1
Two armies faced each other across the River Epte in northern France. The atmosphere was tense. On one side, stood the court of the French (or West Frankish) king, Charles the Simple, attended by his leading magnate Robert of Neustria. On the other, was arrayed the host of Rollo, the Viking freebooter who’d been making a nuisance of himself along the Seine in recent years. The ground was, however, set for concord. Shortly before this, Rollo had been defeated by Robert as he attempted to take Chartres, an important cathedral city some 90 km (56 miles) south west of Paris. In the aftermath, Charles had initiated diplomatic contacts. He offered Rollo the hand of his daughter Gisla and coastal territories to the north, if Rollo and his men would pledge future service and adopt the Christian faith. This was a rare opportunity, and the Scandinavian warlord consented readily. All that remained was to ratify the pact – or so it seemed.
We are told that as the forces converged on St-Clair-sur-Epte, Rollo sent the archbishop of Rouen with a message to the French king. The archbishop instructed Charles that Rollo and his men would no longer accept just the lands originally allocated to them (those between the Andelle and the sea); now they demanded the entire territory between the Epte and the coast – a strip some 50 km (31 miles) wider. What from anyone else would have been sheer effrontery, however, was begrudgingly countenanced when it came from the mighty Rollo. Robert of Neustria, who stood prepared to act as the Viking leader’s godfather, advised Charles that he would not win the service of such a great warrior without concessions. And so it was that the king slowly relented. He first tried to offer Rollo Flanders and Brittany instead; but Rollo stood firm. In the end, Charles caved in – Rollo would indeed receive all the lands between the Epte and the sea.
Finally, Rollo was ready to submit. He publicly placed his hands within those of the king, in the ritual act of commendation (or homage, as it would later be known). None of Rollo’s forebears had been willing to submit to another in this fashion; but then, none of them had won such rich rewards. Still, Rollo did not lose his sense of pride. He refused to kiss the foot of King Charles in gratitude, as was customary. In his place, one of Rollo’s men was sent to do so. Yet even he was only willing to go so far. Instead of bending down to kiss the king’s foot, as was expected, the bold Viking pulled Charles’ leg unceremoniously up to his own head, sending Charles sprawling on the ground. The superiority of Rollo and his men over their French counterparts could scarcely have been clearer.
Or so Dudo of Saint-Quentin, our main narrator of the early Norman settlement, would have us believe.1 The problem is, Dudo was writing over ninety years after the events (he completed his History in the mid-1010s), and it’s often impossible to tell where reality ends and Dudo’s fertile imagination begins. To take but two examples, Dudo names the archbishop of Rouen as Franco, whereas at the time of Rollo’s settlement the archbishop was not Franco but a man called Guy; while Gisla – if she ever existed – would’ve been no more than three or four years old. It’s not even certain that the agreement was made at St-Clair-sur-Epte. The Epte was the later frontier between Normandy and France, to which Norman ducal authority probably first stretched in the 930s. And St-Clair witnessed an important meeting between Rollo’s grandson and the French king in 942. Dudo may simply have modelled his account on this.2
Unfortunately for us, Dudo’s almost all we have. It’s clear that some sort of deal was struck with the Vikings around this time. But more than that is hard to say. The lack of contemporary interest in the early Viking settlement is understandable. Despite Dudo’s claims, the pact of St-Clair was nothing special. The Vikings (or Northmen) had burst on the scene in the late eighth century, when they initiated a series of Blitzkrieg raids on western Europe’s exposed coastlines. What first inspired them to seek their fortunes across the seas remains a matter of debate, but there were clearly a number of incentives. New kingdoms were being created within Scandinavia, which created a pool of discontented petty chiefs (and their men) who’d lost out in the process. Growing maritime capabilities also made foreign ventures easier than ever. Added to which, there was political instability in many parts of Europe (particularly the British Isles). Raids of ever-increasing intensity began in the second half of the eighth century (perhaps as early as the 760s or 770s), eventually culminating in the conquest of large swathes of continental Europe and the British Isles.3
Under these circumstances, it’s hardly surprising that western European rulers began to recruit Vikings into their own armies. This not only removed a prospective threat, but often provided the best line of defence; it was a matter of setting a thief to catch a thief. Yet the Northmen were not only out to make a quick buck, and it soon became common to offer land in exchange for more extended service. A particularly popular tactic was to settle Viking groups in coastal districts, leaving them to defend these against their own countrymen.4 Parts of Flanders were repeatedly bestowed in this fashion; and this tradition may well have informed Charles’ attempts to fob Rollo off with the region.
Rollo himself may have hailed from Norway and began his career as part of the ‘Great Viking Army’, which conquered large parts of England in the 860s and 870s. He was probably not present for the earliest phases of these conquests. But he’d clearly joined the force by the time it relocated from England to northern France in the early 880s and was present in 885 and 886, when it famously besieged Paris. While the future French capital held firm, elements of the army went on to overrun much of Brittany and the northern Seine. And Rollo was one of the leaders to settle on the Seine.
Without more detailed sources, it’s hard to know the precise nature of Rollo’s activities in these years. Archaeologists are sometimes tempted to associate early evidence for Scandinavian settlement in what was to become Normandy with Dudo’s tall tales of Rollo’s exploits in the 890s, painting a detailed picture of the early growth of the new Viking power. But caution is called for where Dudo’s vivid (but clearly fantastic) narrative is concerned.5 It’s likely that Rollo and his army were active – and perhaps even settled – on the lower Seine before their pact with Charles c.911. Then at some point these inroads were formalised by an agreement with King Charles (perhaps at St-Clair). Our earliest secure evidence of this comes not from Dudo, but from charters (that is, legal documents, granting land or rights) issued in the name of King Charles.6 The first of these, from 905, reveals that at this point the core areas of what was to become Normandy were still in royal hands, since Charles then granted eleven serfs at Pîtres (just south of Rouen) to his chancellor, a man called Ernustus. There are, however, signs that the region was already under pressure. In the following year, another charter records that the monks of Saint-Marcoulf in the west of later Normandy had moved the relics of their patron saint Marculf to Corbény (just north of Rheims), on account of attacks by the pagans (i.e. Vikings). Evidently the Northmen were making their presence felt, and it is likely that Rollo and his associates were among them. The situation was far from catastrophic, however, as the charter also alludes to the possibility of Marculf’s return.
The most important document is a charter of March 918 in favour of the Parisian monastery of Saint-Germain-des-Prés, which mentions Rollo’s pact with King Charles. This grants Saint-Germain the lands of the smaller religious community of La Croix-Saint-Ouen, located on the Eure in modern La Croix-Saint-Leufroy, just 43 km (27 miles) south of Rouen. The reason was that La Croix, like Saint-Marcoulf, had suffered at the hands of its Viking neighbours (the charter speaks dramatically of the ‘ferocity of the pagans’) to such an extent that its position was no longer tenable. Its estates were therefore now being assigned to the abbey of Saint-Germain, which lay well out of harm’s way in Paris. Yet an important reservation is made. King Charles does not grant all of La Croix’s lands to the Parisian monastery, but only those which are not in ‘that part of the abbey’s holdings we granted to the Northmen of the Seine, namely Rollo and his followers, for the protection of the realm.’ Evidently the Vikings were now an established presence on the lower Seine – and the royal writ did not run within their domains.
By early 918, a significant portion of what was to become Normandy had thus been ceded to Rollo and his men. Though Dudo presents the king and his leading magnate, Robert of Neustria, working in seamless harmony here, the reality was almost certainly more complicated. Dudo wrote at a time when Robert’s descendants had achieved royal status with the support of Rollo’s heirs, who repeatedly backed them in factional disputes of the intervening years. It was convenient for Dudo to pretend that the families had been allies from the start. In fact, the settlement of Rollo was, at the time, to the detriment of Duke Robert. For over half a century, Robert and his family had dominated the Neustrian march, a large region of north-western France. Rollo’s territories were carved directly out of this, and it’s hard to believe that the duke was happy about it – let alone that it was he who persuaded the king to grant the land (as Dudo would have us believe). The La Croix charter confirms this. The abbeys of La Croix and Saint-Germain were both under Robert’s control; and the entire transaction is a piece of damage limitation for the duke, granting the holdings of one exposed abbey to another more secure one.
Politically, Charles’ pact with Rollo was a success. Rollo’s Northmen not only proved an effective deterrent to other Viking groups, they were also staunch allies in the internecine politics of tenth-century France. The biggest threat to Charles lay in Duke Robert, whose elder brother had briefly been king in the 890s. This is why Charles settled Rollo and his men on Robert’s lands, and they continued to assist Charles in future years. A crucial moment came in late 922 and early 923, when Robert rebelled, claiming the crown for himself. And though Robert died in battle at Soissons in 923, his side prevailed, eventually capturing Charles. As a result, Robert’s son-in-law, Duke Raoul of Burgundy, inherited the French throne. It was at this point that Charles called on his Viking allies. Rollo happily took up arms in the name of the deposed monarch. But Charles’ strategy backfired. For Rollo was unable to free him, and his intervention further soured the king’s relations with his French subjects. Pacts with pagan Vikings were unpopular at the best of times, and memories of the damage done by Rollo and his men remained fresh.
Yet if Charles reaped little immediate benefit, Rollo was able to profit from the resulting turmoil. Our main source here are the Annals of Flodoard, a contemporary record from nearby Rheims. These speak of Rollo as ‘prince of the Northmen’ (princeps Nordmannorum), alluding to the earlier pact he’d forged with Charles – a pact which the king’s opponents claimed (rather tendentiously) Rollo had broken by rallying to Charles’ aid, since this was done against the wishes of the new king Raoul. This is a clear reference to Rollo’s original settlement of c.911, mentioned both in the charter of 918 and in Dudo’s account. It was, however, more than mere loyalty which stirred Rollo and his men. For Flodoard also states that Charles promised Rollo ‘a breath of land’ in this connection, a turn of phrase which probably refers to an extension of the original settlement. Certainly when Raoul later made peace with Rollo in 924, he had to buy him off with Maine and the Bessin to the west.7
Subsequent years saw further expansion of the new Viking polity on the Seine. Rollo was defeated by Raoul’s associates in 925, but in 933 his son William ‘Longsword’ was in a position to exact further concessions. In exchange for William’s submission, Raoul now ceded the Norman duke eastern Brittany (apparently the Cotentin and Avranchin). Slowly but surely, the territory held by the Seine river Northmen was starting to take on the dimensions of the future duchy of Normandy. Slowly but surely, the pagan Northmen were becoming Christian Normans. It would, however, take another half-century of toil and sweat before the process was complete.
If Flodoard’s reports and Charles’ charters confirm the essentials of Dudo’s account, they also highlight its problems. According to Dudo, the duchy of Normandy emerged Athena-like, fully formed from the heads of Rollo and Charles. Yet the initial settlement was much smaller than Dudo would have us believe, only reaching its full dimensions in the 930s at the earliest. In his History of the Church of Rheims, Flodoard (a contemporary observer with little reason to mislead here) reports that the initial concession concerned just Rouen and the pagi – pagus being a local French administrative district – on the northern coast and surrounding the city (Talou, Caux, Roumois, and parts of the Vexin and Evrencin); and this fits well with other evidence suggesting that the duchy grew slowly outward from Rouen and its environs.8
Such sources may shine a light on subjects neglected by Dudo, but they do little to reveal the gritty reality of early settlement. Here is where the study of place-names (toponymy) comes in handy. People tend to refer to new settlements and landscape features in their native tongue; and charting the presence of Scandinavian name-forms is a useful means of gauging the nature of early Norse presence. A significant number of place-names of Scandinavian derivation can be identified in what would become Normandy, in sharp contrast with the other regions of northern France. And these are concentrated along the coast, in precisely those regions between Seine and Bresle which according to Flodoard comprised Rollo’s initial settlement. Most of the names in question involve a Norse personal name and a French suffix (e.g. Toqueville, ‘Toki’s ville’), or the addition of a Scandinavian suffix such as -tot (‘property’) to a French or Scandinavian name (e.g. Robertot, Hatteintot). Such mixed forms suggest significant interaction between French and Norse speakers from an early date. Place-names ending in -tuit or -thuit – from the Old Norse for a clearing (þveit) – indicate that at least some of the settlers were (or became) farmers, carving out fresh lands for themselves. A few place-names may even be Anglo-Scandinavian, i.e. coined by Vikings who’d previously lived in England. And the presence of Celtic personal names may likewise point to elements drawn from other parts of the British Isles (perhaps Man or the Scottish isles). This linguistic influence extends to the Norman dialect of French, which preserves a number of Old Norse loan-words, particularly for maritime pursuits.
What this amounts to is evidence of a considerable Norse-speaking presence from an early date and much bilingualism, with French soon becoming the dominant tongue (with a few fossilised Norse name forms and technical terms living on).9 Clearly there was early contact between French and Norse speakers. But despite the relatively high number of Scandinavian place-names – comparable to what we see in parts of northern and eastern England – loan-words in the local Norman dialect of French remain much rarer than in English. Here we must bear in mind that the Old English language was much closer to the Norse of the settlers, a situation which would have encouraged linguistic interaction.10 By contrast, Old French and Old Norse were mutually incomprehensible, so contact was always likely to remain limited to the borrowing of technical terms and settlement names.
If place-names are no secure guide to the number of settlers, they do put paid to the notion that Scandinavian influence was either superficial or fleeting. New settlement names rarely emerge without significant numbers of native speakers. And the nature and spread of these names indicates that the settlers included farmers and artisans, alongside warriors and aristocrats. That said, it’s unlikely that Old Norse speakers were a majority except in small enclaves. And alongside signs of change must be weighed the significant evidence for administrative continuity. Systems of Frankish government survived largely intact in Normandy, with Rollo and his heirs playing much the same role as counts and dukes in neighbouring regions. There are signs of slightly greater disruption in Church structures, as we might expect from an influx of pagan pirates. But even here there are indications of continuity and vitality. A particularly important role was played by the archbishop of Rouen. Dudo gives Franco a central role in the original settlement. And while he clearly got confused about the archbishop’s name, it is significant that the territory of what became Normandy maps almost directly on to the church province of Rouen. Contemporaries were well aware of this fact, and in the mid-990s Richer of Rheims equates the (ecclesiastical) province of Rouen with the region of Viking settlement.11
Sadly, little is known of the mechanics of settlement and acculturation. Conversion to the Christian faith would certainly have been an important part of the process. Dudo has Rollo baptised at St-Clair-sur-Epte, with Robert of Neustria standing sponsor. The terms of this account clearly evoke the earlier conversion of the Roman emperor Constantine the Great (d. 337). Yet while we may doubt Dudo on the detail, there is every reason to believe that conversion would have been part the deal. Baptism had long been a requirement for entry into royal service in France; and Flodoard similarly reports that Rollo and his men had been given lands in order ‘that they should cultivate the [Christian] faith and keep the peace.’12
Baptism alone, however, is no guarantee of Christian conduct. We must imagine that the full process of adopting Christian mores took at least a generation or two. Where local bishops remained in place, they played an essential part in fostering the new faith. Two key players here were Guy of Rouen (archbishop of Rouen at the time of Rollo’s settlement) and Heriveus (or Hervey) of Rheims. Flodoard reports that the latter had ‘worked hard for the softening and conversion of the Northmen, until finally they began to accept the faith, after the battle which Count Robert [of Neustria] fought against them at Chartres.’13 This is clearly a reference to the circumstances surrounding the original settlement. And Flodoard owes his knowledge of these details to a collection of twenty-three authoritative statements (Latin: capitula) on the subject of conversion and the faith, culled from the writings of the Church Fathers. These had been produced by Heriveus in response to a request from Archbishop Guy, who was evidently at the forefront of these efforts. Together, they constitute a missionary handbook of sorts. One of Heriveus’ main concerns is those who have been baptised, yet revert to their pagan ways. Apostasy (lapsing from the faith) was a common problem within the missionary field.14
Still, all indications are that most of those who settled with Rollo took up the Christian faith swiftly enough. There are no signs of distinctively pagan Scandinavian burials in Normandy, as we see in other parts of Europe in these years. There are also no examples of sculpture or metal-working invoking Norse deities, as was common in large swathes of northern and eastern England. When it came to winning hearts and minds, social integration between the incomers and the local Christian Franks/French must have been as important as the institutional Church. Dudo’s imaginative account may be of more assistance here. According to this, during his early attacks Rollo had carried off a local girl called Poppa, whom he then took in marriage. She later gave birth to William, Rollo’s eventual successor. The report smacks of legend; and, like Rollo’s later match to Gisla, there is good reason to doubt its historical accuracy. It is, nevertheless, entirely conceivable that Rollo’s first spouse was French, since William is a good French name. Certainly Rollo would not have been alone in taking a native wife. While some of the incomers may have brought spouses and children with them, men would have outnumbered women and the result must have been a significant element of intermarriage. Since mothers play an especially important role in language acquisition, this would have been a powerful motor for integration, ensuring that the second generation of Seine valley Northmen were largely Francophone.15 Rollo had perhaps been little more than a pagan pirate, but his son William bore all the trappings of a French nobleman: he was pious, Christian and, most importantly, French-speaking.
The degree to which Rollo’s children had integrated into French society is revealed by their marriages. His son William married Liutgard (or Leyarda), the daughter of Heribert II of Vermandois, the most powerful magnate in northern France in the 920s (and William’s immediate neighbour to the east), while his daughter Gerloc married William ‘Towhead’ (III) of Poitou and Aquitaine, the leading figure in the south west, taking on the suitably French name Adela. Their thoroughly French religious and cultural outlook is attested by the poetic dirge (Planctus) composed upon William’s death, apparently at Adela’s behest. This is written in Latin verse and addresses them in the same terms as any other members of the local French aristocracy.16
This is not to say that Rollo’s men entirely forgot their origins. As Dudo’s account and its continuations by William of Jumièges and others in the later eleventh and twelfth centuries reveal, those who became the Normans remained proud of their pagan pedigree for centuries, even if this was rehearsed in French or Latin prose and verse. Nor were contacts with Scandinavia severed, as we can see from subsequent waves of settlement. The catalyst for these was the first major crisis of ducal power, occasioned by the death of William in 942. William did not have any sons by Liutgard. And Richard, his son from an earlier union with a Breton noblewoman, was no more than ten at the time.
In the following years, there are signs that the duchy was unravelling. New Viking bands arrived, drawn in by prospects of pillage and settlement. And new figures established themselves within William’s territory, most notably the warlord Harald in and around Bayeux. The divisions that arose were partly religious in nature. Some of the Northmen had recently abandoned the Christian faith (just as Heriveus had feared would happen), calling in associates from abroad, while others remained committed to the ducal court and integration within Frankish society.
Earlier Viking settlements in Brittany and the Loire had been snuffed out after a generation or two; history now looked set to repeat itself on the Seine. This political instability also served to draw in the neighbouring French rulers. Both King Louis IV, the son of Charles the Simple, and Duke Hugh ‘the Great’, the son of Robert of Neustria, sought to take advantage of Richard’s weakness. Robert secured much of the western territory acquired by Rollo and William, only breaking off a promising siege of Bayeux on royal orders. Louis, for his part, was able to assert royal control in the east all the way to Rouen, the main centre of Richard’s power and authority.
Only a small portion of the local Northmen still answered to Richard, who was himself too young to play an active part in developments. Yet just when all seemed lost, a typically Norman com-bination of serendipity and derring-do saved Richard and his men. Relations between Louis and Hugh had long been tense. And soon after the king insisted that Hugh break off his siege of Bayeux, relations between the two broke down irreparably, allowing Richard and his advisers to form an alliance with the aggrieved duke. They also established friendly relations with Harald of Bayeux. The latter move proved crucial, for Louis himself was captured by Harald’s men in the course of conflicts in 945, effectively ending the king’s plans for northward expansion. Louis was released into the hands of Duke Hugh, who now became the power behind the French throne. With the immediate threat over, Richard and his advisers were able to focus on reconstructing ducal power and authority.17 It had been a close-run thing, but Rollo’s descendants had succeeded where other Vikings had failed. How would they now wield their new-found power and influence?