Last fall, I read a book I had purchased some time before that has become one of my all-time favorite nonfiction reads. It’s called The Wolf Age: The Vikings, the Anglo-Saxons and the Battle for the North Sea Empire. Written by Tore Skeie and translated into English by Alison McCullough, it’s a delightful read for several reasons. I’ll mention a few here:

Reason #1: Subject Matter. I am a hobby medievalist/historical Germanic linguist. I love this stuff enough to have gotten a master’s degree in the subject and read books like this for fun, but I dislike stress and writing papers too much to go for a PhD so I’m not anywhere near an expert. As a result, I found this book wonderfully informative. I knew bits and pieces of the history relayed within its pages but I had no idea of the details or scope of the interactions and conflicts in the sub-titular North Sea empire. I thoroughly enjoyed learning more about it through this book.

Reason #2: Readability. I love history, but as a reader primarily of fiction, I do find some history books difficult to get through. This was not one of them. The author gives a lot of contextual details but avoids getting bogged down in them, and the perspective shifts are very clear as he covers the saga (yes, pun intended) from the various points of view involved. The chapters are sometimes long but never feel endless, and even when I went several days between reading sessions (I was in the middle of a huge, life-changing move overseas when I started reading this book, so I was a little busy) I had no trouble remembering where I left off and continuing with the story. This is creative nonfiction at its best, at least for my taste.

Reason #3: Inspiration. This book covers so many aspects of the history it’s conveying. Battles, leaders, cultures, religion - even skaldic involvement and context. I’ve got several pages dogeared (I only do this to nonfiction books) for information of particular interest to me in the chapter “Broad Ancestral Lands,” because it covers the role a skald (Norse poet) might play - and that a few did play - in the political, social and economic events of the day. Bards historically hold a unique role in society, and several things about the skalds’ service to Olaf Haraldsson got my imagination going with potential fictional stories to tell.

Bottom line: The Wolf Age provides a great account of this corner of history for laymen like myself and makes me want to read more books like it, and also to delve into actual research about this and related topics. It filled in a bunch of my knowledge gaps about this region at that time, and it also sparked my imagination as a hobby-scholar and a writer. What more could I ask for?

10 out of 10 recommend.

The last linguistics course I took was History of the German language as part of my master's degree (MAT) in Germanic Studies. My professor, Tracy Hall, had created his own course materials, which I printed and bound at the beginning of the semester, and used for notetaking when we went through them during class.

Highlighted for your convenience.

And a page or so later:

Clearly, studying the way languages change over time inspired me. Here's why: you can create your own language much more easily by adopting an existing root language than trying to create it out of thin air.

I have read (unfortunately I don't have most of my books with me at present to provide a source) and heard that Tolkien based his languages on real languages. Sindarin famously has roots in Welsh, for example. Examining how changes in phonology occur to split new languages from a parent language showed me how a person could do that - just make linguistic changes that didn't occur in real life, or in a different order to what actually occurred, and suddenly you have the makings of your own unique language based on a common ancestor of the existing languages.

Easier said than done, perhaps, but still. Pretty cool.

The Warrior Poet has existed at least as far back as King David, who was a famous fighter from his youth (1 Sam 17:1-58) yet also wrote many of the Psalms. At least one Icelandic saga follows the career of a man who earns a place as a fighting man by spinning poems for kings. And in Middle High German literature, we see knights also serving as court poets. J.R.R. Tolkien was influenced by medieval literature, so perhaps it's no surprise that he includes poetry, usually in the form of song, in his works - often recited, if not composed, by heroic fighting figures like Aragorn and the Elves. Tolkien himself could be classified as a Warrior Poet, having served in World War One. But how did poetry figure into that medieval world whose literature Tolkien was so inspired by?

The Middle High German Poet Knight

From Die Minnesinger in Bildern der Manessischen Handschrift.

Some evidence that some Middle High German poets were also knights comes from the existence of a subgenre of courtly love songs (Minnesang) called ‘Kreutzlieder,’ in which the poets write about (or are inspired by) being on crusade. Minnesang poet Friedrich von Hausen, for example, died falling off his horse while on crusade. The ‘Kreutzlieder’ writers were not necessarily just knights who happened to enjoy writing poetry in their free time; although they were likely to have been on crusade in a primarily military function, they may have also had a specifically “lyrical role” as something akin to a court poet.

Additionally, at least two Middle High German poets make claims within their verse that they are both poets and knights: Der von Kürenberg, and Hartmann von Aue. Der von Kürenberg’s references the poet knight in the lines:*

            dô hôrt ich einen rîter vil wol singen
            in Kürenberger wîse al ûz der menigîn

            There I heard a knight sing very well
            In the Kürenberger style among the people*

These lines describe a man (presumably von Kürenberg himself) who is on the one hand a knight, and on the other hand a singer, and probably composer, of Minnesang.

In the beginning of his epic poem Iwein, von Aue refers to himself as

            Ein rîter, der gelêret was
            unde ez an den buochen las,
            swenner sîne stunde
            niht baz bewenden kunde

            A knight, who was learned
            and read books
            whenever he didn't know
            how to better use his time*

He makes a similar claim in the opening five lines of Arme Heinrich. In both instances, the poet von Aue specifically names himself as the man in question, and in both cases, he refers to himself as a knight.

It was common for a Middle High German knight to also hold an administrative role as a 'dienstman' (servant). Some works, such as Parzival, detail knights serving as chamberlains, butlers and similar roles. Knights also served in ceremonial functions, such as receiving and looking after guests at court. Von Aue provides more evidence of the existence of these secondary roles, calling himself not only a knight in Arme Heinrich, but also a 'dienstman.'

With a number of official secondary roles knights might fill, it is plausible that one of the duties a knight might be called on to perform, if he had the ability and the skill, was that of entertaining the court by the composition and recitation of poetry. Professional poets are not the only ones who composed verse for their lords’ courts. Performances featured songs composed by other “court members, including a significant number of noblemen themselves.” Hartmann von Aue, for example, seems to have written his poetry for knights and ladies at court.

The evidence that von Aue was writing for a courtly audience is also found in Erec, which is not a simple translation of the original French poem, but is rather adapted for a German audience that “would have had a rather different interpretation of legal, social, and ethical nuances than” the original poem’s audience. And with all the other roles knights filled besides fighting, including seeing to their own fifes and their families, it seems unlikely they would write very much poetry purely for their own enjoyment.

Further support for the idea that writing poetry was in some way part of these men’s duties as knights, rather than a mere free time activity, is their fame in their day. Walther von der Vogelweide was well known as a poet when he was alive, and his work was cited by later medieval poets. And the fact that these Poet Knights’ works have survived in written form gives them an official flavor, as it was their patrons who “made available the resources to have the poets’ work preserved in writing.” German Poet Knights writing during this period seem likely to have been recipients of courtly patronage, even if they were not official court poets.

Little has been written about the practical roles of the Poet Knights. We do not know how many of the Middle High German poets served as knights, but it is clear that some of them did. Unlike the skaldic poets, there is no sense that poetry could, in and of itself, open doors to wealth or service. Instead, the German Poet Knights were recruited to form their lords’ retinues as fighting men; administrative jobs and poetic undertakings followed. They were knights; first and foremost, making them true Warrior Poets.

*Translations are mine.

References:

Arnold, Benjamin. German Knighthood 1050-1300 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1985).

 Bumke, Joachim. The Concept of Knighthood in the Middle Ages. Translated by W. T. H. and Erika Jackson (New York, NY: AMS Press, Inc., 1982).

 Der von Kürenberg. “II.” In Mittelhochdeutsches Lesebuch. Edited by Sabine Rolle (Berlin; New York: Walter de Gruyter, 2005).

 Fisher, Rodney. “Hartmann von Aue.” In German Literature of the High Middle Ages. Edited by W. Hasty (Rochester, NY: Camden House, 2006).

 Friedrich von Hausen. In Mittelhochdeutsches Lesebuch. Edited by Sabine Rolle (Berlin; New York: Walter de Gruyter, 2005).

 Hartmann von Aue. Iwein. Edited by Georg F. Benecke, et al. (Berlin; New York: Walter de Gruyter, 2001).

 Hasty, Will. “Minnesang—The Medieval German Love Lyrics.” In German Literature of the High Middle Ages. Edited by Will Hasty (Rochester, NY: Camden House, 2006).

 Hasty, Will. “Walther von Der Vogelweide.” In German Literature of the High Middle Ages. Edited by Will Hasty (Rochester, NY: Camden House, 2006).

 Jones, Howard & Jones, Martin H. The Oxford Guide to Middle High German (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2019).

 Tolkien, J. R. R. The Lord of the Rings. Houghton Mifflin, 1988.

In the Saga of Gunlaug Serpent-Tongue, Gunnlaug and a fellow Icelander have the medieval equivalent of a rap battle in the court King Olaf the Swede. Their conflict actually begins with a passive-aggressive disagreement about who should present a poem of flattery to the king first. They end up trading insults about each other’s’ poems, which escalates quickly and results in horrific consequences: Gunnlaug’s countryman returns to Iceland before Gunnlaug does and essentially steals Gunnlaug’s betrothed in revenge. Unsurprisingly, the two men eventually come to blows, and ultimately kill each other in a duel.

Because of their poems.

But there was more to poetry in the Norse tradition than throwing down verbal gauntlets.

When Gunnlaug first leaves his home in Iceland to travel the world, he presents himself at the court of King Ethelred in Britain, where he asks for permission to recite a poem he has composed on his journey specifically for the king. Although Gunnlaug does not seem to have needed the hearing to gain access to the court in general, his request suggests (and what follows demonstrates) that reciting original poetry for a ruler was at least not an uncommon phenomenon, and could be used to gain special access to the ruler in question.

Ethelred agrees to hear the poem, which he likes enough to reward Gunnlaug with “a cloak of scarlet lined with the finest furs and with an embroidered band stretching down to the hem.” And Ethelred is not the only ruler to hear Gunnlaug present a poem, and to reward him for it with fine clothes, jewelry, or equipment. Everywhere Gunnlaug travels, he presents himself to the local ruler and asks permission to recite a poem he has written just for them, resulting in gifts such as a “new suit of scarlet clothes, an embroidered tunic, a cloak lined with expensive furs and a gold bracelet which weighed a mark,” and a “broad axe, decorated all over with silver inlay.” Poetry, it seems, was a legitimate and, perhaps depending on the skill of the poet, reliable method of accumulating wealth. In fact, it is a common enough practice that when Gunnlaug has recited his poem for King Stigtrygg Silk-beard in Dublin, even though this particular king has never been entertained by a poet before and is not sure how to reward Gunnlaug, his treasurer knows exactly what the standard practice is. 

Poetry also functions in The Saga of Gunnlaug as a means of avoiding conflict (unlike the "rap battle" mentioned earlier), at court and in the wider world. During one of Gunnlaug's visits with an earl, two parties begin to argue about who is better: their host, Earl Sigurd, or the visiting Norwegians’ Earl Eirik. They ask Gunnlaug’s opinion as an impartial third party, and he settles the matter by reciting an apparently ad hoc poem that pleases both parties and thus ends the argument.

Finally, The Saga of Gunnlaug demonstrates that poetry could open a path into a lord’s retinue. When Gunnlaug recited his poem for King Ethelred, he did not just receive a cloak—the king made Gunnlaug one of his followers. Service in a lord’s retinue as a follower included functioning as a fighting man—when Grunnlaug asks Ethelred for permission to go home to Iceland at a time when war with the Danes was a looming possibility, Ethelred denies Gunnlaug the leave, saying “’Since you are my follower … it is not appropriate for you to leave when such a war threatens England.” While there are a number of reasons Ethelred may have been unwilling to let Gunnlaug leave while on the brink of war, the implication is that Gunnlaug was serving the king as a warrior—and his first step to getting this position was reciting that first poem.

This makes me want to undertake an analysis of the role of poetry in Tolkien's work—as far as I can recall, they primarily served to convey history and memorialize the dead. But perhaps there's more to it; only a close reading of the poems in his works will tell.

Source: The Saga of Gunnlaug Serpent-Tongue, trans. Katrina C. Attwood (Milton Keynes: Penguin Books, 2015), from Sagas of Warrior-Poets (Penguin Classics, 2002).

After taking a Middle High German class, I joined a reading group in which we read Iwein, an epic Aurthurian poem by Hartmann von Aue.

Fairly early on, the titular character Iwein runs into some trouble when he goes off in search of adventure ('aventiure? waz ist daz?'). In brief, he picks a fight and kills the lord of a castle. In the process, he has the misfortune to be caught inside the castle walls to face the ire of the lord's armed men. But there's a young woman there named Lûnete who decides to help him. She gives him a ring and tells him its special attribute: when he holds it in his hand, nobody can see or find him. The ring's power of bestowing invisibility upon its bearer as long as it is held in his hand bears true; though the men of the castle seek him diligently, they can't find him.

Peter J. Yost

This is a brief section of a long tale - a few hundred lines out of more than 8,000. But it jarred me when I first read the fateful words of Lûnete in lines 1202-1207:

her Iwein, nemet diz vingerlîn.
ez ist umben stein alsô gewant:
swer in hât in blôzer hant,
den mac niemen, als die vrist
unz her in blôzer hant ist,
gesehen noch gevinden.

Lord Iwein, take this ring.
Regarding the stone, it is important:
Whoever has it in his bare hand,
him may no one, during that time
while it is in his bare hand,
see or find.

In other words, "Lord Iwen, take this ring. The stone is significant in that whoever holds it in his bare hand cannot be seen or found by anyone, as long as it is in his bare hand."

How cool is that?!

Now, this is not the only magic ring in medieval and ancient literature to grant its bearer invisibility. It's possible Tolkien was drawing from some other tale when he gave it to Bilbo as a means of escaping Gollum in The Hobbit, or that he was drawing from multiple stories. Either way, I loved stumbling upon the knowledge that Tolkien was referencing and building on other, older tales so specifically in his works.

It's kind of like finding treasure.

Long years have passed, and some things that should not have been forgotten were lost from my memory - like the content of The Wanderer. But today I pulled a book called The Word Exchange: Anglo-Saxon Poems in Translation off my shelves and read The Wanderer, translated by Greg Delanty. In the middle of the poem is the following bit of verse:

Where is the horse gone? The young bucks? The kind king?

Where is the banquet assembly gone? The merrymaking?

O the glittering glass. O the uniformed man.

O the general's glory. How that time has passed.

Night shrouds all as if nothing ever was.

Anyone who's seen Peter Jackson's The Two Towers will recognize the similarity of this poem to King Theoden's words before the battle of Helm's Deep:

Where is the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing?

They have passed like rain on the mountains, like wind in the meadow.

The days have gone down in the West behind the hills into shadow.

This film quote is in turn an abbreviation of a poem by Tolkien in the book (which is actually recited/translated by Aragorn, and not on the eve of battle):

Where now the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing?

Where is the helm and the hauberk, and the bright hair flowing?

Where is the hand on the harpstring, and the red fire glowing?

Where is the spring and the harvest and the tall corn growing?

They have passed like rain on the mountain, like a wind in the meadow;

The days have gone down in the West behind the hills into shadow.

Who shall gather the smoke of the dead wood burning,

Or behold the flowing years from the Sea returning?

I love this. I imagine Tolkien reading The Wanderer and being struck by that portion of the poem, and choosing to create his own poem in its image. Then the movies came and the creators were struck by Tolkein's poem, and decided to include it, also with some changes, in their screenplay.

I have done similarly: I've written poems inspired by songs and hymns, and when I read The Song of Hildebrand in my Old High German class, I immediately had a similar impulse. (Being in the midst of term paper-writing, however, I had neither the time nor the brain cells to act on it. Must get back to that...).

If you love Tolkien, you really ought to check out some medieval literature. You'll be amazed how often you'll recognize its influence in his writings.

It's delightful. :)

One of the important elements of this moment is that there is no guarantee that she'll make it. In episode two, in fact, she seeks refuge among shipwrecked humans; she's exhausted and dehydrated, with no land even in sight. If she hadn't ended up on the makeshift raft, she likely would have died on the Sundering Seas - she almost does, anyway.

So why did she even attempt it?

Many critics of RoP complained about this action, but if you've read The Silmarillion, you know how impulsive the elves could be in those days. Among other things, those who set out for Middle Earth from Valinor in the first place thought they could take on Morgoth - a Vala - and win.

Ridiculous.

It is in keeping with the character of pre-Third Age elves to be a little rash. Galadriel exhibited this trait in one of her earliest mentions in The Silmarillion; she goes against the counsel of her father Finarfin in her desire to go to Middle Earth without delay - a choice with dubious outcomes. Impulsively jumping off the boat to Valinor because she has unfinished business is therefore perfectly in character for an elf like Galadriel at this time in the history of Arda.

But there's more to it than even that.

The RoP writers didn't pull this swimming stunt out of thin air. The idea of an elf jumping ship in the middle of the ocean and trying to swim back to Middle Earth actually comes from Tolkien himself.

In Unfinished Tales of Numenor and Middle Earth, there is a section on "The History of Galadriel and Celeborn." Within that narrative is the story of Amroth and Nimrodel. Amroth was waiting to go to sea until Nimrodel arrived, but in the night a storm blew the ship out to sea. They were already "far from land" when Amroth woke, and he jumped into the ocean in the middle of the storm to swim back to Middle Earth and Nimrodel.

Love The Rings of Power or hate it, this technique of taking something one character did and giving it to another is a classic adaptation move (and one that happened several times in Peter Jackson's LotR). The RoP writers simply took Amroth's deed, altered the circumstances, and gave it to Galadriel. This is a reasonable compression of two characters' stories into one, not least because it's not outside the realm of possibility for an elf like Galadriel, who had done the impossible before by co-leading a party across the Helcaraxe.

It's a fun meme, and there is truth behind it, but it's also rather misleading.

Contrary to popular belief, Tolkien did not create his story world out of thin air as the meme suggests. As many fans know, Tolkien was influenced by mythology and his Catholic faith. And it's clear that he relied on his professional knowledge of old languages and linguistics in creating the tongues of Middle Earth. But there's more:

Tolkien also drew from the medieval texts he worked with as a philologist. From magic rings that make the wearer invisible to dragons guarding hordes of gold and much more, Tolkien himself was adapting and augmenting not only history, mythology, and theology, but also previous (medieval) authors' stories.

This shouldn't reduce anyone's admiration for Tolkien's work. If anything, it should make us admire him more; think of the talent and skill it took to pull from such varied sources to create something new! Tolkien's works are an accessible alternative to the medieval source materials he pulled from, but also excellent stories in their own right.

So yes, Tolkien's work is incredible. Yes, any adaptation of it should be done with respect and care, especially considering its fervent fanbase. But his work is not "sacred," as one Tolkein book purist put it on social media. It's not even wholly original as many assume. What it is, is creative and brilliant.

Welcome to The Elven Rings! This blog is about Tolkein's works and adaptations thereof, and the medieval literature and languages that inspired him. Here's why:

I was introduced to Tolkien via the movie posters for The Fellowship of the Ring in Germany, where I was living as an exchange student. I'd never read much fantasy before, but those posters were pretty cool looking, so I decided to see the film. But first, I wanted to read the book so I knew what was going on when I saw the movie (because I'd be seeing it in German). I found an English copy of The Lord of the Rings in one volume at a bookstore in the train station, and the rest is history.

Meanwhile, I majored in English literature in college and discovered a mild interest in medieval literature. Fast forward several years (and life adventures) later, and that interest is no longer mild; I have a master's degree in Germanic Studies, in which I've focused on medieval Germanic languages, literature and linguistics. It's been pretty fun to read medieval knights' tales and the like in archaic forms of German and discover things therein like magic rings that make the wearer invisible, or to find the obvious inspiration for Rohan's poem (recited in part by King Theoden in The Two Towers film) in the middle of an Old English fragment.

There is, in my opinion, much joy to be found in such explorations and discoveries; in the contemplation of literary influences and the kinds of decisions that go into making translations, adaptations, and augmentations of source materials.

So pull up your cart, pass around some malt beer, and fulfill your oaths. You are most welcome here.