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They bore shining helmets that had been adorned with white-plated boars; the boar-figures glinted above their cheek-guards. (Translation from Beowulf by Seamus Heaney).  The firelight trembles along the beams of the hall. Shields hang on the walls like sleeping moons. A harp sounds once, twice, and a poet begins.
He sings of mail shirts that “rang as they marched,” of spears like winter branches, and of helmets crowned with boars — fierce guardians forged in iron. In Beowulf, war-gear is never mere equipment. It is alive with meaning. It glints, it protects, it remembers. One passage lingers over the helm itself: “The boar-shapes shone above their cheek-guards, adorned with gold, fierce and fire-hardened…” Elsewhere, as warriors prepare for battle, the poet notes: “They seemed a band of kinsmen; there boar-crests gleamed, brightly forged, over the cheek-guards.” The imagery is precise. The helmet is not plain. It has cheek-guards. It bears a boar crest. It gleams with metalwork. And it is more than decoration — it is protective, almost talismanic. The boar, sacred in Germanic tradition, was believed to guard the warrior who wore it. For centuries, such lines felt half-mythic. Beowulf survives in a single manuscript copied around the year 1000, though the poem itself is older. It describes a heroic age already fading into memory. Historians debated how much of its martial splendour reflected reality. Surely, some argued, the poet embroidered. Surely the gleaming boar-crested helm belonged more to imagination than history. Then the earth spoke. In 1939, excavators working at Sutton Hoo uncovered a burial unlike any previously found in England. Beneath a grassy mound lay the imprint of a great ship — and within it, a chamber filled with treasure: gold buckles, garnet-inlaid shoulder clasps, silver bowls from Byzantium. And there, scattered in fragments, was a helmet. At first, it did not look like much like a helm. Corroded iron. Shattered plates. Hundreds of pieces. But careful reconstruction revealed something astonishing: a full-face mask with piercing eye openings, a nose guard flowing seamlessly into a moustached visage, cheek-guards, and above it all, a crest. The helmet’s surface bore intricate tinned-bronze panels depicting warriors, animals, and interlacing patterns. Most strikingly, it featured boar imagery — the very creature that gleamed above the cheek-guards in Beowulf. Poetry had described something real. *** The boar was not chosen casually. In Germanic pagan belief, the animal was associated with protection and divine favour. The god Freyr was said to possess a golden-bristled boar, Gullinbursti, whose radiance lit the night. Warriors wore boar images as amulets. To place the beast atop a helm was to invite its ferocity and guardianship into battle. When Beowulf says: “The boar-crest protected the life of the warrior,” it is not indulging metaphor alone. The line suggests belief — the conviction that craftsmanship and myth intertwined. The Sutton Hoo helmet confirms this cultural logic. The boar crest mounted along its ridge was not ornamental excess. It was a declaration. The man buried beneath that mound — often associated with King Rædwald of East Anglia, though certainty eludes us — was presenting himself as a warrior under sacred protection. The poem and the artefact agree: the helm was both armour and symbol. *** One of the most arresting features of the Sutton Hoo helmet is its mask. It does not merely shield the face; it replaces it. The iron eyebrows sweep down into the nose. The moustache flows into the cheek-plates. A subtle optical illusion forms: what seems at first a human face resolves into a bird in flight — the eyebrows its wings, the nose its beak. The warrior becomes something other. In Beowulf, helmets are described as “grim-faced” and “battle-masks.” The Old English word grima suggests both mask and spectre. To don the helm was to assume a new identity — fearsome, inhuman, heightened. This resonates deeply with the reconstructed artefact. Looking into the eyeholes of the Sutton Hoo helmet, one does not see a comfortable piece of equipment. One sees transformation. The man within vanishes; the mythic warrior emerges. Was the poet drawing from helmets he had seen? Or was he preserving an older tradition already rare in his time? Helmets from Anglo-Saxon England are extraordinarily scarce. The Sutton Hoo example is one of only a handful known. Most warriors likely fought bareheaded or with simpler protection. And yet the poem lingers over these splendid helms. It suggests memory. *** Before Sutton Hoo, some scholars regarded Beowulf as largely legendary — valuable as literature, unreliable as cultural testimony. After Sutton Hoo, that skepticism softened. The ship burial itself echoes the poem’s funeral of Scyld Scefing: “They stretched their beloved lord in his boat, laid out by the mast, amidships, the great ring-giver.” The convergence is uncanny. A ship. Treasure. Martial splendour. A society defined by gift-giving and warrior loyalty. Archaeology did not prove that Beowulf was a historical figure. It did something subtler and perhaps more profound: it demonstrated that the world of the poem was materially plausible. The poet was not inventing from nothing. He was describing — or remembering — a warrior elite whose wealth and symbolism were as rich as his verse. When the Sutton Hoo helmet was reconstructed and displayed in the British Museum, it stood not merely as an artefact but as a bridge. Visitors who had read Beowulf could now look upon a face from that world. The gleam was no longer metaphor. *** What moves me most is not simply the confirmation of detail — the boar crest matching the line of poetry. It is the sense of continuity. A poet sang in a timbered hall. His words survived in ink. A craftsman hammered iron and bronze. His work survived in earth. Both acts were defiance against forgetting. Time buried the helm. Time nearly erased the poem. Yet both endured long enough to meet again. When we read: “The boar-images glowed above the cheek-guards,” we are no longer suspended in abstraction. We can picture the curve of metal, the ridge of the crest, the cold weight upon the brow. Poetry gave the helm voice. Archaeology gave it back its face. And perhaps that is the deeper lesson. Literature is not always fantasy. Sometimes it is memory — refracted, heightened, but rooted in lived experience. The scop in the hall may well have seen such helmets hanging in the flicker of torchlight. Or perhaps he inherited their image as cultural inheritance, passed down like heirlooms of language. Either way, the earth has answered him. *** Stand before the reconstructed helmet today in the British Museum and you feel its presence immediately. The eyes are dark, unreadable. The moustache curves in stern composure. It does not smile. It does not soften but watches the onlooker. I imagined what it would have been like facing down that warrior in battle¾scary, believe me! It has watched centuries pass: the burial mound raised, the kingdom fallen, the poem copied by a Christian scribe, the manuscript nearly lost in a fire, the field opened by careful hands. The helmet is no longer worn. The hall is silent. The poet’s voice has faded. And yet, when poetry meets archaeology, something astonishing happens: the past looks back at us. Not as legend. But as iron. Thank you for reading this far --JB.
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The Viking battleaxe is one of the most iconic weapons of the early medieval world. When people imagine a Norse warrior striding off a longship, it’s often with an axe in hand — not just because it looks dramatic, but because it was practical, versatile, and devastatingly effective.
Axes were everyday tools in Scandinavia. Farmers used them to build houses, shape ships, and cut firewood. That familiarity made the axe a natural weapon. Unlike a sword, which required specialized skill and considerable expense, an axe was accessible. Almost any free man could own one. But the Viking battleaxe was not just a woodcutter pressed into service. Over time, it evolved into a specialized weapon, designed for war. There wasn’t just one “Viking axe.” Archaeologists have identified many types, often classified under the Petersen typology. What most people picture, though, is the broad-bladed war axe used between the 9th and 11th centuries. Typical features included:
These larger axes required two hands and delivered tremendous cutting power. The Viking battleaxe was designed to cut — and it did so brutally well. The thin blade could bite deep into flesh and bone. Against lightly armoured opponents, it was terrifyingly effective. Even against mail armour, a powerful blow could break bones beneath the rings. Tactically, axes offered several advantages:
The haft (handle) was usually made from tough woods such as ash. Ash was favoured for its strength, flexibility, and shock resistance — qualities essential for surviving repeated impacts. The axe head was typically mounted by sliding the haft through an eye (a hole in the head). As the wood dried or was wedged in place, it tightened, securing the head firmly. Some axes included:
While many axes were plain and functional, others were beautifully decorated. High-status weapons sometimes featured:
The Viking battleaxe endured because it combined affordability, effectiveness, and adaptability. It was:
The image of the Viking with his axe persists in modern culture — from films to video games — but the reality is even more interesting. The Viking battleaxe was not oversized or crude. It was often lightweight, elegantly engineered, and brutally efficient. In the hands of a skilled warrior, it was more than a tool of war. It was an extension of strength, timing, and nerve — a weapon that helped shape the history of northern Europe.
Biographical historical fiction is a genre that dramatizes the lives of real historical figures by blending factual biographical elements with fictional storytelling.
These novels are based on real people, events, and settings but often invent dialogue, internal thoughts, and specific events to create a more compelling narrative. The goal is to offer a deeper, creative understanding of a person's life and the historical context in which they lived. It’s no coincidence that some of my favourite books have fallen within this genre. I’ll only mention three, although I ccould easily list another ten. You will have your own favourite. Here are mine:
First, I like to vary my writing genres to keep fresh. That’s dealt with! Second, I felt that there are historic figures who have been too neglected. Third, the most important, so far… It’s fun and instructive to research these figures. Four, the gender issue. In a male-dominated world, it’s helpful that writers choose strong female protagonists and inform readers about them. The people I chose and why for my series Fascinating Lives. First, Aeneas Piccolomini, who later became Pope Pius II (Book 1 Pigsty to Papacy). I visited the Piccolomini library in Siena Cathedral. The artwork takes your breath away. There’s a cycle of frescoes about his life. Okay he was a pope, but he was a bit of a lad when he was younger. A great orator and humanist, he was well ahead of his times. Second, Leonardo Fibonacci (Book 2 The Spiral Path). Until he came along, medieval traders were still using the abacus and Roman numerals. Imagine that for accounting! When he was little, he was already a mathematical prodigy. His father took him to North Africa. There, he absorbed Arab culture and saw the benefits of the numbers we all use today. He fought in Iberia, returned and risked the wrath of the Church by revealing the geometric proportions behind Creation. Third, the first of the women: Fatima al-Fihri (Book 3 The Light that Awakens) The brave woman who founded the world’s first university in Fez (present-day Morocco). She wanted accessible education for the poor, for women, for everybody! Four, another woman, the inspiration behind an eighteenth-century French novel Turandot and subsequently, Puccini’s opera of the same name. (Book 4 Daughter of the Steppes) she was the Mongol princess, Khutulun, who could defeat any man at wrestling and refused to marry anyone except for the man who could beat her. Five, soon to be published…Harald Fairhair, the Norwegian who first united the whole of Norway (Book 5 Valkyrie Nights). A great warrior, he had a number of sons by different wives and concubines but made the mistake of not nominating his favourite, Eirik Bloodaxe early enough. Six, only just completed, the early-Renaissance figure Donato di Niccolò di Betto Bardi, in arte Donatello, the fantastic sculptor, who helped give impetus to the Renaissance in Florence and Padua. (Book 6 The Weight of Beauty), When we think of the Anglo-Saxons, we often imagine warriors in battle, the clang of swords and shields, or harpists and sagas in a smoky hall. But what about the quieter moments—the everyday lives of these people, their homes, and, of course, their clothes? In a world without modern fabrics or fast fashion, the clothes they wore were an important marker of identity, status, and function.
Anglo-Saxon clothing is an intriguing blend of practicality and artistry, woven from the threads of tradition, climate, and culture. Whether you were a farmer, a noble, or a warrior, what you wore in Anglo-Saxon England wasn’t just about keeping warm—it was a reflection of who you were, where you came from, and even what you believed. At the heart of Anglo-Saxon clothing was wool. Wool was abundant in Britain, and the Anglo-Saxons were expert weavers, spinning their own yarn and crafting it into garments suitable for every season. Wool’s insulating properties made it ideal for the variable English weather, keeping people warm in winter and cool during summer. Linen, made from flax, was another material, though it was less common and typically reserved for wealthier individuals. The rich hues of the clothes we imagine in Anglo-Saxon society didn’t come from vibrant dyes but were often achieved through natural sources: woad for blue, madder for red, and various plant-based dyes for yellows and greens. This was a time before synthetic dyes, so colours were often muted yet earthy, blending seamlessly with the natural landscape of forests, fields, and the coastline. For the majority of the Anglo-Saxon population—farmers, traders, and labourers—clothing was about utility and protection. A typical outfit for a man might have consisted of a simple tunic made from wool or linen, extending to the knees or sometimes even the ankles. The tunic was often belted at the waist with a leather or woven belt, and woollen socks or leg wraps (called "puttees") covered the lower legs. Women of the common folk wore similar styles: a long, loose-fitting dress made of wool or linen, with a girdle at the waist. Over this, a woollen cloak, fastened with a brooch, would be draped across their shoulders for warmth. The garments, though functional, had simple beauty in their cuts and natural fibres. Sometimes, a woman would wear a headscarf or veil to cover her hair, a reflection of the modesty expected in Anglo-Saxon culture. Shoes, often made from leather, were relatively simple. They were designed to be functional rather than fashionable, though some could be decorated with patterns or embroidery. Leather footwear kept the feet protected from the harsh English terrain. For the wealthier classes—landowners, the nobility, and kings—clothing was not just a necessity but an expression of wealth and status. The materials used by the upper classes were far more luxurious: silk, imported from the East, and fine woollen cloths dyed in rich, vibrant colours like purple, red, and gold. The tunics worn by the wealthy were often elaborately embroidered, with intricate patterns or symbols denoting rank, heritage, or personal accomplishments. Noblemen often wore longer, more tailored tunics, with cloaks made of high-quality wool or even fur to keep them warm during colder months. The cloak was fastened with ornate brooches made from silver, bronze, or sometimes even gold. They might have also worn belts adorned with decorative buckles, each one an indication of their wealth and importance. Women of the elite also wore long, flowing gowns made from finer fabrics, often with woven patterns or embroidery along the hems. Over the gown, they might wear a long-sleeved tunic or a mantle, a draped garment that added an air of elegance and formality. Jewellery—rings, necklaces, and brooches—was not just decorative but symbolic, signifying a woman’s social standing. In terms of footwear, wealthier individuals might wear boots or shoes made of higher-quality leather or even decorated with precious stones or intricate designs. Silk stockings were not uncommon, especially for those who could afford them. No discussion of Anglo-Saxon clothing would be complete without acknowledging the warriors who played such a central role in Anglo-Saxon society. The warriors of this period—men who fought in the name of their king and tribe—dressed for battle in a way that reflected their role as both protectors and symbols of power. Anglo-Saxon armour was made up of several key components. The most iconic piece was the chainmail, worn by noble warriors or those with the means to afford it. This armour was made of interlocking rings of metal, providing a flexible yet effective defence against blows from swords, axes, and arrows. The mail shirt would be worn over a tunic and secured with a belt at the waist. On the head, a simple helmet with a nose guard might be worn, often decorated with intricate designs. For those not wealthy enough to afford chainmail, the most common form of protection would have been a leather tunic, sometimes padded with layers of cloth to absorb impact. A wooden or iron shield was also a crucial part of a warrior's attire, decorated with symbolic motifs that could represent the warrior’s lineage or their allegiance to a particular king or tribe. The clothes of the warrior were functional and symbolic, often accentuated by the addition of a cloak or cape to mark their status as a protector and fighter. These warriors often carried weapons—swords, axes, and spears—which, like their clothing, were a reflection of their standing in society. Anglo-Saxon clothing wasn’t just about warmth, utility, or style—it was also deeply connected to religious practices. The Anglo-Saxons, before converting to Christianity, had a rich pagan tradition, and the symbols on their clothing reflected this. Early Anglo-Saxon garments might have included talismans or pendants depicting pagan gods, animals, or mystical creatures. After conversion, Christian symbols began to appear more frequently—crosses, saints, and biblical figures became part of embroidery or jewellery, symbolizing the wearer’s faith. Priests and monks, as expected, wore garments that were quite different from those of the lay population. Robes made of simple linen or wool, often dyed in muted colours, were standard. A crosier—a ceremonial staff—might be held by high-ranking church officials, and robes would often feature Christian symbols woven into the fabric. Anglo-Saxon clothing was about more than just keeping warm or looking stylish—it was a reflection of the wearer’s life and position within society. Whether you were a humble farmer, a proud warrior, or a wealthy noble, your clothing told a story. It spoke of your wealth, your occupation, and your beliefs. The natural fibres, intricate designs, and symbolic adornments woven into these garments were like threads in a much larger tapestry, each piece contributing to the rich, colourful history of Anglo-Saxon England. As we look at the artefacts and remains of Anglo-Saxon clothing today, we can still feel a connection to this past. Each stitch, each piece of fabric, tells a story of a people who were resourceful, proud, and deeply connected to their land, their faith, and their traditions. It’s a glimpse into a world that, in many ways, was much simpler but also deeply rich in meaning. So next time you think about the Anglo-Saxons, don’t just picture the battles and the sagas. Imagine the textures of their tunics, the warmth of their woollen cloaks, and the way they dressed not just to survive, but to express who they were. Their clothes, like their culture, were woven with care, history, and purpose. After totalling something around fifty novels, I can say with certainty that the worst thing about being an author as far as I’m concerned, is being obliged to write a synopsis. I understand that it’s most important for an editor but I find it so tedious.
How to go about it in the best way brings me to the old chestnut of Plotter vs Pantser. I’m sure the Plotter is advantaged here because he has a structure worked out that must be quite easy to refer to and synthesise. That was the case with my first few novels until I shook off the draughtsman-like sheet of paper with all thirty (or however many) chapters neatly laid out. Having removed the shackles and become a confirmed Pantser, the approach to synopsis writing required structuring. I began by grabbing a sheet of A3 and ruling columns with chapter numbers atop. This silly idea survived for three or four novels but, apart from containing an inherent weakness (me), it also was a superfluous intermediary step. Far better to open a Word document entitled ‘synopsis’ and write a few lines of chapter summary as soon as the chapter was finished. In that way, one builds the synopsis chapter by chapter while each is fresh in the mind. Still, importantly, you have to keep in mind that you’re providing an overview rather than a blow-by-blow account. But here’s the snag: after writing a 2500-word chapter in a day, I feel mentally and physically exhausted and not in the least like writing even six lines of chapter summary. So, the tendency is to say, oh, I’ll leave it for another day. All very well, but the result is a completed 20-chapter novel and not even a hint of a synopsis. In turn, that means going back to page 1, reading the whole chapter and so on, maybe over a period of days until the whole synopsis is complete. Compared to this fatigue, writing the novel in the first place is a doddle! The actual technicalities of synopsis writing involve you writing in the third person, using the present tense, regardless of what POV or tense the book is written in. Also, you should put the first occurrence of each character’s name in all caps so they can easily be picked out as the reader skims the page. You have pages and pages to introduce characters, setting, and conflict in the actual novel, but you’re going to have to pick out what’s essential and present the bare facts here. Your synopsis is a functional outline of your story’s plot – it isn’t the blurb on the back of your book, and therefore isn’t meant to act as an end-user sales piece. Teasing the twists and turns and speaking directly to the reader aren’t techniques that fit well, here. Leave out any details or subplots that aren’t essential to the main narrative and tick off a direct and professional method of revealing your story’s structure. This is also important, when you’ve finished the synopsis, read it through to make sure that you haven’t inadvertently left any plot holes, which may not be there in the actual novel. Also, making sure you’ve made your character arcs quite clear is necessary. Trim as many words as you can. Use descriptive phrases sparingly, and choose words that carry weight instead of writing waffly fillers. Despite this, my synopses vary from two to three pages. Ideally, a page and a half is sensible target to aim for. So, I know I can improve. On prevarication and prefixes.
Prevarication is an author’s bane and although I’m not really a ‘prevaricator’ (and yes, that word exists) I recognise that it comes in many forms ranging from ‘I must just slip out to the shops; I’ll make myself a coffee; must walk the dog and so on. One of my favourite forms of prevarication comes from curiosity about the language itself, but perhaps, on reflection, it’s more an obsessive disorder. It happens when I select a word from our extensive range of vocabulary and then begin to wonder about the etymology. It truncates my current flow until I’ve sorted it. It’s a tyrant of my own making! The most recent occurrence was with the prefix be-. You won’t begrudge me bemoaning (or bewailing) how it paralysed my writing until I’d got to the bottom of it. I’m bespectacled as I write this, by the way. It appears that its most common meaning is “around” or “on all sides,” as in the words bejewel, meaning to cover with jewels, bespatter, meaning to spatter on all sides, and besiege, meaning to surround a location during a siege. This is also the sense we see in bewildered, which figuratively means to be lost in or surrounded by a mental wilderness. But the prefix be- can also do many other things as well. It can be privative, which means it removes or deprives you of something, as in the word behead. It can be causative, as in the word befuddle. “Fuddle” was a 16th c. verb meaning “to get drunk,” so to befuddle originally meant to cause someone to be confused by getting them drunk. The be- prefix is sometimes used for effect or intensification, as in the word bedraggle. “Draggle” is a 16th century word that means “to make something wet and muddy,” so “bedraggle” more or less the same thing, but making it extra wet and muddy. This prefix can create transitive verbs, as in bewail, which means to loudly complain about something. The prefix turns “wail” from an intransitive verb—one that doesn’t need an object—to a transitive verb, which does need an object. So I can just wail, or I can bewail an unfortunate circumstance. This is also what’s happening in the word begrudge: Grudge was originally a verb, and it meant “to grumble or murmur in complaint” (originally the imitative grutch, from the Middle English grucchen). So if to “grudge” is to grumble, then the transitive form in “I begrudge you your success” means that your success causes me to grumble. Be- words were immensely popular in the 15th- and 16th-century. Some of fantastic examples that are no longer in use include… bethwack “thrash soundly” betongue “verbally thrash someone” befool “make a fool of” beshrew, meaning “deprave, pervert or corrupt” It is also privative in the word bemused, which means “puzzled or confused.” The base word here is “muse” in the sense of musing or pondering something, so to be amused literally means that something is holding your attention and interesting to you, causing you to muse about it, and therefore to be bemused is literally to have your ability to muse or think about a subject taken away by confusion. In writing this, I have freely drawn on an informative blog by Jess Zafarris, who is the author of Once Upon a Word: A Word-Origin Dictionary for Kids. She is also an award-winning innovator of digital content and marketing solutions and a prolific online and print journalist. I can heartily recommend her content to anyone interested. When we think about Anglo-Saxon life—those ancient people who lived in England from roughly the 5th to the 11th centuries—we often picture the swords, shields, and thatched-roof houses. But what about the simpler, everyday details of their existence? More specifically: What did they eat and drink? While this subject may not evoke as much excitement as a heroic battle or a legendary king, it reveals a lot about Anglo-Saxon society, their values, and the way they connected with the land. So, let’s take a bite of history and uncover the tastes and textures of Anglo-Saxon food and drink, which were as practical and essential as their war tactics and poetry. The Heart of the Anglo-Saxon Diet: Bread, Grains, and Porridge The foundation of any Anglo-Saxon meal was likely some form of bread or grain-based food. Barley, wheat, and oats were the staples of their diet, and most of these were ground into flour and mixed with water to create loaves or gruels. The Anglo-Saxons weren’t baking baguettes or croissants, but rather dense, rustic bread that would have been hearty enough to sustain them during their labour-intensive days. Gruel made from oats or barley was another common food. It was often boiled with water or milk, sometimes sweetened with honey or flavoured with fruits or berries if they were in season. Eating gruel for breakfast was probably a regular tradition, as it was filling, cheap, and easy to prepare. But it wasn’t just about the bread and gruel. The Anglo-Saxons were resourceful, making use of what they could cultivate and forage. Lentils, beans, and peas were common additions to their meals, often used in stews or as side dishes. Meat and Fish: The Luxuries of the Anglo-Saxon Table For the Anglo-Saxons, meat wasn’t something you ate every day—unless you were wealthy, of course. Hunting was a common practice, with wild boar, deer, and hares making their way onto the table of therich and powerful. Common folk could usually get their hands on pigs, sheep, and hens. Meat was often roasted or boiled, and it was typically accompanied by vegetables, herbs, and sometimes fruits, all cooked together in a pot. Fish, on the other hand, played a crucial role in the Anglo-Saxon diet. England’s long coastline meant that fresh fish was readily available, and rivers and lakes offered plenty of freshwater fish, especially eels. Salted or dried fish was also a common preservation method, ensuring they had a protein source during the colder months when fresh fish wasn’t as abundant. Herring, salmon, and eel were favourites. Vegetables and Fruits: Nature’s Bounty While the Anglo-Saxons weren’t known for an extravagant use of vegetables, they certainly made the most of what they could grow. Cabbage, leeks, onions, carrots, and turnips were some of the basic vegetables that found their way into stews or were roasted with meats. These vegetables were often paired with herbs and spices like parsley, thyme, and dill. Fruits, though often preserved through drying or preservation in honey, included apples, plums, and berries. They would be eaten fresh when in season or stored for the long winter months. Apples, especially, had both a practical and symbolic significance, as they were used in religious rituals as well as in everyday meals. They would be suspended from beams in a small net over th winter. Dairy: The Anglo-Saxon Love Affair with Cheese Dairy products, especially cheese, were incredibly popular in Anglo-Saxon cookery. Most Anglo-Saxon families would have kept cows or goats, meaning fresh milk, butter, and cheese were regularly available. Cheese was made from curdled milk, and its texture varied, from soft and creamy to harder, more aged varieties. Cheese was often paired with bread, fruits, or even with meat and vegetables in stews. It was a handy source of protein and fat, perfect for filling the stomach after a long day’s work in the fields or on a winter’s evening by the hearth. Beverages: Mead, Ale, and Cider When it came to beverages, the Anglo-Saxons fermented honey, water, and sometimes fruit or herbs, for mead, which was a favourite drink for both the upper and lower classes. It was often consumed during feasts and celebrations, and it’s easy to imagine Anglo-Saxon warriors raising their horns to toast a victorious battle. Ale, brewed from barley and flavored with herbs like gruit (a blend of herbs used before hops became popular), was another staple. Beer-like in nature, ale was consumed daily, especially by those in the lower classes. A modest home would have had a small brewing vat to make their own, and it would have been part of the daily diet alongside bread and cheese. Cider was also a popular drink, particularly in areas with apple orchards. It wasn't as refined as modern cider, but it was an accessible and refreshing beverage for all classes. Sweet Delights: Honey and Fruit Before sugar became widely available in medieval Europe, honey was the go-to sweetener for many cultures, including the Anglo-Saxons. It was used not only in mead but also in cooking, added to breads, or drizzled over fruits to create simple desserts. Dried fruits, particularly imported raisins, figs, and apples, would have been sweet treats for those with a bit of extra wealth. Feasting and the Role of Food in Anglo-Saxon Society Food in Anglo-Saxon England wasn’t just about sustenance—it was a vital part of social life. Feasts were important occasions, often linked to religious observances, celebrations of military victories, or the coronation of kings. The wealthy would host grand banquets with roasted meats, including swan, cheeses, fruits, and ale. These feasts also had a social and political role, reinforcing alliances, cementing hierarchies, and showcasing the host’s wealth and status. Conclusion: A Taste of History While the Anglo-Saxons didn’t have the variety of ingredients and culinary techniques that we enjoy today, their food was a reflection of their close relationship with the land. They worked hard to cultivate their crops, raise their animals, and preserve their food for the long winters. The simplicity of their meals—grains, meat, vegetables, and mead—may seem humble compared to modern-day dishes, but it was nourishing, practical, and shaped by their environment. So, the next time you sit down for a meal, take a moment to reflect on the food traditions that came before us. The Anglo-Saxons may not have had the luxury of spices from the East or access to exotic fruits, but what they did have was a strong connection to the land and a culinary creativity that sustained them through centuries of change. Their food, simple as it may seem, was their story. And maybe it’s a story worth savouring.  A few hundred yards from the home where I grew up stands the Church of Old Clee in NE Lindsey. Part of the structure is Anglo-Saxon and, just staring at those venerable stones in the tower brought shivers down my spine. How many centuries have gone by and what happy and sorrowful occasions have they presided over!
Consider that dotted throughout England there are many such examples, indeed, there are a handful of complete Anglo-Saxon churches that have survived wars and revolutions. Echoes of the Past: Why Anglo-Saxon History Still Matters Today In an age dominated by digital technology and global connectivity, the relevance of ancient history might not seem obvious. Yet, the legacy of the Anglo-Saxons—those early medieval peoples who inhabited what is now England between the 5th and 11th centuries—continues to shape our world in profound and often overlooked ways. 1. Language and Literature Perhaps the most direct legacy of the Anglo-Saxons is the English language itself. Old English, the language spoken by the Anglo-Saxons, forms the bedrock of modern English. Words like house, mother, strong, and water have Anglo-Saxon roots. The rhythm, syntax, and foundational vocabulary of English are all steeped in this early linguistic tradition. Some of our juiciest vocabulary is pure Anglo-Saxon; but those words are not fitting here! Beyond the language, Anglo-Saxon literature offers timeless insights into human experience. Beowulf, the most famous Old English poem, still resonates with readers today through its exploration of heroism, mortality, leadership, and loyalty. These themes are universal and continue to inform modern storytelling in literature, film, and television. 2. Legal and Political Foundations Many principles of modern law and governance in the UK and other English-speaking nations can be traced to Anglo-Saxon systems. The witan, a council of nobles and clergy who advised the king, was an early form of parliamentary assembly. Anglo-Saxon law codes, though rudimentary, introduced ideas such as compensation for wrongdoing (wergild) and the value of consensus in community decisions. These early legal frameworks evolved over centuries into the common law systems still in use today, forming the backbone of judicial structures in countries from England to the United States. 3. Place Names and Geography Take a drive through the English countryside and you’ll encounter names like Birmingham, Reading, or Nottingham—many of which originate from Anglo-Saxon words. The suffixes -ham (homestead), -ton (town), and -ing (people or followers) all reflect the tribal and familial settlements of the time. Understanding these names not only enriches our appreciation of local history but also connects us to the way communities were established and organized over a thousand years ago. 4. Cultural Identity and Continuity In recent years, there has been renewed interest in local and regional identities—something the Anglo-Saxons emphasized through their kinship-based societies and localised governance. Studying how they navigated identity, migration, and assimilation provides valuable context for current discussions about culture, heritage, and belonging. However, it’s also important to acknowledge and challenge the ways in which Anglo-Saxon history has been misused. Some nationalist and extremist groups have attempted to co-opt this past to support exclusionary ideologies. Responsible engagement with Anglo-Saxon history requires a nuanced understanding that recognizes both its richness and its complexity, resisting attempts to simplify or weaponise it. 5. Art, Design, and Spirituality The intricate designs found in Anglo-Saxon artifacts—like those discovered at Sutton Hoo—continue to inspire modern artists and designers. The fusion of pagan and Christian symbolism, the stylised animal motifs, and the sophisticated metalwork reveal a deep cultural creativity that defies the stereotype of the so-called “Dark Ages.” In spirituality and philosophy, the blending of old Norse and Christian beliefs during the Anglo-Saxon period offers a window into how societies adapt to change and seek meaning in transition. As modern societies grapple with rapid transformation, these historical insights offer a reflective mirror. Conclusion The Anglo-Saxon world may be over a millennium removed from ours, but its influence is deeply woven into the fabric of contemporary life. From language and law to identity and art, the echoes of that early medieval age continue to shape who we are. Engaging with Anglo-Saxon history isn't about living in the past—it's about understanding the foundations of the present and imagining a more informed future. I began writing a mystery novel to freshen up and not get caught in a genre trap. Previously all my novels had been historical fiction set in the Anglo-Saxon period. I was quite clear that the Quasimodo Killings was a mystery novel, but having written another nine in the series, the distinction between mystery and thriller became a little blurred. So, I’ve decided to give some thought to this in this blog. Before I start, you can see my ten books by clicking the METROPOLITAN MURDERS tag on this website.
For writers eager to dive into suspenseful storytelling, mystery novels and thrillers are two of the most compelling—and marketable—genres out there. But while they share some similarities, understanding their core differences is essential for crafting a story that meets reader expectations and stands out in a crowded field. Whether you're outlining your first manuscript or revising your fifth, knowing whether you're writing a mystery or a thriller will shape everything from plot structure to pacing and tone. Let’s break it down. The Heart of a Mystery: Solving the Puzzle A mystery novel revolves around uncovering the truth. Usually, a crime—most commonly a murder—has already occurred before the story begins, and your protagonist (often a detective or amateur sleuth) spends the book putting the pieces together. The plot is structured around clues, red herrings, interviews, and logical deduction. The key question driving the story is: "Whodunit?" The reader should feel like a partner to the protagonist, gathering evidence and forming theories along the way. As a writer, this means carefully plotting the sequence of clues and ensuring the solution is both surprising and fair. Think of Agatha Christie—master of subtle misdirection and satisfying reveals. The Pulse of a Thriller: Escalating Danger Thrillers, in contrast, are about immediate stakes and looming threats. Your protagonist is usually trying to prevent something terrible from happening, often while being pursued or endangered themselves. The central question becomes: "Will they survive or succeed in time?" Instead of looking backward at a crime, thrillers propel the reader forward through action, tension, and ticking clocks. Think car chases, hidden enemies, double-crosses, and mounting urgency. Writers like Karin Slaughter, or Paula Hawkins are great references here. From a writing perspective, thrillers demand tight pacing, visceral conflict, and high emotional stakes. Every chapter should raise the tension, making it hard for readers to put the book down. Now I’ve got that sorted, I can see more clearly that at least one of my ‘mysteries’ morphed into a thriller! Still, I’m quite pleased with it and hope that readers will enjoy it. Mystery vs Thriller Story Engine Solving a past crime vs Preventing or surviving an imminent threat Plot Structure Clue-based; reveals build to the solution vs Escalating action; often nonlinear or urgent Main Character's Role Detective, investigator, or curious amateur vs Hero, often reluctant, in immediate danger Reader's Experience Analytical, puzzle-solving vs Emotional, edge-of-your-seat suspense Tone Intellectual, curious vs Fast-paced, intense Final Thoughts Whether you prefer the intellectual challenge of piecing together clues in a mystery or the adrenaline rush of a high-stakes thriller, both genres offer compelling explorations of human behaviour under pressure. The key difference lies in the direction of the suspense: looking backward to solve a puzzle, or forward to prevent disaster. Either way, hopefully, you're in for a riveting ride. Sometimes a preface to your historical novel seems essential, but so often it can become a dumping ground for a backdrop. So why not freshen it up with an original and eye-catching approach that keeps the readers interested from the off?
Here’s a suggestion: your protagonist begins Chapter One with a first-person account of why she’s in her current predicament. But, then, you don’t want to write the entire novel in first person, so during this brief monologue she delegates a chronicler, whose task is to give a third-person account of her activities. Fine, but that doesn’t exclude the omniscient third-person narrator, who will explain that the protagonist wants to read, say, the third entry on such and such a date. In this way, you keep your narration fresh by subtly shifting P-o-V whenever you want and, huge bonus, you have done away with the Preface and begun Chapter One right from the start without sacrificing essential backdrop. That was my latest experiment, but I can think of several variations on this theme. Talking about themes, I’ve always felt it essential to make the novel’s theme(s) clear in Chapter One. So that can also be included in a natural way by your protagonist (or narrator). Who better than your chronicler to describe your protagonist? After all, they have a close working relationship/friendship. In my 40+ novels I think I’ve used a Preface three times, so maybe I can be accused of bias. I’m not keen on Prefaces, but can accept that when skilfully written by an expert writer they can be effective. But let’s be honest, how many times have we yawned through a Preface and wished we hadn’t chosen this book? I know at least one other who simply ignores the Prefce...but that's a pity. If you are a Preface fan, please write to me and tell me why and how a novel gains from having one. I’d genuinely like to know. In my three exceptions it was because I couldn’t find the kind of creative alternative I’ve outlined above. Thanks for reading this far. JB. |
To buy your copy of Rhodri's Furies click the link below:
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Rhodris-Furies-Ninth-century-Resistance-incursions-ebook/dp/B0BPX9C2D3/ 
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