CHAPTER 2

THE NORMAN CONQUEST AND ITS IMPACT ON LATE ANGLO-SAXON TOWNS

Letty ten Harkel

This chapter discusses the impact of the Norman Conquest on the process of urbanization in

11th-century England, set in the context of a broad discussion of the archaeological visibility of

traditional period divisions marked by episodes of ‘conquest’. The main focus is the city of Lincoln,

but examples from other regions and periods are drawn in for comparative purposes. The main thesis

of this chapter is one of broad continuity, as urbanization processes were arguably well under way in

the earlier 11th century, and the first clear evidence for socio-economic change post-dates 1066 by a

considerable margin. Even the imposition of monumental stone architecture on the urban fabric,

archaeologically the most visibly impactful consequence of the Conquest, can be understood as a

continued symbolic investment in towns as an expression of civitas.

‘They built castles widely throughout this nation, and oppressed the wretched people’

(Anglo-Saxon Chronicle D, 1066; Swanton 2000, 200)

In 1965, Henry Loyn (1965, 182) claimed that ‘the main characteristic of eleventh-century

English towns was continuity in development’. An emphasis on continuity has since characterised

scholarly understanding of the effects of the Conquest on late Anglo-Saxon towns (see, for example,

Astill 2000, 42), even if contemporary written sources paint a more dramatic picture of the aftermath

of the events of 1066. The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle explicitly links the castle building activities of

William I (see above), often in urban contexts, to the oppression of the people, woefully adding that

‘afterwards it always grew very much worse’ (ASC D, sub anno 1066). Meanwhile the Domesday

entry for Lincoln states that after the Conquest over 200 residences were left unoccupied, of which

‘116 were destroyed because of the castle’, and the population of York was practically halved

22
between 1066 and 1086 whilst the taxes levied on the town were almost doubled (Morgan and Thorn

1986, 336c; Loyn 1965, 175–176). Was this increase in taxes a sign of growing prosperity, as some

scholars have argued, or a sign of oppression of the local people, as the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle

suggests (Matthew 1966, 165; Loyn 1965, 175; Huscroft 2009, 274)?

This chapter addresses the impact of the Norman Conquest on the development of towns in

11th-century England, with special reference to Lincoln. First, however, the debate will be placed

within a broad chronological framework, considering the relevance of conventional period divisions

on a more conceptual level as well as issues pertaining to historical source criticism. Reference will

be made throughout this chapter to developments taking place in Britain during other time periods.

This allows for broader contextualisation of the issues under consideration, most pertinently the

relevance of ‘traditional’ period boundaries and different attitudes to the concept of conquest and

invasion as an acceptable explanation for archaeological change. These have been unfashionable

concepts in the study of prehistory for some time now (Collis 1977, 1; also see Clark 1966), but are

still widely applied within historical time periods. Yet the Roman Conquest of AD 43, for example, is

all but invisible in the archaeological record, even if the longer-term effects of Roman occupation are

more clearly defined (Collis 1977, 1; Mattingly 2007, 401–427). Although it is beyond the scope of

this chapter to determine to what extent the difference between historical and prehistoric explanatory

models is the result of separate research traditions or reflect real differences in the past, following

Chris Wickham (2005, 12) it is nevertheless held that ‘our debates are close in their own structure to

those in other periods’ and that cross-period comparisons therefore have a useful contribution to make

to the study of the 11th century.

Different aspects of Lincoln’s urbanisation process will be discussed, including evidence for

craft production and minting, and ending with the imposition of monumental stone architecture onto

the urban fabric. This was one of the archaeologically most visible effects of the Norman Conquest in

urban contexts, with wider socio-economic and ideological implications for our understanding of

developing urban identities pertaining to early medieval perceptions of the symbolic significance of

towns and cities. Lincoln is a particularly appropriate case study for a number of reasons. One of the

most prosperous towns of late Anglo-Saxon England, a record number of residences was reportedly

23
destroyed in the mid-1060s. Its urban archaeology has been researched on a large scale, with an Urban

Archaeology Database (UAD) completed in 1999 and subsequent publication of an archaeological

assessment (The City by the Pool), intended both as a summary of the town’s development from

prehistory to the 20th century and as a strategic planning tool (Stocker 2003b). The interesting aspect

of this research is that it is structured not according to ‘traditional’ period boundaries – for example,

neither the Norman Conquest nor the traditional end date of the Middle Ages of c1500 structure the

account – but according to major changes observed in Lincoln’s material culture.

THE NORMAN CONQUEST AND ANGLO-SAXON TOWNS

The early medieval period is widely regarded as a formative period for the development of

modern European society. The events of 1066 in particular have generated an extensive body of

research, facilitated to a significant degree by the survival of relatively detailed and rather spectacular

source material, including the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, the Domesday survey of 1086, and the world-

famous Bayeux Tapestry, which – understandably – hold appeal for the academic community and the

general public alike (Loyn 1965; Matthew 1966; Huscroft 2009; Morris 2012; Lewis this volume).

The fact that the Norman Conquest was incidentally also the last successful conquest of England

added to its perceived significance during the wartime years of the earlier 20th century.

Unsurprisingly, for many years, the Conquest was seen as ‘the first event of memorable importance’

in England’s history, because ‘with the Normans alone began the regular history of the country’, a

vision that only gradually went out of fashion in the middle of the 20th century due to the efforts of

eminent Anglo-Saxon scholars such as Frank Stenton, who redressed the balance somewhat in favour

of the preceding Anglo-Saxon period (Matthew 1966, 288). Yet the legacy of the Conquest lives on,

as is evident from the present volume. This section discusses some of the broader issues surrounding

the persistence of conventional period divisions within archaeological research traditions.

The archaeological study of the past is characterised by the periodisation of human (pre)history

into broad periods that are based on technological innovations in tool and weapon production in

prehistory, the so-called ‘three-age system’, and in later periods on historically documented invasions

24
and conquests. Although the criteria that underpin chronological sub-divisions of the past are thus

rooted in archaeological or historical reality, they reflect only limited aspects of socio-economic or

political change whose impact may have been felt with different degrees of intensity in different

regions. For example, the first evidence for iron production in the south of England may in some

cases be dated back as far as the 10th or even 11th centuries BC, more than 200 years prior to the

traditional start date for the Iron Age, but in the northern parts of Northumberland the earliest

recognised evidence dates to the 7th century BC, about 150 years after the Iron Age supposedly

begins (Collard et al 2006; Oswald et al 2006, 1, 42). Meanwhile, other types of change and

continuity also occurred. Enclosed settlement forms seem to have made an appearance in many parts

of England during the late Bronze and early Iron Ages, but unenclosed settlement also continued, and

roundhouses remained the dominant architectural form in most of the country throughout prehistory.

In the north of Northumberland, outside the main area of Roman influence, scientific dating evidence

suggests that some roundhouses remained in use even into the early medieval period (Blair 2013, 22).

The picture that emerges is one of significant regional and chronological variation and

complexity, begging the question to what extent the ‘transitions’ that structure modern research had a

noticeable effect on all aspects of people’s daily living experiences in the past. Yet the process is self-

reinforcing, as new archaeological data are routinely classified within these traditional time brackets.

Thus, the historically documented dates for the Roman invasion of AD 43, the withdrawal of Roman

administration from Britain in 410 and the Norman Conquest of 1066 are all used to structure data in

Historic Environment Records (HERs), the National Record of the Historic Environment (NRHE;

formerly the National Monuments Record (NMR)) and the Portable Antiquities Scheme (PAS), to

name but a few examples. The relevance of conventional time periods is particularly dubious in the

north and west of England: the archaeological data suggest considerable continuity from later

prehistory into the early medieval period, yet archaeological professionals, adhering to ‘national’

standards in heritage management, still structure this data according to the traditional brackets of

‘prehistoric’ (until AD 43), ‘Roman’ (AD 43–410) and ‘early medieval’ (AD 410–1066).

The use of documentary sources to structure archaeological analysis adds another layer of

complexity. Although the inherent biases of written sources are widely acknowledged, they have

25
nevertheless impacted deeply on academic and public perception of the past. The details concerning

the Roman invasion of Britain, for example, are known only from scant evidence originating in a

Roman context (Mattingly 2007, 21–43), whilst the different versions of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle

all contain their own specific regional and political biases (Swanton 2000, xi–xxix). Comparison

between the passage that describes Edmund’s ‘capture of the Five Boroughs’ in 942 (present in all

surviving versions) and the depiction of the Norman Conquest in the D-version – containing the rather

gloomy version of events quoted in the previous section – is a particular case in point, each reflecting,

as it does, the political sympathies of the chronicler responsible for the entry. The West-Saxon King

Edmund’s deeds are clearly told from a West-Saxon perspective, depicting his conquest of the Five

Boroughs as an act of liberation. The 11th-century D-version of the Chronicle comprises a

contemporary record from the mid-1050s onwards written from a northern perspective and, given

King William’s ‘harrying of the North’, the expression of anti-Norman feelings in this context does

not come as a surprise (Swanton 2000, xxv). One might, however, pose the question how much the

impact of the Norman Conquest differed from that of King Edmund’s conquest of the Five Boroughs

in 942 from a contemporary, local perspective.

In addition to acknowledging political bias, one must also consider the place that documentary

sources like the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle occupied within Anglo-Saxon society. Historical sources

provide a top-down perspective, aimed at elite audiences versed in the literary traditions of the time.

Military invasion by foreign invaders was a common literary theme with its roots in the Classical

period. As Liesbeth Van Houts (1996, 171) has pointed out, the English defeat was frequently

depicted as a divine punishment for sins committed, ‘a theological rationalisation of the collective

national shame’ and ‘a common enough literary reaction to defeat in battle’. In other words, the

depiction of the Norman Conquest may have been as much a reflection of literary convention as of

actual fact.

How have these realisations affected scholarly understanding of the effects of the Norman

Conquest on late Anglo-Saxon towns? As David Griffiths (2011, 62) argues, the changes resulting

from the Norman Conquest are no longer envisaged to be as abrupt as they were once thought to be.

Changes in landownership took place, but the structure of the English landscape before the Conquest

26
was not so well established that these signified a substantial break with the preceding period, and one

might question whether it had any significant impact on the farming communities who worked the

fields, or the craftspeople in the emerging towns (Griffiths 2011, 63–68). Although in Wales and

Scotland urban life did not really take off until the 12th century, in England urban development was

well under way at the time of the Norman Conquest: the Domesday survey of 1086 lists no less than

112 English boroughs (Huscroft 2009, 274). However, the dynamics of change and continuity are

complex, and already in the 1960s Loyn (1965, vii, 182) viewed the impact of the Conquest on the

development of towns as a mixture of continuity from the Anglo-Saxon period with Norman

innovation expressed in the construction of castles, ‘partially to overawe the urban inhabitants, partly

to act as administrative headquarters for royal and feudal officers’ (see also Collis 1977, 1, where the

motte-and-bailey castle was regarded as the only innovation resulting from the Norman Conquest).

David Stocker views the construction of a castle in Lincoln’s Upper City – already the elite part of the

town prior to the Conquest – as a visible statement of power in an existing high-status area (Dixon

and Stocker forthcoming, ch 2).

The picture of overall continuity of urban life is balanced by indications of temporary crisis,

based on information mostly derived from – again – the historical record. According to Domesday

Book, Lincoln witnessed the destruction of 116 houses for the construction of the castle; in

Shrewsbury (Shropshire), 51 houses were demolished; in Cambridge (Cambridgeshire), 27; and in

Huntingdon (Huntingdonshire), 20, to name a few examples (Loyn 1965, 176; Huscroft 2009, 274).

York, whose population rose up in revolt against William, eventually witnessed the construction of no

less than two urban castles (Loyn 1965, 175). In the context of Lincoln, it has been convincingly

argued that the reference is to 116 taxable units rather than actual properties (Vince 2003, 171–172,

196–204; Stocker 2004). The area thus represented comprises 17% of the 970 properties occupied in

total at the time of the Domesday survey, and – based on calculations of the actual area occupied,

derived from archaeological information – suggests that the area does not correspond to that of the

castle as it survives today, but to the entire Upper City (originally the 1st-century Roman fortress).

Whether such a refurbishment would have involved an increase rather than a decrease in population is

harder to assess, although it might be worth pointing out that Loyn (1965, 176) already offered the

27
possibility that the destruction of properties did not necessarily affect population size, as a castle

would also have housed a considerable community. If the ‘castle’ corresponds to the entire Upper

City, this is particularly relevant; indeed, Stocker argues that the establishments of some of the late

Anglo-Saxon magnates in the Upper City survived the construction of the ‘castle’ unscathed, even if

the identities of their occupants may have changed (Dixon and Stocker forthcoming, ch 2). What is

more, temporary disruption might eventually contribute to an overall trajectory of urban growth. For

example, Richard Huscroft (2009, 274) views the imposition of castles and cathedrals onto the urban

fabric as ultimately having a positive effect on English towns and economic development, boosting

‘the demand for skilled and unskilled labour’, an argument that would be more pertinent still if the

refurbishment of an entire walled city was involved (see also Griffiths 2011, 63; Astill 2000, 45;

Britnell 2000, 107). In other cases, castles had been built just outside the towns and here, more often

than not, new suburbs developed around the castle site (Matthew 1966, 140). The majority of towns

remained in royal hands following the Conquest, and stimulation of market activity remained an

integral part of royal policy, including a deliberate fostering of the immigration of Frankish traders

(Loyn 1965, 177–181; Matthew 1966, 165).

Yet there are other indications of disruption. The Domesday entry for Lincoln is particularly

interesting, as it states explicitly that after the Conquest over 200 residences were left unoccupied, of

which ‘116 were destroyed because of the castle; the remaining 74 are unoccupied outside the castle’s

perimeter, not because of the oppression of the Sheriffs and officers, but because of misfortune,

poverty and the ravages of fire’ (Morgan and Thorn 1986, 336c). Although at first glance the entry

denies that the presence of the new Norman elite had caused the desertion of over 70 residences, the

explicit nature of its denial – written, of course, from a Norman perspective – might also suggest that

the opposite was in fact the case. The notion that the Domesday survey was an exercise in the

assertion of ideas about government is in line with a longer-standing tradition of the manipulation of

the written word by kings to further their political status (see also Roffe 2000). This notion is well

established in the case of literary and normative texts (a distinction that would not have been made in

those days) emanating from the court of King Alfred, such as Asser’s Life of Alfred, the Anglo-Saxon

Chronicle and the various prefaces to the Old English translations of various Latin texts, such as

28
Gregory’s Dialogues, whilst Insley (2003) has suggested that royal law codes were statements of

ideology as well as definitions of law (see also Keynes and Lapidge 1983). If these ideas are applied

to Domesday Book as well, rather than merely constituting a document intended for practical use, it

becomes an expression of Norman ideology involving the imposition of order and structure on the

realm, demonstrating by its sheer existence the power and organisational skills of King William. The

emerging picture is then one of significant complexity, resulting from the co-existence of different

experienced realities. The next section will now turn to analysis of the effects of the Norman

Conquest on Lincoln to add further detail to these arguments.

LINCOLN: A CASE STUDY

In the century prior to the Norman Conquest, Lincoln was one of the richest towns in the

kingdom, second only to London and rivalling York and Winchester in terms of mint output (Astill

2000, 38; Vince 2003, 159, 287; Lyon 2012; Naismith 2013; also see Ten Harkel 2013b, 2). It was

situated in a dominant position within the local landscape, on the intersection of several riverine and

land-based communication routes (fig. 2.1). As discussed previously, the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle

suggests that the town suffered as a result of the Norman invasion, but the immediate aftermath of the

Conquest was not the only period when the population of Lincoln suffered misfortune. After

supposedly being affected by fire and poverty in the period 1066–1086 (as recorded in Domesday

Book: Morgan and Thorn 1986, 336c), it underwent another great fire in the 1120s, during the reign

of King Henry:

This same year, before the bishop of Lincoln came to his bishopric, almost the

whole town burned down, and a countless host of people, men and women, burned

to death, and such great damage was done there that no-one could describe it to

another.

ASC E, sub anno 1123 (Swanton 2000, 253)

29
Figure 2.1

Not long afterwards, in 1140, Lincoln played a key role when Ranulf, the Earl of Chester, held the

castle against the king. The latter ultimately had the victory, but the chronicler of the E-version of the

Anglo-Saxon Chronicle (sub anno 1140) depicts the after-effects of the events in less than hopeful

terms: ‘then the whole of England was more disturbed than it ever was before, and every evil was in

the land’ (Swanton 2000, 266). Despite these cataclysmic-sounding events, there is little

archaeological evidence that Lincoln’s prosperity suffered during the 11th and 12th centuries, and

none that it suffered directly as a result of the Conquest. Although Dominic Perring (1981, 18–21)

identified a phase of re-planning in the stratigraphy of the Flaxengate site that he dated to the time of

the Conquest based on the evidence of a few single coin finds, David Griffiths (2011, 71) has pointed

out that this has to be treated with caution in the absence of scientific dates.

30
 The evidence from craft activities is inconclusive. Lincoln’s pottery production declined in the

early 11th century, already before the Conquest, when it was overtaken by other regional and

international wares, most notably pottery from Stamford (which, incidentally, experiences a period of

recovery during the 11th century) and from the Torksey industries (Vince 2003, 276–281). Lincoln’s

industry expanded again in the 13th century, however, at the expense of imported wares (Vince 2003,

281). Thus, the hiatus in production is more likely the result of fluctuations in the relative success of

competing pottery centres than of the political upheaval of the 11th and 12th centuries. The heyday

for non-ferrous metalworking was during the Anglo-Scandinavian period, but the evidence for iron

working declines in quantity only in the later 12th century (Vince 2003, 282–285). Antler working

also continued into the early 12th century (Vince 2003, 287). Textile production took off in the 10th

century and gradually increased in significance, reaching its heyday in the 12th and 13th centuries,

when it represented the most important source of Lincoln’s prosperity, until the town lost its position

to Boston in southern Lincolnshire in the second half of the 14th century (Vince 2003, 287–292). The

evidence for the relative ‘success’ of different urban crafts thus varies from industry to industry, but

overall the picture that emerges is one of continuous economic prosperity.

In the absence of evidence for any significant economic setbacks in Lincoln’s development

until the 14th century, the decision was made in writing The City by the Pool to treat the period of

c900–1350 (‘The High Medieval Era’) as one coherent whole (Vince 2003). A similar decision was

made in the context of The Cambridge Urban History of Britain. Part II (‘The early Middle Ages’) of

the first volume (Palliser 2000) covers the period AD 600–1300. The processes underlying this

decision are described in detail elsewhere (Stocker 2003a), but it is worth repeating the fact that

‘within each Era it is considered that the material culture of the city is markedly different in character

from what went before and what came after’ (Stocker 2003a, 7). The aspect of Lincoln’s archaeology

that allowed this era to be identified was the evidence that ‘Lincoln was one of the very largest and

most prosperous cities in England … [with] commercial contacts right across Europe’, a situation that

had developed by the 10th century and did not decline until the 14th due to the abovementioned

changes in the organisation of the international cloth trade (Stocker 2003a, 296–297).

31
 The coin evidence also indicates the relative prosperity of Lincoln. Minting practices saw a

large degree of continuity throughout England, and after the Conquest they were gradually extended

to regions where coins had not been produced previously, such as the extreme north (Loyn 1965, 182;

Rory Naismith, pers. comm.). The productivity of individual mints fluctuated, but in Lincoln these

fluctuations may – again – have set in prior to the Norman Conquest. The most reliable indication of

mint productivity comes from the combined evidence for the known number of moneyers active at a

particular mint, and the number of dies used. The number of moneyers known for Lincoln for Edward

the Confessor’s last coinage, the Pyramid type (or type N831) produced c1065–1066, was roughly

nine, the same number of named moneyers known for Harold II’s brief reign, but only six are known

for William’s first coinage (N839 or William I BMCi), produced over a two-year period between

c1066 and 1068 (Allen 2012, 58, table 1; Mossop 1970, plates 79–80). However, analysis by Rory

Naismith (2013, 61, fig. 2) indicates that there was already a gradual decline in the number of known

Lincoln moneyers from c1062 onwards, following a slight increase during the 1050s. The same trends

are also reflected in the known number of reverse dies from Lincoln, which, after some fluctuations in

the 1040s and 1050s, witnessed a gradual decline from c1062 (Naismith 2013, 64, fig. 3). This decline

continued after the Conquest: although the number of known reverse dies from Lincoln for Edward’s

Pyramid issue and Harold’s coinage was both 14, that for William’s first coinage, produced over a

longer time-span, was only five (although an increase came with William’s second coinage (N842 or

William I BMCii), produced c1068–70, of which 23 reverse dies are known) (Lyon 2012, 46).

Coin iconography conveyed political messages, as William’s coinages combine references to

the issues of both Edward the Confessor and his direct predecessor and adversary Harold Godwineson

with a degree of innovation. William’s first coin type (William I BMCi) includes a left-facing royal

bust with staff or sceptre on the obverse, but – unlike Harold’s Pax type (or type N836), which

includes the word ‘PAX’ on the reverse – bears a cross on the reverse, as was common on Edward’s

Pyramid type (fig. 2.2). The detail of the cross-design, however, is markedly different from the more

simple crosses common on later Anglo-Saxon coinages. Nevertheless, the overall arrangement of the

decorative elements and legends on the coins gives an impression of continuity. William’s subsequent

coinages continue this overall trend, but link back more explicitly to Edward’s coinages (fig. 2.3).

32
 At Billingsgate in London a coin was found that had been minted in Lincoln (EMC 1991.0303)

by Geirfinnr (one of the most prolific Lincoln moneyers at the time) in William’s reign. The coin was

a mule, combining the obverse die of one type with the reverse die of another, but in this case the

obverse die belongs to Edward’s Pyramid type (including the inscription EADDARD REX) whilst the

reverse die belongs to William’s BMC i type. One might regard this as an accident, but another

explanation is also possible. In East Anglia, almost two centuries earlier, the Scandinavian rulers had

issued a coinage commemorating King Edmund, who had been murdered by invading Vikings only a

generation earlier in 869, to create a deliberate link between their own dynasty and the preceding East

Anglian royal house (Hadley 2006, 35–36). If we regard the production of mules in a similar light – as

a deliberate choice – they may represent a policy to link William’s reign to that of Edward the

Confessor, but not, of course, to his direct predecessor, Harold Godwineson (Pagan 1990, 203). As

Frank Stenton (2001, 622) has remarked, King William’s ‘administration was based on the theory that

he had restored the good law of King Edward’s time after it had been overthrown by Harold’s

usurpation’ (for a more up-to-date discussion, see Garnett 2007, ch 1).

Figure 2.2

33
Figure 2.3

The coin evidence of the Norman rulers thus reflects the basic continuity with the preceding

Anglo-Saxon period as noted by Loyn. It was probably a deliberate choice to employ many of the

moneyers in Lincoln from Edward’s and Harold’s reigns to mint William I’s coins; for example, the

moneyer Æthelmær is recorded on Edward’s last, Harold’s only and William’s first coinages, a clear

indication of his continued status (Loyn 1965, 182; Allen 2012, 57). What is more, six of Lincoln's

moneyers active in the mid-1080s have the same names as the town’s lawmen as recorded in the

Domesday survey of c1086 – examples include Svartbrandr, Godwine and Leofwine (compare

Morgan and Thorn 1986, 336a with data from the Early Medieval Corpus of Coin Finds). This may be

a coincidence of names, but it is generally held that a number of them were the same people. This

highlights the social status of the moneyers and reveals that certain prominent individuals retained

their positions at a time when many noblemen of higher status were displaced (Williams 1995).

To return to the issues raised above, it is clear that historically documented events – in this case

the Norman Conquest – are of varying consequence for the archaeological record. Coin types changed

as a result of political conquest, but moneyers might retain their positions. In contrast to the rather

gloomy picture derived from the documentary source material, there is no archaeological evidence for

dramatic economic collapse, as fluctuations in the relative success of different industries occurred

throughout the 11th and 12th centuries. The resulting image is one of complexity. On the one hand

this was spatial: the occupants of Lincoln’s Upper City undoubtedly felt the effects of the political

take-over with more immediacy than rural communities in the more isolated parts of Lincolnshire,

34
who may have been scarcely aware of a change of ruler. On the other hand, the impact of the Norman

Conquest depended on the social hierarchy, and gradually decreased as one moved down the social

scale, via the moneyers who in some cases retained their position, to urban craftspeople who coped

with some disruption but enjoyed continuing prosperity. Ultimately, of course, economic prosperity

was essential for the Norman take-over, as it made local communities more likely to accept the

imposition of power (see Astill forthcoming). To achieve this, William first needed to establish a firm

military and administrative hold on the country, which he facilitated in part through the construction

of castles and other high-status stone buildings, such as cathedrals, to which the final section of this

chapter will turn.

‘They built castles widely throughout this nation’: monumental architecture in towns

The imposition of castles on the urban topography of late Anglo-Saxon towns was traditionally

seen as a military or political phenomenon. Thus Matthew (1966, 140) argued:

One use of the castle in the town was to provide a place of refuge to non-

combatants in times of trouble. The chief value of the castle was to defend a small

body of men from attack, and the obstacle they presented to an invading hostile

force was only to hold up a general advance by obliging a detachment of invaders

to besiege it (see also Loyn 1965, 175; Astill 2000, 44).

Although military concerns undoubtedly played a vital role, most scholars nowadays would

acknowledge that castles transcend purely military explanations (see, for example, Coulson 2003, 1–

10; Fradley, this volume). They can also be understood as expressions of ideology, materially

symbolising the political take-over of a kingdom (England) by a polity (the Normans), even if the

underlying structure of the political and economic landscape did not change. In this context it is worth

referring once more to The City by the Pool, which depicts the monumental changes that occurred in

35
Lincoln’s Upper City during the 11th century as reinforcing the town’s economic prosperity rather

than as constituting a break in the city’s historical development (Stocker 2003c, 296).

The urban location of castles in England represents a break from castle building traditions in

Normandy itself (Matthew 1966, 139–140). This ties in with the aforementioned notion that the

imposition of supra-local power is more successful if use is made of already existing nodal points in

the landscape, a point which Grenville Astill (2006, 236, 243, 254) and Jeremy Haslam (2006, 130)

have argued with reference to the West Saxon and Mercian burhs, whilst Mattingly (2007, 276) has

drawn attention to the coincidence of Roman towns (‘civitas centres and coloniae’) and

‘communication nodes, commonly coincident with, or close by, Iron Age centres or Roman forts’. In

this context, it is worth also referring to ideas expressed by Richard Morris (2012, 46), who views

castles as ways to dominate communities rather than to protect them, a development in function from

burh to castle that – or so he argues – takes place in the course of the 10th century.

In addition to an understanding of the construction of stone-built castles and cathedrals in the

towns of 11th-century England as expressions of military necessity or dominance by a secular or

ecclesiastical elite, one might focus on the social significance of their construction – and that of other

forms of stone architecture – as they made a very visible impact on the landscape of England. Seen

from that perspective, the distinction between castles and cathedrals – or, as in Lincoln, the

refurbishment of the entire walled Upper City – is not important, as both are different expressions of

the same investment in monumentality, their frequent pairing in urban contexts bearing witness to the

intrinsic relationship between secular and ecclesiastical power that characterises the medieval period

as a whole (Astill 2000, 30).

A useful insight is provided by discussions of monumentality in other time periods, such as

those pertaining to the construction of hillforts in Britain during the early Iron Age. Niall Sharples

(2010, 53-5, 61) has argued that hillforts (seen as having some kind of communal functionality) can

be distinguished from simple enclosures on the basis of their monumentality as well as their visual

dominance within the landscape, two aspects they share with the castles and cathedrals of the Norman

period. Their communal function and visual dominance impacted on local communities, embodying a

statement of control as well as a sense of belonging. Returning to the later decades of the 11th

36
century, no matter how much resistance was felt initially towards the newly imposed ‘castles’ and

cathedrals – in the eyes of some undoubtedly unwelcome reminders of oppression and military defeat

– as they gradually became familiar elements in people’s daily surroundings their visible prominence

would probably have furthered a sense of communal identity. People would have gathered in the new

cathedrals during religious festivals, whilst the visual impact of these stone monuments themselves

would have created a familiarity that people would have identified with ‘their’ town. This realisation

was already evident – albeit implicitly – in Loyn’s (1965, 175) writing, who regarded ‘ecclesiastical

reasons, the building of great cathedrals and abbeys’ following the Norman Conquest as contributing

to ‘the further development of town life’.

In addition to the effect on urban communities, there is another, more ideological significance

to the investment in monumental architecture, which is deeply rooted in the literary and philosophical

traditions of the time. Admittedly, not everyone would have understood this significance, but to those

who could afford the luxuries of education such subtle meanings would have been immediately

apparent. To explain the significance of the Anglo-Saxon town on a conceptual level, it is necessary

to travel back in time to another ‘conquest’ of sorts, the conversion of England by continental

missionaries in the course of the 7th century. At this point in time, the ruins of Roman cities like

Lincoln lay largely abandoned within the landscape, even if they may have continued to fulfil certain

central-place functions. In the course of the conversion process, missionaries such as Paulinus – who

would become the first bishop of York – chose these remnants of a fallen civilisation as the locations

for the foundation of new churches and monasteries. Thus Bede (HE II, 16; Colgrave and Mynors

1969, 190–3), in his Historia Ecclesiastica, recounts how Paulinus converted the reeve of the city of

Lincoln (praefectus Lindocolinae civitas) to Christianity and ‘built a stone church of remarkable

workmanship’.

The words chosen by Bede to describe the ruined settlement at Lincoln – Lindocolinae civitas,

‘the civitas of the colonia near the lake [lindum]’ – are significant, in particular the addition of the

civitas-label (Ten Harkel 2013a, 161). Normally used to denote a city of Roman origin in Bede’s

writing (Naismith 2013, 46), it also bears an ideological significance, reflecting the deep impact of the

writings of St Augustine, in particular his City of God (De Civitate Dei), which – simply put – depicts

37
human history as an on-going struggle between the City of Men (representing evil) and the City of

God, in which the latter will ultimately be victorious. Although these theological ideas would have

been lost on the vast majority of the Anglo-Saxon population, they would have been of concern to the

missionaries themselves, and of course to Bede as well. It is in this spirit that we should understand

John Blair’s (2005, 249; see also Astill 2000, 31) words as he explains that civitas could refer both to

the ruined cities themselves and to more ideological concepts pertaining to ‘civilisation’: ‘Roman

towns re-born … embodied a transfer of meanings from old (abandoned) cities to new (revitalised and

holy) ones’. The construction of a stone church of remarkable workmanship in the old city of Lincoln

symbolised exactly this transfer of meaning, as does the minting of coins that include the civitas label

in the mint signature, as occurred at Lincoln in the earlier 10th century (Naismith 2013, 47; Ten

Harkel 2013b, 17–18).

Evidence for the symbolic understanding of towns is a recurring phenomenon in Anglo-Saxon

England and indeed elsewhere in Europe (Wickham 2009, 61–67). King Alfred’s investments in city-

building – as Asser (Life of Alfred, ch. 91) depicts it – involving both the refurbishment of Roman

cities and the construction of new burhs, provides one example (Keynes and Lapidge 1983, 101). Of

particular relevance is a reference in chapter 83 of Asser’s Life, which describes how Alfred restored

the city (civitas) of London – commonly identified as Lundenburh, the walled area of the former

Roman city of Londinium – ‘after so many towns had been burned and so many people slaughtered –

and made it habitable again’ (Keynes and Lapidge 1983, 97−98). A couple of centuries later on the

continent, Pope Urban II (1088–1099) actively stimulated the development of houses of canons, thus

making an explicit investment in the spiritual welfare of urban communities (Matthew 1966, 212–

214). The relevance of this in the current context is that the significance of urban refurbishment as an

act of kingship held a far greater significance than merely providing for the defence or control of the

realm. Towns were more than concentrated settlements with dense populations; in early medieval

thinking, they were also invested with an ideology that turned their foundation, refurbishment or

‘liberation’ (such as Edmund’s capture of the Five Boroughs) into a positive act of Christian kingship

(ASC A, sub anno 942).

When King William refurbished Lincoln’s Upper City following the Norman Conquest, he

38
used the ideological significance of towns to his advantage: although his Anglo-Saxon subjects may

initially have understood his military success as a sign of God’s wrath, in line with previous invasions

of the realm, his subsequent investment in building activities in the towns may have been a clever act

of propaganda that was intended to change his reputation from foreign aggressor to a ruler concerned

with the well-being of his subjects. The initial foundation or refurbishment of the towns had been

depicted as a civilising strategy to avert the woes inflicted by the same wrathful God less than two

centuries earlier in the shape of another series of foreign conquests – the Viking invasions – and now

the further refurbishment of these same towns embodied a clear continuation of the same process of

‘civilisation’ that, in England at least, found its roots in the 7th century. Again, William built on

processes that were already taking place, making sure his actions to appease God and return peace to

the realm rivalled those of the most illustrious of his Anglo-Saxon predecessors. Perhaps it is in this

context, as well, that the commissioning of Domesday Book should be placed: as a means to exert

control, as a statement of power and organisational skill, but also as an expression of imposed order

and – through order – civilisation.

CONCLUSION: THE NORMAN CONQUEST AND ITS IMPACT ON LATE ANGLO-SAXON TOWNS

The impact of the Norman Conquest on the late Anglo-Saxon town is not easily summarised. A

key issue is the fact that towns had been an integral part of Anglo-Saxon society for a century or more

prior to the events of 1066. As ‘towns carry different meanings to different people at different times’

(Perring 2002, 9), it follows that the significance of the Norman Conquest on the urban experience of

the town’s inhabitants varied on a case-by-case basis. Taking Lincoln as a case study, the majority of

urban crafts seem to have been relatively unaffected by the political upheavals of the 11th century,

and even the wealthier inhabitants – the moneyers – seem to have been relatively successful in

maintaining their positions. Naturally, continued economic prosperity was in many ways vital to the

success of the Norman invasion. Consequently, the towns also became tools for the manipulation of

public opinion in the hands of the Norman elite following the Conquest, and not only through the

continued stimulation of their wealth and prosperity. The imposition of stone castles and cathedrals on

39
many townscapes, or the refurbishment of former Roman enclosures, may have fulfilled military or

religious functions, but at the same time they may also have contributed to the development of a sense

of community amongst the local population, and built on more abstract notions of ‘civilisation’

amongst the learned elite, thus eroding opposition to the Norman Conquest on several levels at once.

In addition to complexity in terms of past experience, the most important conclusion to be

drawn from this chapter is the evidence for continuity across the middle decades of the 11th century.

Had documentary sources been absent, we might have rejected the notion of ‘conquest’ altogether,

similar to present-day prehistorians, most of whom now prefer ‘cultural interactions’ to ‘conquest’

when considering the causes and processes of material change. After all, the archaeological imprint of

the Norman Conquest does not differ much in terms of degree of visible change to the transition from

the later Bronze to early Iron Ages; if anything, it is possibly even less well defined in the

archaeological record. Architectural forms remained the same, pottery and metalworking styles were

continued, burial rites did not change ostensibly, and even the monumental investment in the towns

can be seen as a form of continuity rather than change, depending on one’s point of view. As

historical archaeologists, we have the luxury of ‘knowing’ that the Norman Conquest took place. It is

important to realise, however, that the decision to treat this particular conquest – and not, for

example, the conquest of King Cnut a few decades previously – as a structuring element in

archaeological and historical analysis is one that was made by subsequent scholars, and not by those

with first-hand experience of the events of 1066. To anyone living at the time, the Norman Conquest

brought both changes and continuities, which impacted differently on different aspects of society. In

the towns, as Loyn already stated half a century ago, the overwhelming experience was, indeed,

business as usual.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Many thanks must go to Dawn Hadley for inviting me to write this chapter, and to David

Stocker for allowing me to read his work ahead of publication. Rory Naismith deserves a special

mention for his help in sourcing the coin images and – as always – his extremely informative and

40
prompt feedback. My recent employment on a 5-year ERC-funded project entitled ‘Landscapes and

Identities: the case of the English landscape c1500 BC – AD 1086’ (EngLaId), which investigated

change and continuity in the English landscape from the middle Bronze Age to the immediate

aftermath of the Norman Conquest (http://www.arch.ox.ac.uk/englishlandscapes-introduction.html),

inspired the cross-period comparisons, and I am indebted to the rest of team EngLaId for their

feedback and suggestions for further reading outside the box. The many useful discussions I have had

with the various members of the international network The Foundations of European Space II deserve

a mention too. Finally, a special thank you must go to Michael for being an insistent yet inspiring

distraction during the initial writing stages.

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