behind an enduring historical mystery. As Abbott of Abington, Spear Haf had already impressed the king and noble patrons with his creative works. Contemporary chronicers praised him as outstanding in the arts of painting and goldsmithing. Such a claim was unusual for a churchman, and it underscores how Spear Halfox's artistry opened doors that piety alone might not have unlocked. In early 1051, when the bishop of London was elevated to Archbishop of Canterbury, King Edward nominated Spearhaf to fill the London office. This was a bold move, effectively fast-tracking a monastic artisan into the upper ranks of the church hierarchy. In return, Spearhafok was given a large quantity of gold and jewels for the purposes of fashioning new royal regalia for King Edward, a curious act. It looked like Spear Halfock was given a church position in exchange for his unrivaled craftsmanship ability and the understanding that he was going to make exquisite items. However, Spear Halfock's path didn't go as smoothly as the king had hoped, and Edward wasn't about to be showered in royal regalia. When Archbishop Robert returned from Rome, he shockingly refused to consecrate Spear Haok as bishop of London. Robert claimed that Pope Leo I 9th himself had forbidden Spear Halfox's consecration, likely because the appointment smelled of simmon at worst, or extreme royal favoritism at best. After all, Spear Halfock had been entrusted with a cash of gold and jewels to fashion a new set of regalia for the king, an act which might be seen as a kind of payment for the bishop Rick. The Archbishop's refusal created a standoff. Spear Hafa, armed with the king's rit ordering his consecration, tried repeatedly to persuade Robert. Each time he was rebuffed, so he simply returned to London in the summer of 1051 and occupied the bishop's seat without consecration, apparently with King Edward's approval. For several months, the Goldsmith Abbott turned bishop elect administered the dascese in a legal gray area. An awkward situation that highlighted tensions between the king's will and church law. September 1051 proved to be a turbulent turning point for this unconventional bishop. King Edward got into a feud with the powerful Godwin family, who were the king's in-laws, resulting in them being banished from England. Spear Halfock had been aligned with the Godwin faction, and their sudden exile left him politically exposed. Almost immediately after sending the Godwins away, King Edward also expelled Spear Haf from the London Bishop Rick, effectively stripping him of the office. At this moment, Spear Halfok made a dramatic escape. He fled from London and from history, taking with him the precious horde intended for the king's regalia and even raiding the dascese treasury on his way out. According to monastic records, he and his men stuffed bags with gold and gems meant for Edward's regalia and fled England. In one fell swoop, the gifted artisan who had reached for high office transformed into a fugitive. Interestingly, in 1052, the political winds shifted again, and Godwin returned from exile. Yet, Spear Hafa never resurfaced to claim his position. This suggests he either met an untold fate abroad, or he knew that taking the king's treasure had permanently sullied his standing. With no definitive account of Spear Halfock's life after his getaway, historians and history enthusiasts have pondered what became of him. One straightforward theory is that he fled abroad and lived out his days under an assumed identity. The Anglo-Saxon chronicle notes his escape and implies he went overseas, which makes sense. England was no longer safe or welcoming for him. Perhaps spearhox sought refuge in Flanders, Normandy, or some other part of continental Europe where English exiles often went. If so, he might have leveraged his considerable skills to secure patronage far from home. As a talented goldsmith, he could have found work and protection in a foreign court or monastery, living comfortably off the loot he carried away. Another darker possibility is that Spear Halfock didn't get far or did not live long after his escape. Travel in the Middle Ages was perilous, and carrying bags of treasure would be an attractive target for robbers or political enemies. However, if it was the latter, one might expect some chronicle to mention his grim fate, if only as a moral lesson. But no such report exists. The truth of what happened to this corrupt clergyman will likely never be known. But of course, that's what makes his story endure almost a millennium later. Hey everyone, it's Jimmy here just reminding you to click that like button, subscribe, and share this video with your friends and family. In the middle to late 9th century, Anglo-Saxon England faced an unprecedented threat. a massive coalition of Viking warriors that the terrified chroniclers dubbed the Great Heathen Army. This force first landed on England's shores in 865 and was far larger than the typical raiding parties that had plagued the coasts in earlier decades. Unlike the hit-and-run Viking raids of the past, this army arrived with the bold aim of conquering and occupying the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms of England. The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, a year-by-year record kept by English monks, describes the Vikings arrival in ominous terms, emphasizing that it was unlike anything previously seen. The invaders were largely pagan Danes with some Norwegians and others, hence heathen in contrast to the Christian Anglo-Saxons. According to the chronicle, the Viking host landed in the kingdom of East Anglia and quickly acquired horses, which turned them into a highly mobile strike force. This mobility allowed them to range deep into the country. They found the Anglo-Saxon realms divided and weakened by infighting, a vulnerability the Vikings astutely exploited. Over the next decade, the great heathen army would bring destruction to virtually every corner of England. The great heathen army wasn't a single kingdom's military, but rather a coalition of Viking leaders who joined together for mutual gain. Several prominent Viking warlords are associated with it. Anglo-Saxon records mention commanders like Half Dan and Ivar the boneless among the army's leaders. These figures are said to be sons of the legendary Viking Ragnar Lothrock. According to Norse tradition, indeed, much of the Great Army's lore comes from Norse sagas recorded centuries later. These sagas dramatically claim that Ragnar's sons invaded England to avenge his cruel execution by King Ayah of North Umbrea. However, modern historians view this revenge story with a significant dose of skepticism, claiming it was likely a later addition to the tale. The real motivations of the great heathen army were probably more practical. After decades of profitable raids, the Viking chieftains saw England as ripe for conquest and settlement. Wealthy monasteries had been plundered for treasure in earlier raids, but now greater rewards beckoned, land, tribute, and power. In short, the great heathen army formed as a grand opportunistic venture. It was a bid to carve out a Viking domain in England and claim its riches rather than a mere raid or a simple quest for vengeance. By 866, the Viking army marched north and struck at the Kingdom of North Umbrea. In 867, they captured the city of York, which they promptly renamed Yorvik, the key city of North Umbrea, effectively toppling that kingdom. Having seized North Umbrea, the Vikings turned their fury toward the Midlands. In 868, they invaded the Kingdom of Murca, briefly occupying Nottingham before they bought them off with tribute. No sooner had Murca paid them to leave than the great army struck elsewhere. By 869, they were back in East Anglia, where they famously clashed with King Edmund. The outcome was disastrous for the English and Edmund was defeated in battle, captured and put to the sword. East Anglia's independence was destroyed. The Vikings had eliminated yet another Anglo-Saxon king and overran that territory. By 870, only the kingdom of Wessex in the south remained unconquered. Wessex, ruled by King Etheld, and his younger brother Alfred, the future Alfred the Great, became the next target. Given that Alfred is the only English king that's known as the Great, you may be able to guess how this will go for the Vikings, at least in the long term. The year 871 saw a frenzy of battles between the Great Heathen Army and the West Saxons. The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle dramatically reports nine pitched battles fought in 871 alone with forces led by the future Alfred the Great often gaining the upper hand. Just as it looked like the Anglo-Saxons were gaining an upper hand in the conflict, things got worse. Despite the West Saxon victories, the Great Heathen Army was reinforced in 871 by a second Viking force known as the Great Summer Army. Fresh troops arrived from overseas in support of the campaign, led by another warlord, Guthram. Now bolstered, the Vikings pressed Wessex hard. King Etheld of Wessix died in 871 during this struggle, leaving Alfred to take the throne in a desperate moment. Alfred fought several more battles that year and was eventually able to secure a truce by paying tribute to the invaders. The truce allowed the battered West Saxons a brief respit while the Viking army moved on, spending much of the 870s ravaging the rest of England. Finally, in early 878, Guthram launched a surprise winter attack that overran much of Wessex, forcing King Alfred to the ropes. This Viking triumph was short-lived and Alfred famously regrouped and defeated the Viking leader at the Battle of Edington later in 878, a victory that saved Wessex from collapse. Guthram had underestimated Alfred's leadership to his own detriment. The war culminated in a negotiated settlement under the treaty of Alfred and Guthram and the Viking leader withdrew from Wessix and accepted baptism. The conquered northeastern half of England was recognized as the Danlaw territory under Viking control. Thus by 879 the great heathen army's campaign effectively ended. The Vikings had to settle for ruling North Umbrea, East Anglia, and Eastern Murca while Wessix remained under Alfred. The legacy of the great heathen army was profound. It resulted in a divided England with a large part of the country under Norse rule for generations. The story of the great heathen army conjures up images of gigantic hordes of Norsemen ravaging England. And this naturally brings us to the question of how big this army actually was. From the beginning, the very name Great Heathen Army suggests that contemporaries found this Viking force extraordinarily large. Medieval writers were not statisticians, and they often used grand language or symbolic numbers. No precise headcount exists in the Anglo-Saxon sources. Yet, there are clues and later analyses that help us gauge the army's size. Modern estimates have varied widely and the topic has sparked considerable debate among historians. Contemporary chronicles certainly imply a sizable force. The Anglo-Saxon chronicle consistently calls the Viking host a great army to distinguish it from the smaller bands that came before. In one entry, it mentions many thousands of Vikings being slain in a single battle. Given that this wasn't the end of the invasion, this indicates that the English believed the enemy to be present in very large numbers. At its peak, the records imply that the army perhaps included tens of thousands of fighting men. Some modern historians believe that there were perhaps no more than about 1,000 to 2,000 fighting men at the core at any one time. Though this is by far the lowest estimate, they attribute the exaggerated numbers to the mobility of the Viking forces. Under this theory, medieval English observers may have double or even triple counted the same armies. Another potential reason for the high number proposed by chronicers is the fact that camp followers may have been included amongst that number. Modern historians don't include such followers in the numbers for the great heathen army. instead focusing on the fighting men it could field. Other modern observers have speculated that the army may have numbered up to 4,000 men at its peak. That said, these were 4,000 heavily armed men who had made a living off combat. The individual petty kings of Anglo-Saxon England could by and large only muster a few hundred such heavily armed troops alongside a much larger contingent of levies. Today, most historians converge on the view that the great heathen army comprised on the order of several thousand highly competent fighters at its peak. While it likely never approached the tens of thousands touted by near contemporary accounts, it was still immense by the standards of the 9th century. It sounds like the stuff of legend. Two young children with green skin mysteriously appear in a medieval English village speaking an unknown language and refusing to eat normal food. But this bizarre event was recorded by medieval chroniclers, notably the monk Ralph of Kogaw and the historian William of Newberg. The story of the green children of Woolpit blurs the line between folklore and history and has people asking what exactly went down in this quiet English village nearly a millennia ago. During the mid12th century harvest season in Woolpit, a village in Suffach, England, local farmers made a startling discovery. They found two young siblings, a boy and a girl, near the wolf pits on the edge of the village. The children's skin was tinged green. Their clothing was of an unfamiliar style, and they spoke in a language no one could recognize. The villagers were astonished and unsure what to do. By all accounts, the children themselves appeared bewildered and frightened by their new surroundings. Baffled, the villagers took the children in and presented them to Sir Richard Dau, a local landowner. He tried to feed them, but the pair refused all ordinary food. The only thing they would eat were raw green beans straight from the pod, which they subsisted on for some time. With patient care, the strange pair began to adapt to their new surroundings. As they ate regular food, their greenish complexion faded away. Sadly, the boy fell ill and died not long after the children were baptized. The girl survived, learned English, and was given the name Agnes. She remained in the area for years, and some accounts claim she even married into the minor nobility. According to one account, she reportedly wed a man named Richard Bar, a respected English theologian who had studied in Italy. Agnes had essentially gone from a foundling with a strange appearance to being fully integrated into English society. When Agnes could finally communicate her story while she was still a child, she revealed that she and her brother came from a place she called St. Martin's Land. In that country, she said, "The sun never rose. It was always a land of dim twilight, and all the people there had green skin." One day, while tending their father's flock, the children heard a loud noise like church bells, and suddenly found themselves in the dazzling sunlight of another world, in a field at Woolpit. This fantastical account left her listeners baffled with no clear answer as to where St. Martin's Land could actually be. Over the years, scholars and historians have sought rational explanations for the Woolpit mystery, examining it through the lens of history and science. Even in the Middle Ages, when even the most educated people were generally quite open to such supernatural events, the chronicers who recorded it weren't sure how to handle it. One compelling modern interpretation is that the children were plain old human refugees, specifically descendants of Flemish immigrants who had settled in England. England in the mid 1100s was in turmoil during the anarchy and things didn't get better for the Flemish immigrants after either. Flemish settlers who arrived in earlier decades found themselves caught up in the chaos. In the middle of the century, King Henry II expelled many Flemish migrants, leading some of them to take up an itinerant life or to seek survival by any means necessary. In 1173 at nearby Fornum St. Martin not far from Woolpit. Flemish mercenaries in the service of an English lord ended up clashing with the English royal forces. These mercenaries were on the losing end of this battle and the victorious crown forces turned the Flemish mercenaries over to the peasants of Fornum St. Martin. The mercenaries were not given lenient treatment to say the least with almost none of them surviving. Notably, whether all these Flemish mercenaries were from the continent or whether some were drawn from the Flemish community in England is unknown. This documented historical event has led to the theory that the Greenchildren may have been orphaned survivors of this battle. Their father may have been a mercenary who was slain in the battle or the aftermath, while the fate of their mother isn't known. Perhaps their mother wasn't even alive and their father was really the only one they had looking out for them. This could fit the theory of them being displaced Flemish children or the children of Flemish economic migrants. They may simply have had very limited family in England. Their so-called gibberish speech under this theory would actually have been Flemish, unintelligible to the Suffach villagers. Even the name St. Martin might be a clue. The presence of a local place named Fornum St. Martin could have influenced the girl's story of her homeland. Another key factor is the children's green skin, which likely has a scientific explanation. Medieval people used to refer to green sickness, a form of anemia caused by malnutrition, which can turn the skin a greenish pale color. Malnourishment could have afflicted the children, especially if they had been surviving on a scant diet. Notably, their fixation on beans suggests they had little else to eat. Indeed, their green complexion reportedly disappeared after they started eating a normal, nourishing diet under care. This would make sense if they had been suffering from chronic malnutrition, known in modern terms as chlorosis. It's also possible that the children literally came through darkness into light. Perhaps they escaped through dense forests or spent time hiding out in caves, which later gave rise to their story of traveling via an underground world. Crucially, these explanations placed the Green Children in the context of known medieval events and conditions without the supernatural. The era's civil strife and migrations could plausibly produce two lost children with a foreign tongue and unusual appearance. In this view, the green children of Woolpit were simply orphaned outsiders whose circumstances were misunderstood by the villagers who found them. Another theory suggests that the fanciful descriptions given by Agnes of St. Martin's Land are the result of an active imagination. We don't know exactly how old the children were when they arrived at the village, nor do we know how old Agnes was when she gave her account of what happened to her and her brother. It's possible Agnes had simply filled in the memories unconsciously. Others have suggested she came up with a fanciful tale when she was a kid, which she then adapted into her autobiographical details as she became older. After all, Agnes herself would likely have wondered why she and her brother were green, and why they spoke a foreign tongue upon arrival, and she likely needed answers for herself, too. Not all interpretations are so down to earth. Some later writers imagined that the children truly came from a supernatural world beneath the earth, or that they were fairy folk who had strayed into the human realm. In the 17th century, one writer suggested that they had quite literally fallen from the sky, an early suggestion of an extraterrestrial origin for the tale. In modern times, a few authors have drawn parallels to alien little green men, suggesting that the kids weren't actually humans, but rather beings from the stars. Others believe the Woolpit story was simply a colorful medieval fable about encountering strangers rather than a report of literal events. Indeed, apart from the chronicler's accounts, no official records corroborate the existence of the Green Children. However, that said, they arrived in a time of immense turmoil in medieval England, so the lack of proper documentation of their existence likely shouldn't be too shocking. Further yet, just because it doesn't exist now doesn't mean such documentation never existed. But the long and short of this theory of events is that it's essentially a medieval parable explaining how to treat outsiders with kindness. It's been speculated that if this is the case, this may actually be due to King Henry II's poor treatment of Flemish immigrants who weren't treated with courtesy. Imagine an assembly where kings and church leaders of early medieval England gather to shape the future of the faith and of governance generally. The decrees issued at Cloves Hoe were recorded, but the site that hosted these great councils faded from memory. This is the story of why these councils mattered in their time and the enduring mystery of their lost location. The story begins in 673 when Archbishop Theodore of Canterbury convened a cinnid at Hartford to organize the young English church. At that meeting, he decreed that a general sinnate should henceforth be held every year in the place called Cloves Hoe. This established Cloves Hoe as the intended site for regular national councils. In practice, they weren't held every single year, but Cloves Hoe soon became the venue for many of the most important assemblies of the Anglo-Saxon world. From the start, the councils at Cloves Hoe were more than just church meetings. They were joint gatherings of church and state. The Archbishop of Canterbury and his bishops met alongside the petty kings of the land as well as the powerful nobility. The king presided in tandem with the archbishop, lending secular weight to church decisions without formally dictating them. Even though England was then divided among several kingdoms, the Cloves Hoe Councils drew participants from across the kingdoms. This reflected a broad unity of the English church under Canterbury's leadership. It also gave a chance for the various rulers of England to come together and speak with one another, giving some sense of a protonational identity. The councils of Cloves Hoe tackled pivotal issues of doctrine, discipline, and church organization. The first recorded council around 742 was held under King Ethelbald of MCA and Archbishop Cuthbird of Canterbury. Notably, historians don't believe that this was the first council of Cloves Hoe, but rather that this was just the first recorded. There may have been dozens of such councils at that time, but they've been lost to the sands of time. The Council of 747 stands out as a high point of reform. Convened by Archbishop Kuthbert with King Ethelbald's support, it brought together churchmen from across southern England and produced an ambitious set of decrees. At this senate, letters from Pope Zachary were read aloud in which the Pope urged the English to correct lacks practices and warned that disobedience would be met with excommunication. The Anglo-Saxon church authorities with help from their temporal brethren heeded this warning. For example, the bishops agreed that major festivals and liturgies must be celebrated uniformly throughout England according to Roman usage rather than in accordance with local traditions. The council also tightened discipline among the clergy. It forbade priests and monks from living with lay people to preserve clerical dignity. This curtailed what was then the fairly common practice of priests living with women or even officially marrying women contrary to church law. All told, the 747 sinned greatly strengthened the unity and orthodoxy of the church and later generations hailed it as one of the era's most significant councils. Cloves Hoe remained the stage for major church decisions into the late 8th and early 9th century. Under the powerful Mercian King Offa, a bold new policy emerged. Offa sought to elevate the merchant church's status by creating a new archbishop Rick at Lichfield, challenging the authority of Canterbury, and carving up its church territories. In 787 he obtained Pope Adrien I's approval for this plan. So for a time England had three archbishops Canterbury York and the great Archbishop Rick of Lichfield. Cloves Hoe thus witnessed Offa's bid to reshape the church hierarchy in England. This decision would be revoked at Cloves Hoe again in 803 significantly restoring authority to the Archbishop of Canterbury. Not every Senate at Cloves Hoe was about sweeping religious reforms. The final councils on record in 824 and 825 dealt with issues like an inheritance dispute and other temporal matters. Afterwards, the Cloves Hoe location fell into disuse with no further councils known to have met there. The enduring riddle about Cloves Hoe is that we don't know where it was. Medieval writers named Cloves Hoe as the meeting place, but never described its whereabouts with the understanding that the location is so famous that one wouldn't need to describe it. Historians often note that Cloves Hoe is perhaps the most famous lost location of Anglo-Saxon England. Its old English name gives a hint of the terrain, suggesting it was on or near a prominent ridge or hill. Over the years, scholars have proposed various locations for Cloves Hoe. But to get down to it, I'm just going to discuss the most compelling case. The leading candidate is Bricssworth in Northamptonshire, which has All Saints Church, the largest surviving Anglo-Saxon church in England. Founded somewhere around 680. This church is astonishingly large for a small village, leading to the theory that Brics was a royal ecclesiastical center built to host major gatherings. Many think that this was possibly where the Cloves Ho cinnids themselves were held. Notably, the timing of the founding is important, too. As you'll recall, in 673, Archbishop Theodore of Canterbury said that Cloves Hoe would host future councils. He may have been referring to a newly built church that could accommodate such meetings of the petty kings of England and the ecclesiastical authorities. Whatever the case, the hunt for the historical cloves hoe continues unabated with new theories on its location coming out regularly. One stormy night in 1113, a group of French monks arrived in the coastal town of Christ Church in Dorset, carrying a load of religious relics. If the legends are to be believed, this arrival would spark off the summoning of a five-headed fireb breathing dragon. The monks sought shelter in the local monastery, but were turned away by a local abbott, who feared these relics would draw attention away from their local religious artifacts. Drenched and desperate, the monks found refuge with sympathetic towns folk. The locals opened their home to host the weary travelers, even giving up their own beds. Grateful, the travelers prayed for their benefactors. By morning, as the story goes, their prayers had yielded a legitimate miracle. The crippled daughter of a poor herdsman who sheltered with them, awoke with her foot magically healed, and the ability to walk without pain. As the monks departed at dawn, they were suddenly overtaken by two riders shouting dire news. Christ Church was under attack by a dragon. Looking back, they saw a massive five-headed dragon flying in from the sea, belching sulfurous flames onto the town. The inferno it caused raged through Christ Church. But there was something otherworldly about this fire. The only structure that was on fire was the monastery that had refused the monk's hospitality to preserve their own business interests. The monks of the burning monastery tried to save their religious relics, but the dragon attacked and destroyed all the relics. Humbled and terrified, the once proud Abbott knelt down and begged forgiveness for his lack of charity. Thus, the legend concludes with poetic justice, a clear moral that kindness and faith were rewarded, while greed and pride met a fiery fate. Though fantastical, the Christurch dragon saga appears in medieval writings, albeit in evolving forms. The earliest report comes from Gibber of Nojang, a monk who chronicled the 1113 incident soon afterward. He recounted that an English town the travelers visited was indeed engulfed in flames after they left, and that a monastery took most of the damage. However, he attributed the disaster to a lightning strike sent by heaven to punish sin with no dragon in sight. Only later did the specific town of Christ Church and the dragon itself enter into the narrative. In the mid 12th century, Herman Doure rewrote the incident, naming the town as Christ Church and replacing the lightning bolt with a fearsome five-headed dragon. Like the lightning bolt, the dragon was clearly the instrument of God's wrath in the story. This dramatic embellishment caught on with further details being added in, including the miracle involving the crippled daughter of the herdsman. Interestingly, authentic local records corroborate parts of the story's backdrop. In 1113, the monastery was led by a man who had been found to be appropriating church funds, which fits the legend's ungenerous priest. However, it omits any mention of a fire or rebuilding of the church then, suggesting no literal incident occurred. That said, the records indicate that the church had significant renovations, perhaps due to damage beginning in 1094. One explanation for this medieval English mystery is that the origin of the tale is a generational game of telephone where the details became garbled over time. Under this theory, French monks did attend Christ Church around 1113 and found out about the monastery's ongoing leadership issues. Perhaps they saw the monastery in a state of disrepair and someone informed them that this was a result of some form of divine punishment for sin. From there, the story quite literally grew wings, a tail, and five fireb breathing heads. Another theory suggests that a lightning bolt could have struck the monastery or town, sparking a fire. Medieval people steeped in religious interpretation might readily describe lightning's fire as a dragon's breath. Indeed, references to dragons in medieval chronicles weren't uncommon, indicating a genuine belief in the creatures around that time. Many historians view the dragon as a symbolic invention, perhaps not intended to be taken literally. The tale's structure, hospitality repaid with miracles and arrogance punished by disaster, is a classic moral story. Under this theory, it's a lesson in Christian charity, ensuring that audiences understood the virtue of kindness and the perils of greed. Be kind and welcoming, and you'll receive heavenly rewards. be greedy and you'll beg God for forgiveness as literally everything burns around you. Others have put forward the idea that the event actually recalls a Viking raid. Under this theory, which suggests the event happened much earlier than documented, the fiveheaded dragon was actually the arrival of multiple Viking ships. The evidence for this is entirely circumstantial and based on the fact that Viking long ships often depicted serpents or dragons at the front of the ship and also raided England.