Bernard Cornwell - The Burning Land: A Novel (Saxon Tales)

The spelling of place names in Anglo Saxon England was an uncertain business, with no consistency and no agreement even about the name itself. Thus London was variously rendered as Lundonia, Lundenberg, Lundenne, Lundene, Lundenwic, Lundenceaster and Lundres. Doubtless some readers will prefer other versions of the names listed below, but I have usually employed whichever spelling is cited in either the Oxford Dictionary of English Place-Names or the newer Cambridge Dictionary of English Place-Names for the years nearest or contained within Alfreds reign, 871899 AD, but even that solution is not foolproof. Hayling Island, in 956, was written as both Heilincigae and Hglingaigg. Nor have I been consistent myself; I have preferred the modern form Northumbria to Nor hymbralond to avoid the suggestion that the boundaries of the ancient kingdom coincide with those of the modern county. So this list, like the spellings themselves, is capricious.

scs Hill: Ashdown, Berkshire

scengum: Eashing, Surrey

thelingg: Athelney, Somerset

Beamfleot: Benfleet, Essex

Bebbanburg: Bamburgh Castle, Northumberland

Caninga: Canvey Island, Essex

Cent: Kent

Defnascir: Devonshire

Dumnoc: Dunwich, Suffolk (now mostly vanished beneath the sea)

Dunholm: Durham, County Durham

East Sexe: Essex

Eoferwic: York

Ethandun: Edington, Wiltshire

Exanceaster: Exeter, Devon

Farnea Islands: Farne Islands, Northumberland

Fearnhamme: Farnham, Surrey

Fughelness: Foulness Island, Essex

Grantaceaster: Cambridge, Cambridgeshire

Gleawecestre: Gloucester, Gloucestershire

Godelmingum: Godalming, Surrey

Hthlegh: Hadleigh, Essex

Haithabu: Hedeby, southern Denmark

Hocheleia: Hockley, Essex

Hothlege: Hadleigh Ray, Essex

Humbre: River Humber

Hwealf: River Crouch, Essex

Lecelad: Lechlade, Gloucestershire

Liccelfeld: Lichfield, Staffordshire

Lindisfarena: Lindisfarne (Holy Island), Northumberland

Lundene: London

Sfern: River Severn

Scaepege: Isle of Sheppey, Kent

Silcestre: Silchester, Hampshire

Sumorste: Somerset

Suthriganaweorc: Southwark, Greater London

Temes: River Thames

Thunresleam: Thundersley, Essex

Tinan: River Tyne

Torneie: Thorney Island, an island that has disappearedit lay close to the West Drayton tube station near Heathrow Airport

Tuede: River Tweed

Uisc: River Exe, Devonshire

Wiltunscir: Wiltshire

Wintanceaster: Winchester, Hampshire

Yppe: Epping, Essex

Zegge: Fictional Frisian island

Not long ago I was in some monastery. I forget where except that it was in the lands that were once Mercia. I was traveling home with a dozen men, it was a wet winters day, and all we needed was shelter, food, and warmth, but the monks behaved as though a band of Norsemen had arrived at their gate. Uhtred of Bebbanburg was within their walls and such is my reputation that they expected me to start slaughtering them. I just want bread, I finally made them understand, cheese if you have it, and some ale. I threw money on the hall floor. Bread, cheese, ale, and a warm bed. Nothing more!

Next morning it was raining like the world was ending and so I waited until the wind and weather had done their worst. I roamed the monastery and eventually found myself in a dank corridor where three miserable-looking monks were copying manuscripts. An older monk, white-haired, sour-faced and resentful, supervised them. He wore a fur stole over his habit, and had a leather quirt with which he doubtless encouraged the industry of the three copyists. They should not be disturbed, lord, he dared to chide me. He sat on a stool beside a brazier, the warmth of which did not reach the three scribblers.

The latrines havent been licked clean, I told him, and you look idle.

So the older monk went quiet and I looked over the shoulders of the ink-stained copyists. One, a slack-faced youth with fat lips and a fatter goiter on his neck, was transcribing a life of Saint Ciaran, which told how a wolf, a badger, and a fox had helped build a church in Ireland, and if the young monk believed that nonsense then he was as big a fool as he looked. The second was doing something useful by copying a land grant, though in all probability it was a forgery. Monasteries are adept at inventing old land grants, proving that some ancient half-forgotten king has granted the church a rich estate, thus forcing the rightful owner to either yield the ground or pay a vast sum in compensation. They tried it on me once. A priest brought the documents and I pissed on them, and then I posted twenty sword-warriors on the disputed land and sent word to the bishop that he could come and take it whenever he wished. He never did. Folk tell their children that success lies in working hard and being thrifty, but that is as much nonsense as supposing that a badger, a fox, and a wolf could build a church. The way to wealth is to become a Christian bishop or a monasterys abbot and thus be imbued with heavens permission to lie, cheat, and steal your way to luxury.

The third young man was copying a chronicle. I moved his quill aside so I could see what he had just written. You can read, lord? the old monk asked. He made it sound like an innocent inquiry, but the sarcasm was unmistakable.

In this year, I read aloud, the pagans again came to Wessex, in great force, a horde as had never been seen before, and they ravaged all the lands, causing mighty distress to Gods people, who, by the grace of Our Lord Jesus Christ, were rescued by the Lord thelred of Mercia who came with his army to Fearnhamme, in which place he did utterly destroy the heathen. I prodded the text with a finger. What year did this happen? I asked the copyist.

In the year of our Lord 892, lord, he said nervously.

So what is this? I asked, flicking the pages of the parchment from which he copied.

They are annals, the elderly monk answered for the younger man, the Annals of Mercia. That is the only copy, lord, and we are making another.

I looked back at the freshly written page. thelred rescued Wessex? I asked indignantly.

It was so, the old monk said, with Gods help

God? I snarled. It was with my help! I fought that battle, not thelred! None of the monks spoke. They just stared at me. One of my men came to the cloister end of the passageway and leaned there, a grin on his half-toothless face. I was at Fearnhamme! I added, then snatched up the only copy of the Annals of Mercia and turned its stiff pages. thelred, thelred, thelred, and not a mention of Uhtred, hardly a mention of Alfred, no thelfld, just thelred. I turned to the page which told of the events after Fearnhamme. And in this year, I read aloud, by Gods good grace, the lord thelred and the theling Edward led the men of Mercia to Beamfleot where thelred took great plunder and made mighty slaughter of the pagans. I looked at the older monk. thelred and Edward led that army?

So it is said, lord. He spoke nervously, his earlier defiance completely gone.

I led them, you bastard, I said. I snatched up the copied pages and took both them and the original annals to the brazier.

No! the older man protested.

Theyre lies, I said.

He held up a placatory hand. For forty years, lord, he said humbly, those records have been compiled and preserved. They are the tale of our people! That is the only copy!

Theyre lies, I said again. I was there. I was on the hill at Fearnhamme and in the ditch at Beamfleot. Were you there?

I was just a child, lord, he said.

He gave an appalled shriek when I tossed the manuscripts onto the brazier. He tried to rescue the parchments, but I knocked his hand away. I was there, I said again, staring at the blackening sheets that curled and crackled before the fire flared bright at their edges. I was there.