A scandalous account of an Anglo-Saxon king foregoing his coronation in favor of a threesome involving his wife and mother-in-law
In the annals of Anglo-Saxon England, few tales are as jaw-droppingly scandalous as the yarn about King Eadwig, the lad who supposedly knocked boots with not one, but TWO ladies on his coronation night. You might have heard it; Eadwig was the young king, just fifteen and fresh on the throne, who ditched his own coronation shindig in 956 to get it on with his missus, Ælfgifu, and wifey's mam, Æthelgifu. But is this royal rumpus as stirring as they say, or just an old piece of Anglo-Saxon propaganda meant to rile everyone up?
According to historians, it's likely the latter. Researcher Katherine Weikert let the cat out of the bag on the HistoryExtra podcast: "It is a great story, no denying that. But we can't just pretend it isn't there, can we?"
So, where did this sordid little tale originally sprout from?
When Eadwig inherited the throne from his uncle King Eadred, the succession was a smooth one—nothing to sneeze at, considering Eadwig was Edmund I's eldest son and great-grandson of the mighty Alfred the Great. With his direct claim to the throne, Eadwig's coronation was more than a mere formal ceremony. It was, as Weikert puts it, "a grand demonstration of kingship."
With so much at stake, it seems rather unlikely our young king would have skipped out on such an important event for some dirty deeds. Time passes, and yarns get spun, says Weikert: "As with everything in history, it really depends on who you believe, doesn't it?"
The story that has endured is one that can be traced back to a hagiography about Abbot Dunstan, a powerful cleric and Eadwig's rival faction member. This account, dating to approximately 1000, describes Eadwig leaving the feast, cavorting with the two ladies like a couple of pigs rolling in the mud, and even casts his crown aside on the floor for good measure—a stark image of his abdication of royal duty. Dunstan, who later became Archbishop of Canterbury, presents himself as the savior, forcefully dragging Eadwig back to the hall, re-crowning him, and restoring order.
But, was this tale nothing more than a carefully crafted character assassination? The hagiography, a highly biased account painted in Dunstan's own image, might just be a tad suspicious when it comes to credibility. "Biased sources! Watch out for those," Weikert says. "If you want to talk about bias, obviously there's a vested interest in making Dunstan look really good here."
The Fall of Eadwig
Eadwig's story does not end happily ever after. Following the annulment of his marriage, his hold on the kingdom started to slip. By 957, his younger brother Edgar was calling the shots in the north. In 959, at just 19 years of age, Eadwig bit the big one under mysterious circumstances.
So, did Eadwig really bail on his coronation for a randy romp with his bride and bride's mama? Probably not. But as Weikert points out, this slippery little ditty is proof positive of how powerful propaganda can be and the kind of backstabbing politics that plagued the 10th century.
Katherine Weikert spilled the beans to David Musgrove on the HistoryExtra podcast. Check out the full chat for more on this saucy story.
In the realm of entertainment and pop-culture, the story of King Eadwig's alleged scandalous behavior on his coronation night continues to captivate audiences, with historians suggesting it may have originated from a biased hagiography written by Abbot Dunstan, Eadwig's rival, as a form of character assassination.
This controversial tale, though more likely than not a form of social-media-like propaganda in Anglo-Saxon England, serves as an intriguing window into the politically charged society of the 10th century, inviting us to consider the power of stories and the significance of biases in shaping history. To delve deeper into this fascinating narrative, listen to the HistoryExtra podcast featuring Katherine Weikert and David Musgrove.
