To ensure the future of his two daughters, Ealdorman Ælfgar, lord over Essex, was driven to declare:

And I beseech whoever may then be king, for the love of God and all the saints, that let my children do what they may, they may never set aside the will which I have declared for my soul's sake. And if anyone alter it, may he have to account for it with God and the holy saints to whom I have bequeathed my property, so that he who shall alter this will may never repent it except in the torment of hell, unless I myself alter it before my death.

The daunting language used in this mid-tenth-century charter to deter any would-be challenger indicates how greatly the precarity of privilege weighed on the mind of the early medieval noble. If someone had wealth and power, they needed to find a way to protect it, whether it be during or after their lifetime. To solve this dilemma, many nobles, like Ælfgar, turned to wills. Even members of royalty, like King Eadred, placed their trust in an arbitrium: a last testament.

We may talk at length about the increasing centrality of the early English polity – and the pervasiveness of its power – or the regulatory effect of horizontal communities, but early England was, nevertheless, a volatile place, war-torn and rife with feuding. Ælfgar and Eadred were not the first to place their trust in testaments and wills. Kings Offa and Alfred had utilised the written word to protect their assets after death. Yet, ensuring that such a testament was honoured after one's death was not always easy. One approach was to append an intimidating anathema, as seen above. Another was to call on someone else's authority, secured through loyalty and, perhaps, a performative gift, such as the heriot, an early medieval English post obitum gift or payment of military equipment. The first time we find a heriot recorded in a will is in the reigns of Kings Edmund, Eadred, and Eadwig. These initial heriots were those of ealdormen and bishops.