HistoryExtra Home of Britain’s bestselling history magazine and award-winning podcast 2026-10-14T15:49:25.000Z https://www.historyextra.com/topic/kings-and-queens/feed/atom James Osborne <![CDATA[Alexander the Great's empire crumbled into chaos after his death. How did it fall apart so quickly?]]> https://www.historyextra.com/period/ancient-history/alexander-the-great-came-close-to-death-no-succession-plan/ 2026-10-14T15:49:25.000Z 2026-10-14T15:49:25.000Z Alexander the Great had repeatedly given his companions reason to fear for his life. He fought at the front of his army, exposing himself to deadly danger. On campaign in what is now Pakistan in 326 BC, an arrow penetrated his chest. He survived.
But in June 323 BC, at the age of 32, his luck finally ended. Alexander died in Babylon, in modern Iraq, after an ambiguous illness that ancient accounts describe as involving a worsening fever. His death plunged his empire into a succession crisis.
“Alexander made no plan to die so young, which seems absurd because he'd come so close to death so many times,” says Edmund Richardson, professor of classics at Durham University and author of Alexander: God, King, Man.
“He'd been stabbed, shot, walloped with rocks, knocked unconscious, had a lung collapse. He'd come close to death an absurd amount of times. But he makes no plan. He names no heir.”
Alexander had created the most impressive empire the world had seen to date but couldn’t secure agreement on who could inherit his authority. So, what happened next?
The rise of Alexander the Great
Alexander became king of Macedon, a kingdom north of the Greek city-states, in 336 BC. Two years later, he crossed into Asia to attack the Persian empire. His campaigns brought Egypt, the Persian heartlands and territories reaching into the Indian subcontinent under his rule. Alexander took over much of Persia’s existing system of provinces, governed by officials known as satraps. But keeping those territories together depended heavily on his personal authority, backed by military success.
“Really almost immediately after his death, his generals, his commanders, start to try to claim power for themselves,” Richardson explains, speaking on an episode of the HistoryExtra podcast. “Ambitious provincial governors try to set up little empires of their own.”
Ancient accounts suggest Alexander passed his signet ring, a symbol of royal authority, to his senior commander Perdiccas. But even if this gesture really happened, it certainly didn’t settle who should become king or how the other commanders should be governed. There was no arrangement that everyone recognised as binding. So the immediate problem was finding a royal successor.
Looking to his family, Alexander’s wife Roxane was pregnant when he died. Her child might provide a direct heir, but nobody yet knew whether it would be a boy. Meanwhile, another candidate was already available: Alexander’s adult half-brother Arrhidaeus. Ancient writers describe him as having an intellectual impairment. He possessed the royal ancestry that mattered to Macedonian soldiers but wasn’t deemed able to exercise independent authority.
Alexander’s army fractured along these faultlines. Infantrymen supported Arrhidaeus, while leading officers favoured waiting for Roxane’s child. The eventual compromise produced two kings: Arrhidaeus, who took the royal name Philip III, and, following his birth, Alexander’s son Alexander IV. Perdiccas served as the leading figure in the government acting on their behalf.
But the limitations of this settlement were fundamental.
Could this arrangement hold together?
“This is a deliberately weak setup. Both of those kings are meant to be figureheads, are meant to allow Alexander's generals, his closest friends, the people who'd served with him, to claim power for themselves.”
In fact, Richardson says, “no one who actually takes the throne, or even acts as Alexander's regent, has the power to hold it all together.”
The empire didn’t immediately dissolve into separate kingdoms. Commanders could still claim to serve the royal family while pursuing increasingly independent policies. Some also sought to preserve the empire under their own leadership. One such governor was Ptolemy, a longstanding companion of Alexander who received Egypt in the settlement after his death. Egypt offered considerable wealth and a strong territorial base.
Ptolemy then acquired an ace card that his rivals couldn’t reproduce: Alexander himself.
Alexander the Great’s body
“The plan is to bury Alexnader in Macedon, but Alexander's hearse and the body are hijacked midway along the route by Ptolemy, one of Alexander's childhood friends and then governor of Egypt,” says Richardson.
Ptolemy secured the body and brought it to Egypt, frustrating Perdiccas. The remains were initially buried at Memphis and subsequently housed in Alexandria. The dead king remained a source of prestige and authority, and possession of his remains allowed Ptolemy to associate himself with Alexander’s memory and present himself as its custodian. It also demonstrated the limits of the regent’s power. Perdiccas could claim authority over Alexander’s empire, but wasn’t even able to determine where its founder would be buried.
The seizure formed part of a broader confrontation between the two men. Perdiccas invaded Egypt, attempting to bring Ptolemy under control. His campaign ended disastrously, and cost him his reputation and status. In 321 or 320 BC, officers in his own army murdered him.
On the other hand, Ptolemy had survived the challenge, and within decades became an independent monarch. “After that, the empire fragments,” Richardson says. “It's everyone for themselves.”
The process continued through decades of warfare among the successors, as Alexander’s former commanders are known. The two formal kings proved unable to protect even themselves. Philip III was killed in 317 BC. Alexander IV and Roxane were murdered around 310 BC on the orders of Cassander, the commander who had gained control in Macedon.
Even in death, Alexander the Great left behind enduring cities, dynasties and cultural connections that reshaped the lands of his conquests in the eastern Mediterranean and western Asia permanently. But the political unity he had imposed couldn’t continue without him.
Edmund Richardson was speaking to Rob Attar on the HistoryExtra podcast. Listen to the full conversation.
]]> James Osborne <![CDATA[Ancient Rome's founding fathers: the extraordinary stories of the city's first kings]]> https://www.historyextra.com/period/roman/ancient-romes-founding-fathers-the-extraordinary-stories-of-the-citys-first-kings/ 2026-10-09T13:18:38.000Z 2026-10-09T13:15:37.000Z According to the ancient Roman tradition, the city of Rome began with a king who was raised by a wolf after being abandoned by the gods. This line of monarchs would end with a ruler remembered chiefly for his arrogance and abuse of power.
Between Romulus – the first mythical king – and Tarquinius Superbus – the last – stood five other kings, each associated with a particular contribution to Roman life. Together, their reigns explained how a settlement beside the River Tiber acquired the institutions of a state that would grow to become the mighty Roman Republic.
But were these men historical figures, or characters created to account for developments whose origins had been forgotten?
Ancient historian Christopher Smith, speaking on the HistoryExtra podcast, that binary is too restrictive.
“Is it a myth? Is it a legend? Or is it some sort of reflection of reality which isn't correct, but is telling us some quite important truths?”
The problem of the missing centuries
The traditional chronology places Rome’s foundation in 753 BC, in central Italy, long before its armies controlled the Mediterranean.
“In the Roman account, the first king is in the middle of the 8th century BC – that's Romulus – and the last king is expelled from Rome in 509 BC,” Smith explains.
But there is a huge distance between those supposed events and the historians who described them.
“The first Roman historian, Fabius Pictor, does not write until 200 BC. And I've just been talking about the period from 750 to 500 BC. So, there's a gap.”
Writing around the end of the third century BC, Pictor looked back roughly three centuries to the monarchy’s traditional end, and more than five to its beginning. And to further complicate the picture, his history survives only in fragments and references by later authors.
Smith contrasts this with Greek historians who could investigate events within living memory. Thucydides, for example, participated in the fifth-century BC war between Athens and Sparta that became the subject of his work.
- Read more | 2,200 years ago Rome got caught in the Thucydides Trap. The result transformed the ancient world
Roman accounts of the kings had no comparable proximity. The fullest surviving narratives, including Livy’s history, were written later still. Nevertheless, the royal sequence has a recognisable structure.
The first three Roman kings?
“Romulus is number one,” Smith says. “He has a miraculous birth, gets rid of his twin, takes over, and he founds a lot of the military and political apparatus of Rome.”
In the familiar legend, Romulus and Remus are abandoned twins who survive through the intervention of a she-wolf, who they suckle from. Their eventual dispute leaves Remus dead and Romulus the founder of the new city. The story associates Rome’s beginnings with both political creation and violence. But a functioning community requires more than a founder and an army.
“So the next king, Numa Pompilius, comes in and he teaches the Romans about religion,” Smith explains. “So you've got statecraft with Romulus. You've then got religion with Numa Pompilius.”
Religion here meant public responsibilities as well as personal belief: priesthoods, ceremonies and the correct relationship between the community and its gods.
- Read more | Ancient Roman culture would be baffling to modern eyes – and their toilet habits prove it
The third king, Tullus Hostilius, shifts attention back towards conflict.
“Tullus Hostilius is predominantly associated with military activity and the conquest of territory.”
Read in sequence, these reigns give separate – but, crucially, intertwined – identities to processes that any growing city might experience: establishing authority, organising worship and extending control over its neighbours. Whether those processes actually belonged to three identifiable rulers – or whether those rulers are symbolic personifications of those processes – is another question.
Outsiders and a changing city
The fourth king, Ancus Marcius, combines qualities assigned to his predecessors.
“He's quite pious, he looks after military affairs. He's quite sane and stable,” Smith says.
Then the narrative introduces an outsider: Tarquinius Priscus, also called Tarquin the Elder.
“He comes from Etruria, north of the Tiber River. He's a new person to arrive, and he is a builder. There's an awful lot of building work that happens under his reign.”
- Read more | What have the Etruscans ever done for us?
Etruria lay principally in what is now Tuscany, Umbria and northern Lazio. Its cities belonged to a prosperous society with extensive Mediterranean connections, skilled craftspeople and monumental religious buildings. Rome developed alongside this influential neighbour.
Tarquin’s foreign origin therefore raises useful historical questions. Could the story reflect the movement of powerful families between cities, or Rome’s absorption of outside skills and leadership? Either way, Tarquin’s role in this mythology presents the city’s development as something involving newcomers, rather than an entirely self-contained achievement.
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Reform followed by tyranny
Servius Tullius, the sixth king “seems another kind of intruder into the story,” Smith explains. “He's not related to anybody, but he turns out to be one of the most inventive kings.”
The tradition credits him with reorganising the population and its civic obligations.
“So he resets the constitution. Allegedly, he does a whole load of founding [of institutions]. He reorganises the city.” The constitution, here, refers to arrangements governing political participation and public duties, rather than a single written document. Reforms attributed to Servius connected wealth, military service and citizens’ place within the state.
- Read more | 10 key Roman dates you need to know
The final king provides the narrative’s reversal. Tarquinius Superbus removes Servius and takes power, before being expelled himself.
“Clue's in the name: ‘Superbus’, meaning proud,” Smith observes.
His overthrow explains the emergence of the republic: government through public offices rather than kingship. The sequence thus accounts for both the creation of royal authority and the justification for ending it. But how much of this story is actually true?
What the buildings can tell us
Archaeology offers an independent way to examine the setting of these stories.
On Rome’s Capitoline Hill, substantial foundations survive from the sixth-century BC Temple of Jupiter, a sanctuary also dedicated to Juno and Minerva. Roman tradition associated its construction with the Tarquins. A project of this size required resources, labour and coordination. It supports the picture of an early Rome capable of major collective building.
But it doesn’t independently verify who commissioned it. That is where Smith locates the “middle ground” between fact and mythology.
Even if these traditions didn’t stem from individual kings, we can still infer some things about the societies that produced them. Their stories may combine inherited memories, explanations of existing institutions and later judgements about good and bad government.
“What’s exciting about the Roman king narrative,” Smith concludes, “is that it distils an awful lot that's going on in an archaic society into a narrative form.” And that narrative form is “a really important way in which the Romans told a story: their origin, their expansion, and how power worked”.
Christopher Smith was speaking to Emily Briffett on the HistoryExtra podcast. Listen to the full conversation.
]]> Mike Soutar <![CDATA[What made Churchill such a great leader? We asked one of Britain's leading CEOs]]> https://www.historyextra.com/period/general-history/historys-greatest-leaders-podcast-article-lessons-on-leadership/ 2026-10-12T14:17:57.000Z 2026-10-08T18:15:49.000Z Some personalities inspire remarkable loyalty. Others can’t persuade people to follow them, despite having perfectly good ideas. But why? How are some leaders able to carry ardent followers with them through uncertainty, resistance and even great danger, whereas others never quite manage to steer that path?
By studying figures from the past, we can learn much about the most important characteristics – and that’s the idea behind History’s Greatest Leaders. For each episode in this eight-part HistoryExtra podcast series, I’ve asked one of Britain’s top historians about an extraordinary figure from the past.
Of course, the worlds of famous leaders bear little resemblance to our own. Few of us will ever have to unite kingdoms, repel invading armies or establish a dynasty. But it struck me that the core values of leadership haven’t changed all that much over the centuries.
The technology is different, society is different, the tools we use to communicate and wield power are different, and our expectations of leaders are very different – but the fundamental questions are remarkably familiar. How do you persuade people to trust you? Why does one person seize the moment while another hesitates? Why do some leaders leave a lasting legacy while others become mere footnotes in history?
Believe in yourself – and do your research
Across all episodes, one theme repeatedly arose: the power of self-belief. Without it, leading is impossible. Leadership requires you to act before success is guaranteed, to make big decisions without having complete information, and to persuade other people to commit themselves to an outcome they may not yet believe in themselves.
On its own, self-belief isn’t enough. In the wrong hands – particularly those that have accumulated absolute power – it can harden into arrogance and drift toward delusion. The leaders who succeed combine conviction with judgement. They prepare meticulously, adapt when circumstances changed and keep a realistic view of the obstacles in front of them.
For an extraordinary example, consider Joan of Arc. Born in the early 15th century in rural France, she had no obvious route to power: no military training or political background, no influential aristocratic family pulling strings behind the scenes. On paper, she should never have made it into the history books.
And yet, while still only a teenager, she developed such an overwhelming sense of purpose that she fought her way through layers of French hierarchy to secure an audience with the Dauphin – the future Charles VII. Then she convinced war-hardened soldiers to follow her into battle.
The lesson for any aspiring leader? You must believe that your contribution deserves to be heard long before anyone else does. You earn authority only by patiently demonstrating that you’re worth listening to.
- Listen now | Joan of Arc: The truth behind the legend
Try, try and try again
Where does self-belief come from? We’re born with certain natural tendencies, but such leadership qualities are shaped by experience, education and circumstance. Like a muscle, self-belief grows stronger when we use it, and weaker when we don’t. Every time you attempt something challenging, you collect evidence about yourself. When you succeed, you discover that you’re more capable than you thought. When you fail and recover, you learn that failure isn’t fatal. Either way, you become better equipped for the next unfamiliar challenge.
Psychologists call this self-efficacy: the belief that your actions can influence the outcome. People with high levels of self-efficacy are generally more willing to try something new because they trust themselves to cope if it doesn’t go according to plan. They develop bounce-back-ability. Those who lack it often hesitate, and when things do go wrong, they’re more likely to conclude they shouldn’t have tried in the first place.
Some develop such qualities through military training, learning how to prepare, staying calm under pressure and leading in moments of crisis. Others benefit from exceptional educations.
Elizabeth I, for example, studied languages, rhetoric, philosophy, religion and the lives of previous rulers. Although nobody expected her to become queen for much of her childhood, her education, combined with the dangers she survived, gave her an unusually sophisticated understanding of how power really works.
- Listen now | Elizabeth I: The power of delaying decisions
Prepare a strategy
Winston Churchill offers a different perspective on self-belief. When he became prime minister in May 1940, Britain was on the edge of catastrophe. He had barely taken office when he had to argue fiercely with members of his own War Cabinet over whether Britain should explore a negotiated settlement with Nazi Germany.
Churchill’s optimism in his own judgement during this crisis mattered enormously. But what made him such a compelling leader is the fact that his relentless optimism was attached to a strategy. In uncertain times, nobody wants to follow a pessimist: a leader has to believe that there’s a way through. Equally, people can spot naivety a mile away.
Churchill never pretended that the danger wasn’t real. He didn’t tell the country that everything would somehow work itself out – quite the opposite: he was brutally honest about the risks, the sacrifices and the scale of the challenge ahead. But he also offered a plan, explaining why resistance matters, what values were at stake, and what Britain needed to do next.
Be patient – and ready to change your mind
Elizabeth I demonstrated that self-belief can also reveal itself through restraint. When she ascended the throne, she inherited a formidable list of problems: religion, marriage, succession, foreign policy, even the legitimacy of her own rule. But she understood that not every decision mattered equally. Some are tactical: once made, you can review and, if necessary, reverse out of them without lasting damage. Others are strategic: once made, there’s no easy way back.
Rather than allowing other people to dictate her timetable, Elizabeth resisted pressure to settle some of the biggest questions facing her reign until the moment was right. An insecure leader often feels compelled to answer every question immediately, worried that hesitation might be mistaken for indecision. Elizabeth had enough confidence in her own authority to leave important options open for as long as possible.
The important point for us today is that we must study historical leaders with a critical eye. People can possess extraordinary leadership qualities yet make catastrophic mistakes.
In History’s Greatest Leaders we’re looking for lessons, not heroes. History is full of leadership experiments. Some succeed brilliantly; others end in disaster. Every one of them still has something to teach us.
Listen to all eight episodes of History's Greatest Leaders now, ad-free on the HistoryExtra app, or whereever you get your podcasts.
]]> Emily Briffett <![CDATA[How Henry VII seized – and kept – the crown]]> https://www.historyextra.com/membership/how-henry-vii-seized-and-kept-the-crown/ 2026-09-29T13:56:40.000Z 2026-09-28T16:06:07.000Z Henry VII is often remembered as a cold, calculating and penny-pinching monarch whose relentless pursuit of an ever-tightening grip on the throne overshadowed his achievements. But how fair is that reputation? And what can the real history behind this popular perception tell us about the challenges, anxieties and realities of Henry's kingship?
Speaking to Emily Briffett, Sean Cunningham reassesses the first Tudor king's critical reputation, exploring the delicate balancing act that defined his reign as he sought to reward loyalty, root out treason and secure a fragile new dynasty.
]]> HistoryExtra <![CDATA[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/ 2026-09-28T11:12:28.000Z 2026-09-18T15:00:19.000Z 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.
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.
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
]]> Lucy Worsley <![CDATA[“George IV should have been a hairdresser”: Lucy Worsley on rethinking Britain's royal past]]> https://www.historyextra.com/membership/george-iv-should-have-been-a-hairdresser-lucy-worsley-on-rethinking-britains-royal-past/ 2026-09-28T11:11:42.000Z 2026-09-07T15:00:23.000Z 1. How Henry VIII became “the most dangerous man in the world”
When I started work at Hampton Court, more than 20 years ago, Henry VIII was treated as the hero of the story of Tudor England’s greatest surviving royal palace. But during my time as chief curator at Historic Royal Palaces, the charity that also looks after sites such as the Tower of London and Kensington Palace, I saw his reputation transformed. He went from the king we love to the king we love to hate.
In the glittering early years of Henry VIII’s reign, there was something genuinely heroic about Henry. Athletic, cultured, adored, he was the golden prince who jousted, loved music and dazzled every ambassador who met him.
But then came his desperate hunt for a male heir. He began to break the things that seemed to stand in the way of his drive to secure the succession: marriage vows, the monasteries, the Catholic church’s power in England. He became a breaker of people, too. By the late 1530s, contemporaries were calling him “the most dangerous and cruel man in the world”. Two wives, 10 relatives and 20 former friends died on his orders.
Yet the real change in our perception of Henry is where he fits into a wider cast of characters. When, in 2016, I made a BBC series called Six Wives, we had to argue hard for its name because of fears that no one would watch it if Henry VIII wasn’t in the title. Now, when I ask young people what they know about him, they don’t mention that he founded the English navy, or the Church of England. They tell me that he executed Anne Boleyn and Catherine Howard. The head-chopping used to be seen as funny. Now people see it for what it was: violence against women.
I think that change has happened partly because of the Wolf Hall novels of Hilary Mantel, who drew him so convincingly as an untrustworthy man, and also because of the influential musical Six, written in 2017. (If you’ve not seen it, the premise is that Henry’s six wives get together to form a girl band.) Since then, the focus has shifted even further out, beyond the wives. The latest exhibition at Hampton Court is all about the wider Tudor world.
People often ask me: “Why, oh why, can’t we stop talking about the Tudors?” The answer is that each generation deserves its own new version of the old story. Because each retelling is less about the 16th century than about who we are now.
- Read more | Was this the moment Henry VIII became a tyrant?
2. A terrible tyrant? Poor George III was terribly ill
For my own generation of history students, it was Alan Bennett’s 1991 play The Madness of George III, and the film adaptation that followed, that rewrote this king. Before that, George had been perceived as a brutal, despotic figure who lost America and repressed liberty at home. Bennett’s genius was to humanise him instead – as a suffering, frightened man restrained in a chair by his own doctors, howling: “I am the King of England!” only to be told: “No, sir, you are the patient.”
I inherited the job of deciding how to tell his story as part of the team that reopened Kew Palace, the little red-brick west London house where George III was sent when he was ill. When I started spending time there, from 2003, it had been shuttered for years and felt almost forgotten, despite standing in the middle of a Royal Botanic Gardens visited by millions of people. Getting it reopened involved raising money, stripping 23 layers of paint from the library to find the original scheme, and tracking down the king’s original furniture from the Royal Collection.
We also had to decide what, exactly, had been wrong with George when he underwent treatment here; clearly, visitors would want to know. When Kew reopened, we presented the theory that was current in the 2000s: that George’s affliction wasn’t ‘madness’ at all but porphyria, a rare metabolic disorder that can cause abdominal pain, discoloured urine and hallucinations. It was an attractive, tidy answer, and it let us present a king betrayed by his biochemistry rather than his mind.
My own ideas changed after talking to researchers at St George’s Hospital in Tooting, who’d analysed George’s enormous surviving correspondence comprising more than 33,000 letters, essays and notes. They found exactly the pattern you’d expect from bipolar disorder: waves of manic, garrulous, tangled prose, followed by recovery. If true, that meant returning to the very word we’d tried to move away from. George may indeed have experienced what an unkinder age called madness.
If you go to Kew Palace today, you’ll be told a story about mental illness – one that’s worth telling, because if a king could experience mental illness, so could anyone. This has also meant correcting a myth: that George was hidden at Kew out of shame. In fact, 18th-century opinion regarded his illness with pity rather than embarrassment. His recovery in 1789 was celebrated with dinner plates painted with the words “God Save the King”.
There’s an argument that Kew was chosen not because it was hidden but because it was already a place where scientific and medical minds came to study. Understanding that transformed a locked, sad little palace, which seemed almost haunted by illness and fear, into one of the best-loved and most human places Historic Royal Palaces has in its care.
- Read more | The illness and decline of King George III
3. Bloody Mary? A lurid nickname tarnished the pioneering Tudor
Dubbing Mary I “Bloody Mary” was one of history’s most successful smear campaigns, and I’ve always felt that she’s the Tudor most overdue a fairer hearing. The nickname is essentially a Protestant value judgment dressed up as fact, cemented by harrowing woodcuts in John Foxe’s Book of Martyrs illustrating the burning of supposed heretics. This powerful history of her reign was put together from second-hand testimony by a brilliant propagandist who wanted to make Mary look monstrous.
Yet Mary’s rate of religious executions, though horrifying to us, wasn’t wildly out of step with those of her father, brother or sister, all of whom also killed in religion’s name. It’s simply that hers were uniquely well documented by a hostile pen.
The sources for Mary’s life written in her mother’s birth country of Spain have been largely ignored by generations of English-speaking historians. In them, you’ll find a very different queen: pragmatic, moderate in her religious policies, praised for the same firmness against heresy for which English writers damned her.
Mary’s life was one of extraordinary resilience. Exiled from court and separated from her mother as a teenager, threatened and bullied into recognising her own illegitimacy, she raised 10,000 supporters and rode to claim a throne that had been engineered away from her. She was the only 16th-century Tudor monarch to seize the crown. She then had to invent from nothing a coronation ceremony fit for a queen regnant, in an abbey full of men who openly doubted a woman’s fitness to rule.
I’ve spent a long time puzzling over the strange, swollen-bellied wooden effigy that once topped Mary’s coffin, now kept in the triforium at Westminster Abbey. Older history books call her two failed pregnancies “hysterical” – a loaded term for what we’d now call pseudocyesis, an involuntary phantom pregnancy driven by desperate psychological need. But the odds of genuinely experiencing pseudocyesis twice are vanishingly small. I’ve come to wonder whether what really killed Mary in 1558 was ovarian cancer, misread by a body politic that thought her hysterical.
But Mary’s real tragedy is, I think, that her achievements as England’s first queen have simply been eclipsed by her more sparkling sister. Quite literally, in fact: her modest monument at Westminster Abbey was later subsumed into the far grander one built for Elizabeth. Mary was the one who tore up the rulebook to become England’s first queen regnant, who survived a traumatic childhood to govern for five years without civil war, all while facing a lifetime of ill health.
Meantime, Elizabeth learned from watching her sister’s mistakes, not least the disaster of marrying a foreign prince. Mary I went first – and paid the price for it.
4. Warm, funny and clever… what’s not to love about Caroline of Ansbach?
I would put money on you barely having heard of Caroline of Ansbach, which has always struck me as one of history’s great injustices. For years, I worked in an office carved out of the private bedroom of her husband, George II, at Kensington Palace. For a break, I would climb the back stairs into her private closet, open to visitors, which she packed with artistic and natural treasures. And I would wish I could have met her.
Caroline arrived in England in 1714 as the wife of the heir to a minor German ruler nobody had expected to inherit the British throne. Where her father-in-law, the new King George I, and her husband, the future George II, were cold, socially awkward and widely disliked as foreign interlopers, Caroline was warm, funny and formidably clever. She once had to referee a bitter argument between her two pet philosophers, Isaac Newton and Gottfried Leibniz, over who had really invented calculus. It’s hard to imagine any other British royal bothering.
That intelligence had real consequences. In the 1720s, when the Turkish method for inoculating humans against smallpox arrived in England, Caroline examined the evidence and had her own children inoculated. It seemed counter-intuitive to make a well child sick, but Caroline looked at the data and decided that it worked. When every one of her children survived, it began to melt public suspicion about a technique associated with women and “the Turks”.
Caroline’s brave decision would lead, decades later, to the discovery that using cowpox for inoculation was a safer alternative to smallpox itself, and the practice evolved into vaccination as we know it. She was genuinely a queen of the Enlightenment, placing her faith in medicine rather than the magic healing touch that her Stuart predecessors had believed lay in their hands.
Contemporaries were aware that Caroline was much sharper than her husband. Yet George II did not realise how many decisions he owed to her subtle influence behind the scenes, partly because he was busy pursuing mistresses. One gloriously rude contemporary cartoon shows Caroline literally administering a sedative up her husband’s backside in order to keep him under control.
She also began the experimental gardens at Richmond that eventually burgeoned into the Royal Botanic Gardens at Kew, filling them with follies and curiosities that reflected her restless, enquiring mind. Her closet at Kensington was laden with treasures because if, as a queen, she couldn’t go out to explore the world, at least she could have its most curious artefacts brought back to her at home.
Her end was as remarkable as her life. In 1737, an umbilical hernia she’d hidden for years ruptured, and her doctors made the catastrophic decision to cut away the protruding loop of her bowel rather than to push it back in. Ironically, the queen of 18th-century science was killed by a medical misunderstanding.
It took her 10 agonising days to die. Her husband, who had neglected her for years, returned to her side at last, and promised her he’d never remarry. I think Caroline deserves to be remembered as far more than a footnote to two forgettable Georges.
5. Why George IV was simply the wrong man for the job of king
Unpopular opinion: I don’t think George IV was a bad man, exactly. I just think he was catastrophically unsuited to the job of king. Polls asking the public to name Britain’s worst monarch always have him near the top, and Queen Elizabeth II’s own mother called him “Old Naughty”. But the more time I’ve pondered his life story, the more I’ve come to see a case study in addiction and unsuitability rather than pure villainy.
His childhood explains a lot. Sent away from his wider family aged just eight to Kew for a brutally strict education, beaten for bad behaviour, denied the military career he craved and kept on a comparatively modest allowance by his father, George went feral the moment he got the chance.
By the time he became Prince Regent in 1811 he was 48, weighed more than 17 stone, and was edging towards dependency on alcohol and laudanum. The Duke of Wellington once recorded, in open astonishment, George devouring a breakfast that included two pigeons, three beefsteaks, most of a bottle of wine, champagne, port and brandy. George himself seems to have half-understood the problem of his appetites, writing that “the disorders of the body in general with me owe their source to the mind”.
Where I part company with the “worst king” verdict is that he actually did some positive things. Nobody disputes that his treatment of his wife, Caroline of Brunswick, was disgraceful, or that he obstructed the ending of the transatlantic slave trade, or that his reaction to the Peterloo massacre was shameful. But George also possessed a genuinely sophisticated eye for art and architecture that his contemporaries lacked. His portrait commissions from Thomas Lawrence, still hanging in the Waterloo Chamber at Windsor, are magnificent. He is, alongside Charles I, the single greatest contributor to the Royal Collection.
Windsor Castle’s iconic skyline, Buckingham Palace’s state rooms, the Brighton Pavilion – all of them are his. He gave the monarchy, and Britain’s tourist industry, much of the pageantry it still relies upon today.
George the fantasist was obsessed with Napoleon, whom he never met and certainly never fought. That didn’t stop him reminiscing about Waterloo as if he’d been on the battlefield himself, and he spent a fortune acquiring the emperor’s personal possessions in the hope some of the glamour might rub off on him.
I think his 1821 coronation – which he personally masterminded, right down to the silk stockings his peers were forced to wear – was probably the most spectacular in British history. By all accounts, even his critics were moved when the crown finally touched his head.
A piece in The Times that followed his death in 1830 was pitiless. “There never was an individual less regretted by his fellow-creatures,” it opined. I’d argue that that judgment says as much about the puritanical century evolving around him as it does about George himself. He wasn’t the right man for the job of king. As his estranged wife said, he would have been much better off as a hairdresser.
This article was first published in the October 2026 issue of HistoryExtra Magazine
]]> Catherine Curzon <![CDATA[From Nell Gwyn to Meghan Markle: 9 romances between actors and royals]]> https://www.historyextra.com/membership/nell-gwyn-meghan-markle-harry-relationships-actors-royals/ 2026-09-07T11:53:04.000Z 2026-09-07T11:52:56.000Z On 19 May 2018, Meghan Markle married into the British royal family when she tied the knot with Prince Harry at Windsor Castle.
The couple – now the Duke and Duchess of Sussex – have rarely been out of the headlines in the intervening years, and recently found themselves at the centre of a tabloid storm when it was revealed that they would be returning to the UK with their two children, Prince Archie and Princess Lilibet, having set up home in the United States in 2020.
Meanwhile, rumours are also circulating that the Duchess of Sussex is exploring a return to acting – a career that, to some, seemed incompatible with the traditional expectations of a royal bride. Yet Harry and Meghan’s relationship is merely the latest in a long line of romances between royals and members of the acting profession.
Below, historian Catherine Curzon examines nine other relationships, spanning the 17th century to the present day…
1. Margaret ‘Peg’ Hughes and Prince Rupert of the Rhine
Better known as Peg, Margaret Hughes (c1630–1719) holds the distinction of being one of the first recorded female actors to grace the London stage, appearing as Desdemona in Shakespeare’s Othello on 8 December 1660 at the Vere Street Theatre.
Up until this point, women had been forbidden to act on stage at all, and it wasn’t until King Charles II issued a royal warrant declaring that female roles must be played by women in 1662 that female actors became a common sight, as opposed to young men dressed up to look like them.
Peg was no young man, though, and she not only bewitched her audience but managed to steal the heart of Rupert of the Rhine, cousin to Charles II.
After Rupert’s death in 1682, Peg gambled away much of his bequest to her and sold off many valuables, including a necklace that was bought by the infamous Nell Gwyn (see below). Peg died in 1719, having never regained the lifestyle she once enjoyed.
2. Nell Gwyn and King Charles II
Perhaps the most famous of all England’s royal mistresses, Nell Gwyn (1650–87) began her career selling oranges to the patrons of a theatre on London’s Brydges Street, Charles II’s royal playhouse. By the time she was 14 years old, Nell was treading the boards as an actor and she found her niche as a leading light of Restoration comedy, soon becoming one of London’s most celebrated comedians.
George Villiers, 2nd Duke of Buckingham was unofficially appointed to arrange suitably impressive lovers for Nell. Seeing a chance to increase his own influence as well as her cachet, he attempted to install her as the king’s mistress. Though Charles was married to Catherine of Braganza, the queen had long since learned to put up with his many mistresses, recognising them as a fact of royal life.
- Read more | Was Charles II too randy to rule?
Nell was amenable to the duke’s scheme, but informed him that she expected a retainer of £500 a year for the privilege. However, the role of king’s mistress was a privileged one, filled with luxury and opulence, and Charles had plenty of willing candidates to choose from – even without paying them £500. When he heard the figure Nell was demanding, Charles rejected the idea, but when he met her in 1668, he was smitten.
Despite plenty of rivals and other mistresses snapping at her heels, Nell bore two children by the king. The actor and the monarch were a couple until his death in 1685, often sharing Nell’s silver bed, upon which the couple’s images were engraved. On his deathbed, the king begged “let not poor Nelly starve”, and she certainly didn’t. Awarded a substantial payment, she lived on for two more years before she succumbed to a stroke, possibly the result of syphilis.
3. Mary ‘Perdita’ Robinson and King George IV
Mary Robinson (1757–1800) knew all about reinvention. When her father abandoned his family in 1764, Mary’s privileged childhood ended with a bump. Married in her teens, she survived a spell in debtor’s prison thanks to her dissolute husband and took to the stage in need of cash.
Mary became known for her so-called ‘breeches roles’, in which she played men and flashed her famed legs, a part of the female anatomy that wasn’t often on display in the Georgian era. It was as Perdita in Shakespeare’s The Winter’s Tale that she caught the eye of the young and capricious George, Prince of Wales, the future King George IV.
- Read more | 16 of the worst monarchs in history
The prince offered Mary a huge payment if she gave up the stage to become his official mistress and she accepted. However, the money was not forthcoming, and soon he had moved on to new lovers, leaving Mary high and dry. With her reputation in tatters, Mary took up her pen and began a new career as a poet and novelist, earning herself the nickname ‘the English Sappho’.
Partially paralysed by a later illness, Mary died in 1800 aged just 43.
4. Dorothea Jordan and King William IV
While Prince George was romancing Mary, his younger brother William (the future William IV) made a play for Dorothea ‘Dora’ Jordan (1761–1816), a celebrated Anglo-Irish comedian with a long list of lovers in her past. William and Dora lived together as man and wife for 20 years and had 10 children.
However, the couple never married and – with Princess Charlotte of Wales likely to remain the only child of his elder brother and his bitterly estranged wife – William found himself closer to the throne than he had ever expected to be. Perhaps more importantly, William was desperately in need of money to settle his debts and knew that an official marriage might do wonders for his allowance.
He dropped Dora with a bump and promised her an annuity and custody of their daughters on the understanding that she wouldn’t go back to the stage. Unfortunately, when her financial situation led Dora to return to the theatre, William kept his word. He took the girls from her care and slashed her allowance accordingly.
Dora died in poverty in 1816 and left a heartbroken William to rue his decision. Ironically, even when he later made an official marriage, he and his wife, Adelaide of Saxe-Meiningen, failed to produce any surviving heirs.
5. Marguerite Bellanger and Emperor Napoleon III
Marguerite Bellanger (1838–86) was born into abject poverty but thanks to a modicum of acting talent and a whole lot of charm, she wouldn’t stay there. She started her performance career as an acrobat and equestrienne and soon progressed to acting, while establishing herself as one of the most popular courtesans in Paris.
Marguerite’s most famous patron was undoubtedly Napoleon III (the nephew of Napoleon I), whom she met while sheltering from the rain in Paris’s Parc de Saint-Cloud in 1863. From that romantic beginning, the couple were together for a decade until his death and they had a son. Though Marguerite still had other lovers, Napoleon awarded her a generous pension and even a castle in which she and his son could live.
After Napoleon’s death in 1873, Marguerite moved to England and married an army officer. The couple eventually settled in France and it was there, in 1886, that she died.
6. Lillie Langtry and King Edward VII
Anglo-American music hall star Lillie Langtry (1853–1929) was a bona fide megastar of the Victorian and Edwardian eras, and she had a love life that would keep any modern tabloid in material for years. As one of many mistresses of the Prince of Wales (later King Edward VII), Lillie was even presented to his mother Queen Victoria. During their three-year relationship, Lillie was happy to share her lover with both his wife and his other mistresses, seeming to enjoy not being tied exclusively to the prince.
- Read more | A timeline of Britain in the reign of Edward VII
Though the couple separated amicably, Edward wasn’t Lillie’s last royal fling. While still in a relationship with the Prince of Wales, she fell pregnant by Prince Louis of Battenberg (1854–1921). He was the son of Prince Alexander of Hesse and had been naturalised as a Briton, eventually changing his name to Mountbatten.
Louis was a member of the Royal Navy, so when news of the pregnancy came out, the horrified Prince Alexander had his son sent to sea aboard HMS Inconstant. The Prince of Wales, meanwhile, paid for Lillie to spend her pregnancy in Paris, where she gave birth to a daughter.
Lillie died in 1929 and to this day her name remains synonymous with the glory days of the British music hall.
7. Rita Hayworth and Prince Aly Khan
In 1949, Rita Hayworth (1918–87), one of Hollywood’s most popular and celebrated actors, gave up the silver screen for life as the wife of Prince Aly Khan. The prince was the son of Sultan Mahommed Shah, Aga Khan III, the hereditary imam of the Nizari Ismailis, one of the largest Shia Muslim communities in the world.
Sadly for Rita, her new husband had a weakness for actors and two years later he was back in the very club where he and his princess first met, this time romancing Hollywood star Joan Fontaine. Rita took their daughter, Yasmin, and filed for divorce, convinced that Aly Khan would abduct the little girl if she wasn’t kept under guard.
The couple’s divorce was a tabloid favourite: as lawyers argued over whether Yasmin should be raised as a Christian or a Muslim, she played in the courtroom and even settled on the judge’s lap. Ultimately the court found in Rita’s favour, and she was awarded custody of her daughter.
8. Grace Kelly and Prince Rainier III of Monaco
As Hollywood royalty, Grace Kelly (1929–82) was beloved by cinemagoers across the world. Having earned an Academy Award for her performance in The Country Girl (1954) and starred in hits from High Noon (1952) to Rear Window (1954), it seemed the perfect fairy-tale ending when she married Prince Rainier III of Monaco in 1956.
- Read more | Historians at the movies: Grace of Monaco reviewed
In fact, Princess Grace’s life was anything but a fairy tale. Her marriage at the age of 26 marked the end of her Hollywood career. She was forced to turn down the title role in Alfred Hitchcock’s psychological thriller Marnie (1964) when the people of Monaco reacted with outrage to the idea of their princess playing a criminal. Further rumoured returns to the screen were similarly rejected as a result of Rainier’s wish for his wife to remain in professional retirement.
Instead, Grace dedicated herself to philanthropy and her three children. She also struck up a friendship with Diana, Princess of Wales. Sadly, Grace died at the age of 52 as a result of a car accident in 1982.
9. Clotilde Courau and Emanuele Filiberto of Savoy, Prince of Venice
In 2003, Vittorio Emanuele, Prince of Naples, reportedly had to swallow his pride when his son, Emanuele Filiberto, married the politically outspoken left-wing French actor Clotilde Courau (born 1969).
Courau had once been described by the Italian newspaper La Repubblica as “a militant anarcho-Communist” – making her an unconventional choice of bride for the grandson of Italy’s last reigning king, Umberto II.
Unlike many of the other stars on this list, Clotilde refused to give up her career after marrying into royalty and continued to act, while also pursuing charitable activities under her official title, Clotilde of Savoy.
The couple had two daughters together before announcing that they had begun formal divorce proceedings in April 2026.
An older version of this article was first published by HistoryExtra in May 2018
]]> HistoryExtra <![CDATA[Fooling around in front of royalty: the extraordinary escapades of Europe's female jesters]]> https://www.historyextra.com/membership/fooling-around-in-front-of-royalty-the-extraordinary-escapades-of-europes-female-jesters/ 2026-09-06T14:31:04.000Z 2026-09-06T14:30:30.000Z The Château de Fontainebleau is packed with courtiers awaiting the arrival of King Henry IV’s jester. But while modern onlookers might expect a man in a harlequin costume to appear, Henry’s court is different.
Instead, an Amazonian warrior bursts onto the scene, clad in battle armour and wielding a wooden sword and shield. Mathurine ‘la Folle’ was one of France’s most eccentric court jesters. Known for her quick-witted japes and outrageous costumes, Mathurine was also, perhaps surprisingly to modern audiences, a woman.
Although most jesters in medieval and early modern Europe were men, female ones like Mathurine were not uncommon. Women jesters feature prominently in some of Europe’s most famous courts, from Henry VIII’s household to the travelling court of Mary, Queen of Scots.
Many were much-loved by their monarchs and granted special favours, including gifts of land and fine clothing. As such, female jesters occupied an unusual niche within medieval and early modern society.
They were often unmarried, childless women who came from humble origins. But if they served their monarch well, these women enjoyed a life of relative luxury and privilege at the heart of the royal household.
Here we present five of the most famous female jesters who made a living entertaining royalty.
Jane Foole (fl. 1537-1558): Mary I’s most beloved natural fool
Jane Foole is the most well-known female jester from the Tudor period. While we know very little about her early life, Jane enters the historical record during the reign of King Henry VIII, when she joins the household of Princess Mary (later ‘Bloody’ Queen Mary I).
Jane was what was known at the time as a ‘natural’ fool i.e. she had mental and/or physical disabilities that resulted in her being unable to control her faculties.
As historian Beatrice Otto has noted, it is tempting to assume that natural fools were mistreated by their employers and used as objects of ridicule. However, none of the evidence from the time bears out this assumption. Indeed, Jane was a much-loved member of Mary’s royal entourage.
A lot of what we know about female jesters comes from the financial records of their benefactors. The accounts from Queen Mary’s reign recorded between 1553 and 1558 show that Mary spent a lot of money on lavish clothes for Jane. One entry reads “Item, for furring of a gowne of the same Vellat with size white hare skynnes for Jane our fool”.
Fur for costume trimming was expensive and would have cost roughly £300 in modern terms. Furthermore, Jane was gifted the same dresses as Mary’s ladies-in-waiting: the only difference being that her gowns were cut in the Dutch style and not the more fashionable French style.
Mary also ensured that Jane wasn’t short of footwear. Another entry from the royal accounts reads: “Item, for 12 peire of shewes for the said Jane.”
Even a court fool, who would regularly be employed in various stage performances, could not have worn out this many shoes in a year. Therefore the quantity of shoes gifted likely reflects Mary’s deep affection for Jane.
We also know a lot about Jane’s ailing health during the 20 years she spent in Mary’s household. From March 1543 onwards, Jane suffered from a skin infection which necessitated a monthly shaving of her hair. Records show that a barber was paid 4d (four pence) on each occasion.
We also have a striking snapshot of what Jane would have looked like at this time thanks to the 16th century painting The Family of Henry VIII. A woman, whom most experts believe to be Jane, is standing to the left of Princess Mary wearing a cap over her shaven head.
Furthermore, in 1555, Mary sent a gift to a woman healer in Bury St Edmunds for healing one of Jane’s eyes.
If there was any doubt about the high status that Jane enjoyed as a court fool, we also know that she was included in the St. Valentine’s Day lottery. This was a festival in which noble men drew lots among the ladies of the court to see who would be their partner for that evening’s dancing.
Sometime between 1554 and 1556, a Mr Herte was given “three yerdes of black satten” for being Jane’s Valentine, while a Mr Barnes was given the same quantity of satin in 1558.
All of this special attention was given to Jane, but why? In the Tudor period, people with learning disabilities were prized for their truth-telling abilities. The public believed natural fools were more child-like and, as such, they were closer to God.
Kings and queens valued fools like Jane for their perceived ability to speak divine truth, and this is why we so often see a close relationship form between a monarch and their natural fool.
Although life would have been hard for peasants who suffered from learning disabilities, those who were lucky enough to enter court life enjoyed incredible privilege.
Lucretia the Tumbler (fl. 1542 - 1543): The acrobatic ‘saltatrix’ of the Tudor court
Lucretia the Tumbler is another female jester from the same period who had a close connection to Jane Foole. We know far less about Lucretia, but some historians guess that she may have been of Italian origin, considering her Italianate first name.
Until his execution in 1540, Thomas Cromwell was responsible for vetting all of Princess Mary’s appointments while her father was king, and at some point, he approved the appointment of a ‘chamberer’ intriguingly known as Lucretia the Tumbler.
Lucretia was not a natural fool but a ‘saltatrix’, i.e. a female performer who entertained the court with acrobatic dancing, contortions and gymnastics. She was kept in Mary’s household and likely performed for both Mary and her sister, the young princess Elizabeth (and future Queen Elizabeth I), during their visits to the Manor of the More in Hertfordshire.
In the early 1540s, Lucretia appears in financial records under the name of Lucrece. She is mentioned alongside Jane the Foole regularly, and the pair often received identical items of clothing.
In December 1542, a record lists a “payr of shoes for Jane & an other for lucrece” as well as identical smocks for the two women. This may mean that the pair performed alongside each other in a double act.
Historian John Southworth has also suggested that the matching clothes indicate that Lucretia may have been Jane’s companion or ‘keeper’. Keepers were responsible for looking after natural fools, since they could not take care of themselves.
It was not unusual for jesters to perform dual roles within a royal household. Henry VIII’s tumbler Stephen Tosso combined these duties with other domestic roles. Sadly we don’t know what became of Lucretia as she disappears from the public record after 1543.
Mathurine la Folle (fl. 1589 – c1620s): The jester who dressed as an Amazonian warrior
Mathurine first appears in court annals during the reign of Henry III. She was recorded as a plaisante, the appointed title for female jesters in France at that time (the Queen of Navarre employed a plaisante called Mademoiselle Sevin). While most female jesters were attached to the Queen’s household, Mathurine bucked this trend, serving as a jester within Henry’s household.
One famous anecdote about Mathurine involves a lady-in-waiting complaining that she did not like having to be seated on the right side of a mere fool. Mathurine promptly jumped up and sat on the lady’s other side, remarking “I don’t mind it at all.”
Some sources highlight how during her lifetime, satirists would sometimes refer to themselves as a ‘Mathurine’. She also influenced a type of burlesque writing called mathurinade which was associated with her particular brand of comedy.
Furthermore, Mathurine was known for her devout Catholicism. Reformers at the time were strongly opposed to what they perceived as the extravagant practice of keeping court fools. A fiercely Catholic woman who enjoyed dressing up in full Amazonian warrior regalia would have attracted a lot of negative attention from religious dissidents during a turbulent period in France’s history.
Mathurine’s most well-known feat involves her role in detaining Henry IV’s assassin, Jean Châtel. But there is a plot twist which underscores just how unusual it was that Mathurine remained a court jester for so long.
Despite her bravery, the king initially suspected her of being part of the plot and arrested her. However, in a rare display of generosity, Mathurine was allowed to prove her innocence and was then warmly welcomed back to court, serving Henry and his son, Louis XIII.
She made a few appearances in the mid 1620s, but after that Mathurine la Folle disappears from history.
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Maria Bárbola (fl. 1651 - 1700): The court dwarf who was immortalised in a Baroque painting
Maria Bárbola was a court dwarf who served the Spanish royal family for nearly half a century from 1651 to 1700. Dwarfs were often employed as entertainers in medieval and early modern palace courts.
Madame d’Or, a ‘very graceful fool’, was a popular dwarf entertainer in the 1400s in France, while several female dwarfs served in the court of Isabella d’Este, the wife of the marquis of Mantua, Italy.
King Philip IV of Spain was a big fan, and Maria was actually one of 110 dwarfs in his entourage. Dwarfs took on a variety of roles depending on their talents. Some were tumblers or joke-tellers, while others were employed as natural fools.
While even court dwarfs suffered prejudice from others in society due to their stature, Maria was much-loved by her benefactors. Once again, we see evidence of lavish treatment towards jesters via royal financial records. However, this time it isn’t clothing that is gifted to Maria, but snow!
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In 1658, she received four pounds of snow every summer’s day in order to keep her cool. This was a regular gift for long-serving court dwarfs. In 1678, Bernada Blasco, a dwarf who served for 25 years, received four pounds of snow a day in the summer and four pounds of coal in winter.
Maria is particularly well-known due to her appearance in Diego Velázquez’ famous painting Las Meninas (‘The Maids of Honour’) from 1656. In the painting, Maria is treated with reverence by Velázquez, despite the lesser-rank of dwarfs at this time.
While dwarfs were commonly depicted in artwork as figures of ridicule, Maria stands staring boldly and confidently out at the viewer, clearly represented as a core member of the royal household thanks to her proximity to the young infanta Margaret Theresa.
Maria’s employment ended when Philip V decided to reorganise the Spanish court. He believed that court dwarfs were outdated relics and promptly ended their service. Despite living in Spain for nearly 50 years, the last we know of Maria is that she returned to her native Austria to see out the rest of her days.
Nichola La Jardinière (fl. 1560 - 1570): Faithful companion to Mary, Queen of Scots
Nichola ‘La Jardinière’ was a female fool who underscores the importance of women jesters as valued companions to a monarch (particularly a queen).
La Jardinière was a natural fool who first served in the household of Queen Mary of Guise and later joined the court of her famous daughter, Mary, Queen of Scots. When Mary returned to Scotland from France after the death of her husband, Francis II, La Jardinière left her native country to accompany her royal mistress.
We know that La Jardinière was treated well by Mary. For example, in October 1565 the queen ordered a luxurious bedding set for her faithful jester which included a bed, mattress, sheets and a lined green plaid cover.
Many fools remained long in the memory of their benefactors, even after their services were no longer required. After Mary was forced to abdicate in 1567, she ensured that La Jardinière and her keeper, Jacqueline Critoflat, both received fine clothes and money for three years while Mary was imprisoned in England.
She eventually sent the pair a sum of money, “expensis and fraucht” in 1570, so that they could return to France. Such behaviour is reminiscent of other European nobility, such as Isabella d’Este, who ensured that her dwarfs were paid 50 scudi each for the rest of their lives after retirement.
Rachel Ashcroft is a freelance journalist with a PhD in 16th century history. She specialises in arts and culture reporting
]]> Emily Briffett <![CDATA[Roman kings: myth, memory and the making of power]]> https://www.historyextra.com/membership/roman-kings-myth-memory-and-the-making-of-power/ 2026-09-07T14:04:47.000Z 2026-09-04T11:49:23.000Z Before Rome's republic and the age of emperors, there were kings… or so the story goes. Beginning with Romulus, and ending with Lucius Tarquinius Superbus, these rulers loomed large in the Roman imagination – but is their narrative fact or fiction?
In this episode, Emily Briffett is joined by ancient historian Christopher Smith, as they sift myth from memory, and uncover how seven legendary figures shaped Rome’s ideas of power and identity.
]]> Emily Briffett <![CDATA[Philip Augustus: the Plantagenets’ greatest rival]]> https://www.historyextra.com/membership/philip-augustus-the-plantagenets-greatest-rival/ 2026-09-02T14:55:33.000Z 2026-09-02T14:55:33.000Z King Philip Augustus of France was the Plantagenets’ ultimate enemy. A ruler with an iron fist and sharp political instincts, he consistently exploited the squabbles of the English dynasty, all while transforming France into a dominant power in Western Europe.
Speaking to Emily Briffett, historian and author Catherine Hanley reveals the cunning and ruthless tactics he employed against the English kings to become medieval England’s most formidable foe.
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