HistoryExtra Home of Britain’s bestselling history magazine and award-winning podcast 2026-09-09T08:41:17.000Z https://www.historyextra.com/tag/medieval-battles/feed/atom HistoryExtra <![CDATA[The Bayeux Tapestry: what is it, why was it made and what story does it tell?]]> https://www.historyextra.com/membership/5-bayeux-tapestry-facts-what-is-it-why-was-it-made-and-what-story-does-it-tell/ 2026-09-09T08:41:17.000Z 2026-09-09T08:00:18.000Z The Bayeux Tapestry tells one of the most famous stories in British history – that of the Norman Conquest of England in 1066, particularly the battle of Hastings, which took place on 14 October 1066.
The Bayeux Tapestry is not a tapestry at all, but rather an embroidery. It is some 68m long and is composed of several panels that were produced separately and then eventually sewn together to form one long whole. It was most likely made in England by English embroiderers, and while we do not have a precise date for when the Bayeux Tapestry was created, the academic consensus is that it must have been produced very soon after the events it depicts.
What story does the Bayeux Tapestry tell?
The action actually starts a couple of years before the set-piece battle of Hastings, with a discussion between England’s King, Edward the Confessor, and his leading noble (who was also his brother-in-law), Harold Godwinson.
The upshot of that conversation is that Harold sets off on a ship to France. He is shipwrecked and captured by a local nobleman there, and then is transferred into the hands of the powerful Duke William of Normandy. Curiously, they then head off together on a military adventure in Brittany, which Harold seems to enthusiastically take part in.
The story of the Bayeux Tapestry
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Harold’s time in Normandy ends with him making an oath to William on holy relics. The tapestry does not explain precisely what the nature of the oath is, but other Norman-inclined sources tell us that Harold was swearing to be William’s man in England and to uphold his bid to be king on Edward’s death.
Harold then goes back to England and has another meeting with Edward the Confessor. We don’t know what they talk about, but it’s presumably discussing his stay in Normandy. Then Edward dies, and Harold is declared king by the English nobles. A comet shoots through the sky, which is deemed to be a bad omen for Harold.
Then the action swings back to Normandy. William hears of Harold’s accession and immediately starts building a fleet. The ships cross the Channel and the Norman army establishes itself on English soil. They are shown pillaging, feasting and fortifying their position. Then we get to the battle of Hastings itself, which is portrayed in considerable detail. The upshot of course is that King Harold is slain, with the defeated Englishmen being shown fleeing the field in the last scene of the tapestry.
The ending is abrupt and many people have pondered on whether the tapestry was not actually finished, or has lost its final frames at some point over the centuries. If so, the end panels might have shown William being crowned king of England, as that was the ultimate consequence of the Conquest.
Why is the Bayeux Tapestry important?
The tapestry contains a considerable amount of information not only about the political events surrounding the Conquest story, but also about other aspects of military, social and cultural history.
Historians of clothing have gleaned much about Anglo-Saxon and Anglo-Norman garment styles and fashions from the depictions shown in the tapestry, while academics interested in early medieval ship-building, sailing and carpentry have likewise learnt much from the sections dealing with the construction and voyage of William’s invasion fleet.
Military historians have studied the arms and armour shown in the tapestry and analysed the battle scenes to learn more about military techniques and practice at the time. Architectural experts have also been able to interrogate the tapestry for information about building types and materials in the 11th-century from the portrayals of the various structures shown in the story.
So the tapestry is a rich source of information on many aspects of Anglo-Norman life, society, culture and history. But more than that, it’s an astounding and amazing survival of a work of art that is almost 1,000 years old. Its significance derives as much from that as from what it tells us when we study it.
Unravelling the Bayeux Tapestry
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How old is the Bayeux Tapestry?
We do not have a precise date for when the Bayeux Tapestry was created but the academic consensus is that it must have been produced very soon after the events it depicts. This means that it is a key primary source for students of the Conquest period.
Who commissioned the Bayeux Tapestry?
This is a question that has been much discussed by historians over the years. Given the fact that the tapestry broadly celebrates and sanctions William’s Conquest of England, for a long time it was considered to have been the work of his wife, Queen Matilda, and the ladies of her court. That view is out of favour now, and the majority of historians would agree that the most likely patron was Odo of Bayeux, the half-brother of Duke William.
Odo was a key supporter of the duke and a substantial landowner in both England and Normandy after 1066, as well as being the bishop of Bayeux.
The biggest pointer towards Odo’s likely patronage of the tapestry is that he has a disproportionally large role in the events portrayed, compared to his appearance in other historical accounts of the Conquest. It seems that the designers are going out of their way to stress the importance of Odo in the narrative. On top of that, the key oath scene in which Harold swears to William is depicted in the tapestry as having taken place in Bayeux (Odo’s bishopric), which conflicts with other documents that say the event happened elsewhere in Normandy. Plus, aside from the main historical figures, there is the curious mention of several otherwise insignificant characters in the tapestry, and their names match those of men we know to have been Odo’s retainers.
Other candidates are also in the frame, though: Edward the Confessor’s widow, Queen Edith, has been suggested. She also features in the tapestry and would have had cause to want to show herself in a good light to William after the Conquest, so what better way than commissioning a tapestry that supports his claim to the throne?
Alternatively, it might have been made on the orders of William himself. Clearly he would have been keen to have a permanent record of his victory and his right to have claimed the throne.
- Read more | Who made the Bayeux Tapestry, and why?
Is the Bayeux Tapestry a reliable source of information?
Is any historical primary source of information entirely reliable? No – unless you understand the context of the time in which it was produced, and the motives of those producing it. That’s why the question of who had the tapestry made is critical in helping us to interpret what it tells us.
The most likely candidate as the patron of the tapestry is the Norman nobleman Odo of Bayeux, half-brother of William the Conqueror. However, layered on top of that is the likely fact that the actual design and embroidery work was probably done in England, by English hands.
So, although the tapestry is on the face of it a work of art designed to celebrate and legitimise William’s conquest of England, there is also an undercurrent of sympathy to the defeated Anglo-Saxon cause running beneath it. In some ways, the tapestry appears to agree with the Norman narrative of events, as described in the work of writers such as William of Jumieges and William of Poitiers. However, it is also surprisingly respectful of William’s enemy, King Harold II, who is shown as a great and brave lord, rather than just a deceitful usurper.
What’s important to note is that as a source of information on the political events to the Conquest period, the tapestry actually offers very limited definitive evidence. The Latin inscriptions that run above the pictorial narrative are terse and limited in number. This ambiguity means we do not know, for instance, what Edward the Confessor and Harold are discussing in the first scene of the story. Nothing is said other than ‘King Edward’ above the frame, so we are entirely in the dark about the meeting and must infer from other sources as to what the designers are trying to tell us. That is a problem that persists throughout the tapestry, where we are constantly invited to infer what is happening from the pictures, rather than being told what is happening with words.
What was the Bayeux Tapestry used for?
This is a difficult question to answer, if we are focusing on the immediate post-Conquest period, because we have no evidence whatsoever to call upon.
Assuming that the patron of the tapestry was, as is widely accepted today, Bishop Odo of Bayeux, then it may have been used to decorate the cathedral that he had constructed in Bayeux during his lifetime. It may even have been designed as an ornament for the consecration of that building in 1077, though some historians dispute that.
Presumably whoever did have the tapestry made would have wanted others to come view it and share in the story it tells, as well as be impressed by the magnificence of both the patron (for being the benefactor of such a great work), and of Duke William himself for orchestrating his victory.
Where might the Bayeux Tapestry have been displayed?
If it was displayed in a cathedral, illumination would have been dim to say the least. The tapestry could perhaps instead have been displayed in a secular building, or it could have been displayed temporarily and then stored away, maybe being brought out for particular gatherings, when there was someone on hand to tell the story in person as well.
How has the Bayeux Tapestry survived since 1066?
What we do know is that from at least 1476 onwards, the tapestry was held in Bayeux Cathedral (we don’t know where it was prior to that) because it’s detailed in an inventory of that date. It was traditionally brought out for display in the cathedral at a certain point in the year, and then stored away.
This helps to explain why the tapestry survived at all – it wasn’t on permanent view and thus not subject to the risks of being regularly exposed to the elements.
As we move forward into more recent times, the tapestry has continued to have a propaganda purpose. Napoleon considered it important when he was readying his plans to invade Britain at the start of the 19th century and had it brought to Paris for display. In the Second World War it was again deemed a useful tool by the Nazis, where it was studied as part of a research project to demonstrate the Germanic origins of European culture (and moved to Paris for safe-keeping).
View Green Video on the source website]]> Dr David Musgrove, FSA <![CDATA[Norway’s ‘Viking row’: the real history behind the World Cup football chant]]> https://www.historyextra.com/period/viking/norway-viking-row-chant-world-cup-football/ 2026-07-11T00:43:25.000Z 2026-07-11T00:41:13.000Z Did the Vikings chant about death, sex and masturbation while they rowed on the raiding missions that terrorised Britain and Europe between the eighth and 11th centuries?
That’s a pertinent question in the context of this summer’s FIFA Men’s World Cup. If you’ve been following the tournament, you’ll have no doubt seen clips of Norwegian supporters honouring their Viking ancestry by pulling imaginary oars in unison to the beat of a manly roar, with a drummer keeping time. The football team themselves perform the same motion when they win a game, led in general by their talismanic striker Erling Haaland (pictured above).
- Listen now | Alfred vs the Vikings: a four-part podcast series
That is the so-called ‘Viking row’, apparently invented by a Norwegian fan only in the last year or so, but building on a tradition of mass-participation rowing and clapping among Scandinavian supporters. It’ll be a feature, no doubt, of the build-up to the big game on Saturday night, when Norway face England in the World Cup quarter-finals.
The idea of the mass-participation row is not only to celebrate Norway’s Viking past, but also create an intimidating stadium experience when Norway is playing, and help foster a strong team spirit among the footballers and their supporters.
It’s a nice idea, even if some people have questioned how far we should celebrate the Vikings who paired their great seafaring explorations with murder, pillage, rape and slaving.
Those ethical considerations aside, does the Viking row have a direct historical precedent?
Blood, sex and masturbation
The Vikings’ seafaring prowess was built on their ability to swap sails for oars when they got close to land, enabling them to engage in coastal raiding or trading. And, according to experts, it does seem that they combined their rowing with songs and chants.
“In Old Norse sagas, song and battle have a very close connection,” explains Dr Eleanor Parker, a leading expert in Old Norse and Old English literature at the University of Oxford and the author of Dragon Lords: The History and Legends of Viking England. “Viking warriors are often shown chanting poetry in the midst of fighting, or before and after combat.”
“Like war chants, these poems sometimes channel the collective voice of the army, urging them on against the enemy. There is one that has Viking sailors singing as they’re about to land in England: ‘Let us be brave in battle, let us shake our spears and shoot! Great numbers of the English take to flight before our blades’.”
A few years ago, Professor Richard Perkins also wrote an academic article about Viking rowing chants, and how their rhythmic metre might have formed the basis of a particular style of court poetry that developed in the early Viking period.
- Read more | Meet the mysterious leaders of the Vikings’ most fearsome army
However, the chants that Professor Perkins identified from the Viking period are a touch more involved than those we’ve already heard at the 2026 World Cup.
They generally have more of a story to them, sometimes employing dramatic language of violence (blood raining down, men smiting each other mightily) and sometimes delivering some pretty spicy innuendo (oars as penises, that sort of thing). One verse even hints at masturbation: “While we work the soft oar stiff on the gunwale”.
It certainly sounds like there was enough going on in the songs to keep the rowers’ minds off the hard task at hand, while also keeping them to time as they pulled hard to shore.
The original England–Norway showdown
Returning to Saturday’s quarter-final clash, much capital is being made of the parallel between the match and the battle of Stamford Bridge. It was there, in September 1066, that the English king Harold II defeated the renowned Norwegian ruler Harald Hardrada, and made the river run red with Viking blood.
According to his saga, Hardrada composed some warlike verse before this battle. It’s not clear whether that would have been part of a rowing chant, but it did him no good in the battle, as he died along with most of his men.
- Read more | What if Harold died at Stamford Bridge, not Hastings?
Some optimistic English pundits might hope that Hardrada’s demise offers some sort of precedent for this year’s tournament, while enthusiastic Norwegians will be trusting that their adoption of the Viking row will allow their players to harness the spirit of the raiding warriors.
The football Viking row is distinctly sanitised in comparison to the original. If the Norwegians truly want to channel their ancestral spirit, they need to be singing about death, sex and masturbation – which might not go down well with the American TV networks showing the game.
]]> HistoryExtra <![CDATA[Conquest? What conquest? The other dramatic events that really mattered in 1066]]> https://www.historyextra.com/membership/conquest-what-conquest-the-other-dramatic-events-that-really-mattered-in-1066/ 2026-09-03T18:39:32.000Z 2026-01-26T16:00:28.000Z It was the summer of 1066 and two powerful leaders were rallying their supporters behind them and preparing for war. Their clash would result in political chaos, the spilling of much blood, and one of those leader’s violent deaths. Yet the people of England barely noticed.
That’s because the clash took place hundreds of miles to the south-east on the Italian peninsula, and it involved two figures – a renegade cleric named Arialdo and Guido da Velate, the archbishop of Milan – who have rarely troubled British history books. These two men had been butting heads since the 1050s and, by 1066, their intense rivalry had pitched the city-state of Milan into chaos.
The trouble started when Arialdo and his supporters began accusing Milan’s formidable clerical elite of corruption, chiefly because the city’s priests were married – a longstanding local practice that many non-Milanese found deeply shocking. Things quickly turned violent: armed skirmishes erupted on the streets. The showdown was soon heading for a bloody denouement.
We might suppose that the pope in Rome would take a dim view of an open rebellion against the clerical hierarchy in a major Italian city. But from the middle of the 11th century, the papacy was occupied by men who agreed that the Catholic church was in desperate need of an overhaul, and so they sided with Arialdo. In March 1066, Pope Alexander II went so far as to excommunicate Archbishop da Velate because of the charges Arialdo laid against him. It was a radical move. And it backfired spectacularly.
The canny archbishop was able to spin his excommunication to his benefit by positioning himself as the champion of Milanese traditions against toxic ‘external’ interference. An enraged local populace turned on Arialdo and chased him out of the city. In June 1066, while he was making his way to Rome, emissaries of da Velate hunted down Arialdo and murdered him.
Mob power
1066 is surely the most famous date in all of English history, synonymous with one event: Harold II and William of Normandy’s bitter struggle for the throne of England. We think of charging Norman knights and Anglo-Saxon foot soldiers, of the battle of Hastings and a famous arrow in the eye – all recorded in exquisite detail by the Bayeux Tapestry.
Yet as Arialdo’s fate on the road to Rome proves, the Norman conquest was far from the only significant event to occur in Europe in 1066. In fact, while Norman and Anglo-Saxon forces slugged it out at Hastings, people from Spain to Scandinavia, Kyiv to Constantinople were embroiled in events every bit as momentous as those unfolding in England. By exploring those events in the round, we can build a better picture of the currents convulsing the lives of the people of Europe in the late 11th century.
- Read more | 1066: who was the rightful king?
Take Arialdo’s uprising in Milan as an example. This wasn’t just an urban revolt, but also a sign of how western Europe was being shaped by its growing economy in the late 11th century. After the fall of the Roman empire, many western European towns had shrunk to a shadow of their former selves. But from the ninth century, or perhaps earlier, they had been steadily growing again. In 1066, Milan’s population had grown large enough for urban mobs to prove seriously troublesome for governing elites – as Archbishop da Velate discovered. This posed a problem that had not been encountered in the Christian west for centuries.
Life on the frontline
Milan wasn’t the only conurbation to be rocked by significant violence in 1066. The city of Barbastro is located in what’s now north-eastern Spain, but in the 1060s it was on the frontier between Muslim Iberia – also known as Al-Andalus – and the Christian kingdoms of the north. That placed it right on the frontline of one of the most contested swathes of territory in 11th-century Europe.
Barbastro had been in Muslim hands since the Arab conquest of Iberia in the eighth century. All that was to change dramatically in 1064. For, two years before the Norman conquest of England, a Christian force besieged and conquered the city. The composition of this army was varied – and even included some Normans – but it was probably led by Sancho Ramírez, ruler of the kingdom of Aragon.
Pope Alexander II – the same pontiff who would go on to excommunicate the archbishop of Milan – was involved, actively encouraging the siege. In a letter referring to the troops participating in the attack on Barbastro, he wrote that, “by the authority of the holy apostles Peter and Paul, we both lift their penance and make a remission of their sins”. Exactly what he meant by this terse statement has been widely debated. But on the face of it, it sounds a lot like the terms given by Pope Urban II to participants of the First Crusade three decades later in 1095.
Yet, for all Alexander’s words of encouragement, the Christian triumph in Barbastro was short-lived. Thanks to the efforts of Ahmad al-Muqtadir, the emir of Zaragoza, by 1066 Barbastro was back in Muslim hands – and would remain so for nearly four decades. While kingdoms in the north of Spain, such as Castile and Aragon, did make major territorial gains late in the 11th century, the fate of Barbastro proves that there was nothing inevitable about the Christian reconquest of Iberia.
Pagans v Christians
Most of Europe in 1066 lay under Muslim or Christian control. But this was not the case everywhere. In the far north, the Sámi peoples, who lived chiefly from their reindeer herds, steadfastly resisted efforts to convert them to Christianity. So, too, did Slavic-speaking peoples around the Baltic coastline, including a group in present-day north-eastern Germany known as the Wends, who fended off various invasions from Saxony in the east.
In the summer of 1066, this resistance crystallised into an uprising against a man called Gottschalk, one of the Wends’ own rulers. Gottschalk had converted to Christianity and wanted the pagan populace to follow suit, but they took a different view. The uprising claimed the lives of not only Gottschalk but also, in November that year, John Scotus, a missionary from Scotland or Ireland, who had become bishop of Mecklenburg in modern-day Germany.
If a contemporary chronicler named Adam of Bremen is to be believed, John’s murder was particularly grisly. “And because [John] confessed Christ, he was beaten with cudgels and then was led in mockery through one city of the Slavs after another,” Adam tells us. “Since he could not be turned from the profession of Christ, his hands and feet were lopped off and his body was thrown upon the road. Cutting off his head, the barbarians fixed it on a spear and offered it to their god Radegast in token of their victory.”
Debate has gone back and forth as to how literally we should take Adam’s account, since Christian monks’ descriptions of pagan practice were always heavily layered with their presumptions. What can’t be disputed, however, is that this part of Europe remained pagan for nearly another century. The allure of monotheism was not irresistible.
Families at war
To the east of the pagan people of the Baltic coastline lay Kyivan Rus. This was medieval Europe’s largest territory – stretching from the Gulf of Finland down to modern-day Ukraine – and, from 978 until his death in 1015, it was dominated by Volodymyr the Great. He was a formidable ruler who had converted to Orthodox Christianity in 988 as part of an alliance with the Byzantine empire, fought wars of conquest, and sired many children. That was all well and good, but four decades later, Volodymyr’s propensity for producing offspring was causing problems.
In the 1060s, Rus was ruled over by one of Volodymyr’s grandsons, Iziaslav I, and his wife, Gertrude of Poland. Iziaslav had reigned as Grand Prince of Kyiv since 1054 but, by the middle of the following decade, his position was increasingly being challenged by rival relatives. By 1068, such was the intensity of the dynastic struggles, that Iziaslav and Gertrude were forced to flee into exile in Poland. There they sought help from Gertrude’s family. Her nephew agreed to help and, with a contingent of Polish warriors behind him, Iziaslav returned to power in Kyiv in 1069. We have some insight into Gertrude’s state of mind at this perilous moment in her life, thanks to the survival of a remarkable manuscript, now in the town of Cividale in northern Italy. It’s a psalter – a book of psalms – and was originally made in the 10th century. Yet it somehow ended up in Gertrude’s hands.
While the book was by this point perhaps a century old, Gertrude made adjustments to it, including copying personal prayers into its margins and blank spaces. These heartfelt additions give a sense of her anxieties as she resided in a foreign, turbulent country: “O holy Helena, most Christian of queens… I beg you humbly … that you may deign to turn the hearts of your servants to peace and love and affection towards me, as our Lord Jesus Christ opened the heart of your emperor [Constantine] to remember you, and filled it with love.”
Even though this piece of evidence is unique to Gertrude, she was hardly the first elite woman in 11th-century Europe to find herself in a country with which she was no longer familiar. At that point, kings tended to prefer marrying women from abroad, just as William the Conqueror chose the daughter of the Count of Flanders as his wife. The result was a criss-crossing of dynasties taking place over several generations.
A proud teacher
If the examples on these pages teach us anything, it’s that 1066 witnessed no shortage of wars and rebellions. Yet there’s much more to the late 11th century than violence and unrest. To illustrate this point, let us turn to a letter from a scholar named Goswin, schoolmaster in the cathedral in Mainz, to a former student called Walcher.
In the letter, Goswin thanked his former pupil for sending him a book, which Walcher had personally copied after reading. Strikingly for the modern reader, Goswin suggested that the excellent quality of the scribal work justified the corporal punishment he had inflicted upon Walcher when he taught him as a child.
For most of the letter, though, Goswin reminisces about his younger days studying and teaching in Liège. He compared the educational environment of the city favourably to Plato’s academy, while festooning the letter with learned quotations from Horace, Cicero and other classical writers.
But Goswin didn’t only reminisce on past times. He also commented on new trends – unfavourably. These days, he claimed, avarice had taken over everywhere, and he and his fellow scholars were not suitably remunerated for their efforts. The biggest target of his ire, though, was the new generation of students: “Fleeing instruction in the gravity of moral discipline, they are blown about like light chaff in every wind of doctrine… They do homage to vain and pestiferous novelties of phrasings and questions… Also if they gather some scrap of arcane or verbose knowledge, they wander like vagabonds through the fields of learning, discoursing to no one’s satisfaction.”
This might read very much like the complaint of an ageing academic about the frivolities of the young, but it’s been argued that Goswin was actually putting his finger on a genuine development in educational practice. In the mid-11th century, intellectual energy was beginning to drain away from the old and rather conservative cathedral schools such as Mainz or Liège, heirs to the Carolingian Renaissance, and into the more disputatious classes held by a new generation of charismatic teachers. This new wave of educators was epitomised by men such as Peter Abelard of Paris, a firebrand whom, we can safely surmise, Goswin would have disliked immensely.
Heavyweight battles
For all Goswin’s musings on intellectual decay in the continent’s greatest seats of learning, we have to conclude our tour of 1066 Europe by returning to a more visceral theme: conflict. This particular outbreak of bloodletting was on a such a scale that it put even the Norman conquest in the shade.
At the heart of the conflict was one of the world’s great polities: the Byzantine empire. This had dominated much of the Mediterranean world since the fourth century AD when it had emerged as a continuation of the Roman empire (which is why it is often referred to as the Eastern Roman empire). In 1066, with the mighty city of Constantinople as its capital, it stretched from the Adriatic in the west to Antioch on the eastern shores of the Mediterranean.
However, by the middle of the 1060s, the empire was coming under pressure from multiple external forces. Turkic-speaking nomads were launching raids across the river Danube in the Balkans, with a particularly large incursion taking place in 1065. Meanwhile, in the eastern provinces, Byzantine forces had to contend with the Seljuk Turks, a powerful nomadic consortium who had converted to Islam, conquered Baghdad, and were now regularly unleashing raids in Anatolia.
Byzantine historians who recorded these events tended to see them as premonitions of the disaster that would befall the empire a few years later. At the battle of Manzikert in 1071, Byzantine emperor Romanos IV Diogenes was defeated and taken prisoner by a Turk force led by Alp Arslan, sultan of the Seljuk empire. Romanos was treated honourably by his captors and soon released, but his humiliation unleashed a civil war. On his return to Constantinople, Romanos was brutally blinded by internal enemies and died from his injuries.
For Byzantine historians of the time such as John Skylitzes, the seeds of this defeat were visible years before, because emperors failed to pay enough attention to the military threats menacing their borders. Skylitzes reserved some of his most stinging criticisms for Romanos’s predecessor, Constantine X, observing that: “Far more than anything else, the emperor yearned and desired to increase state revenues and to hear private law cases… while having less to do with other imperial duties, by which I mean maintaining military superiority and the fighting prowess of our soldiers.”
We should beware the hindsight on display here, though. As King Harold and Duke William both discovered at Hastings, battles were unpredictable affairs, and the outcome of Manzikert was never a foregone conclusion. If, in 1066, Constantine X had devoted himself chiefly to the running of his empire, that was because it was, quite reasonably, the top priority. Although there were military problems, he could draw on enormous financial and ideological resources to overcome them. Indeed, these resources allowed Byzantium to effect a recovery and it remained a mighty state into the later 11th century, as the crusaders discovered when they surged east from 1095.
Meanwhile, back in England, the country was reeling from the battle of 1066, and some contemporaries elsewhere in Europe acknowledged its drama. In Bavaria, the chronicler Frutolf of Michelsberg devoted his entire entry for the year 1066 to it. “England was pitifully attacked and eventually conquered by the Norman William, who was made king. Soon afterwards he sent virtually all the bishops of that kingdom into exile and the nobles to their deaths. Those of the middle rank he forced into the service of his knights, and all the wives of the indigenous people into marriage with the newcomers.”
There’s no doubt that the Norman Conquest was an extraordinary event for the English and Normans alike. Yet, taking a wide view, it was just one of the ways in which the tectonic plates of European politics and society were dramatically shifting in the 11th century.
Charles West is a professor of medieval history at the University of Edinburgh and author of Europe in the Eleventh Century: Beyond Revolution and Reform (Oxford University Press, 2025)
This article was first published in the January 2026 issue of HistoryExtra Magazine
]]> Dr David Musgrove, FSA <![CDATA[Just how many Bayeux Tapestries were there?]]> https://www.historyextra.com/membership/just-how-many-bayeux-tapestries-were-there/ 2026-09-03T18:48:14.000Z 2025-10-30T09:00:37.000Z The Bayeux Tapestry is an amazing artefact – and it’s exceptional not least because of its very existence today. Precious few pieces of embroidery from the medieval period survive, let alone ones that are almost 70 metres long. And, of course, the story it tells – of the conquest of England by the Normans – is one of immense historical significance. So we rightly celebrate it, and excitement about its forthcoming loan from Bayeux to the British Museum is high.
But what if this artefact wasn’t really so very exceptional at the time it was made? What if it was just one of several embroideries produced to commemorate the Norman victory over the English at the battle of Hastings in October 1066?
Professor John Blair, an expert in the Anglo-Saxon period at the University of Oxford, believes that might be the case.
“This is a reaction against the idea that the Tapestry had to be something extraordinary or unique, beyond the fact that it is an extraordinary and unique survival,” he says. “There are abundant references to decorative domestic hangings, but of course they had virtually zero chance of survival. The Tapestry is a wonderful piece of design, but the actual stitching isn’t particularly fine, and a big team of embroiderers in a workshop could have done it quite expeditiously.”
Purported patron
Why did the Tapestry survive when so few other embroideries did? Well, most scholars agree that it was probably made some time after the battle that it records, so in the mid-late 11th century, and likely on the orders of – or to curry favour with – Bishop Odo of Bayeux.
Odo, the half-brother of William the Conqueror, was made Earl of Kent after the conquest. The case for him being the Tapestry’s patron rests on the fact that he plays a particularly prominent role in the embroidery. Additionally, three lower-profile characters called Wadard, Vital and Turold are specifically (and surprisingly, given their status and role in the story) named in the Tapestry. These three men are thought to have been Odo’s followers.
One line of thought suggests that the Tapestry was made to be displayed in Odo’s new cathedral in Bayeux on its consecration in 1077. We know nothing of what happened to the embroidery in the four centuries that followed – until the late 15th century, when we have a documentary reference to it in an inventory of that cathedral, noting that it was displayed annually on a specific feast day. It’s possible that the Tapestry survived for such a long time because, except for its annual airing, it was kept in a chest in the church. It therefore wasn’t subjected to the wear and tear of daily display that might have caused other contemporary embroideries to fray and fall apart. One theory even has it that the Tapestry might have been walled up in a crypt below Bayeux Cathedral for centuries.
So, if Professor Blair is right in his theory that the uniqueness of the Tapestry rests principally in its survival, what does he think about its original manufacture? Where was it made, by whom – and was it one of a kind?
“Since it seems most unlikely that none of the other members of the Norman elite had embroidered hangings representing the Conquest,” he explains, “the possibility struck me that there might have been a set of stock designs, which the workshop then customised for each individual patron: we just happen to have the one made for Odo.
“On that argument, the scenes highlighting Odo – the meal before the battle, Odo brandishing his club, and so on – and Odo’s named followers Wadard, Vital and Turold would be insertions into the standard sequence,” he continues. “To take that further would need a closer analysis of design, sequence, correlation with the borders and so on than I have done. But the Wadard scene definitely does have possibilities, since the mounted knight captioned ‘Hic est Wadard’ does rather look as though he has been interposed into a sequence of three houses and three followers.”
To see how that might have worked, we’ve doctored that section of the Tapestry (above) so that you can compare the original sequence with a version in which the mounted Wadard has been removed.
Mass production
Gale Owen-Crocker – professor emerita of the University of Manchester, one of the most respected and well-published Tapestry scholars, and author of the forthcoming book The Design of the Bayeux Tapestry – likes the idea. “I am sure that there were workshops making these woollen hangings,” she says. “The workmanship is too assured for the Bayeux Tapestry to be a one-off.”
She has previously argued, along with her co-author, Maggie Kneen, that the Tapestry designers employed templates for the motifs and images that were most likely drawn onto the linen cloth as guides for the final stitching by the embroiderers. That, too, accords with Professor Blair’s theory.
Manchester Metropolitan University’s Dr Alexandra Makin, an authority on early medieval embroidery and author of The Lost Art of the Anglo-Saxon World, is minded to agree in broad terms:
“There’s no denying that the Bayeux Tapestry is an important embroidery, but we have evidence that indicates wall hangings that told stories were a popular way of memorialising the heroic deeds of family members,” she says. “An example is the Byrhtnoth wall hanging that was made by that ealdorman’s wife, Ælfflæd, and possibly other women in the household. It depicted the ‘great deeds’ of the ealdorman, and was given to the monastery at Ely at some point after his death at the battle of Maldon in 991.
“Meanwhile, in a poem written by Baudri of Bourgueil to William the Conqueror’s daughter, Adela of Blois, Baudri describes three different wall hangings, one of which is very similar to the Bayeux Tapestry,” she adds.
“The way the Bayeux Tapestry’s narrative is set out also brings to mind the woven tapestries found in the ninth-century Oseberg ship burial in Norway, which are thought to tell stories relating to warrior ideology in the Viking world,” Dr Makin continues. “The Bayeux Tapestry sits in a long tradition of telling heroic stories through textiles, so early medieval people were well aware of this and understood what it was telling them. This also suggests that other people could have commissioned embroidered or woven wall hangings to tell their own story of what happened in 1066. Whether these were as big as the Bayeux Tapestry is another question.”
According to Dr Makin, the way the embroidery was made lent itself ideally to the purpose for which it was designed. “The materials and stitches used to create the Bayeux Tapestry are perfect for the job,” she says. “They are bold, quick to work, cover the ground fabric easily and would be seen from a distance. This is not a fine piece of work like the 10th-century gold-and-silk embroidered stole, maniple and ribbons found in the tomb of St Cuthbert in Durham Cathedral – but using tiny stitches would not have worked for a wall hanging that was meant to be seen by lots of people at a distance.
“When the stitching is examined, its precise execution, and the economical use of thread, demonstrates that the Bayeux Tapestry is an accomplished piece of work,” Dr Makin concludes. “But we simply cannot compare it to pieces made from gold and silk threads. They were meant to do a different job.”
Evidence for uniqueness
Professor Michael Lewis, another leading Tapestry expert based at the British Museum, is less convinced by Professor Blair’s theory. He contends that Bishop Odo’s presumed key role in the making of the Tapestry actually argues for it being a one-off embroidery:
“We know from Domesday Book that Bishop Odo, the Tapestry’s likely patron, was a cultured man with the considerable wealth needed for the creation of a monumental artwork like the Bayeux embroidery,” he says. “Surely it was his unique position as Earl of Kent that also enabled access to the illuminated manuscripts that were evidently used in the Tapestry’s designs. Perhaps he could have granted similar access to other potential patrons – but is that likely or realistic?
“Another aspect to consider – key, perhaps – is whether the Tapestry was ever actually used for its original purpose, presumably to be displayed from place to place as an advocacy piece for Odo’s role in the Conquest,” he continues. “The likely period of its creation (1072–77) was within a new political environment in which William was moving towards a more oppressive regime than in the early days of the Conquest. Yet the Tapestry’s story seems to reflect a pre-1070s narrative, with William hoping to bring the English around by more persuasive means. So maybe it was never toured [because it didn’t reflect the newly prevailing narrative] and was unlikely to be emulated.”
Professor Lewis further wonders whether the scale of the embroidery and, thus, the resources required would have made duplicate versions less likely:
“It is true that the Bayeux embroidery uses relatively simple materials – flax for linen, wool for its threads, and plant material as dyes – but its scale, which could have been even larger than its extant 70m, suggests a different level of resources than might have been typical,” he notes. “This has not been explored in any meaningful way, and surely it is an opportunity not to be missed [when the Tapestry is conserved in 2027] for scientifically investigating its materiality?”
If Professor Blair’s theory does hold water – and clearly more research is needed to bolster the case – it demands that we consider the Tapestry and its message in a different light. As it stands, the Bayeux Tapestry is a key source for our understanding of the Norman conquest. The narrative it offers, which is at once celebratory for Duke William, conciliatory towards King Harold, and exclusionary of other dimensions to the story – the most obvious omission being Harald Hardrada’s invasion in northern England before Hastings – has had a significant influence on the way we see 1066. If it was only one of a number of similar but different embroideries, then we need to review our interpretative framework, and consider why this particular version showed this particular narrative.
“Should this idea turn out to be right, it would emphasise both the sophistication and the complexity of 11th-century life, with major embroideries produced for several aristocratic households on a factory-line basis,” Professor Blair remarks. “When trying to understand material culture in the early Middle Ages, we have to remember what a minute and unrepresentative sample has come down to us.”
Hopefully, this article might lead to further research on this interesting theory. In the meantime, if anyone reading happens to be descended from one of the leading Norman families of the 11th century and has an unopened chest lying around, please feel free to have a look – and get in touch if it contains a 70 metres long embroidery.
This article was first published in the December 2025 issue of BBC History Magazine
]]> Steve Tibble <![CDATA[The assassins' reign of terror: how these 12th-century killers spread fear in the Middle East]]> https://www.historyextra.com/membership/the-assassins-reign-of-terror-how-these-12th-century-killers-spread-fear-in-the-middle-east/ 2026-01-02T15:41:27.000Z 2025-10-22T08:00:38.000Z There were 13 men: unlucky for someone. They were dressed to kill – but so was everyone else. In what was essentially an army camp, crammed with armed men, the assailants blended right in. Moving casually but intently through the bustling camp outside Aleppo in Syria, past stalls and shopkeepers, beggars and soldiers, they headed towards their target.
Suddenly their progress was checked by a shout from behind: “What are you doing here?” Cover blown, their response was shocking: an explosion of violence, weapons flashing, blood splashing. The team of Assassins erupted into the tent where their victim sat unawares, surrounded by generals, lackeys and bodyguards. The attackers’ daggers and swords struck once more.
The target that day in January 1175 was a Kurdish general, Salah al-Din Yusuf ibn Ayyub – better known to us as Saladin. He had displaced the Fatimid dynasty to rule as sultan of Egypt, and was now muscling in on Syria. That vicious attack on his life failed – for now. But who were these men? And why had they launched such a murderous and seemingly suicidal assault?
Power through murder
Those brutal killers were Assassins. The upper case seems pedantic, but it is important. In the true medieval sense, that term was used for members of the Nizari Ismailis, a Shia Muslim sect who sought to defend themselves and to project power through political murder. The word ‘Assassin’ (or hashishin) was used as a pejorative by those on the receiving end of their remorseless hit squads in the 12th and 13th centuries. And the name stuck, becoming synonymous for premeditated murderers or contract killers – even though most of the broader Nizari Ismaili community were in fact peaceful peasants, scholars and merchants.
The origins of this sect lay in the chaos of the Middle East in the late 11th century. Turkic tribes from the Eurasian steppes had stormed into the region and seized power from local Arab rulers, before starting to jockey among themselves for control of these new lands. Then, between 1092 and 1094, most of the major political leaders in the region died, including the vizier and caliph-imam of Fatimid Egypt, and the Seljuq sultan Malik-Shah, who ruled a vast empire stretching from Anatolia through the Middle East to central Asia. The resulting power vacuum was quickly filled with mayhem.
The Nizari Ismailis were widely despised by their powerful Sunni Muslim neighbours as heretics and traitors, so launched an audacious uprising against the Sunni Seljuq Turks in Persia – and, importantly for our story, sent out missionaries to set up bases in the mountains of Syria. This was occurring in the last decade of the 11th century, around the same time as the crusaders were sweeping into the area, carving out kingdoms of their own from which to defend the Holy Land.
By the start of the 12th century, the entire region had become disastrously fragmented. For the Nizari Ismailis – and for the recently arrived crusaders – Syria now seemed a land of opportunity. Members of this small breakaway sect were small in number and without obvious economic assets, but they had a terrifyingly effective secret weapon: the savage skills and unquestioning loyalty of a cadre of elite killers – the fidais.
Promise of death
During the crusades, most major players employed a similar strategy: channel enormous amounts of money and energy into acquiring big armies, the basic building blocks upon which almost all power structures were built. But assembling these voraciously expensive and disruptive armies was a big enough challenge for wealthy nations – how could minor players survive? The short answer is that, in most cases, they did not. Before long, almost all of them were swept away.
The Nizari Ismailis chose a revolutionary alternative: rather than rely on the generality of death embodied by large (and expensive) armies, they chose the specificity of death. Individuals are afraid of violent endings, so any power that could spark and exploit that primal fear had no need of costly, clumsy armies. For the Nizari Ismailis – now, for our purposes, synonymous with the Assassins – violent, targeted death became their power, and their promise.
Their overall goal was to secure the survival and growth of the sect in a hostile environment, but specific tactical objectives varied. Murders were perpetrated for political reasons, to intimidate, for revenge, for money – for example, to pay for the construction of castles – out of personal animosity or, frequently, a combination of these reasons.
In their remote bases in Syria, the Assassins perfected and professionalised their squads of fidais. Only the most committed and able, mentally as well as physically, were chosen to receive the rigorous training needed to fulfil their highly dangerous missions, often with slim chances of survival. Most of their attacks were on high-profile individuals, and took place in very public spaces. Every member of a fidai team had to be courageous and committed to the cause.
They were described by their enemies as fanatical and brainwashed, but by admirers as dedicated and skilful. Regardless, the fidais were extraordinarily focused and effective – the ninjas of the 12th century Middle East.
Then, as now, there were many lurid descriptions of the Assassins as drugged-up, deluded fanatics eager to die for a twisted cause. But this was all part of the illusion – an essential element in the promise of ‘unstoppable death’ at the heart of the brand. The fear sown by the fidais – along with their own fearlessness and relentlessness, which made them such terrifying and efficient killers – was at the core of the Assassins’ power. As one of their leaders retorted to an attempt at intimidation by an enemy, a general commanding vast armies: “Do you threaten a duck with the river?” If death was a river, in other words, the fidais were all too happy to swim in it.
Most of the associated rumours were untrue. It is unlikely, for instance, that fidais were given drugs such as hashish (cannabis resin) to numb their senses and inspire fanaticism before they carried out a hit. Being under the influence of narcotics would have been counterproductive: a skilled Assassin needed to have his wits about him.
Old Man of the Mountain
The Assassins’ political murders started with a huge success in 1092, when a fidai named Bu Tahir Arrani stabbed the Seljuq vizier Nizam al-Mulk as he was being carried in a litter towards Baghdad. Other Sunni leaders were then attacked and killed, including Janah al-Dawla, the Turkic governor of Homs, in 1103. Even Mawdud, the ruler of Mosul and the general entrusted with coordinating the campaign against the crusaders, was killed in Damascus in 1113, despite being surrounded by the best bodyguards that money could buy.
Mawdud’s successor, Aqsunqur al-Bursuqi, fared no better, assassinated while at his prayers in the Great Mosque of Mosul in 1126. Members of the fidai squad were, as usual, cut down by the numerous bodyguards stationed around the target, with only one, “a youth from Azaz”, surviving. (This was highly embarrassing for his mother, who was deeply proud of the celebrity status her brave son enjoyed in the sect and was already in mourning for him when he returned alive.)
By the mid-12th century, the Assassins had become feared across the region. This reputation was further confirmed under the rule of Rashid ad-Din Sinan, known as Sinan, who became ruler of the de facto Nizari Ismaili state in Syria and Persia in 1162. He strengthened the Assassins’ network of mountain fortresses and perfected their deadly craft. Under him, the fidais became an even more professional and fearsome weapon – more formalised, better trained and increasingly highly motivated.
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Sinan was an extraordinary figure: highly intelligent, a great leader and capable of acting with profound strategic insight. He was also a man of a deeply esoteric, mystical and, some would say, even ‘magical’ disposition. As one Sunni commentator later wrote, “the Ismaili sect followed him as they had followed no one else, and he was able to achieve what no other had achieved”.
The main Nizari source about his life, an early 14th-century biography, was written by the scholar Abu Firas, who went to some lengths to emphasise the leader’s orthodox Islamic credentials but also listed Sinan’s supposed occult achievements. There were stories of telepathy and clairvoyance. Sinan was never seen eating, and he did not say much, but deliberately adopted strange poses. There were rumours among his own people that he did not cast a reflection in water.
He became known as the ‘Old Man of the Mountain’ – a title that, though originally a personal honorific, was later used to signify the Assassins’ leader in Syria, a little like ‘Caesar’ or ‘Sultan’. This helped create a sense of fear that transcended death: regardless of who was in charge at any moment, there was always an ‘Old Man of the Mountain’.
The ‘death cult’ image that Sinan so fastidiously cultivated was a huge success. The Assassins’ enemies fomented ‘legendary’ tales in attempts to denigrate and isolate their ruthless foe, but the killers benefited from the additional fear these stories fuelled. As one Nizari poet put it, a single fidai could strike fear into the heart of the most powerful king. And there was one particular ‘king’ that the Assassins had in their crosshairs.
Saladin, a usurper desperate to shore up his image as a legitimate ruler, found it useful to pose as the champion of Sunni orthodoxy – and as Shia ‘heretics’, the Nizari Ismailis were handy scapegoats. They, along with the crusaders, were the unifying bogeymen of his self-justification. The Assassins correctly identified that his new Ayyubid empire posed an existential threat to the Nizari Ismaili sect – and decided that he should be eliminated.
Hard target
As outlined at the start of this story, and reported by the chronicler Ibn al-Athir the following century, the first fidai team struck while Saladin was besieging Aleppo in 1175, when 13 men armed with knives were dispatched to kill him. The attack was timed to coincide with the communal meal, when servants and guests would be distracted. But, as we’ve seen, on that occasion the fidais were thwarted by a piece of bad luck. An emir in Saladin’s camp recognised them as Nizari Ismailis, and asked: “What has brought you here? On what business have you come?”
Knives were drawn: the Assassins stabbed the emir “with some deadly blows, and one of their number charged towards Saladin to slay him but was killed before he could reach him”, said Ibn al-Athir. The fidai who got closest had his head hacked off by an emir, and Saladin’s chancellor, Imad al-Din, wrote that “the others were not killed until they had killed a number of people”. The Assassins failed on this occasion – but they did not die quietly.
The next year, Saladin was besieging the castle of Azaz, belonging to one of his Sunni rivals, north-west of Aleppo. Here the Assassins launched another, even more deadly attempt on his life, with a smaller but more focused team ordered to strike Saladin’s neck and head. Al-Athir wrote that “while Saladin was in a tent belonging to one of his emirs, [an Assassin] leapt on him, struck him on the head with a dagger and wounded him”.
The blade met iron rather than flesh and bone. Spooked by the earlier attempt on his life, Saladin was almost totally covered in layers of concealed armour.
“Had it not been for the mailed helmet under his cap,” wrote Ibn al-Athir, “he would have been killed. Saladin grasped the [Assassin’s] hand in his, although he was unable totally to prevent him striking a blow.”
The sultan’s men rushed to his aid, and killed that assailant. Another member of the hit squad killed one of Saladin’s commanders; a third fought on until he was killed by Saladin’s brother. The last surviving fidai escaped from the tent but was torn apart by the crowd outside. A bloodied Saladin was hustled away “in a state of shock, hardly crediting his escape… The sultan rode to his tent, terrified by this event, with his blood flowing down his cheek and the collar of his chain mail wet.”
Saladin quickly sent a reassuring message back to Egypt to dispel any sign of weakness and to discourage possible uprisings. “There was only a scratch with some few drops of blood,” he wrote. But he knew that he could no longer ignore the Assassins.
In July 1176, Saladin moved his armies into the heart of Nizari Ismaili territory and “ravaged their land, destroying and burning”. His armies besieged their fortress of Masyaf, about 30 miles north-west of Homs.
No further hostilities developed. Sinan did not want a huge army camped outside his castle, ravaging the hard-won Nizari lands in Syria. Saladin wanted to preserve his life and family, and he had plenty of other enemies to attend to. Both sides quickly sought peace.
After this, the Assassins generally remained neutral, presumably having given reassurances to Saladin about his personal safety. He seems to have pulled back from further antagonism, and even included them in treaties that might affect their interests.
End of the Assassins
Ultimately, the Assassins failed to overthrow the Seljuq Turks or their successors. They carved out a couple of minor principalities for a time, but little more, and did not hold any major cities. They were eventually brushed aside by much larger, more violent and less easily intimidated military opponents. In 1256–57, they were destroyed by the Mongols in Persia, then neutered by Sultan Baybars and the Mamluks in Syria after 1265.
The Assassins had persisted for more than a century and a half – far longer than might have been expected. Despite being vastly outnumbered by their Sunni enemies, they had made themselves heard, hated and feared. They pushed the bounds of dedication and commitment to new limits. And it is that extraordinary legacy, with all its faults, that deserves to be remembered.
This article was first published in the October 2025 issue of BBC History Magazine
]]> HistoryExtra <![CDATA[Michael Wood on women’s contributions to the Bayeux Tapestry]]> https://www.historyextra.com/membership/michael-wood-on-womens-contributions-to-the-bayeux-tapestry/ 2026-09-08T18:33:57.000Z 2025-09-17T08:00:01.000Z Like all readers, I am sure, I was thrilled to hear the news that the Bayeux Tapestry is coming to England. 1066 is the most important date in British history, and the Tapestry is the greatest single source, taking the tale from the last days of Edward the Confessor through the drama of Harold and William, the Norman invasion, and the defeat and death of Harold at Hastings.
The Tapestry has been in Bayeux since the Middle Ages and has never left, save briefly during the Franco-German War and under Napoleon and the Nazis, who both sought to weaponise it prior to their own invasion attempts. But it was made in England in the aftermath of the Conquest, probably at Canterbury by English needlewomen. Scholars think that it was commissioned by the Conqueror’s brother Odo, bishop of Bayeux, who features prominently on the Tapestry along with his followers. One of those, Vitalis, is singled out and named, shown mounted and in full armour, reporting to William the whereabouts of the English army. Perhaps he was the leader of a scouting detachment who had gone ahead of the Norman army.
The artistic inspiration was the English school of manuscript painting in Canterbury, but there may have been Roman models, too. Trajan’s Column, in particular, depicts the emperor’s Dacian campaigns in a similar manner – like a strip cartoon. Odo himself had been to Rome; so, too, had Scolland, abbot of St Augustine’s Abbey, who may have designed the Tapestry – perhaps using a sketch book from his travels?
It’s a huge artwork, some 68.3 metres long, but damaged at the end: perhaps as much as 3 metres is missing. It is generally agreed that the Tapestry originally finished with William’s crowning at Westminster at Christmas 1066 – a mirror image to the opening panel of the enthroned Edward the Confessor. Based on that assumption, a brilliant full-scale reconstruction has been completed by embroiderers on Alderney.
It’s thought that the Tapestry was commissioned for the consecration of Bayeux Cathedral in 1077. Art historian Christopher Norton suggests that its original length would perfectly fit the nave of Odo’s new church, along three walls of a rectangular space 31 metres long and 9 metres wide, taking account of doorways and architectural supports. Possibly the first record of the embroidery tells us that, in the 15th century, it was hung in the nave at Bayeux on the feast of the cathedral’s relics, 1 July, and for the following week. By the 18th century, that period stretched from the Feast of John the Baptist on 24 June till the end of July. This gives us a key clue to its original purpose: perhaps it was made specifically to be shown in the cathedral on the relic feast.
On the Tapestry, Harold has a bigger role than William, and his story unfolds as a tragedy. Harold’s fate is sealed when he breaks his oath to support William’s claim to the English throne. Before then, he was a great and successful warrior. So he’s portrayed not as a Judas but as a Macbeth – a brave man led by his ambition into disloyalty. It is possible that his fateful oath was actually sworn on the cathedral’s relics at Bayeux. If the Tapestry was dedicated by Odo to his cathedral, then the part of the relics in the story is central.
We know nothing of the women who made it. Yet we do know that the work of Old English needlewomen was later prized abroad as opus Anglicanum, ‘English work’. We know that Earl Byrhtnoth, the hero of the battle of Maldon in 991, was depicted on a tapestry hung in Ely Abbey (now Ely Cathedral) that perhaps also commemorated the faithful retainers named in the famous Old English poem. And even middling people had embroideries in their houses depicting heroic or biblical scenes, which provided richly coloured decoration and acted as draught-proofing. In her will from the 940s, a woman called Wynflaed gives her friend her “long hall tapestry”, which must have been a fine heirloom.
So much bigger in scale, the Bayeux Tapestry was commissioned by a rich and powerful person at the top of society. As for its actual makers, it is only later in the Middle Ages that we start to learn the names of some of the women who created such wonderful works of art that were prized across Europe. So when we stand in front of the Tapestry next year, and take in the immense drama of the Conquest, we should also remember the unknown women who made it: the likes (let’s imagine) of Eadgyth of Sittingbourne and Ælfflæd of Whitstable. Now, they would have a story to tell.
This column was first published in the September 2025 issue of BBC History Magazine
]]> Dr David Musgrove, FSA <![CDATA[The wrong moustache in the Battle of Hastings]]> https://www.historyextra.com/membership/the-wrong-moustache-in-the-battle-of-hastings/ 2025-09-03T13:01:08.000Z 2025-09-03T13:00:50.000Z How and why did they get the facial hair so wrong in the new BBC 1066 drama King and Conqueror, and what did an actual Viking look like on the hair and beard front? Find out in my in-depth analysis of moustache-gate, framed, as is my wont, in the context of the Bayeux Tapestry.
The new 1066 drama King and Conqueror has been accused by numerous commentators of playing fast and loose with the historical narrative of the Norman Conquest. That’s a reasonable criticism, but on my assessment of the critiques of the series, the deepest opprobrium has been reserved for the facial hair fantasy.
Dad tache or bad tache?
The problem is that Nikolaj Coster-Waldau, as Duke William of Normandy, sports a bristling tache (memorably described by Lucy Mangan in the Guardian as a ‘1970s dad tache’ and in the Daily Mail as an Asterix look), while the upper lip of James Norton’s Harold Godwinson is unequivocally hairless.
That, as many experts have pointed out, is directly at odds with the Bayeux Tapestry. The famous 11th-century embroidery, which provides the earliest visual representation of the 1066 story, quite clearly shows a moustachioed Harold and a clean-shaven William.
Harold’s facial hair in the Tapestry is in line with that of his Anglo-Saxon compatriots: they tend to (but don’t always) boast moustaches, some of which are thin and straggly, while others are impressive handlebar efforts. The Normans, on the other hand, lack upper lip action. The embroiderers were clearly following a style guide to try to offer a visual prompt to the viewer about which side the respective figures were on.
Menacing reverse mullet
It wasn’t just moustaches in the Tapestry that helped viewers to know who was on which team – the haircuts also offered a clue. The Normans often had curious shaved necks, which, in the words of the great Tapestry scholar Professor Gale Owen-Crocker were ‘sometimes accompanied by a menacing lock of hair at the forehead’, or a ‘reverse mullet’ as Dr Thomas Williams has fabulously described it. The English generally had a decidedly less scary bowl-cut bob sort of look going on. This was significant because one of the things with the Bayeux Tapestry is that it doesn’t give you very much information in the captions to describe what’s occurring and who is doing what, so you needed these visual hints to keep up with the story.
Aside from the moustache debacle, King and Conqueror doesn’t, for my money, capture the spirit of the Bayeux Tapestry with the barnets either. Norton’s haircut isn’t quite dorky enough, and Coster-Waldau’s isn’t really as shavenly intimidating as it ought to be. Maybe Luther Ford’s Tostig Godwinson gets closest to a Tapestry look with his bowl-cut (though Tostig himself does not specifically appear in the embroidery, so I’m generalising about the Anglo-Saxon vibe).
I haven’t seen any explanation in the crew interviews for the TV series for this obvious diversion from the historical facial hair facts. However, I do note that Norton had originally hoped to play William. His plan, apparently, was scuppered by a contractual obligation with HBO that he could only appear in King and Conqueror if his character died. That legal stipulation ruled out the option of him appearing as the Norman Duke, who does not die at Hastings, and left him little choice but to take on the ill-fated Harold instead, who famously does. So maybe they just forgot who was supposed to grow the tache after that.
Manly strength, modernity and bravery
I do understand this level of moustache anxiety, particularly in these days of hipster facial hair. I’m reminded of a great HistoryExtra article from the eminent beard historian Dr Alun Withey on moustache matters. He said, “Like many other facial hair styles, the moustache has a long and complicated history. In some periods it has symbolised manly strength, modernity and bravery; in others it was decried as an affectation of fey young men. It’s easy to write facial hair off as something that is quirky or irrelevant, but it often tells us a very great deal about individual men across time, as well as shifting attitudes towards masculinity and the male body.”
Having established the importance of facial hair, I’m surprised that not many people have been exercised by the chin of Eddie Marsan’s Edward the Confessor in King and Conqueror. Marsan’s simpering mother-beaten monarch is very different from the Bayeux Tapestry version, because the embroidered king wears a long flowing beard. I know Marsan can grow facial hair because he was bearded in his depiction of noted canoe conman John Darwin in an ITV drama a few years ago, so again, the King and Conqueror team have apparently made a deliberate decision to ignore the evidential pogonotrophy of the Bayeux Tapestry. I can only assume that they figured Marsan with a beard wouldn’t look as weak-willed as they wanted his King Edward to be.
Someone who is clearly tooled up to look intimidating in King and Conqueror is the Norwegian King Harald Hardrada, played by Sveinn Ólafur Gunnarsson. He is resplendent with a big brash beard that Brian Blessed would be proud of. Hardrada’s invasion, accompanied by King Harold’s disaffected brother Tostig, is the preliminary story to the Norman Conquest (and if you want the full story, watch my chat with Marc Morris all about it on the HistoryExtra YouTube channel). Harold’s victory over his brother and the mighty Hardrada at the battle of Stamford Bridge would have been the stuff of legend if it wasn’t overshadowed by his own defeat and death a few days later at the hands of William and the Normans at Hastings. The Tapestry devotes zero attention to the Hardrada story so we cannot say whether the King and Conqueror depiction of a big beardy Viking is accurate.
Actual Viking facial hair evidence
However, and this is breaking news, an archaeologist at the National Museum of Denmark, Peter Pentz, has just published some research on a remarkable Viking period figurine, which gives us a very rare glimpse of what a Viking hair style actually looked like. Granted it’s from the 10th century rather than the 11th, and obviously sartorial trends can move fast, but nevertheless, it’s a good insight. The little figurine, currently on display in the Viking Sorceress exhibition at the museum in Copenhagen, has a middle parting with a side wave that leaves the ear visible, while the hair has been cropped at the back. Plus he’s got a large moustache, a long, braided goatee and sideburns. It’s some look, and according to Peter Pentz, it’s quite a find:
“Hitherto, we haven’t had any detailed knowledge about Viking hairstyles, but here, we get all the details – even the little curl above the ear is marked. This is the first time we see a figure of a male Viking with his hair visible from all angles. It’s unique”.
Hardrada, in King and Conqueror, isn’t quite aligned with this Viking look, given that he has a full beard rather than tache, goatee and sideburns, but this research has only just come to light, so we can let the producers of the series off on that one at least.
- Read more | How historically accurate is King and Conqueror? Here’s the real history that should have happened
What’s interesting, I think, is to dwell briefly on whether we are reading far too much into these Bayeux Tapestry haircuts and moustache designs. Might perhaps we better assume that the designer and embroiders were simply trying to remind the viewers about who was English and who was Norman, as I mentioned above, and not really be attempting to represent the hairy reality of the day?
As the noted scholar of Old English Dr Thijs Porck pointed out in this excellent blog post a few years ago, the early 11th-century Anglo-Saxon religious writer, Ælfric of Eynsham, had cause to write a letter of complaint, admonishing his fellow monks for adorning themselves ‘in Danish fashion, with bared neck and blinded eyes’. That shaved back of neck and hair flopping over the eyes sounds quite a lot like the Norman look in the Bayeux Tapestry, and not dissimilar to what we can see in the Viking figurine. So maybe both the Anglo-Saxons and the Normans were trying to look scarily Viking in the 11th century, and the Tapestry has slipped us a red herring by making out that the two groups adopted different hair styles. Maybe moustache-gate is simply an overly-literal reading of the embroidery.
As Marc Morris has noted, however, there is other documentary evidence besides the Tapestry to suggest that there were stylistic differences in hair and face between Normans and English. William of Poitiers recorded how the French and Normans 'looked with curiosity' at the long-haired English hostages that the Conqueror brought home with him in 1067, and other sources do point to the Normans being clean-shaven and the English wearing facial hair.
One final point on faces, moustaches and hair is this: quoting Professor Owen-Crocker once more, ‘No-one ever looks happy in the Bayeux Tapestry’. The range of facial expressions in the embroidery are limited, though Harold does look notably downtrodden when he’s making his famous oath in the presence of Duke William in Bayeux. So, if we’re being picky about facial hair and divergence from the Tapestry, we ought also to criticise King and Conqueror for allowing its characters to smile on occasion, because that really isn’t in the spirit of the embroidery.
If you want to know more about the Bayeux Tapestry, feel free to have a scan of The Story of the Bayeux Tapestry, by myself and Professor Michael Lewis.
This article is part of HistoryExtra's new Life Lessons from History Substack newsletter. Subscribe to the newsletter for more articles and podcasts exploring the ways in which history can help us live better, happier, healthier or more productive lives.
]]> HistoryExtra <![CDATA[The murder of James III: who killed the king of Scots?]]> https://www.historyextra.com/membership/james-iii-king-of-scotland-who-killed-murder-mystery-theories-suspects-cover-up/ 2025-03-07T11:46:34.000Z 2025-03-05T09:49:55.000Z On 11 June 1488, a Scottish king gathered his army and marched to a field south of Stirling known as Sauchieburn. This man was James III – great-great-great-great grandson of Robert the Bruce, famed for his pivotal victory over the English at the battle of Bannockburn. James faced not a foreign invasion, but a rebellion by his own subjects. To counter this threat, and eager to be seen as a ‘new Bruce’, he wielded the sword of his famous ancestor. Rather than winning a heroic victory, though, by the end of the day James lay dead – killed by one of his own subjects as he fled the battlefield. But by whom? The answer is a mystery that’s endured for more than five centuries.
James III was a divisive figure. He alienated many Scots with his determination to secure a marriage alliance with England, and his familial relations were little better: he fell out with one brother, Alexander, Duke of Albany, who then joined an English invasion of Scotland in 1482. He was also accused of ordering the death of his other brother, the Earl of Mar, and of being behind the alleged poisoning of his wife, Margaret of Denmark, in 1486.
As ruler, James proved unable to control feuds between rival noble families and debased the Scottish coinage, causing economic problems. In summary, he fell short in almost every way imaginable.
Writing perhaps three-quarters of a century later in The Historie and Chronicles of Scotland, Robert Lindsay said that James, standing on the field of battle in 1488, had “remembered the words of the witch that said to him before that he should be destroyed and put down by his nearest of kin” – a dramatic image reminiscent of William Shakespeare’s Macbeth.
The witch was not real, but the drama certainly was. The army that toppled James III had as its figurehead none other than the king’s eldest son who, on his father’s death, became James IV. Then just 14 years old, Prince James had left his residence in Stirling Castle in February 1488 and joined a group of individuals opposed to his father. At first, he probably merely wanted his status as heir better recognised, but he remained with the rebels when things became ugly, and a military campaign ensued.
Despite the family feud, the younger James did not want to see his father harmed – a wish clearly not shared by his allies, one of whom took the opportunity to stab the king to death after the battle. James IV never forgave himself for his father’s demise; in penance, he reportedly wore an iron belt to which he added extra weights every year.
Yet the prince had not wielded the dagger himself. We know very little about what actually happened at the battle of Sauchieburn, as the clash was later named; reports that do exist are vague, and written many years after the event.
It seems that the royalist force was quickly overwhelmed, and that James III decided to flee. After his escape from the action, however, someone recognised the king and took their opportunity to kill him – though the specifics are unclear. The culprit took the secret to their grave, so what we’re left with is essentially rumour and speculation.
Enduring ambiguity
The earliest surviving account of the killing comes from the journal of an Englishman living in Dublin, which simply states that people spoke about the king of Scots being dead. It contains no information about how James III died, nor who – if anyone – was responsible. Such was the prevailing ambiguity, which continued for decades.
For the new king and his government, the killing of a monarch was not something to celebrate. At a parliament in October 1488, nearly four months after the battle of Sauchieburn, the first glimpses of a cover-up emerged. It was said that James III “happened to be slain” – a casual and equivocal phrase. The overall impression was that, though James IV was sad to see his father killed, everyone else just wanted to forget and move on.
There were some rumblings of disquiet about the episode. In January 1489, Alexander Gordon, eldest son of the Earl of Huntly, wrote to English king Henry VII, requesting help in challenging the new regime in Scotland and citing the “treasonable and cruel slaughter of my sovereign lord”.
He was not the only Scotsman seemingly appalled by the cold-blooded killing of an anointed king. At some point later in 1489, probably around Easter, Lord Forbes “carried the late king’s shirt, stained with blood, and torn with the marks of the wounds suspended upon a spear, through Aberdeen and the chief towns of the adjacent counties, and by public proclamation, called upon men to avenge the horrid deed”.
Because James III’s body had already been buried in the shirt he’d worn at his death, this could not have been the actual garment worn by the king on that fateful day – shirts and blood were both in plentiful supply, of course. But the item being carried through the streets acted as a powerful reminder of the crime.
- Read more | To kill a king: 350 years of regicide
As the year progressed, James III’s fate was weaponised in a war for public opinion that took place during a full-blown rebellion. This uprising had more to do with how James IV’s supporters had enriched themselves after Sauchieburn than with the former king’s death, but the erstwhile monarch’s uncertain fate was too good a smear to ignore.
On 12 September 1489, the rebels produced a manifesto noting four grievances, the first of which was that the “treasonable and vile persons” who killed James III had not been identified. The other complaints centred around the use of royal finances, how justice was administered, and the exaction of ransoms for those taken prisoner the previous year.
Continuing cover-up
The revolt ended with a negotiated settlement, but no real efforts were made to identify James III’s killer – to the chagrin of those protesting to his son, who wrote that the failure to bring to justice the late king’s killers was “to the perpetual defamation of our sovereign lord [James IV] and the whole realm [of Scotland]”. They did not name the killers, but hinted that various “partial persons” had been involved in a cover-up.
James IV later called a parliament to patch things up with those who rose up against him, and to try to bring back stability to his kingdom. Yet even among them there was no serious attempt to find the culprit. In reality, it was useful for the rebels to raise the late king’s fate to show how unjust the new regime was; once that purpose had been served, the matter was not raised again.
This outcome did not silence everyone, however. By 1492, the government was forced to act once again in response to “the heavy rumour and gossip of the people about the death and killing of our sovereign lord’s late father”. Anyone who came forward with information about the former king’s death would be granted 100 marks of land. Even though this was a substantial amount of land that could have been of lasting benefit to the informant and their heirs, no one ever claimed the reward.
Unsurprisingly, at that point James III’s fate stopped being a concern for James IV or his government, who had nothing to gain from uncovering the killer’s identity. The new king was generally more successful and popular than his father; often referred to as a “renaissance prince”, he combined an affable public image with sound financial management.
He did, though, make a fatal blunder in foreign policy. Some 25 years after his own father’s death, in late summer 1513, James IV took a Scottish army over the border into Northumberland, where it was met by English troops led by the Earl of Surrey. The ensuing battle of Flodden was a disaster for the Scots, many thousands of whom were slaughtered. Among the dead was James himself – the last king in the British Isles to die on the battlefield.
In the decades that followed, various writers began to embellish the story of James III’s murder – in particular, specifying the location of his death. In the 1530s, Adam Abell stated that James IV had evil counsel who ignored his orders not to harm his father, and that the king had been killed near a mill at Bannockburn.
Bishop John Lesley extended the story further, saying that certain “wicked men” who hated James III waited for him to flee the battle before slaying him at the mill. Giovanni Ferreri, a well-travelled Italian monk who spent time in Scotland, claimed that James III’s horse was spotted outside the mill while he was resting. The assassins, he said, had long held grudges against the king.
- Read more | 10 things you (probably) didn’t know about Scottish history
Eventually, two chronicles provided names. In his Historie, Robert Lindsay claimed that, having fallen off his horse, James III was escorted to the mill by the miller and his wife. When the king asked for a priest to hear his confession, he was stabbed to death by an assassin dressed as a cleric – a man said to be a servant of Andrew, 2nd Lord Gray, a rebel and long-standing opponent of James III.
George Buchanan, again writing in the mid-16th century, described James being pursued by three men: Patrick Gray, Andrew’s son; one ‘Stirling of Keir’; and a priest, Borthwick, who actually killed James and his companions.
One other candidate for the crime suggested recently by historians is William Hepburn, whose family supported Prince James in the rebellion. He was briefly mentioned in a few records early in James IV’s reign, but disappeared after a few months – perhaps because his presence at court would be an embarrassment to his family.
All of these men are plausible culprits, but nothing can be proved. We know that James III died after fleeing the battle, and that his son’s regime did not want to dwell too much on how he perished. The resulting conspiracy of silence allowed rumour and speculation to flourish, with various pet theories emerging.
In truth, everyone was glad to see the back of the little-loved monarch. Though they could not openly celebrate the killing of a king in cold blood, plenty of individuals would have happily shaken the culprit’s hand and thanked him for what he’d done. James III’s murder was too good a crime to warrant punishment.
Gordon McKelvie is senior lecturer in medieval history at the University of Winchester
This article was first published in the Christmas 2024 issue of BBC History Magazine
]]> Joanna Arman <![CDATA[England’s forgotten medieval hero: how John, Duke of Bedford carried on Henry V's fight]]> https://www.historyextra.com/membership/john-duke-of-bedford-henry-v-brother-who-life-accomplishments-legacy-hundred-years-war/ 2025-02-20T16:52:50.000Z 2025-02-20T16:52:50.000Z As black skies faded to grey, and dawn broke on that fateful day in the early 15th century, an English army gazed across a field in northern France. What their eyes encountered was a vastly superior force: some 15,000 French-led troops glared back – their numbers nearly double those of England’s men-at-arms and archers.
The English had faced seemingly insuperable odds before, and emerged victorious. But could they really triumph over this well-armed force bolstered by fearsome international allies?
The Hundred Years’ War had been raging for close to a century already, with negotiations between England and France coming and going – but all ultimately failing to decisively end the conflict. The balance of military success had swung one way and then the other in clashes on land and, occasionally, at sea.
- Read more | Jonathan Sumpton on the Hundred Years’ War: “It was Joan of Arc who persuaded the French that they could win”
Many confrontations had ended with English longbowmen proving decisive. But as morning ebbed and the afternoon rolled on, the outcome remained uncertain. Finally, battle commenced – and the English won a great and memorable victory against the odds.
Sounds familiar? No, this is not a description of the battle of Agincourt, Henry V’s famous victory of 1415. Instead, it’s the story of the clash fought on 17 August 1424 – nearly nine years after Agincourt, and two after Henry’s death – outside the town of Verneuil-sur-Avre in Normandy.
Here, the English army led by Henry’s younger brother John, Duke of Bedford, hammered a combined force of French and Scottish solders plus 2,000 Milanese heavy cavalry, killing perhaps 6,000 enemy troops while suffering minimal losses. Historians refer to the battle of Verneuil as ‘the second Agincourt’ – yet that clash, like John himself, is largely forgotten today.
Why has such a heroic victory faded from memory? And what part did John play in that tumultuous period of English and French history?
Born to battle
We’ll return to the battle later, but to answer those questions, we must first turn the clock back 25 years. In 1399, Henry Bolingbroke, Duke of Lancaster – better known today as Henry IV – usurped the English throne from his cousin Richard II. John was just 10 years old at the time and, as Henry’s third son, would be unlikely to inherit the throne.
- Read more | The tyrant and the usurper: Richard II v Henry IV
Yet the young man quickly proved himself a highly capable leader during his father’s turbulent reign. In 1403, aged just 14, John was made Warden of the East March, the region on the Scottish border around Berwick-on-Tweed. He soon proved his mettle defending England’s northern borders against Scottish incursions alongside his older cousin Ralph Neville, Earl of Westmoreland.
After his brother succeeded to the English throne as Henry V in 1413, John was trusted with the rule of England during his warlike sibling’s many expeditions abroad, and was created Duke of Bedford in May 1414. The new king was closer to John than to any of his other brothers – even Thomas, Duke of Clarence, who was next in line for the throne.
Henry was absent from England for almost half of his nine-year reign, and allowed Bedford to act as regent in all but name during most of that time. John appears to have discharged his growing responsibilities with aplomb. Yet nothing could have prepared him for what happened next.
In August 1422, Henry V died while on campaign in France, possibly from dysentery. England had lost its indomitable warrior king. It was a perilous moment. With the crown now passing to Henry’s nine-month-old son, Henry VI, and England embroiled in war with the French, the nation urgently needed someone to shepherd it through the dangerous months ahead.
- Read more | Alternate history: what if Henry V hadn't died in 1422?
Luckily, Henry V had realised that Bedford was up to the task, and appointed his brother as regent of France just before he died. For 13 years, Bedford effectively held together the English presence in the country.
Ten months after his brother’s death, John married Anne, sister of Phillip, Duke of Burgundy. Unusually for medieval noblemen, a picture of John created during his lifetime survives in the Bedford Hours, a beautifully illuminated manuscript given by John to Anne as a wedding present and containing images of both him and his wife. It reveals that John bore a striking resemblance to his father and brother: tall, with a beaked nose and dark hair cut in a pudding-bowl style.
A son’s guerrilla war
John’s marriage to Anne cemented England’s alliance with the Duchy of Burgundy – and that alliance was to grow ever more crucial as relations between England and France continued to plumb the depths. In 1420, Henry V had been nominated as the heir of Charles VI of France by the terms of the Treaty of Troyes.
This created a ‘dual monarchy’, by which the kings of England were entitled to rule both England and France. The biggest loser from the Treaty of Troyes was Charles VI’s disinherited son, also called Charles – and, in the early 1420s, he waged a sort of guerrilla war against the English, bolstered by aid from Scotland.
It was in the younger Charles’s name that, in 1424, the French Count of Aumerle (along with John Stewart, Earl of Buchan and Archibald Douglas, Earl of Douglas) joined battle with the English outside Verneuil, which had recently been taken by trickery.
After brutal hand-to-hand fighting, English longbowmen and crossbowmen turned the course of the battle, and the French were routed. John then determinedly finished off the Scottish contingent, reportedly crying out the name of Clarence – an act of vengeance for his brother, who had been killed three years earlier by a largely Scottish army at the battle of Baugé.
- Read more | What was it like to be a Prisoner of War during the Hundred Years’ War?
John took seriously his promise to uphold his nephew Henry VI’s claim to the French throne and continued to defend the English territories in France over the years that followed.
The fortunes of his forces oscillated in this war – not helped by the ill-advised marriage of his youngest brother, Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, to Jacqueline of Hainault, cousin of the Duke of Burgundy. This union threw the alliance with Burgundy into jeopardy, as Humphrey clashed with the duke, and John spent valuable time and effort building diplomatic bridges with England’s longstanding ally.
Then, in 1429, a French peasant girl named Joan arrived on the scene.
John and Joan of Arc’s paths crossed only a few times, and his relationship to the saintly French warrior is much misunderstood. In movies about Joan, John is typically cast as the villain, even the man responsible for her fate. In reality, the two never met, though Joan addressed two irate letters to him.
“You, Duke of Bedford who call yourself Regent of France… make satisfaction to the king of Heaven,” she demanded in one missive. “Surrender to the Pucelle [maiden], who has been sent here by God, the king of Heaven, the keys of all the good towns that you have taken and violated in France… I am commander of war, and in whatever place I come upon your men in France, I will make them leave, whether they wish to or not. And if they do not wish to obey, I will have them all killed; I have been sent here… to drive you out of all France.”
At first, John wasn’t too troubled by Joan’s declamations. Within five months of her arrival on the scene, however, she had relieved the siege of Orléans, and on 17 July had the younger Charles crowned King Charles VII of France in Reims Cathedral.
By summer 1429, then, John was worried and annoyed. Like most of his English contemporaries, he considered Joan a witch – and he wasn’t going to allow her to threaten the dual monarchy. So he devised a plan to stop her in her tracks.
First, he sent word to England to have Henry VI crowned king of France (though he’d succeeded his father in 1422, his coronation hadn’t yet taken place). Then, as his next gambit, he lured Joan and Charles to Paris, forcing them to expend time and resources in taking the capital instead of focusing on weak spots such as Orléans.
John shored up Paris for a long siege that summer, and set about winning hearts and minds. His plan worked remarkably well. When Joan arrived in August, she was forced to wait outside the city, failing in her attempts to draw her enemies into open battle. John had learned from observation of Joan’s previous engagements not to take the bait, preferring to fight her on his own terms.
Following a siege, the French took the small suburb of Saint-Denys, but Paris itself eluded them. Eventually, in frustration, Joan of Arc appeared before the walls, screaming that all inside should surrender – or, she threatened, she would bring down the wrath of God upon them and kill everybody.
The defenders of Paris were not impressed: an English soldier reportedly shot her with a crossbow, calling her a “bloody tart”. Joan had to be dragged away from the gate, bleeding and humiliated, and Charles’s army withdrew from Paris.
In 1430, Joan was captured – but John wasn’t able to enjoy this moment. As Henry VI was now in France, the council didn’t technically need a regent and so it threatened to fire John. As a result, he spent much of that year in limbo, unable to do much politically or militarily. He did not play a role in determining Joan’s fate; by then, she had been condemned for heresy, so the matter was left almost entirely in the hands of the church.
John was not even present in Rouen on 30 May 1431, when Joan was burned at the stake. Instead, he was bringing supplies to Paris, which continued to suffer frequent attacks.
Their fortunes at that moment contrasted starkly: while the young woman who became France’s potent and enduring figurehead was being brutally executed in Rouen, John of Bedford was being greeted as a hero in Paris. Yet the situation then was not as clear-cut as it may seem today.
Timeline: the remarkable life of John, Duke of Bedford
20 June 1389
Mary de Bohun, wife of Henry Bolingbroke, Earl of Derby, gives birth to her third son, probably at Kenilworth Castle. He is named after his paternal grandfather, John of Gaunt.
30 September 1399
John’s father is proclaimed King Henry IV after deposing his cousin Richard II.
1403
In the aftermath of the battle of Shrewsbury on 21 July, John is appointed Warden of the East March, aged just 14, marking the beginning of his military training.
1414
At the second parliament of his oldest brother, Henry V, John is made Duke of Bedford and Earl of Kendal.
October 1422
Just weeks after Henry V’s death, John takes up the office of regent of France.
May 1423
John marries Anne, younger sister of Philip, Duke of Burgundy, one of England’s most important allies.
17 August 1424
John leads an English army to victory against combined Franco-Scottish forces near Verneuil-sur-Avre, Normandy. The battle becomes known as the ‘Second Agincourt’.
August – September 1429
In response to a challenge by John, Joan of Arc and Charles VII of France attempt to take Paris, starting a fruitless siege. Bedford’s careful preparations ensure that the city does not fall.
13 November 1432
Anne of Burgundy dies in Paris, possibly of plague. John marries Jacquetta of Luxembourg the following April.
14 September 1435
John dies in Rouen, aged 46, one week before the Congress of Arras ends the alliance between England and Burgundy.
A family at war
Henry VI crossed the channel to France in the summer of 1430, and for the next 18 months rivalry simmered between John and various members of the council, especially his paternal uncle, Cardinal Beaufort, who was determined to assert his own primacy. These tensions resulted in the regency being removed from John, and for a time Henry’s council took charge of the war effort in France.
Yet John had always had a good relationship with the young king. He had been in England when his nephew was born in late 1421, while Henry V was away in France. And his campaigns in France had been undertaken, it seems, not only to preserve his brother’s legacy but also to advance the interests of the young English monarch.
- Read more | How Henry VI's love of peace cost him the throne – and his life
He must, then, have looked on with some satisfaction when – on 16 December 1431, at the tender age of 10 – Henry VI was crowned King of France at Notre Dame de Paris. The coronation proved something of a turning point for both Henry and John.
The king would soon depart for England, never to set foot on French soil again. As for John, he was immediately reinstated as regent – reflecting overwhelming trust in his abilities, even if some in the English court didn’t want to admit it. He immediately set about reversing some of the policies Henry VI’s council had put into place.
Then, in 1432, John lost the love of his life and his greatest ally: his wife, Anne. She was only in her late 20s, possibly succumbing to an outbreak of plague in Paris. Though John remarried the following year, he never produced any legitimate children. Anne’s death proved the final nail in the coffin for the alliance between England and Burgundy, though John managed to hold it together for almost three more years.
During this time he had to return to England because he was the only person considered trustworthy enough to mediate between the rival factions forming in Henry VI’s government. His brother Humphrey and uncle Cardinal Beaufort were at odds – not for the first time – and the division was tearing the government apart.
John had another problem: the continuing conflict in France was becoming increasingly unpopular in England. In the words of medieval historian Jonathan Sumption, John was “the only statesman who truly understood the demands of the dual monarchy and in the end truly believed in it”.
That belief was stretched to breaking point in the summer of 1435 at the Congress of Arras. This summit saw Charles VII and Philip, Duke of Burgundy embarking on a series of negotiations that threatened to conclude with both of them rejecting English claims to the French throne.
A young and healthy John, Duke of Bedford might have better represented English interests at the summit. But John, who hosted the English delegation at the congress, was not young and healthy. He was in his mid-forties, exhausted and on the edge of death.
In fact, John died before the summit reached its end, breathing his last in Rouen Castle on 14 September 1435. One week later, Philip and Charles came to terms, ending the alliance between Burgundy and England that had endured for almost 15 years.
John was buried not in England but in Rouen Cathedral. Today, nothing remains of his tomb nor any other memorial. Though England clung on to control of Normandy for 15 years after John’s death, the nation had been deprived of its most loyal, capable and dedicated leader.
After his demise, commitment to the war in France waned, and the divisions in Henry VI’s government became increasingly virulent. By 1453, England had lost almost all of its remaining French possessions. In death, as in life, John’s reputation remained untarnished. The English would look back on the days of his regency as a golden age. He was even respected and admired in France.
- Read more | The miraculous afterlife of Henry VI
One cannot help but think that if he had lived longer, the course of Henry VI’s reign might have run differently. Would the king’s famous and beloved uncle have helped to heal divisions – perhaps even persuading his nephew to go to France and fight?
If John had produced a legitimate heir, would Henry have had a loyal cousin by his side when the House of York rose to challenge his throne? We can only guess at the answers to those conundrums. But we can, at least, remember and honour the valour and loyalty of this long-forgotten prince.
This article was first published in the February 2025 issue of BBC History Magazine
]]> Dr David Musgrove, FSA <![CDATA[“The reverberations lasted for generations” | Matthew Gabriele and David M Perry on the civil war of Charlemagne's grandsons]]> https://www.historyextra.com/membership/matthew-gabriele-david-m-perry-book-interview-oathbreakers-charlemagne-grandsons-civil-war-battle-fontenoy-impact-europe/ 2025-01-23T12:18:07.000Z 2025-01-23T12:18:07.000Z David Musgrove: Let’s begin with the battle of Fontenoy in AD 841. What happened there and why was it so important?
Matthew Gabriele: Fontenoy is nowadays just a small village lying a little south-west of the city of Auxerre in central France. Even in the 840s, it wasn’t particularly significant. But it was there that a civil war erupted between the grandsons of Charlemagne, who were fighting about the fate of the Carolingian empire.
After the death of their father, Louis the Pious, on 20 June 840, the three surviving brothers gathered at Fontenoy. Lothar, the eldest and the Frankish co-emperor, was trying to stitch the partitioned empire back together; his younger brothers, Louis the German and Charles the Bald, had their own claims. Lothar was joined by his nephew, Pepin II of Aquitaine, the son of another brother, also Pepin, who had died in 838.
The three brothers and their nephew basically argued about the form that the empire should take. Should it be coherent and unified under Lothar, or would Charles and Louis be able to function as independent kings in their own domains?
This dispute boiled over into a massive, bloody battle fought on 25 June 841. For most medieval battles, we have just a sense of where and when they were fought. For this clash, though, we have very specific details of the day and the time when the battle started, as well as the location. That’s because – as we argue at the start of our new book – it was so horrifying for everybody involved. It shook the empire and its participants to their core, creating reverberations that lasted for generations.
What’s the backstory to the dispute?
Matthew Gabriele: The Franks rose to power in the fifth and sixth centuries when, after interacting with the Romans for a long time, they were finally able to establish their own realm. The resulting empire was ruled for several centuries by a dynasty called the Merovingians. They were supplanted in 751 in a coup d’état by high nobles who started a new dynasty that, over time, came to be named for one of their progenitors, Charles Martel – Charles being Carolus in Latin, hence the dynastic name ‘Carolingian’.
The apogee of that empire came under Charlemagne, who ruled for a substantial length of time, taking power in 768 and dying in 814. He expanded the Frankish empire to encompass most of western and central Europe, from Denmark in the north down to central Italy, across the Pyrenees into Catalonia and east into Saxony.
- Read more | The legacy of Charlemagne: how the king of the Franks continues to cast a shadow over Europe
But what’s really interesting to us is how quickly it fell apart – within just two generations. This myth of unity that the Franks constructed for themselves – this great empire that Charlemagne had created – was built, as we say in the book, on a foundation of lies. They weren’t just lies that the Franks told to other people, but lies they told themselves about their place in the world and the way that their empire was organised.
What we find so interesting is not just the things that happened but also the stories these people told themselves about those events.
How did tensions escalate after Charlemagne’s death?
David M Perry: Charlemagne had a lot of sons, and Louis was the only legitimate one who happened to survive. He had to work hard to build loyalty across his dad’s empire – it was not just handed to him. Some of that was done through persuasion and gifts, but some of it was achieved through violence and torture – in particular, the blinding of his nephew, Bernard of Italy, who then died. That caused great upset and upheaval in the court.
Louis tried to kick out the old guard and bring in the new. However, it turned out that the nobles comprising the old guard were still very powerful – and not super-thrilled about being kicked out. So there were these tensions right from the start. Then Louis remarried, taking as his wife a younger woman. The old guard weren’t thrilled with that, either, because she brought in her own power centres.
So Louis’ was not a stable reign, suffering from various internal problems, but it was also a moment at which the Franks started losing battles on the edges of the empire. And that was a whole other crisis of legitimacy.
Matthew Gabriele: The stability and greatness of Charlemagne is often contrasted with the instability and fecklessness of Louis the Pious. But if you look at Charlemagne, he actually had a lot of problems governing, too. We talk about the coups of the 830s against Louis the Pious, but Charlemagne himself faced several attempted coups. One such attempt in 792 was led by his own eldest son, Pepin, known to later historians as Pepin the Hunchback, though he certainly wasn’t called that at the time.
It seems baked into the way the Carolingians ruled their empires that they had to rely upon powerful nobles around them. So when these nobles got angry about their loss of status, that was a real problem for the kings. And just because only a few coups were successful, that doesn’t mean that there weren’t other coups plotted and executed along the way.
What were Charlemagne’s grandsons trying to achieve at Fontenoy?
Matthew Gabriele: They were trying to decide the fate of the empire. Lothar was trying to beat his brothers into submission, and ideally to restore the empire as it had been under his father and his grandfather. Charles and Louis wanted something different: they wanted their own functional kingdoms within the empire.
They wanted to be free from the meddling of the emperor in their lands – Charles the Bald’s realm lying to the west, Louis the German’s to the east – and the right to act as independent Carolingians. They had, they argued, the same blood as Lothar’s flowing through their veins.
Looking back, this event became – especially for 19th-century historians – the moment that made France and Germany. It was seen as the final division of Charlemagne’s empire, and the birthplace of the modern state. But today it seems clear that the debate was much more nuanced. Nobody was arguing that Lothar shouldn’t be emperor, they were just arguing about what his role should be there.
It was an argument that was so important that they were willing to kill each other: brothers fought against brothers, and cousins, uncles and nephews were divided between the armies. These armies were camped across a field from each other, almost literally staring at each other. From all available sources, it seems that they exchanged emissaries, and decided that they would fight at 8 o’clock the following morning: Saturday 25 June 841.
How did the battle play out?
David M Perry: Lothar had a well-equipped army and probably slightly larger numbers of men, supported by Pepin’s forces. Charles the Bald had a quite large army, drawn from all over the Frankish heartland. Louis had a smaller army, but it was battle-hardened. Pepin and Charles met in the middle, Louis and Lothar met on the left, and there was a third division led by major nobles on the right.
We know little about what actually happened in the battle, but it’s clear that Lothar’s forces engaged Louis and were beaten back, and then Pepin’s forces in the centre collapsed. After that, there was a pursuit that resulted in horrific killing, but Lothar got away. He headed north-east to Aachen with the imperial treasury – and, once there, he spent wildly.
He launched a rumour campaign saying that one of his brothers was wounded and the other was dead, neither of which was true, and he immediately started rebuilding political support. This went on for some time. Eventually, Louis and Charles once again brought their armies together – and now they had clear military superiority, there was no dividing them again. So they brought Lothar to the negotiating table.
That brings us to the Treaty of Verdun in 843. What happened then?
David M Perry: I remember very clearly learning about the Treaty of Verdun while I was an undergraduate in my first medieval history class – and being taught a number of things that are not correct. I believed that there was a treaty – a document, like the Treaty of Versailles – that was written in Latin, German and French, and that it showed the division of France and Germany.
I don’t want to call out my undergraduate medieval history professor, because he’s the reason I’m talking to you today – he was a wonderful professor – but I remember learning these things, and they’re just not true. We have no document. There is absolutely nothing surviving from that meeting in 843 that lays out the division of the empire explicitly.
The year before the treaty, Louis and Charles travelled to the city of Strasbourg and undertook a public oath-taking. That was the moment when they came together and really made it clear they were going to sit down and talk until they reached an agreement – and where they confirmed their opposition to Lothar ruling the entire empire.
As a result, Louis and Charles brought Lothar to the negotiating table, where they agreed that they would split up the empire into three parts. Then they had the problem that no one knew exactly how big the empire was, so they sent out nobles to do the accounting. Nine months later they met in Verdun, really just because it’s a convenient place where those nobles could come together.
We can figure out exactly how the empire was divided up only by looking at what happened over the next couple of years – where the brothers went, and which allies got which bits of land.
How did this civil war make medieval Europe?
Matthew Gabriele: The nostalgia for Charlemagne’s empire animated the vast majority of continental European history through to the 15th or 16th century. The kings of France as they emerged, the emperors in what is now Germany, the rulers of Italy, even the Christian Iberian rulers, all tried to tie themselves in some ways – and in many ways it was accurate – back to the Carolingians through some bloodline that emerged there.
In the 830s and 840s, there were just too many Carolingians. Whereas there had only been one Charlemagne, and then only one Louis the Pious, after that, there were too many legitimate children of Louis, and then their children, and then their children, all of whom had potential to rule. That tension, I think, was ultimately part of the problem that led to the civil war.
But then, in the centuries thereafter, there was a dream of empire – and especially the dream of a sense of election, of being God’s chosen people – that never disappeared. This view guides many of the actions that these men’s descendants took, including the push for the kingdom of France to expand beyond the Île de France and to reunite with the Carolingian bloodline.
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The desire to go on crusade in 1095, for example, was driven by the idea that these guys were all Franks and that they were fighting to reclaim Charlemagne’s claims to Jerusalem, which was another legend that evolved in the 10th and 11th centuries.
These medieval realms were different from what we think of as modern nation states such as France and Germany – they were different things aiming for different ends. Those modern states have sought justification for their formation in these events of the European Middle Ages, but the reality is different.
David M Perry: I just want to jump back into the oaths of Strasbourg, this famous moment on 14 February 842 for which we have a source written in Latin, but also French and German versions, because the men involved spoke all of these languages. Importantly, this was the first documented use of the French and German vernaculars.
It’s not that there was a French troop and a German troop, and a linguistic divide between different peoples. The whole point is that there were a lot of languages spoken across this huge land mass, and the men involved wanted to make sure that everyone understood everything.
In the Carolingian empire, people were able to speak all of these languages – that was just normal. It was a big, complicated empire, and people talked to each other. It was only 1,000 years later that this point became symbolic; a way of creating a narrative that linked the new French and German nation states and nationalistic identities back to that moment when the oaths were sworn.
Looking at how people in the 19th century viewed events in the Middle Ages is something that Matt and I do a lot. We can definitely say that what they read into the situation was not what was actually happening in the ninth century.
Did that mid-ninth-century civil war conclusively fracture the Carolingian empire?
Matthew Gabriele: The short answer is: yes. The empire was never stitched back together, though there were attempts to do so, especially in the later ninth century and the 10th century. In the first and second generations after the battle of Fontenoy, these attempts failed because of the bad blood that was generated there.
That wasn’t just because of the bloodiness of the battle itself, or the resentments on either side about who deserved what, but the way that the battle was pursued – the fact that Louis’ and Charles’s armies followed Lothar’s and cut down his men in their pursuit. It seems to have been a real massacre that people remembered for generations.
Matthew Gabriele is a professor of medieval studies at Virginia Tech and David M Perry is a journalist and historian. They are the co-authors of The Bright Ages: A New History of Medieval Europe (HarperCollins, 2022) and Oathbreakers: The War of Brothers that Shattered an Empire and Made Medieval Europe (Harper, 2024)
This article was first published in the January 2025 issue of BBC History Magazine
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