The Elopement That Built an Empire

Judith was twelve at the time of her first marriage. Dressed in white silk with flowers in her hair, she walked to the altar. There, her womb was anointed with holy oils, and she received blessings from the most powerful priests in France. As a princess of West Francia, daughter of King Charles the Bald, she was expected to forge alliances through marriage. She would leave behind her family to become a queen. Her entire upbringing had prepared her for this. But she never imagined marrying a man nearly five times her age.

Æthelwulf, King of Wessex, had arrived months earlier with his young son, Alfred—later known as “the Great.” His pilgrimage to Rome, where he met the Pope and several noblemen, was ending. Paris was his last stop before returning to England. But both his kingdom and France were under siege by Viking raids. With Wessex straining under their attacks, only a mutual promise of military support could preserve either realm. That’s why, two years after his wife’s death, he agreed to marry a twelve-year-old princess.

It’s hard to say how either party truly felt, but duty prevailed. Judith’s great-grandfather, Charlemagne, never married off his daughters. In fact, they spent most of their lives in nunneries. The Franks were sufficiently powerful, and Charlemagne worried that his daughters’ husbands would become political rivals, rather than allies.

Judith’s father, Charles the Bald, was a bit more shrewd. He knew that war with the Vikings had been costly for the Kingdom of Wessex and that the trip to Rome was also hard on Aethelwulf’s Royal Treasury. Aethelwulf had gifted the Diocese of Rome silk tunics, silver bowls, a massive gold crown, two gold goblets, and a sword bound with gold, among other things.

Charles the Bald wasn’t exactly the most liked, so he needed allies in order to fend off the Vikings himself. He propositioned an alliance between the Carolignians and the Kingdom of Wessex, along with a significant dowry that would come with his daughter. We can only imagine what Judith must have thought about marrying a man nearly five times her age, but it would not have been up to her anyway.

Judith didn’t show fear. She crossed the stormy English Channel to a war-torn land where people spoke strangely, followed odd customs, and wore their hair long like savages. Still, she approached her new role with steadiness and resolve.

At their wedding, Judith was crowned Queen of Wessex. The Archbishop blessed her womb and annointed her with myrrh. This was unusual. Queens in the Dark Ages weren’t figureheads. King Æthelwulf's first wife (and mother of his children) had never been crowned Queen of Wessex, she was simply just his wife. But now, Judith’s role was critical: managing finances, receiving dignitaries, and practicing diplomacy. Judith thrived. But not everyone welcomed her influence or her potential.

King Æthelwulf had four surviving sons, two already ruling parts of England. Judith’s presence infuriated Aethelbald, the eldest, because of her "blessed womb." If she bore Æthelwulf a son, that child would outrank Aethelbald and his brothers in succession. The threat was real. When Æthelwulf returned from his travels with a twelve-year old wife, Aethelbald refused to give back the throne. A short rebellion followed, but Judith and the king quashed it and restored order, even as Viking attacks continued. Then, just two years into their marriage, in January of 858, Æthelwulf died.

At fourteen, Judith was a widowed queen. The marriage had never been consummated.

Soon after, she married Aethelbald, her former stepson.

It sounds awful and outrageous- and rightfully so. The Church and nobility were disgusted. Marrying a stepmother had been banned after previous scandals among Anglo-Saxon lords. In 858, the union disgraced both Judith and her family. But she didn’t retreat. She remained Queen of Wessex, negotiated alliances, and managed her household with care, freeing her husband to fight the Danes.

At sixteen, she was widowed again. Still childless. Still tainted by scandal not of her own making. But Judith was clever and determined. Before another royal male could claim her, she sold her lands and fled to her father’s court in West Francia.

The reception was icy. Charles was furious. To him, Judith had failed: no heirs from her royal matches, and the shameful union with Aethelbald had cost her the throne. He sent her to a convent for penance, promising she might marry again, but only if she redeemed herself first.

Judith, however, had other plans.

A year later, she met Baldwin Iron Arm. He was closer to her in age, a formidable warrior, and a nobleman from the County of Flanders. Judith fell for him quickly. She wanted to marry him, to become his countess, but she needed the approval of a male relative. Her father refused. Fortunately, her younger brother, Louis the Stammerer, ruler of Aquitaine, answered her plea and gave his consent.

Judith fled the convent and eloped to Flanders with Baldwin. But King Charles wasn’t finished. He wrote to every priest in western Christendom, demanding they refuse to officiate the wedding. To Judith’s dismay, they obeyed. Without her father’s blessing, she and Baldwin faced excommunication. But Baldwin refused to give her up.

He marched to Rome with armed men and demanded an audience with the Pope. If the Church wouldn’t bless his marriage, he’d raise a Viking band and bring war to Italy. Baldwin’s reputation was so fearsome that the Pope relented. The marriage was sanctified despite Charles’s protests.

In the next decade, Countess Judith and Margrave Baldwin had five children. But Judith’s remarkable life ended far too soon. A lingering illness worsened, and at twenty-seven, she died, leaving behind a grieving husband and young family. Baldwin never remarried. Nine years later, he followed her to the grave.

Though her life was brief, Judith’s legacy endured. Through her descendant Matilda of Flanders, wife of William the Conqueror, Judith’s bloodline rejoined that of her first husband, Aethelwulf of Wessex. Royal families in England, Spain, and Portugal can trace their ancestry to her. But Judith’s greatest legacy isn’t lineage; it’s the defiant courage to resist a king and confront the Pope, all for the love she chose.