HistoryExtra https://www.historyextra.com/tag/medieval-kings-queens Mon, 28 Sep 2026 11:12:28 GMT en hourly 1 In 1066, King Harold was meant to save England. How did it all go wrong? https://www.historyextra.com/membership/in-1066-king-harold-was-meant-to-save-england-how-did-it-all-go-wrong/ Fri, 18 Sep 2026 15:00:19 GMT https://www.historyextra.com/membership/in-1066-king-harold-was-meant-to-save-england-how-did-it-all-go-wrong/ In 1066 the last Anglo-Saxon king was ousted. But how, asks Tom Licence, had Harold, an earl without royal blood, taken the English crown in the first place? Was it truly because he was the strongman demanded by a land fearing invasion? The English king dies without a direct heir. So a powerful and popular Anglo-Saxon earl, possibly given the nod by the old monarch before he perished, immediately takes the throne – despite earlier promising to back the claim of a foreign duke. We all know what happens next: the duke invades and conquers England, seizes the crown for himself, and ushers in an enduring new dynasty.

That’s the potted version of the Norman conquest as understood by many – not least because it largely follows the narrative depicted in the Bayeux Tapestry. But it leaves us with many questions about the motives of those involved. What does the evidence really show us? Can we trust the accepted timeline? And how did Harold Godwinson become such a dominant figure in the unfolding crisis?

Here are the facts, as far as we can be sure. King Edward the Confessor died in his palace at Westminster on the night of 4–5 January 1066. The following day he was buried in Westminster Abbey – and no sooner was his coffin lowered into the ground than Harold was proclaimed king before the assembled mourners.

Harold II, as he would be known, was the brother of Edward’s queen, Edith, as well as being the Earl of Wessex. He was the richest and most powerful man in the land, and no candidate for the throne in English history was quicker to get the crown on his head.

An heir had been waiting in the wings before Edward died – but it wasn’t Harold. Edgar Ætheling was the late king’s great-nephew, and next in the bloodline. Later that year, after Harold’s death in battle, Edgar would be proclaimed king by some supporters, “as was his natural right”, according to a contemporary chronicler, though he soon submitted to William. But back in early January, Harold beat him to it, with the support of the Witan – the council of Anglo-Saxon nobles and clergy.

Since it was highly irregular to choose a candidate not of royal blood, Harold’s supporters must have had good reasons for backing his bid for the throne. True, Edgar was still only a boy – probably 14 at the time of his great-uncle’s death – but both Germany and France had boy-kings at that time. So the question of why England’s leading men backed Harold over Edgar is an important one for historians.

Ruthless ambition

The traditional answer is that, fearing invasion by one or more foreign claimants, the members of the Witan chose a strong leader they believed could fight off would-be conquerors from overseas. William’s modern biographer, David Bates, has written that “the sidelining of Edgar Ætheling could have reflected the certain knowledge in England that William of Normandy and, in all probability, King Harald Hardrada of Norway were going to invade”.

Ian Walker, author of a 1997 biography of Harold, likewise supposed that “the youthful, weak and inexperienced Ætheling Edgar… could not be expected to defend the kingdom effectively [against] the ruthless ambition and dangerous claims… of William of Normandy”. Historians Michael Livingston and Kelly DeVries agreed that England needed a proven war leader, and saw Harold as “the one most ready to defend it”.

This is a cogent argument. Harold, more than any other general, had proven himself in war, gaining experience of operations on land and sea. He had probably been involved in naval expeditions against pirates in the 1040s, and had himself led a pirate raid in Somerset in 1052 while forcing his way back from exile. He had campaigned in Wales through the 1050s, and in 1063 he had led a raid on Rhuddlan in north Wales before joining forces with his brother Tostig, Earl of Northumbria, the following year to conquer Wales and overthrow Gruffudd, its mighty king.

Clearly, there was no more experienced military commander in England in 1066, and such a record would have appealed to his supporters. It was even said by his allies that the old king, Edward, had come around to nominating Harold as heir to the throne upon his deathbed. Of course, they would have said that – whether it were true or not.

Appealing though it is, the traditional argument rests on an idea that is very hard to prove: that England was anticipating invasion. There is a risk of circularity, too, in arguing that the choice of the strongman Harold proves or suggests this.

• Read more | The making of the Bayeux Tapestry: who made it, how long did it take, and how has it survived?

One story told by William’s supporters after the Conquest was that Harold had visited Normandy, probably in 1065, and sworn to back the duke if the Norman were to make a bid for the English throne. If this story is accepted, as it has been by many historians, then a grab for the English crown by William would have been on the cards. But reports of what transpired between Harold and William in Normandy are varied and confused, and all were written after 1066 by writers who knew the sequel – William’s successful invasion.

There is no firm evidence that William was already aiming for England’s throne in 1065. And even if he was, it need not follow that England was on red alert over the ambitions of a pushy duke – especially one who had never before assembled a fleet or mounted a naval campaign.

One passage in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle has been read as an indication that Harold was expecting such a Norman invasion long before it transpired. In 1961, eminent medievalist Dorothy Whitelock took that text to mean that “he had been told as a fact that William… meant to come here and conquer this land”. And Michael Swanton’s later translation says that “[Harold] was told for certain that William… wanted to come”.

Both scholars would have been influenced by the traditional view that England was expecting William’s invasion, and took the passage to mean that fresh intelligence had been received confirming what had already been feared. Yet a literal translation does not necessarily support this interpretation.

That section in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle follows a reference to Halley’s Comet, which is included as a sign of prophetic foreboding because it was believed to portend imminent regime change. So it could be read as a soothsayer interpreting the comet’s appearance to mean that William would conquer. That reading of a prophecy, albeit written in hindsight, does not imply that Harold, and England, already expected an invasion from Normandy – rather, it was a new concern.

The comeback king

How Harold rose, fell, rose... and fell for good 1020s: Harold is born, second son of Earl Godwine of Wessex and Gytha, part of the extended family of the Danish king and conqueror of England, Cnut. c1045: Harold is appointed Earl of East Anglia, only to face a revolt the following year led by Osgod Clapa, the senior official who’d previously dominated that region.

1049: In the first mention of Harold in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, he opposes the reinstatement of his exiled older brother, Swein.1051: Godwine, Harold and Swein rebel against King Edward and are driven into exile. Harold flees to the court of King Diarmait in Leinster, eastern Ireland. 1052: Harold and his family force a comeback by attacking England. He raids Somerset, seizing captives and booty.

1053: Godwine dies and Harold is made Earl of Wessex, Swein having died by now.

1055: Harold’s earldom is extended into the Welsh marches, and he begins campaigning in Wales.

1064: Together with his brother Tostig, Harold conquers Wales, taking his army around the south coast by sea and overthrowing the Welsh king, Gruffudd. In this year or the following one, he takes Ealdgyth, Gruffudd’s widowed queen, to be his wife.

1065: Harold tours northern France, visiting Ponthieu, Normandy and Brittany. He is also recorded in Flanders in 1056 and, in an unknown year, as taking a trip to Rome.

1066: Edward dies on 5 January and Harold ascends the throne. He defeats King Harald Hardrada of Norway and his own brother Tostig on 25 September, then dies at Hastings on 14 October fighting William of Normandy.

Sibling rivalry

In fact, there is evidence to suggest that an invasion by William was not anticipated at the beginning of 1066. The worst disaster foreseen on the horizon by Folcard – believed to have been Edward’s contemporary biographer, writing part of his account in the early months of Harold’s reign – was a civil war between Harold and Tostig, whose relationship had lately turned hostile.

William’s invasion was not on Folcard’s radar, and the tragedy that unfolded took him by surprise. The biographer was an insider at court, and therefore should have been worrying about William if other courtiers were fearing invasion. Yet the Norman duke appears nowhere in Folcard’s account – except in a prophetic allegory towards the end, in a section that was written after the Normans had landed.

• Read more | Meet the real William the Conqueror, the Duke of Normandy who reshaped England

If Harold were expecting William, we might expect evidence of this in the form of preparations for defending against a Norman invasion – surely his immediate duty if the English leaders had backed his bid for the throne with that purpose in mind. The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle says nothing of Harold’s actions in the first few months of his reign but, when it picks up the story, it reports his return to London from York at Easter.

Clearly, rather than prepping the south coast to repel a Norman invasion and overseeing the assembly of a fleet, Harold had been travelling as far north as many English kings cared to go. This does not look like the itinerary of a monarch anxiously expecting an incursion by William. Nor does it necessarily indicate that Harold was readying the north against an invasion led by Harald Hardrada: the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle says that when the Norwegian king invaded in September, it came as a surprise.

So there is no evidence that invasion – by either William or Harald Hardrada – was anticipated in January 1066, and indeed there are strong indications that it was not. In that case, the theory that England needed a strongman to defend it is not an adequate answer to the key historical question of how Harold got the support he needed to sideline the blood heir and occupy the throne.

I’d argue that Harold’s rise to power is better understood in the context of the northern rebellion that erupted on 3 October 1065, when an army of Northumbrian rebels broke into Tostig’s house in York and began killing his allies. Their grievances included a punitive tribute that Tostig had levied on the whole of Northumbria (probably to pay for the Welsh campaign of 1064), his harsh rule as earl, and a series of murders by which Tostig and Queen Edith, his sister who was working on his behalf, eliminated leading members of the old Northumbrian nobility.

The revolt gathered pace, with the support of northern earls and brothers Edwin and Morcar. At a fractious assembly, Tostig accused Harold – who had married those northern earls’ sister within the previous year – of encouraging the rebels. It is certainly true that when King Edward called up an army to quash the revolt, his commanders – chief of whom would have been Harold – refused to fight.

By Christmas, the rebels had succeeded in their goal of driving out Tostig, who fled into exile in Flanders. Domesday Book shows that the northern earls and Harold had, meanwhile, divided up Tostig’s forfeited estates, using his downfall to enrich themselves.

Revisionist history

Chronicles written in the 1070s claim that the rebellion was settled before Edward’s death, with the laws of Cnut being reinstated by Edward, and the northern earls being confirmed in their earldoms. This retrospective rewriting covers up the uncomfortable reality revealed by earlier accounts written in the 1060s, which show that the north was still in revolt against Edward at the time of the late king’s demise.

The fact that the later chronicles begin to register Harold’s actions as king only after his return from York at Easter reflects their concealment of a journey, made by him at the start of his reign, to put an end to the rebellion. That expedition is reported in the biography of Bishop Wulfstan of Worcester, the original version of which (now lost) was composed in Old English by Wulfstan’s former chaplain, Coleman, and translated into Latin by William of Malmesbury. According to Malmesbury, Harold went north after his coronation to win over the rebels.

Over the course of the rebellion, a seismic shift had occurred. The north had thrown off the rule of Edward and his faction, which included Tostig, Edith and the heir Edgar Ætheling, who represented that camp’s survival into the future. Either Edgar was a creature of that faction, or he could be regarded as such by its opponents. Harold, on the other hand, had been pulling away in order to forge alliances of his own. His relationship with Tostig had soured, and he had little time for Edith. At the same time, he was allying with Edwin and Morcar, who bore their own grudge against Tostig, according to Folcard.

• Read more | Harold Godwinson: the story of the last Anglo-Saxon king of England

Harold’s new alliance bridged the divide that had opened up between the royal court in the south and the powers who held sway in the northern earldoms. In contrast, Edward’s faction had alienated the north by its recourse to brutal tactics and terror. The revolt of 1065 swept that ruling faction aside, replacing it with the new one – with Harold as its head.

South soothes north

Understanding the significance of the northern revolt is key to understanding Harold’s rise to power. By Christmas 1065, Harold was already running the country. Edward’s court allies had been removed or had jumped the fence to side with Harold. When the old king died, therefore, the choice of successor was between a teenage blood-claimant who might reinstate Edward’s allies, or Harold – who, in supplanting the old ruling faction, had inaugurated a new political settlement that was acceptable to leading figures in both north and south.

Harold, in any case, was too cunning and powerful to let England ponder the decision that had to be made. He had himself crowned immediately after Edward’s funeral, forestalling any objection. Given its rapid execution, he and his supporters must have planned that move while Edward lay dying.

There is no reason to think that Harold’s hasty coronation was intended to pre-empt William, who was overseas and had not yet heard of Edward’s death. Rather, the move was made to sideline Edgar Ætheling, the rightful heir by blood.

Harold came to the throne as the one figure who could hold England together and prevent the north from throwing off southern rule. There is no evidence that William – or anyone else – was planning to invade at that stage. But the fact that Harold was a usurper gave encouragement to opportunists, effectively putting a sign on the throne saying: ‘Anyone not of the blood may now apply.’ And that’s exactly what William of Normandy and Harald Hardrada did, gathering armies and invading in a game of might for which justifications could be made afterwards.

The old argument should, therefore, be turned on its head. Harold did not come to the throne because England feared invasion. Rather, England was invaded largely because Harold came to the throne. The irony is that the man who had been accepted as king because he alone could hold England together made it a target for predators hunting new lands to conquer.

Tom Licence is professor of medieval history and literature at the University of East Anglia. His new book is Harold: Warrior King (Yale University Press, 2026)

This article was first published in the October 2026 issue of HistoryExtra Magazine

]]> Royal rivalry: 10 monarchs whose fate was determined by their siblings https://www.historyextra.com/membership/royal-sibling-rivalries/ Thu, 20 Aug 2026 12:01:54 GMT https://www.historyextra.com/membership/royal-sibling-rivalries/ Through history, the role of the second or third royal sibling has not always been easy. Here, historian Sarah Gristwood explores 10 of the most famous – and dysfunctional – royal sibling relationships... In the bad old days of high infant mortality, any royal family needed an heir and several ‘spares’ – north of the border, James V and his daughter, Mary, Queen of Scots, are just two of the many British monarchs with elder brothers who died in infancy. William the Conqueror left England to his second son, another William, while the eldest son, Robert, inherited Normandy.

Since then, the history of these islands has been littered with famous second – or third, or fourth – royal siblings (or, more specifically, royal sons, since gender continued to trump age right into the 21st century), who for better or for worse have done much to shape the monarchy that we know today. Here are 10 of the most famous...

• Read more | 'Royal Family’: the fly-on-the-wall documentary the Palace doesn’t want you to see

Richard I (1157–99)

It wasn’t Richard the Lionheart, but his elder brother, Henry, who was crowned ‘the Young King’ of England, unusually during their father’s lifetime. In the event Henry predeceased his father, but perhaps the fact Richard hadn’t been raised for the job explains why the crusader showed so little real enthusiasm for hands-on rule of England, spending only a few months in the country during his 10-year reign.

Richard was himself succeeded by his younger brother, John. Fairly or unfairly, King John has gone down in popular history as a disastrous monarch whose reign was epitomised by his losing the crown jewels in the Wash – but he did inadvertently help to give us Magna Carta.

• Read more | When and how did Richard the Lionheart die?

John of Gaunt (1340–99)

By contrast to John I, John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster – fourth son of the prolific Edward III – has traditionally been accorded a good measure of respect for the steering hand he kept on the country during the minority of his nephew, Richard II.

His harsh fiscal policies, however, made him a particular target of the Peasants’ Revolt – while almost as soon as John himself died, Richard II was deposed by John’s exiled son, the Bolingbroke of Shakespeare’s plays, who took the throne as Henry IV. These were the family divisions that, half a century later, would produce the Wars of the Roses.

Richard III (1452–85)

The best-known casualty of those wars was of course Richard III, whose death at Bosworth ushered in the Tudor dynasty. Richard was only the fourth son of the York family, but by the time he seized the throne the first, second and third sons were all dead – Edmund killed by the Lancastrians, and George, Duke of Clarence (after plotting against Edward) drowned in the famous butt of malmsey.

The grounds upon which Richard took the throne in 1483 – chiefly the supposed invalidity of Edward’s marriage to Elizabeth Woodville – are still debated today. So too, of course, is the fate of Edward IV’s sons, the princes in the Tower, and Richard’s role in their possible murder. Either way, Richard – his brother Edward’s most loyal supporter during his lifetime – provides the most dramatic prism through which to examine both the royal sibling bond, and the question of sibling rivalry.

Henry VIII (1491–1547)

It wasn’t Henry but his elder brother, Arthur, Prince of Wales, who was expected to lead the Tudor dynasty through the 16th century. But Arthur died in 1502 – and if anyone ever forgot that in the glorious early days of Henry VIII’s reign, they had ample cause to remember two decades later, when Henry’s marriage to Catherine of Aragon was endlessly debated, and ultimately declared invalid, on the grounds that she had been his brother Arthur’s widow.

Indeed, there has been speculation that Henry’s position as a mere second son – reared with his mother and sisters, while Arthur was sent away to Ludlow – affected his later attitudes, and his infamous marital history.

Elizabeth I (1533–1603)

Elizabeth was Henry’s second surviving legitimate child; her sister, ‘Bloody’ Mary, Henry’s eldest. But both women accepted that first place in the succession went to their younger brother, Edward VI.

After Edward’s premature death in 1553, however, differences between the sisters led to Elizabeth being imprisoned in the Tower, in danger of her life. This was no simple case of sibling rivalry, of course, since religious differences led to real dispute as to whether the Catholic Mary or the Protestant Elizabeth had best claim to the throne. All the same, no one looking for the model of a happy family is ever going to pick the Tudors!

Read more | 7 things you (probably) didn’t know about Elizabeth I

Charles I (1600–49)

When James VI and I’s eldest son, Prince Henry, died in 1612 of what was probably typhoid, shock waves went through the country. At 18, the vibrant Henry was already the great hope of the Stuart dynasty. His brother Charles, by contrast, was a sickly 11-year-old considered unlikely to survive. Perhaps early insecurities left the adult Charles, as a monarch, particularly susceptible both to the influence of his favourite Buckingham [George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham] and his Catholic wife, Henrietta Maria, and to an inflated conception of the monarchy.

Elizabeth of Bohemia (1596–1662)

It may seem like cheating to list two siblings as separately important, but it’s the descendants of Elizabeth of Bohemia, not of her brother, Charles I, who sit on the British throne today. When Charles I’s eldest surviving son, Charles II, was succeeded by his own younger brother James, the latter’s unpopularity and Catholicism led to his deposition in 1688.

The ‘Glorious Revolution’ of that year brought in, instead, James’s Protestant daughter Mary and her husband, William of Orange, while the Catholic descendants of James’s second marriage dwindled to the status of pretenders.

Anne (1665–1714)

When William and Mary died without children, the crown passed to another younger sibling. Mary’s sister, Anne, came to the throne under the Act of Settlement of 1701, which effectively secured the throne to the Protestant Hanoverian dynasty, since it was already apparent that Anne too was unlikely to bear a surviving child, despite 18 pregnancies.

Upon Queen Anne’s death the throne was offered to the Elector of Hanover, a grandson of Elizabeth of Bohemia, who became Britain’s George I. He and his Hanoverian descendants would reign, however, on very different terms from those earlier rulers had enjoyed. The stage was set for a modern, ‘constitutional’, monarchy (a position confirmed more than a century later when George’s great-great grandson William IV – succeeding his elder brother George IV – ceded yet further royal powers).

George V (1865–1936)

You might think that in the modern age the importance of the royal second sibling is outdated – we are, after all, past the days of high infant mortality.

King George V was born the second son of the future Edward VII, but his elder brother, Albert Victor, known as Prince Eddy, died of pneumonia in his twenties, while his grandmother, Queen Victoria, was still on the throne. By that time Eddy had been linked to the Cleveland Street scandal, which involved a homosexual brothel, amid wider concerns over his character and abilities. (He has, however unconvincingly, even been identified as Jack the Ripper). His brother George, by contrast, was a formidable figure who, besides taking on Eddy’s engagement to Princess Mary of Teck in 1917, changed the name of the royal family from Saxe-Coburg-Gotha to Windsor.

George VI (1895–1952)

The first half of the 20th century saw two second sons accede to the throne – both important in shaping the form of the present monarchy. George V was of course succeeded by his eldest son, Edward VIII, the future Duke of Windsor, but Edward’s reign lasted less than a year, and he was never crowned. When he abdicated in order to marry the divorced Wallis Simpson, his younger brother was forced to step up to the plate.

Diffident and reluctant – we’d come a long way from the power-hungry days of the medieval monarchy – George VI nonetheless saw the country through the dark days of Second World War. That example of dutiful service would model an ideal for his daughter, Elizabeth II.

A version of this article was first published by HistoryExtra in April 2018

]]> Saint killer, warmonger, tyrant: was the Anglo-Saxon king Offa as bad as history makes out? https://www.historyextra.com/membership/saint-killer-warmonger-tyrant-was-the-anglo-saxon-king-offa-as-bad-as-history-makes-out/ Mon, 15 Jun 2026 15:04:53 GMT https://www.historyextra.com/membership/saint-killer-warmonger-tyrant-was-the-anglo-saxon-king-offa-as-bad-as-history-makes-out/ Within a century of his death, Offa of Mercia was reviled as a saint killer, warmonger and tyrant. But look critically at the evidence, argues Rory Naismith, and it’s clear this is at best a partial picture of one of Anglo-Saxon England’s most important monarchs When he died in July 796, King Offa of Mercia had ruled his lands since 757, close to four decades. At a time when Anglo-Saxon England was divided into petty kingdoms and sub-kingdoms, all vying for advantage and supremacy, this was a reign of such extraordinary longevity that you might expect Offa to be widely celebrated. And yet, insofar as he is remembered at all beyond lending his name to the vast earthwork that roughly follows the English and Welsh border, Offa has come down through history as a belligerent and villainous figure.

Such qualities would hardly have made him unusual in the context of his times, but Offa’s reputation is worse than that of many of his contemporaries. This is primarily because of events in 794, when Offa ordered the beheading of Æthelberht II, King of the East Angles, a man subsequently canonised and venerated. Offa’s standing in the historical record wasn’t helped either by his efforts to curb the power of the archbishopric of Canterbury. To later medieval scholars, Offa was more than just another coarse warlord, he was an unchristian tyrant.

Formidable ruler

From a 21st-century perspective, this is an unsatisfactory picture, if only because it lacks nuance. Where, in this portrayal, is evidence of the political skill Offa must have needed to hold together the kingdom of Mercia for 39 years? Where are the accounts of his dealings with fellow rulers? Where are stories of Offa’s family life?

In part, these are lacking because so few sources from Offa’s reign survive. His time as king is extremely hard to grasp, and it has proven fiendishly difficult to build a coherent life story from the legends that have swirled around him. Yet, despite this, one thing has become abundantly clear to anyone who has spent time studying Offa in detail: he was a formidable ruler who transformed the fortunes of the kingdom over which he presided.

Offa can be said to have ruled Mercia at the apex of its power. The heartland of his kingdom lay in the West Midlands, but by the late eighth century, Mercia had grown to become one of the three largest Anglo-Saxon realms, dominating swathes of central England, rivalled only by Northumbria to its north and Wessex to the south.

Offa was at the very heart of Mercia’s remarkable rise – and he used the platform his power provided to redefine kingship in England and project his influence across the British Isles and beyond. His, then, is a truly extraordinary story. But there’s a problem: Offa didn’t write that story – and that takes us back to King Æthelberht’s execution.

Along with several other tales of Offa’s alleged misdeeds, this episode originates in the pages of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, a record of historical events written in Old English. In its surviving form, the Chronicle began as a product of the reign of Alfred the Great (871–99). It was written in Alfred’s kingdom, Wessex – one of Mercia’s main rivals – at a time when royals in the various kingdoms dreamt of dominating their neighbours.

• Read more | If King Alfred was great, was Æthelstan even greater?

There appears to be little doubt that Offa ordered Æthelberht’s death. But there are plenty of reasons to question how the event has been interpreted. Executions of rulers were rare in Anglo-Saxon England, especially by beheading. It is therefore unlikely that Offa commanded it without cause. One text says that Æthelberht sought a marriage to one of Offa’s daughters – which is plausible, though the source is unreliable. However, why this ended in the East Anglian ruler’s death is unclear. It’s also worth emphasising that Offa cannot knowingly have killed a saint, because Æthelberht only came to be revered in these terms after his death.

Canterbury’s view

Another source of Offa’s dark reputation was his turbulent relationship with the people of Kent. The king seized control of this kingdom in the south-east corner of England in the 780s, but it was his attempt to carve up the archbishopric of Canterbury – and create his own rival ecclesiastical powerbase in Lichfield – that did most damage to his longterm standing. The version of events that has reached us – once again appearing in the Chronicle and largely compiled by scholars from Kent – refers to how Offa “deprived [the archbishop of Canterbury] of a certain portion of his province”.

But to take an alternative view of what happened, Offa may have had good reasons to campaign to create a new archbishopric at Lichfield – which was, after all, in the heart of his kingdom. For a start, while Canterbury had been the pre-eminent English church for more than a century, a new archbishopric had been established at York in 735. If the kingdom of Northumbria could be so honoured, why not a third archbishopric to oversee the bishops between the Thames and the Humber, an area that encompassed the core of Mercia?

Aside from the Chronicle, the only way to trace the archbishopric’s brief existence is via documents produced by Canterbury. Again, Canterbury’s view wins out. It’s an account that sees Offa’s machinations as cynical and aimed at securing a cooperative archbishop who would anoint his son as co-king. As it happens, the new archbishop of Lichfield promptly did just that, but this doesn’t mean it was an implausible or unreasonable idea.

A new kind of realm

A different, more positive, side of Offa emerges when an attempt is made to think about his kingdom from the inside. Ecgfrith, the son whom Offa worked so hard to have anointed as co-ruler, featured prominently in his father’s regime. So too did Offa’s wife and Ecgfrith’s mother, Cynethryth. All three of them often appear as the first three names among the witnesses of charters – that is, lists of those who were present when an important grant of land or privilege was made and recorded in writing.

Offa was putting his own dynasty front and centre in his kingship. This, in turn, cemented the status of Offa and, later, Ecgfrith as the only English kings south of the Humber save those of Wessex. He was consolidating his family’s hold on power.

In practice, this sometimes meant suppressing old local dynasties. But more often, it meant finding an accommodation with local rulers that brought them into the Mercian fold. Charters from Sussex and Worcestershire show this process at work in different parts of Offa’s lands: former kings, or members of their families, stayed on under a new title. There may have been little or no violence involved.

Moving into the Mercian orbit might well have been a voluntary act that brought protection, stability and access to larger networks of patronage. Even if Offa did preside over some of the last gasps of autonomous smaller kingdoms, he did not always seize control through coercion.

• Read more | The triumph of the Anglo-Saxons: how the kingdom of Mercia powered the rise of England

Turning to when Offa did go to war, the key source here is again the Chronicle. This records several battles against other English kingdoms, but the brief accounts of these encounters betray no information about their background. In later times, these came to be thought of as sporadic outbursts of violence on the part of a ruthless warmonger. In fact, given the great length of Offa’s reign, there are relatively few accounts of battles against other English kingdoms. Violence was probably a last resort.

Offa’s takeover of Kent offers a good case study here. It began in the 760s when Offa started to offer assistance to local rulers. Slowly, he became the dominant figure in the region. Then, in 776, the people of Kent pushed back against Offa, winning a battle against him. It wasn’t until the mid-780s that Offa regained control of the kingdom and thereafter ruled it in much the same way as the other parts of his realm. This wasn’t without sensitivity to local feeling. In 792, he agreed to the archbishop of Canterbury’s request to restore special privileges to the churches of Kent. Patronage of important churches was one way of securing goodwill across his kingdom.

Things were somewhat different on Offa’s western border with the Welsh kingdoms. Annals from Wales record more numerous clashes in Offa’s reign, and there is of course Offa’s Dyke, the greatest military monument of Anglo-Saxon England. Offa did not aspire to conquer the Welsh. Instead, he sought to keep them at bay by employing a combination of raids, fortifications and intimidation.

Show of strength

Why did Offa build a dyke to separate Mercia from Wales?

Offa is best known for the great earthwork along the Anglo-Welsh border that bears his name. The dyke was first referred to by Alfred the Great’s Welsh biographer in the late ninth century. 

It remains an imposing monument: a bank and ditch that extends for about 170 miles from Liverpool Bay to the Severn Estuary, with only a few significant gaps where the dyke’s course matches a major river. At its biggest and best preserved, the bank stands some 3 metres in height (and may originally have been more than twice that) with a ditch up to 2 metres deep and 5–6 metres wide.

But while none can doubt the scale of Offa’s Dyke, pretty much everything else about it has been hotly debated. It has been queried whether Offa really did build all of it, although the most recent research tentatively concludes that he did. Another central concern has been how quickly it was constructed and by how many men, for this was no small undertaking. It was like, as one scholar has put it, building the entire M5 motorway with hand tools. If the dyke was built relatively fast, it needed many men and expert organisation. But the biggest question is why the dyke was built in the first place. The answer has huge implications for how Offa viewed his kingdom and its relations with the Welsh. One clue lies in how it was situated in the landscape. It was configured to look impressive from the west, as if the dyke was itself an exercise in dominance.

Offa may have recalled how the Romans supposedly erected two walls to protect the Britons from northern barbarians. By building his own fortification on a similar scale, he may have sought to demonstrate how the tables had turned. There was doubtless also some military function, although on its own the dyke could only go so far in significantly delaying an enemy force. It has therefore been wondered whether there might have been patrols along the dyke or occasional garrisoned fortresses, or perhaps that such measures were intended but never instituted.  

A king without a legacy?

As a ruler then, Offa’s achievements were impressive, yet in a patriarchal age he had only one son, on whom any hopes of a continuing dynasty rested. Ecgfrith, though, reigned for just 141 days before succumbing to illness. Later, in the 880s, Wessex eclipsed Mercia as a separate political force. For all his success, Offa thus lacked both an immediate and a long-term legacy, in contrast to Alfred the Great.

Except there are of course other ways to think about the period and other places to look for legacies. While there is no evidence Offa sought to be monarch of all the English, he nonetheless expanded his territory and worked hard to bring his enlarged kingdom together in a tangible way. Offa built a strong relationship with most of his bishops. He reoriented the way his elite subjects from across the kingdom did business with their king. He favoured venues for meeting in the London area that combined royal and ecclesiastical councils, binding together these two previously separate aspects of his kingdom.

Coins provide a vivid glimpse of how Offa combined hard and soft aspects of government in a single medium. He established a unified currency of silver pennies across his territory, which speaks to the depth of his control. Some of Offa’s coins hint at how he wanted to be regarded by his subjects. Images of him with fluffy, curling hair should not be read as a portrait, but as an allusion to the biblical King David, a favourite model for kingship at the time. Other coins suggest Offa was being presented as akin to the Roman emperor Constantine the Great, another model for virtuous Christian rule. A unique gold coin imitated a gold dinar from the Muslim caliphate of the Abbasids. It was probably intended for use in Italy, where such coins were popular, and reflects Offa’s grasp of the politics of prestige and display.

• Read more | Aethelflaed, Lady of the Mercians: the warrior queen who crushed the Vikings

Taking these innovations together, even if Offa did not create the kingdom of England, he forged many of the tools that would be used to run big, multifaceted kingdoms in England for generations to come. A close bond between the king and the bishops, tight dynastic identity, appointment of elder sons as co-rulers, strict acknowledgement of a single king, close control over coinage – all of these were strategies that Alfred the Great and his dynasty adopted as they turned Wessex into the dominant power in the course of the ninth century. In this way, Offa did indeed have a legacy, as a trailblazer for how kingship would be practised in England.

Questionable behaviour

But if bringing in contemporary sources such as charters and coins gives a more rounded picture of Offa, this doesn’t mean we should absolve him of all wrongdoing. Even after allowing for how so many narratives are effectively hostile to Offa, he still emerges from history as a complicated and even contradictory figure.

Another contemporary voice hints at the qualified views many had of Offa. Alcuin of York (c735–804) was a great Northumbrian scholar who spent much of his career moving between England and Francia, where he taught at the court of Charlemagne (reigned 768–814), Offa’s great continental rival. Of hundreds of letters written by Alcuin in the 790s, later collected by his students, many were to recipients in England. He had much to say about Offa. During the latter’s lifetime Alcuin praised him fulsomely. He recognised Offa as the “glory of Britain”, and celebrated the refinement and morals of Offa’s court.

Alcuin’s tune changed significantly after Offa’s death. He still acknowledged the king’s personal virtue, but also alluded to how the sins of the father had brought divine wrath down upon the son. In other words, Offa’s misdeeds explained Ecgfrith’s early death. Alcuin was vague about what misdeeds he had in mind. The closest he came to elaborating was a mention of how much blood Offa had spilt to ensure his son’s succession to the throne. This might refer to the execution of Æthelberht II, or else to earlier, unknown acts that preceded Ecgfrith’s elevation to kingship in 787.

Offa did sometimes play hardball. He defeated and killed his enemies. But that was not all he did, and he was no more brutal than Charlemagne and many other kings whose reputations have endured much more favourably. Looking behind the myths about him does not reveal either a simple villain or a glorious hero, but glimpses of a rich and complex figure who presided over a fascinating period.

Rory Naismith is professor of early medieval English history at the University of Cambridge. His latest book is Offa: King of the Mercians (Yale University Press, 2026)

This article was first published in the June 2026 issue of HistoryExtra Magazine

]]> Retracing Eleanor of Castile's final journey https://www.historyextra.com/membership/retracing-eleanor-of-castile-final-journey-podcast/ Mon, 20 Apr 2026 07:40:51 GMT https://www.historyextra.com/membership/retracing-eleanor-of-castile-final-journey-podcast/ Alice Loxton retraces Eleanor of Castile’s 200-mile funerary journey, uncovering the life, legacy, and love story of the medieval queen At the end of the 13th century, England was gripped by grief as news of the queen's death shook the nation. Eleanor of Castile's funeral procession from Lincoln to London would become one of the most remarkable journeys in medieval English history – and would also be immortalised in stone through the famous Eleanor Crosses. More than seven centuries later, Alice Loxton has retraced that historic route on foot – and, in her latest book, Eleanor: A 200-Mile Walk in Search of England's Lost Queen, she explores the landscapes that connect us to this past.

Emily Briffett caught up with Alice to find out more about how 12 stone crosses act as enduring testaments to royal love – and the history that we can uncover for ourselves by simply stepping outside.

]]> 16 of the worst monarchs in history https://www.historyextra.com/period/medieval/9-of-the-worst-monarchs-in-history/ Fri, 17 Apr 2026 11:12:27 GMT https://www.historyextra.com/period/medieval/9-of-the-worst-monarchs-in-history/ From the morally bankrupt to the staggeringly inept, Jonny Wilkes guides us through the lives of 16 rulers who wrote their names into the history books for all the wrong reasons The past has no shortage of disastrous kings, queens, and other rulers; such a list could easily have been filled with the worst Roman emperors alone. Some have been homicidal, like Nero or Genghis Khan; simply incompetent, like Edward II; completely untrustworthy, like Charles I; or amiable but inadequate, like Louis XVI of France.

But who are truly the worst, and why? Jonny Wilkes makes the case against 16 rulers from history…

1. Lucius Tarquinius Superbus

King of Rome, 534–509 BC

Before Rome had emperors, it had a line of kings going back to the city’s mythical founder, Romulus. The last, however, presided over a reign of terror so bad that the people gave up on the monarchy altogether, heralding the dawn of the Republic.

Lucius Tarquinius Superbus (commonly known as ‘Tarquin the Proud’) had seized the throne by planning the assassination of his own father-in-law, then once in power he killed senators on a whim and imprisoned or executed anyone suspected of disloyalty.

His undoing came when his son raped a noblewoman, which caused such outrage that a revolt broke out that saw the tyrannical king overthrown and exiled. In his doomed attempts to regain the throne, he persuaded neighbouring cities to attack Rome, seemingly unfazed by the damage this would do to his erstwhile kingdom.

2. Commodus

Roman emperor, 177–92 AD

There are a number of contenders to the title of ‘most despicable emperor of Rome’, so we could just as easily be discussing the cruel and murderous rules of, say, Nero and Caligula.

The bloodthirsty, vainglorious spendthrift, Commodus, however, went from inheriting an empire enjoying a long period of peace and prosperity, the Pax Romana, to leaving it broke and in turmoil. If not executing anyone he suspected of plotting against him, he was leaving the job of ruling the empire to a series of corrupt, cruel and incompetent favourites. He much preferred to fight as a gladiator, relishing in slaughtering a menagerie of animals in the arena.

No wonder, then, that Commodus was chosen as the villain in Ridley Scott’s swords-and-sandals masterpiece, Gladiator.

3. John

King of England, 1199–1216

Seriously, how could the arch-villain of Robin Hood not make an appearance? Beyond the tale of the fabled outlaw, John severely damaged the authority of the English monarchy. As a prince, he angered the nobles of Ireland and attempted to steal his brother Richard I’s crown, only ending up as king after Richard died without a legitimate heir. Notably, he also managed to outmanoeuvre a rival claim from his nephew, Arthur of Brittany, whom he is later believed to have had murdered.

Within a few years in power, John had lost Normandy – the foundation of his family’s Angevin empire on the continent – then he emptied the kingdom’s coffers trying to win it back. His oppressively high taxes, his clashes with the church and his cruel and conniving personality all led to a revolt of England’s barons.

Under threat of civil war, John was forced to seal Magna Carta, a historic document that limited royal power. He then proceeded to ignore it. The barons rose up again and John’s reign ended, dying of dysentery, as he fought to keep hold of his kingdom.

• Read more | How King John helped bring about a political miracle in medieval England

4. Wanyan Chenglin

Emperor of the Jin dynasty, 1234

On 9 February 1234, with the warriors of the Mongol empire besieging the city of Caizhou, the emperor of the Jin dynasty in China, Aizong, knew that his 10-year reign would be over shortly. That said, he did not want to be the last in his line, so he abdicated and passed the throne to his general, Wanyan Chenglin, before taking his own life.

The reluctant new emperor began a reign that would be doomed to last just a matter of hours. He was killed leading his soldiers in a last stand when the Mongols broke through the city walls.

5. Charles the Bad

King of Navarre, 1349–87

The name gives away why he belongs on this list, doesn’t it? Charles earned ‘the Bad’ for his duplicitous and treacherous behaviour in the Hundred Years’ War between England and France. Although King of Navarre in Spain, he owned a lot of land in northern France, which put him in the middle of the conflict, and his response was to keep flipping sides.

Driven solely by ambition, he believed he should be on the French throne, and he plotted and murdered to get it. All the while, Navarre went ignored. What made him truly bad, though, was that his schemes failed utterly. Charles is perhaps best-known today for his grisly end in 1387, when the brandy-soaked sheets he had been wrapped in to cure an illness accidentally caught fire, burning him alive.

6. Henry VI

King of England, 1422–61, 1470–71

Ascending the throne of England as an infant and the son of the hero of Agincourt, the young Henry VI was always going to struggle to live up to his dynastic legacy.

Not helped by his total lack of leadership, it went even worse than feared: he lost control of France (won by his father Henry V), suffered a mental breakdown, and saw his kingdom plunge into the Wars of the Roses. The Lancastrian cause would be headed not by the king, but his queen, Margaret.

Henry’s role amounted to being kicked off the throne by the Yorkist Edward IV, then placed back on it by the ‘kingmaker’, the Earl of Warwick, and finally losing it again after being captured.

• Read more | The power behind the throne: women in the Wars of the Roses

7. Christian II

King of Denmark and Norway, 1513–23

Christian’s reign may seem more insignificant than terrible at first glance, but it signalled the end of the Kalmar Union, which had bound together the Scandinavian countries of Denmark, Norway and Sweden for well over a century. Having been crowned in the first two of those countries in 1513, he set out to secure the third.

It would not be until 1520 that he captured Stockholm, although, hardly magnanimous in victory, his immediate action was to execute 82 nobles. The so-called Stockholm Bloodbath fuelled a Swedish rebellion against Christian and weakened his authority back in Denmark and Norway.

He was overthrown and exiled, and then when he launched a desperate bid to win back his thrones by force, he was imprisoned for the rest of his life.

8. Ivan the Terrible

Tsar of Russia, 1547–84

As the first tsar, Ivan was in some ways an able ruler since he laid the foundations of the Russian empire. He became known as ‘the Terrible’ for a reason, though. Having hated the nobles from an early age (at 13, he had one fed to a pack of dogs), he wasted no time in purging the upper classes.

The domain he inherited clearly was not enough: he instigated numerous, and disastrous, wars of expansion, and even established his own fiefdom within his land where, essentially, anything went. With Ivan prone to paranoia and fits of rage, no one was safe: he ordered a full-on attack on one of his own cities, Novgorod, and beat his daughter-in-law into having a miscarriage, then murdered his son.

9. Rudolf II

Holy Roman Emperor, 1576–1612

Despite being hailed as a generous patron of the arts and sciences, Habsburg emperor Rudolf II utterly failed in his role as the leader of one of Europe’s major powers. Rather than focusing on politics and administration, he instead shut himself away to focus on personal pursuits like alchemy.

When he did show some determination – starting a war with the Ottoman empire to unify Christendom – it proved a disaster. His subjects in Hungary revolted and his family made him hand over power to his younger brother.

Rudolf’s most damning legacy, however, was that his miserable tenure as emperor has been blamed as one of the causes of the Thirty Years’ War, one of the bloodiest conflicts in history.

• Read more | What was the Habsburg jaw?

10. Louis XV

King of France, 1715–74

It could certainly be argued that Louis XV’s status as a poor king of France was overshadowed by his successor, Louis XVI, since he was the one who lost his head in the French Revolution. Yet Louis XV’s reign sowed the seeds of the people’s discontent that would lead to such a violent rejection of the monarchy. In short, he was a deeply ineffectual ruler, let alone the all-powerful absolutist king that France had become accustomed to under Louis XIV.

Reports of corruption and handing over influence to his mistresses hurt the crown’s authority, while his wars and extravagant spending depleted the coffers. France became a less powerful nation under his rule, and smaller too: he gave up New France in the Americas after the disastrous Seven Years’ War.

11. Ferdinand VII

King of Spain, 1808, 1813–33

Shortly after taking the throne in 1808, Ferdinand handed over his kingdom – and himself – to Napoleon Bonaparte. Six years of captivity in France later, he returned with a need to prove his absolutist credentials and so ditched Spain’s liberal constitution that had been written in his absence. This led to multiple uprisings, notably the revolt of 1820, which ushered in three years during which the king was forced to accept a constitutional regime.

While more selfish than monstrous, Ferdinand’s legacy and place on this list were confirmed by two things: he oversaw the loss of nearly all of Spain’s colonial territories in the Americas and, following his death, his petty bid to exclude his brother from the succession resulted in a long civil war.

12. Ranavalona I

Queen of Imerina, 1828–61

To try and hold back the wave of European colonisation in Africa, Queen Ranavalona I, of modern-day Madagascar, would go to any lengths. She wanted to purge all foreign influence, expelling missionaries, persecuting Christians and restricting trade. She even tried to have a giant pair of scissors made so that she could literally chop foreigners in half.

The ones who suffered the most, however, were her people: to preserve her land’s self-sufficiency and way of life, as she saw it, Ranavalona used forced labour for her royal projects and fear to maintain order.

Many executions took the form of the tangena ordeal, a witch-hunt-style trial where the accused was made to ingest poison and if they showed any adverse effects, they were deemed guilty. It is claimed that as much as 50 per cent of the population perished during her rule.

• Read more | “Africans have been starved of historical figures from their own lands that they can look up to”: Paula Akpan on female African leaders

13. Leopold II

King of the Belgians, 1865–1909

Leopold II may not have been a terrible king in Belgium itself, but with the Congo Free State, he revealed just how much of a monster he could be. In 1885, he created his own state in central Africa, having convinced European powers that he intended to improve the lives of the people living there.

In reality, this privately owned kingdom allowed Leopold to exploit the Congolese people so that he could make money from its ivory and natural rubber reserves. Under his system of forced labour, any workers who failed to meet their quotas would be punished with mutilation. Leopold’s preferred method was chopping off hands and feet. Millions died from the brutality and rampant diseases.

This was an age where European empires carved up and exploited the African continent, so the fact that international outrage finally forced Leopold to hand over the Congo Free State illustrates the appalling extent of the atrocities.

14. Khalid ibn Barghash

Sultan of Zanzibar, 1896

Not only did Khalid ibn Barghash rule for just three days, but he was ousted in the shortest war in history. So, in truth, there is no knowing whether he would have been a bad ruler: there wasn’t enough time. In 1896, the sultan of Zanzibar died, which put the British in a tough position. They controlled the islands off the east African coast as it served as a strategic trade post for the Indian Ocean.

Against British wishes, Khalid, who may well have killed his predecessor, assumed the role of sultan and fortified the palace with around 3,000 supporters. The British sent warships, though, and initiated a brief bombardment. The Anglo-Zanzibar War lasted around 38 minutes, and Khalid fled into exile.

15. Nicholas II

Tsar of Russia, 1894–1917

The Romanov dynasty ruled Russia for more than 300 years – and it all ended during the reign of Nicholas II. Not suited to wielding autocratic power over a huge empire, he made a catalogue of errors and refused to adapt beyond his rigid belief that he had the divinely ordained right to rule.

In 1905 alone, Russia lost a war with Japan and broke out in revolution, yet Nicholas only made cursory changes and tried to move on. His court became dominated by the strange and ambitious mystic, Rasputin, his nobles and politicians abandoned him, and his decision to take command of the armies in the First World War meant that he was held personally responsible for every defeat and death.

Revolution erupted again in 1917, forcing his abdication. While imprisoned by the revolutionaries, Nicholas and his entire family were murdered. It was a bloody and definitive end to the tsars, as Russia became a communist regime.

16. Edward VIII

King of England, 1936

Edward became king on 20 January 1936, on the death of his father George V. Before the year was out, he had abdicated in disgrace. His brief reign had entirely been focused on his wish to marry an American named Wallis Simpson, but she had been divorced once and was seeking a second, making her wholly unacceptable to the royal family, the political establishment and the church.

Yet his reputation as a bad monarch could have been even worse had he stayed: Edward has long been accused of being a Nazi sympathiser, who toured Hitler’s Germany almost two years before the Second World War.

]]> Who is the most overrated person in history? 9 experts reveal their choices https://www.historyextra.com/membership/who-is-the-most-overrated-person-in-history-9-experts-reveal-their-choices/ Mon, 09 Feb 2026 15:30:00 GMT https://www.historyextra.com/membership/who-is-the-most-overrated-person-in-history-9-experts-reveal-their-choices/ In the first of a new monthly series, we asked an expert team of historians to tackle one of the big questions about the past Homer

Composite figment of imaginations

The writer credited with composing the Iliad and the Odyssey, and often regarded as one of the most important authors of all time, is to my mind the most overrated historical figure. That’s mostly because it’s likely that there was no one person called Homer.

Careful study of those works, as well as other surviving epic fragments, has shown that they weren’t written at a single time by one person. Instead, it is likely that the Iliad and Odyssey were composed over generations by poetry performers known as rhapsodes. Each of these improved on the work of their predecessors, curating these epics and honing them to a point of perfection. From that time, probably around 700 BC, these works started to be transmitted in a more stable format. By around 550–500 BC, they were written down for the first time.

By then, the belief was circulating that their genesis lay with one particular poet, Homer – not least because the idea of a single, genius author is simpler and more attractive than a slow process of evolution involving hundreds. A whole narrative was woven about the likely fictitious Homer: that he lived on Chios, that he was blind, even that he may have had some divine parentage.

In fact, the notional Homer became so popular that later rhapsodes, doing performances of these now ‘finished’, stable poems, liked to claim themselves as ‘sons of Homer’ to give themselves more gravitas and fame. Ancient historians even wrote biographies of Homer as a historical figure, and busts were created of him. Yet, as a single man, he probably never existed at all.

Michael Scott, professor in classics and ancient history at the University of Warwick

Charles Dickens

Verbose Victorian who distorted views of his era

At the risk of being tarred and feathered next time I show my face at a Victorian history conference, I’d have to say that Dickens is overrated.

It’s not that I dislike his work. Critics usually object to his long-winded prose, or baulk at the mawkish sentimentality of characters such as Little Nell, but I enjoy his writing. The callous way he treated his wife is harder to forgive – but his claim to greatness never rested on his qualities as a husband.

No, my objection to Dickens is one that he – always a relentless self-publicist – might actually enjoy. He is simply too famous. Dickens is often feted as the greatest English writer since Shakespeare. Great Expectations, Oliver Twist and A Christmas Carol have been inflicted on generations of schoolchildren and adapted into endless period dramas (the best of which feature Muppets).

As a result, many people see the 19th century purely through a Dickensian lens: as a world of cruel workhouses, smoke-filled factories and desperate poverty. I’ve spent my career as a historian trying to reveal the lighter sides of Victorian life – to prove that things weren’t as miserable as some of Dickens’ more pointed critiques suggest.

Dickens was just one of many great writers who made their names in the Victorian era. I’m not suggesting that we consign him to the dustbin of history – but perhaps the time has come to stop him from hogging all of the limelight.

Bob Nicholson, writer, broadcaster and historian at Edge Hill University

Mary, Queen of Scots

Unwise architect of her own downfall

Some historical figures, such as Richard III and Anne Boleyn, attract a cult following. Mary is another. She’s typically presented as a tragic heroine: a woman of courage who battled against adversity throughout her life, only to have it savagely cut short by her cold-hearted cousin, Elizabeth I.

Yet the truth is far removed from this beguiling image. Yes, Mary was dogged by tragedy in her life, but much of it could have been avoided if she had shown greater wisdom and restraint. Instead, she made a series of catastrophic decisions that eventually lost her the crown – and her life.

After a pampered upbringing in France, Mary returned to her native Scotland in 1561, aged 18. She then married Henry Stuart, Lord Darnley, one of the most unsuitable consorts in history, before eloping with the chief suspect in his murder, James Hepburn, Lord Bothwell.

• Read more | Mary, Queen of Scots: your guide to her life and times

Having lost all credibility, and been forced to abdicate in favour of her infant son, James, Mary fled to England, naively expecting that Elizabeth would help her regain her throne. She spent almost 19 years a prisoner there, during which time she was involved in numerous plots against the English queen, finally leaving a paper trail exposing her parts in conspiracies.

Mary’s execution in 1587 propelled her to the status of Catholic martyr and tragic heroine. In truth, she was not the hapless victim of circumstance but the architect of her own downfall.

Tracy Borman, author, historian and broadcaster

Petrarch

Painted a dim picture of the Middle Ages

The writing of early Italian Renaissance poet Francesco Petrarch (1304–74) is certainly not overrated. He was responsible for an exquisite body of lyric poetry, an extraordinary scholar who rediscovered the letters of Cicero, and one of the greatest contributors to the Italian language. Reading or listening to his poetry truly feeds the soul.

As a medieval historian, though, I am bound to take issue with Petrarch’s comments on the nature of history – because these truly are overrated. His remarks have long misled and deceived, producing a vision of world history that has become embedded in the European and American historiographical imagination.

It was Petrarch who came up with the idea of the ‘Dark Ages’. He described the Middle Ages as a period of intellectual obscurity in which the glories of the great Roman empire had been forgotten, inhabited by benighted and stupid people. “This sleep of forgetfulness will not last forever,” he opined. “When the darkness has been dispersed, our descendants can come again in the former pure radiance.”

This condemnation of 800 years of history was taken up by 16th-century Protestants and then 18th-century Enlightenment thinkers. It’s still common today, with the Middle Ages often dismissed as poorly documented, boring and dogmatic. It’s just not true! These were centuries of extraordinary intellectual discovery, of philosophical thinking about the nature of the self and society, of artistic vibrancy and sophisticated political theory. The Middle Ages matter: we study them to challenge our assumptions and better understand our common humanity.

Hannah Skoda, associate professor of medieval history at the University of Oxford

Cicero

Rome’s most shameless self-promoter

The first-century BC Roman statesman and writer is often hailed as the voice of Republican virtue and a defender of democracy, justice and reason in a corrupt age. But this reputation owes more to his own words than to his actual achievements. In truth, Marcus Tullius Cicero was one of history’s most successful self-publicists.

Cicero was elected consul in 63 BC. It was a remarkable achievement for a novus homo (‘new man’ without aristocratic ancestry) – and he never stopped reminding people of it. That same year, he crushed a conspiracy to overthrow the Republic, and had several citizens executed without trial – an act he later declared showed moral courage. In reality, it was a serious abuse of power, and deeply divisive.

Despite his modest background, Cicero consistently sided with Rome’s conservative elite, opposing reforms that might have redistributed wealth or power to the poor. He praised virtue, yet defended the clearly guilty Milo on a murder charge. He was undeniably a gifted speaker and writer, but as a statesman he was relatively irrelevant. He had no army, no loyal faction and little influence over the major figures of his time, such as Caesar, Pompey and Octavian (later Augustus).

More than 800 of his letters and 58 speeches survive, far more than those left by any contemporary, giving his version of events an over-amplified voice. Through them he cast himself as the Republic’s moral guardian – but without them he’d be remembered as what he truly was: a gifted lawyer with more bluster than power.

Jess Venner, ancient historian, presenter and author

Winston Churchill

A flawed leader who could never live up to his idealised image

Churchill is one of Britain’s greatest heroes. He’s the subject of countless movies and television shows. His statue stands in Parliament Square. In a nationwide poll in 2002, he was voted the greatest figure in British history. Ever.

Though I have great respect for Churchill as a symbol of British courage and determination during the Second World War, the man himself cannot possibly live up to this image. In many ways, he was a terrible politician. Even by the standards of the time, his views were objectionable. He actively opposed equal rights for women, and he frequently made racist comments – particularly about Indians, calling them a “beastly people with a beastly religion”. During most of the 1930s he was shunned by the political establishment, including many in his own party. He was often drunk on the job.

There is no question that Britain needed a leader with Churchill’s energy to see it through the war. Yet his own Chief of the Imperial General Staff, Alan Brooke, claimed that Churchill often made it impossible for the armed forces to do their work. He came up with ridiculous plans, then acted “like a spoilt child” when military experts pointed out that they were impossible.

• Read more | Winston Churchill: is he still the greatest Briton in history?

Churchill was certainly a heroic figure. He was one of the very first to oppose Hitler, and his inspiring speeches galvanised the country in its hour of need. But can he live up to our idealised image of him? Of course not. How could anyone?

Keith Lowe, author of The Fear and the Freedom: How the Second World War Changed Us (Viking, 2017)

Erik Bloodaxe

Spectacular nickname, underwhelming legacy

I love a Viking-Age hero with a dramatic nickname as much as the next person, but let’s not kid ourselves: they were masters of their own propaganda. Look for the men behind the myths (and we are mostly talking men here) and the historical reality can be a little… underwhelming. Take Erik Bloodaxe, twice ruler of Northumbria in the mid-10th century. Most of what we think we know about his colourful life comes from the Old Norse-Icelandic sagas, recorded long after his lifetime.

In these, he’s portrayed as a larger-than-life character: favourite son of King Harald Fairhair, slayer of his own brothers, locked in a bitter feud with Icelandic poet Egill Skallagrimsson. His wife, Gunnhild, is depicted as a shapeshifting, murderous sorceress said to have commissioned another source for Erik’s life – or, rather, afterlife – the poem Eiríksmál (‘The Lay of Erik’), in which the god Odin orders his warriors and Valkyries to prepare Valhalla for the arrival of this great hero.

But beyond the vivid details of his legend, what do we know about the historical figure? Coins and chronicles tell us that he was a key political player in 10th-century Northumbria. But his brief reigns (947–48 and 952–54) were turbulent, to say the least, challenged by Anglo-Saxon Wessex to the south and Viking Dublin to the west. In 954, he came to a sticky end, driven from York and ambushed in the wilds of Cumbria. His death brought an end to Viking rule in the north of England. So, not a brilliant legacy. But still a great nickname.

Eleanor Barraclough, historian, broadcaster and author of Embers of the Hands: Hidden Histories of the Viking Age (Profile, 2024)

Ronald Reagan

Seemingly a candidate for sainthood – but with questionable principles

Making heroes out of historical figures requires some selective forgetting. In the US, where the cult of Ronald Reagan has many adherents, forgetting is almost an art form. Popular writing treats Reagan as a principled example of free-market rectitude who ended the Cold War and heralded morning in America. Critics of the contemporary Republican Party often invoke Reagan to signal how far his heirs have gone astray. The GOP is “no longer the party of Reagan”, critics lament in publications such as The Washington Post, Time or USA Today. Rhetorically, harking back to Reagan makes a claim of legitimacy and ideological fidelity. To invoke Reagan is to touch the hem of the saints.

This gives Reagan too much credit for accomplishments that were not his, and overlooks wrongdoing that was. Did Reagan end the Cold War? Many would argue that dynamics within the USSR – Mikhail Gorbachev’s embrace of democratic socialism, for example – sparked the transformation of the Soviet Union more than any external force did. Was Reagan’s administration principled? Anyone recalling the manipulative illegality of the Iran–Contra Affair might marvel at the question.

• Read more | Did Ronald Reagan 'Make America Great Again'?

Did Reagan mean “morning in America” to apply to all Americans? As candidate, he gave a speech celebrating “states’ rights” in Neshoba County, Mississippi near where three voting rights activists had been murdered in 1964. For years, he publicly ignored the decade-defining public health crisis that was the HIV epidemic. He scaled back on social programmes while intensifying the war on drugs. He busted unions while preaching ‘trickle-down’ economics.

Without selective forgetting, the Reagan era feels less like the antithesis of our present and more like its progenitor.

Adriane Lentz-Smith, associate professor of history at Duke University

Simon de Montfort

A history of violence

Some 760 years after his death, Simon de Montfort still enjoys a fairly sturdy reputation as a social reformer – the man who summoned what’s claimed to have been the first English parliament. A portrait of him is carved above the doors of the US House of Representatives, among a pantheon of democratic worthies. An English university was named after him as recently as 1992.

But this reputation rests almost entirely on modern myth. Kings of England had been summoning consultative assemblies for hundreds of years before Montfort did so in 1265, and were calling them parliaments as early as 1236. Montfort’s contribution was long reckoned to have been the introduction of representation by including knights and townsmen, but both these groups had already been attending parliaments for several decades.

Montfort was undoubtedly a skilled politician – clever, persuasive and quick-witted – but his preferred method of getting things done was usually violence. He had put himself into power in 1263 by leading attacks on the supporters of his brother-in-law, Henry III, and he reduced Henry to a puppet the following year by defeating him in battle.

Montfort was also a pioneering antisemite. As soon as he became Earl of Leicester in 1231, he expelled all of the Jews from that town – the first such expulsion in England – and in the 1260s he led violent massacres of other Jewish communities. A capable warrior and a charismatic leader, Montfort was expert at exploiting the grievances of others for his own ends. A founder of parliamentary democracy he was not.

Marc Morris, medieval historian, writer and broadcaster

This article was first published in the January 2026 issue of HistoryExtra magazine

]]> 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/ Mon, 26 Jan 2026 16:00:28 GMT https://www.historyextra.com/membership/conquest-what-conquest-the-other-dramatic-events-that-really-mattered-in-1066/ 1066 is synonymous with the battle of Hastings. Yet while Duke William was launching his conquest of England, the rest of Europe had its own crises to contend with. Charles West takes us on a tour of the continent during a dramatic year 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.

• Read more | The crusade against the odds: how the First Crusade succeeded despite the obstacles

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.

• Read more | Not 1066 again! Should we ditch our obsession with dates?

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

]]> Love learning like Æthelstan https://www.historyextra.com/membership/love-learning-like-aethelstan/ Mon, 22 Sep 2025 08:00:48 GMT https://www.historyextra.com/membership/love-learning-like-aethelstan/ The first king of the English can teach us valuable lessons about how to navigate a world revolutionised by AI, says Professor David Woodman Are we losing the need to learn? That’s one of the things that people are worrying about with the advent of AI. Feels like a fair concern to me. Rather than learning something yourself, you can ask AI to tell you the answer, translate something for you, tell you how to fix something, even transcribe a medieval manuscript, if that’s your bag. It’s all a bit too easy, isn’t it, and humans, like water, tend to seek out the easiest route, the path of least resistance.

So that’s potentially a pretty big problem. If we don’t need to learn, will we bother to learn, and if we don’t bother to learn, are our minds going to atrophy? Academics talk about ‘digital dementia’, and researchers are looking at whether AI is going to cause a general downturn in our cognitive abilities.

Unless something changes, and with AI’s rapid development, chances are that we won’t actually need to learn in the future, or at least not in the same way that we do today. So maybe we need to learn to love learning, if we’re going to avoid falling victim to brain rot. And that, perhaps surprisingly, is where Æthelstan, first king of England, comes into the mix.

Creator of the kingdom

Æthelstan, to remind you, was the grandson of King Alfred the Great, son of King Edward the Elder. Crowned in 925 in Kingston-upon-Thames (an event marked to this day by a tooth-shaped stone ringed by Victorian railings on the side of the road), Æthelstan went on to create the kingdom of England as we recognise it today. Famously he won a substantial victory over an alliance of his adversaries at the battle of Brunanburh in the year 937.

• Read more | King Æthelstan: England's colossus

Professor David Woodman, from Cambridge University, is Æthelstan’s most recent biographer, and he is a keen observer of the apparently contradictory sides of the character of the man: “One of the great paradoxes of early medieval history is that Æthelstan absolutely was a great military figure. He was somebody who secured his position by military victories. He had to put down various coalitions that rose against him. But simultaneously he was somebody who had a very keen sense of the importance of learning and sponsoring reading.”

Æthelstan encouraged scholars to come to his court, and he also facilitated the exchange of texts and learning between these visitors. He probably took inspiration from his grandfather in this, because Alfred sponsored a rejuvenation of learning, in the 880s when he was less occupied by Viking raids.

Following Alfred’s lead, Æthelstan ran with this love of learning. He drove for even mundane documents to be dressed up in learned language, as an ostentatious demonstration of the scholarly nature of his court. The diplomas that were issued in his name were works of literary scholarship, which demanded the attention of the reader.

“In order to understand the brilliance of these diplomas, you have to do a very close reading of them today, where you uncover the literary allusions. We have allusions to seventh-century works by Aldhelm of Malmesbury, for example, embedded in these works,” says David. “Now, you can imagine that for your average nobleman sitting at a meeting of the royal assembly of Æthelstan, these allusions probably would have been lost on that person. They wouldn’t have been able to understand them. And in fact, maybe they thought, oh no, not another long turgid Latin diploma of the royal scribe being trotted out. And in a way that’s the point. I think they were designed to impress. They were designed to show the advances that were taking place.”

So, according to David, we need to see Æthelstan as a real lover of learning, and an advocate of a learned culture among his courtiers. That’s a powerful statement by a powerful figure. He even seems to have had an allegorical board game, the Gospel Dice, which might have allowed players to study the Gospels in an innovative way. In modern terms, we might call that a gamified learning experience.

Making the effort

What can we take from this? Well, there was a lot going on in Æthelstan’s reign, not least the project to create a new polity and fend off the Viking threat. So if he could maintain an interest in learning under that sort of pressure, maybe there’s a lesson for us as we wrestle with how to deal with the threat, or opportunity, of AI.

“In this age that we’re living in, we are witnessing a revolution in terms of the way that people access information. Large language models, things like ChatGPT, are enabling instant access to lots and lots of details: very useful tools are at our fingertips. But I do think we lose something in that shorthand access to detail. It’s only by engagement, close reading of a scholarly article or a primary text that you really get a sense of that text, you really understand the nuance of it,” notes David.

If we rely on summaries created by artificial intelligence, if we forego the close reading, then we lose the ability to do that work for ourselves. That, says David, is where we can take a leaf out of Æthelstan’s book: “For me, a big lesson from the reign of Æthelstan is that emphasis on engagement of learning, on close reading.”

• Read more | Be wary of technology’s big promises, but roll with the changes

The beauty of the printed page

We’re talking about the concentrated hard yards of Æthelstan Intelligence over the easy option of Artificial Intelligence. But I suppose the question is whether we can be convinced to get our heads down and really engage with the written word, when we know that AI will be able to make things quicker and less onerous for us. Maybe, that’s where the beauty of the printed page comes into play, and that takes us back to Æthelstan and the Anglo-Saxons once more. If you’ve ever looked at a 10th-century illuminated manuscript, you’ll know what fantastic works of art they can be, and how much labour must have been invested in them. It’s hard not to want to study them up close – they demand detailed attention, precisely because so much attention was lavished upon them.

Though most of these manuscripts are digitised and available for virtual study, David’s first choice is to head to the library, turn the vellum pages, and get to grips with the physical object. Given the chance, I’d absolutely do that too. We’re not all academics with the opportunity to research these amazing Anglo-Saxon illuminated manuscripts in the original, but perhaps we should be encouraged by the continuing enduring power of print in wider culture. People are still making and buying handsomely produced books and magazines (like BBC History Magazine, for example), when we could just as easily be looking at the digital versions.

Obviously there’s a balance, and we would be foolish not to make use of the benefits that AI is bringing, both to scholarly research and to life generally. But we should be mindful of letting too much learning potential slip away, for the sake of a quick answer or easy solution.

“We need to maintain that close reading, that close understanding. But we also need to use tools like ChatGPT to advance our knowledge in various ways. You can get so much more done with these large language models, the way in which they can access data and trawl through it much faster than us. That’s a huge advantage. So I think if they’re used in complementary terms, that’s very important. But we need not to forget the core skills that we have in the first place.”

According to David Woodman, Æthelstan would have approved of this message – he reckons the Anglo-Saxon lover of learning would have been a pragmatist when it came to the potential of AI. And that’s the Life Lesson from History we should take from this formative English monarch – let’s embrace learning for the sake of learning, and not let AI disempower our mental faculties.

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.

]]> Michael Wood on women’s contributions to the Bayeux Tapestry https://www.historyextra.com/membership/michael-wood-on-womens-contributions-to-the-bayeux-tapestry/ Wed, 17 Sep 2025 08:00:01 GMT https://www.historyextra.com/membership/michael-wood-on-womens-contributions-to-the-bayeux-tapestry/ "We should remember the unknown women who made the Tapestry", writes Michael Wood 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.

• Read more | “I counted the penises in the Bayeux Tapestry and I have no regrets”

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

]]> King Æthelstan: England's colossus https://www.historyextra.com/membership/king-aethelstan-englands-colossus/ Thu, 04 Sep 2025 11:00:16 GMT https://www.historyextra.com/membership/king-aethelstan-englands-colossus/ The rise of Æthelstan was as important a moment in English history as 1066 and Magna Carta. On the 1,100th anniversary of his coronation, David Woodman salutes a king who forged a nation It’s there beside the guildhall. A large grey stone surrounded by Victorian railings. Over the years, countless visitors to Kingston-upon-Thames have strolled past it, many barely registering its existence. Yet here, nestled at the heart of the London borough, is one of the most significant landmarks in the story of early England. For it was in Kingston, 1,100 years ago, that Æthelstan was presented with a ring, a sword, a sceptre and a rod – and proclaimed king.

The early medieval leader was the first of, perhaps, seven rulers to be crowned in Kingston over the next five decades. Yet none would leave a legacy quite like his. Æthelstan’s investiture on 4 September 925 acted as the springboard for a reign that would redefine the parameters of early medieval kingship. The new king triggered a cultural and governmental revolution. He became the most feared and respected leader across the British Isles. He made waves across north-west Europe. Above all, he presided over the establishment of ‘England’. To tell his story is also to tell the story of the emergence of a nation.

Whirlpools of cataclysms

Although Æthelstan was formally invested in the autumn of 925, he had actually become king in the previous year, following the death of his father, Edward the Elder. That delay tells its own story. Æthelstan may now be remembered as one of the great early medieval kings. But his rise to power was anything but straightforward – and far from uncontested.

There is evidence that one of his half-brothers, a man called Ælfweard, had also been recognised as king in 924. Power may, therefore, have initially been divided between the two men, with Æthelstan ruling over the kingdom of Mercia (roughly corresponding to the area we now know as the Midlands) and Ælfweard taking control of Wessex (in the south and west).

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Ælfweard’s death soon after brought this division of power to an end, and Æthelstan now found himself sole king across both Wessex and Mercia, a polity known as the ‘Kingdom of the Anglo-Saxons’. But even then his position was far from secure: there were those in Æthelstan’s capital, Winchester – chief among them its bishop, Frithestan – who opposed his position as king.

Twelfth-century sources also tell us that there was a plot to end Æthelstan’s ambitions by having him blinded – only for the person involved (a certain “Alfred”) to be dispatched to Rome to be judged by the pope for his treachery. Æthelstan may have been safe for the time being, but that didn’t stop one contemporary royal document referring to the “whirlpools of cataclysms” that swirled around him.

The list of potential cataclysms extended far beyond Frithestan and Alfred. For decades, successive early medieval rulers had lived in the shadow of Viking aggression – and Æthelstan was no different. In the ninth century, there had been significant Viking settlement in the eastern parts of Mercia – not to mention the kingdoms of East Anglia and Northumbria, particularly the city of York. Many of the Viking kings based in York were the descendants of Ívarr, who had risen to power in Dublin and landed in English territory in the mid-860s, causing ruin and destruction. By the early 10th century, these same Viking rulers in York maintained their links to Dublin, which meant that Æthelstan found himself confronted by potential enemies on multiple fronts.

The largest threat was, perhaps, presented by Sihtric Cáech (the ‘one-eyed’), Viking king in York at the beginning of Æthelstan’s reign. Sihtric had coins minted in his name in Lincoln – a sure sign that he was attempting to increase the bounds of his authority beyond the traditional confines of Northumbria and into the east Midlands. Many of these coins give him the title of ‘rex’ (king) below an image of a sword on one side, while the reverse carries a hammer. Such objects convey obvious messages about the martial and pagan character of his rule.

Fire in the skies

Æthelstan and Sihtric’s relationship could, so it seems, have easily been defined by rancour and warfare. But diplomacy and then the fickle hand of fate intervened.

On 30 January 926, the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle records how the two kings “met together at Tamworth… and Æthelstan gave him his sister in marriage”. Although the Chronicle’s account is brief, the event referred to was clearly of great significance. No details of what was agreed in Tamworth have survived, but we can assume that Æthelstan and Sihtric would have recognised each other’s authority and the need to keep the peace between both parties.

Yet Sihtric’s pledge would soon be rendered redundant for, by 927, he was dead. As the Chronicle reports it, there “appeared fiery lights in the northern quarter of the sky, and Sihtric died, and King Æthelstan succeeded to the kingdom of the Northumbrians”.

With this short account, the Chronicle captures what is arguably one of the most important episodes in English history. Æthelstan’s absorption of Northumbria represents the moment when an ‘England’ of a recognisable geographical and political shape was formed for the very first time.

The Chronicle provides no more detail about the way in which Æthelstan had acceded to Northumbria, the challenges that he faced in extending his authority, or the importance of what had happened. Some light is perhaps shed on this episode by a 12th-century source that describes Æthelstan razing a Viking fortress at York in order to gain the city’s full submission.

Whatever truly happened in the first half of 927, Æthelstan was clearly aware of the significance of this moment. After gaining Northumbria, the king held a ceremony on 12 July 927 at Eamont Bridge, a small town just to the south of Penrith, where he received the submission of various British kings, and a further Northumbrian ruler. As the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle puts it, here “they established peace with pledge and oaths… and renounced all idolatry and afterwards departed in peace”.

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It’s a shame that the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle does not give more detail about this momentous year. Fortunately, we do not have to rely on the Chronicle alone for our understanding of what the occasion meant to contemporaries. The retinue of people that accompanied Æthelstan north in 927 included a poet who drafted verses celebrating the fact that “Saxonia”, by which the poet means ‘England’, was now “made whole”. “King Æthelstan lives,” he declares, “Glorious through his deeds!”

That there was a poet present with Æthelstan at this crucial juncture in 927 sent a strong message about the type of king he aspired to be: not just militarily dominant, but intellectually superior, too. This idea of a king who cherished learning is supported by the earliest surviving manuscript portrait of any English monarch (shown left), preserved today at the front of a manuscript in Corpus Christi College, Cambridge. Here Æthelstan is shown wearing a distinctive crown, book in hand, head bowed in front of St Cuthbert.

Obsessed with theft

Æthelstan now commanded more territory than any early medieval king before him.But, with his realm stretching from the English Channel in the south to the northern limits of Northumbria – and the Viking threat far from extinguished – how did he go about maintaining control? And what policies did Æthelstan enact?

Thanks to surviving coins, diplomas (grants of land to favoured subjects) and a large corpus of laws that survives in the king’s name, these are questions that we can answer in some detail. Careful scrutiny of Æthelstan’s laws, for example, reveals a king who was deeply concerned by the issue of theft, a crime that he and his advisers return to again and again.

We also know that Æthelstan’s legal system depended to a striking degree on the written word: on laws being sent to different parts of the kingdom to be implemented by royal officials. The king clearly sought to set up a single administrative system that worked across the entire kingdom. One of his law-codes hints at this aspiration when it calls for there to be only one coinage in use. Those coins that survive from Æthelstan’s reign are never entirely homogeneous in design, but they do all carry the king’s name.

Where Æthelstan’s laws and coinage travelled, the king himself would sometimes follow. Royal diplomas – issued in the period 928–35 by an anonymous royal scribe known as ‘Æthelstan A’ – reveal that Æthelstan moved regularly around the kingdom himself, making grants of land. Most of these assemblies were convened in the heartlands of Wessex, but the diplomas tell us that they also travelled further north – convening, for example, in Nottingham in early June 934.

The royal diplomas conventionally contain lists of the important ecclesiastical and lay officials who attended the assemblies – and these make for interesting reading. Not only do they contain English names of people from Wessex and Mercia, but also Old Norse names (presumably from the north and east of Æthelstan’s realm), and those of British kings hailing from the Welsh and Scottish kingdoms. It seems, then, that these assemblies (known by the contemporary Old English word witan, literally ‘wise men’) drew powerful figures from across the British Isles, reflecting just how widely Æthelstan had managed to extend his authority.

• Read more | The battle of Brunanburh: the forgotten fight that changed British history

Æthelstan’s status is even reflected in the sheer complexity of the language used on his royal diplomas (all written in Latin, with a deft use of rhythm and alliteration, and with a clause in Old English, too) and repeated proclamations of the king’s undoubted power. In one diploma, ‘Æthelstan A’ tells his audience that the king has been “elevated by the right hand of the Almighty to the throne of the whole kingdom of Britain”.

Amazingly, two 10th-century ‘Æthelstan A’ originals survive today in the British Library in London. Large, highly professional in their script and layout – with long columns of witnesses at their conclusion – they were evidently designed to make it clear that this was a king who wielded new levels of power. Those coming from the far limits of Æthelstan’s kingdom could not fail to have been impressed by what they saw and heard.

Power couples

But what about those beyond the far limits of Æthelstan’s kingdom, in continental Europe? Here, too, it seems that Æthelstan was able to exert a degree of influence – courtesy of a series of strategic marriage alliances involving his half-sisters. Eadgifu married Charles the Simple, king of the West Franks; Eadhild wed Hugh the Great, Duke of the Franks; Eadgyth was matched with Otto the Great, king of the East Franks and later emperor; Ælfgifu (or Eadgifu) married into the Burgundian royal line.

While his half-sisters were dispatched to Europe, scholars increasingly moved in the opposite direction to exchange the latest prose and verse texts at an English court that was becoming a hub of bookish activity. We think it is in Æthelstan’s court that some of the earliest English interactions with the Indian game of chess can be evidenced – yet more proof of 10th-century England’s growing cultural pulling power.

A hostile coalition

The tentacles of Æthelstan’s power now stretched far and wide. But such power could provoke intense resentment. And so it proved in 937 when a coalition of hostile forces – led by Óláf Guthfrithson, Viking king of Dublin; Constantine II, ruler of the Scottish kingdom of ‘Alba’; and Owain, king of ‘Strathclyde/Cumbria’ – clashed with English armies at a place called Brunanburh.

Modern discussion of Brunanburh has focused on the enduring mystery of its location. But it’s important not to lose sight of the significance of the battle itself: nothing less than Æthelstan’s newly forged ‘England’ was at stake that day.

It was certainly a large and bloody clash. A famous poem, written in the immediate aftermath to commemorate Æthelstan’s deeds, tells us that: “Never yet in this island before this by what books tell us and our ancient sages, was a greater slaughter of a host made by the edge of the sword.”

Like its location, precise details of how the battle unfolded have been lost to history. But what is certain is that the English prevailed. As the Brunanburh poet tells us: “Edward’s sons [Æthelstan and his brother Edmund] clove the shield-wall, hewed the linden-wood shields with hammered swords, for it was natural to men of their lineage to defend their land, their treasure and their homes, in frequent battle against every foe. Their enemies perished; the people of the Scots and the pirates fell doomed.”

So important was the outcome of Brunanburh that, unusually, sources from outside the English kingdom – from Wales, Scotland and Ireland – all register its result. Æthelstan had confronted the greatest threat to the authority of his reign and he’d faced it down.

Yet his triumph was to be short-lived. Two years later, the king lay dead. And within a few short months of his burial in Malmesbury Abbey, the kingdom he had forged over the past decade began to fall apart. Vikings came to power once more. Óláf Guthfrithson, who had failed to unseat Æthelstan at Brunanburh, finally realised his ambition of seizing control in York.

The political fragmentation that followed Æthelstan’s death has left some modern historians to question just how successful he had been in creating ‘England’ in the first place. We should certainly not think of his kingdom as any kind of homogeneous whole. What ‘England’ meant to the people of Winchester would have been very different to someone living in St Germans (Cornwall), or to a resident of Durham (Northumbria). But, at a time when English territories had for generations been riven by divisions, the very fact that Æthelstan was able to bring all of these areas together for the first time, and to be formally recognised as their king, shows how precociously successful he had been.

It’s for these achievements that 927, the date of England’s formation, should be as well known as those other landmarks of the medieval era: 1066 (the Norman Conquest), 1215 (the issuing of Magna Carta), 1348 (the arrival of the Black Death) and 1455 (the outbreak of the Wars of the Roses).

Æthelstan had presided over a transformative moment in English history. In his 15 or so extraordinary years on the throne, a new nation had been born. 

David Woodman is professor of history at Robinson College, Cambridge. His new biography of Æthelstan, The First King of England: Æthelstan and the Birth of a Kingdom, is published by Princeton University Press

This article was first published in the September 2025 issue of BBC History Magazine

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