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Did the ancient Egyptians really love cats? The dark truth might break your heart
Cats might have been sacred in ancient Egypt, but they were far from cherished pets. Discover why our assumptions about their treatment draw far more on modern sensibilities than historical reality
A sleek Egyptian cat is an ancient image immortalised in bronze statues and painted on tomb walls. They also don’t just exist in art; cats from this period are preserved today in museums across the world in tiny sarcophaguses or swaddled in linen. These remarkable traces have left many assumptions that cultures across the vast span of ancient Egyptian history adored cats, treated them as beloved companions and elevated them above other animals as uniquely sacred beings. But according to Campbell Price, speaking on the HistoryExtra podcast series Ancient Egypt: The Big Questions, that picture rests on a total misunderstanding. It reflects our modern attitudes towards animals whilst, in reality, cats were viewed in ways many would find alien – and brutal. The evidence, when examined more closely, is much more unsettling, and far more revealing about how ancient Egyptian belief actually functioned. What did that belief really look like? The system of belief in ancient Egypt “The ancient Egyptian belief system was polytheistic,” Price says. “There are lots of ancient Egyptian gods and they are in a hierarchy. But divinity is in lots of different things, and you can encounter the gods in different places.” The ancient Egyptians believed that deities could be encountered in dreams, in natural forces, in the landscape, in the afterlife and, crucially, in living beings. Read more | 10 things you (probably) didn't know about ancient Egypt For that reason, Price says that addressing ancient Egyptian faith as a “belief system” is often more accurate than calling it a religion. It was flexible, and capable of absorbing new deities and practices over time. This flexibility meant that religious experience varied by region and was shaped by local cults and traditions. What unified these variations was a shared understanding that divine power was infused within the material world, and that humans could interact with it through physical acts. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/01/GettyImages-587494718-7ddb154-e1768927269265.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="This papyrus from the Book of the Dead depicts the weighing of the soul, a central belief in ancient Egyptian ideas of the afterlife. In this ritual of judgment, the heart of the deceased was balanced against the feather of Ma’at — the principle of truth and order — determining whether the soul would pass into eternal life or face annihilation." title="Ancient Egypt : the weighing of the souls" /> The role of animals in ancient Egyptian worship “The truth is gods could be resident in, or experienced through, lots of different things: rocks, rivers, dreams and animals. Animals are certainly one of those things … [but] we’ve put undue focus on the poor kitty cats,” Price says. Indeed, cats were not exceptional. Crocodiles, falcons, ibises, bulls, fish and dogs could all serve as vessels or intermediaries for divine presence. Certain gods were closely associated with particular species, and temples often kept living animals as part of cult practice. But this didn’t mean that the animals themselves were worshipped – and it certainly didn’t mean that they were loved. Animals were one part of a broader belief system built on the idea of exchange. Humans made offerings, and the gods were expected to respond by granting protection, fertility, bountiful harvest and health. “It is not that the ancient Egyptians worshipped animals,” Price says. “It is that animals were a go-between stage between humanity and the gods.” This is where the modern image of the beloved and pampered Egyptian cat begins to unravel. Read more | What was daily life like in ancient Egypt? Price explains the ancient Egyptians’ view: “the great thing about animals was you can kill them and give them as gifts.” By the Late Period (from around the first millennium BC), this logic reached an industrial scale. Animals were bred specifically to be sacrificed, mummified and sold to pilgrims as offerings for the deities. Temples functioned as religious centres, yes, but also as hubs of large-scale animal production. Cats, associated with the powerful and influential goddess Bastet, were especially prominent in this regard. In Egyptian mythology, Bastet was the daughter of the sun god Ra who was worshipped as a warden against evil and linked with ideas of fertility. Excavations around cult centres, such as Bubastis, uncovered vast burial deposits of cats killed in her name. As Price describes: “tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands, millions of cats and kittens were raised and had their necks broken as part of an enormous industry of animal deaths to service votive gift giving to the gods.” Cats as votive offerings, not companions What was it that brought the ancient Egyptians to sacrifice animals? Price explains the practice through this comparison: “today, in a Christian tradition, you might light a votive candle to help your prayer get to God. In ancient Egypt, you would buy a mummified cat, or a crocodile, or a falcon, and you would give that as a gift – not as a pet. Read more | The dark side of ancient Egypt “This notion of animals as pets is extremely rare and very culturally contingent.” So, the enduring belief that Egyptians loved cats might say more about modern culture than ancient Egyptian beliefs and values. Cats certainly lived alongside humans in ancient Egypt, particularly because they controlled vermin. Some may even have been allowed in indoor domestic settings. However, their pragmatic usefulness, both as pest-control and as a conduit to the deities, should not be confused with affection. “The ancient Egyptians were using animals as a means of communicating with the gods,” Price concludes. “They were not venerating them; they were not viewing them as pets. We just have to let go of that modern perception.” Campbell Price was speaking to Emily Briffett on the HistoryExtra podcast. Listen to the full conversation.
Was a ruthless Tudor matriarch behind the disappearance of the Princes in the Tower?
Margaret Beaufort has long been put forward as a shadowy mastermind potentially behind one of England’s greatest royal mysteries. Does the case against her stand up to scrutiny?
In the summer of 1483, two boys vanished inside the most famous fortress in England. Edward V, aged 12, and his younger brother Richard, Duke of York, were last seen in the Tower of London after their uncle seized the throne as Richard III. Within months, they were gone, and Richard stood to benefit. But he’s not the only potential culprit behind the disappearance of the two boys who became known to history as the Princes in the Tower. Over the centuries, suspicion has settled on other figures including Henry VII, Henry Stafford, and Margaret Beaufort. Beaufort was the canny and formidable mother of Henry VII, and matriarch of the Tudor dynasty. Was she, as some rumours have suggested, the hidden hand behind the princes’ disappearance? According to historian Lauren Johnson, speaking on the HistoryExtra podcast, the answer is unequivocal. “There is absolutely no evidence that Margaret orchestrated the disappearance – or the murder, I believe – of the Princes in the Tower.” The Princes in the Tower, and the problem of power Who were the princes in the Tower, and why were they important? Young Edward V was the eldest son of Edward IV, and an uncrowned king; his brother Richard was next in line. After Edward IV’s sudden death in April 1483, the boys were placed in the Tower of London, ostensibly for Edward’s protection before his coronation. Instead, their uncle Richard, Duke of Gloucester, declared their parents’ marriage invalid, had himself crowned Richard III, and kept the boys locked away. By the autumn of that year, they had disappeared. Some have suggested they might have escaped to a foreign country, smuggled out by a benign benefactor. But, as Johnson argues, given the violence of the period and the amount that people stood to gain from their removal, it was more likely that they were murdered. In late medieval England, royal imprisonment could be a death sentence. “Look at what happened to Henry VI: he gets murdered in the Tower. There are other instances of kings who are locked up – Edward II, Richard II – they don’t make it out.” Against that backdrop, the princes’ disappearance looks to be part of a broader trend of royals who were locked away and murdered. But who might have done it? <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/12/GettyImages-520681987-a12d0cc-e1766501084686.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="Painted in 1831 by Paul Delaroche, The Young Princes in the Tower imagines Edward V and his younger brother Richard, Duke of York, shortly before their disappearance in 1483. Imprisoned in the Tower of London after their uncle seized the throne as Richard III, the boys became one of England’s most enduring historical mysteries" title="The Young Princes in the Tower, 1831 (1910). Artist: Paul de la Roche" /> Why Margaret Beaufort became a suspect Margaret Beaufort was, by 1483, one of the most powerful women in England. A wealthy and politically astute noblewoman, she was also the mother of Henry Tudor – a distant Lancastrian claimant to the throne who was at that time living in exile, in part due to the risk of violence against him as a rival for the kingship. When Henry defeated Richard III at Bosworth in 1485, Margaret’s influence and prominence grew further. Read more | The Wars of the Roses: the 15th-century clash of kings that heralded the dawn of the Tudor dynasty Her success has encouraged later generations to look back and imagine her as a ruthless architect of events. In some versions of the story, the disappearance of two rival princes becomes a necessary step in clearing the way for her son’s accession. But this image of events isn’t medieval in origin. “No one at the time thought it,” Johnson stresses. “No one suggested the possibility of Margaret’s plotting in any way for [at least another] 150 years. It is essentially a product of fiction.” Instead, the idea emerged much later, shaped by Tudor mythmaking and a persistent suspicion of politically powerful women. Motive, means and opportunity When historians consider who might have been responsible for the princes’ fate, they return to basic questions of motive, means and opportunity. On all three counts, Johnson argues, Margaret Beaufort is an implausible candidate. “The one person who had access and motivation to get rid of these children was the person who was sitting on the throne,” she says. “And that was Richard, as far as I’m concerned.” Indeed, Richard III arguably had the strongest incentive to neutralise his young rival claimants, who would surely have become a growing political problem. Beyond motive, there are question of logistics. The Tower of London was heavily guarded, tightly managed, and central to royal authority. Margaret Beaufort, far from being an anonymous figure, was highly recognisable and closely watched. Read more | Have we finally unmasked the killer of the Princes in the Tower? “There’s no way that some random noblewoman is going to be getting into the Tower,” Johnson says, “or having one of her very recognisable attendants get into the Tower.” Any attempt by her, or on her behalf, to interfere with royal prisoners would almost certainly have been noticed. But none of this means that Margaret Beaufort was politically passive. She was strategically engaged in dynastic manoeuvring, though constrained by limits imposed by her position and visibility. “We have so little information about Margaret’s activities in this period because she’s very careful,” Johnson explains. So why does the accusation endure? Partly because the fate of the princes technically remains unresolved, and partly because Margaret Beaufort’s later success makes her an alluring suspect. But there’s no direct evidence to support that narrative. “There’s nothing to it,” Johnson concludes. Case closed? Lauren Johnson was speaking to Emily Briffett on the HistoryExtra podcast. Listen to the full conversation.
Thor was the Vikings’ “archetypal masculine god” – so why did he dress as a bride?
One of the earliest Norse myths depicts the so-called god of thunder in women’s clothing. Far from undermining Thor’s power, the story speaks volumes about how the Vikings understood humour and the gods themselves
Thor, bearded with hammer in hand, is one of the central and most recognisable characters of Norse mythology. He was synonymous with strength, virility and thunder; a figure closely associated with physical labour, farming and warfare, all of which were aspects central to life across the Norse diaspora. In the context of the Viking Age, Thor was widely revered as a dependable presence in a dangerous world. And that makes the poem Thrymskvitha, one of the earliest surviving Norse myths about him, all the more surprising. “Thrymskvitha is the oldest complete poem we have about the gods,” says Dr Jackson Crawford, speaking on the HistoryExtra podcast. It’s preserved in the Poetic Edda – the compilation of Old Norse poems recorded in the 13th century – and tells of how Thor disguises himself as a bride-to-be and attends a wedding feast in order become the ‘wife’ of a powerful Jotun, a giant from the realm of Jotunheim. But it’s all a ruse. Planned alongside his adopted half-brother, the trickster god Loki, the disguise is part of a scheme for Thor to recover his precious hammer Mjölnir, which has been stolen by the Jotun. Thrymskvitha – or Þrymskviða – was likely composed and circulated well before the Norse conversion to Christianity. Crawford describes it as “a really goofy adventure-comedy story”, yet it also offers a revealing insight into how Viking Age audiences related to their gods. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/12/GettyImages-152204607-e0e1556-e1766500509342.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="This Viking Age relief from Gosforth churchyard depicts the god Thor fishing for the Midgard Serpent alongside the giant Hymir, a scene drawn from Norse Poetic Edda." title="Relief sculpture of Scandinavian origin from the Gosforth churchyard, depicts Thor fishing with the giant Hymir" /> Thor’s place in the Norse world Unlike Odin – Thor’s father, ruler of Asgard, who was associated with kingship, poetry and hidden knowledge – Thor was a more accessible god. He was invoked by farmers and travellers and was seen as a direct protector against the natural chaos of the world. His hammer, Mjölnir, was central to that role. As well as being a weapon, it was also a sacred object used to bless marriages and sanctify oaths and land. Small hammer amulets worn by Vikings attest to its everyday religious importance. And it’s with the hammer that the story begins. “Thrymskvitha starts with Thor waking up one morning and finding that his hammer is missing,” recounts Crawford. Without it, Thor is suddenly vulnerable. Thor summons Loki and demands that Loki uses his cunning and cleverness to help him retrieve the hammer. Loki borrows a feathered cloak belonging to the goddess Freyja, which allows him to fly, and travels to Jötunheim, the realm of the jötnar [giants], to investigate. There, Loki meets Thrymr, a powerful Jotun. “Thrymr says, ‘I’ve buried the hammer eight miles beneath the Earth and the only way you’re ever going to get it back is if you bring me Freyja as my bride.” Read more | Could you survive on the Vikings’ furthest frontier? Here’s the dark reality of Norse life on the edge Freyja was the famously beautiful goddess associated with love and fertility. Thor’s response is blunt. “Thor says, “We have to go and get Freyja and dress her up as a bride and send her to the giants because I need my hammer back.” And Freyja does not want to do this. She is not going to be forced to marry one of the jötnar.” At this point, the Viking gods meet to discuss their options. The solution comes from Heimdall, the god who served as watchman over Asgard, and he suggests something deliberately outrageous: Thor himself should dress as Freyja and go in her place. “Thor’s very resistant to this,” Crawford says. “Because this is Thor – the archetypal masculine god – being told he has to dress up as a bride.” As Crawford points out, much of the story’s humour is found in this contradiction: “Obviously, a lot of the comedy is in playing off gender roles.” Without Mjölnir, Thor is stripped of part of his own power. Despite his reluctance, he has no choice but to take up the plan. The Vikings | A short course from HistoryExtra Academy Member exclusive | Join Professor Ryan Lavelle for our four-week course on the Viking period, covering everything from trading and raiding, to daily life. Explore the course now An unhappy Viking wedding A disguised and veiled Thor travels with Loki for eight days to reach Jötunheim, riding in Thor’s chariot, which was pulled by his goats. Thrymr greets them eagerly and lays out a lavish wedding feast. “Thor canonically has an enormous appetite, so he eats all the food and drinks all the mead. And Thrymr is very suspicious, but Loki keeps playing it off that she’s just that hungry, because she’s been travelling so long.” Read more | This is the overlooked story of how the Vikings dominated eastern Europe Eventually, Thrymr calls for the hammer to be brought out to bless the marriage, a reminder of Mjölnir’s ritual as well as martial role. The instant it is placed in Thor’s lap, he throws off the disguise, seizes the hammer, and takes his revenge. “He kills all the jötnar,” says Crawford. “That’s the end of the story.” Gods who could be laughed at In many later religious traditions, the idea that gods could be mocked would feel jarring – or even criminal. Many cultures’ gods are distant, and unimpeachable in their moral rectitude. Thrymskvitha shows something very different. “This is a reminder that as seriously as people who believed in these gods no doubt took them, they could also have fun with them,” says Crawford. This kind of humour would have been familiar in oral storytelling cultures, where gods were vivid characters as much as they were objects of worship. Modern portrayals of Norse religion often fixate on its violent fatalism and obsession with heroic death. Thrymskvitha adds nuance and texture to that picture. It shows a mythological tradition that valued wit and absurdity, and that trusted its gods were able to withstand being ridiculed. Dr Jackson Crawford was speaking to James Osborne on the HistoryExtra podcast. Listen to the full conversation.
After 1066, this medieval fine was imposed to deter anti-Norman violence
Introduced in the wake of the Norman Conquest, the murdrum fine was meant to protect Norman settlers from revenge killings. But it quickly became a blunt instrument of inequality and exploitation
It’s early in the 13th century. You stumble across a corpse: clearly the victim of murder. What should you do? To modern eyes, there’s no question; no reasonable grounds for equivocation. The only option is to tell someone. But in medieval England, finding a dead body was a more fraught – and risky – incident. Entire villages and communities could be fined not because they had committed a crime, but because the burden lay with them to prove who the deceased was – or, more precisely, whether they were English or Norman. This wasn’t a quirk of legal technicality. In the decades after the Norman Conquest of 1066, questions of identity were difficult and tense. To deter violence against Norman settlers, a striking piece of collective punishment known as the murdrum fine was designed. It was created to limit violence against Normans in post-Conquest England, but in practice, all it did was expose resonant inequalities within medieval society. Speaking on the HistoryExtra podcast, historian Luke Foddy explains how the murdrum fine emerged, how it operated on the ground, and how it was later manipulated in ways that caused real hardship. A legal system under strain after the Norman Conquest The Norman Conquest in 1066 had reshaped England’s ruling class with extraordinary speed. William the Conqueror replaced much of the Anglo-Saxon aristocracy with Norman lords, bishops and officials, creating a sharp national and social divide between rulers and the majority English population they governed. The legal system struggled to cope with this change, and it was in this strained legal environment that the murdrum fine took on particular importance. What was the murdrum fine? The murdrum fine was enforced by King William I after 1066, although, as Foddy notes, “there’s some evidence that it was around before then, particularly in the Danelaw” – referring to the English region where the Vikings and Anglo-Saxons coexisted uneasily together from the late 9th century. It was imposed on communities that were close to where dead bodies were discovered. “If a body was found, the people of the local area – typically four nearby villages – had to prove, or convince the coroner, that this person was English. So, they had to know the person and they had to identify them.” If the local people couldn’t identify the deceased, the law assumed that the victim was Norman and that he had been murdered by the local English population. In that case, the entire community was fined. “The rationale was that it was to stop the English bumping off the Normans every time their backs were turned,” Foddy explains. Through a vicious collective punishment, the law aimed to protect the new ruling elite and deter violence against them. At first, the fine applied only to clear cases of murder. But over time, that definition began to erode. When revenue became a motivation By the reign of Henry III (1216–1272), the murdrum fine had shifted in character. “During Henry III’s reign, and his drive to get more revenue,” Foddy explains, “it became applied to any corpse that was found.” This expansion coincided with a period of acute crisis. In 1258, England was struck by severe famine. Crops failed and food prices soared, and people travelled the country in search of food and work. Contemporary chronicler Matthew Paris described bodies lying unburied in streets and pigsties, scattered across towns and countryside alike. In such itinerant conditions, proving ‘Englishry’ – the legal requirement to show that the deceased was English – became extraordinarily difficult. Read more | Was Henry III the worst king in medieval history? Our expert uncovers one of England's most disastrous reigns “You can imagine that there are people coming from other communities that villages don’t know,” Foddy says. “They can’t prove Englishry in these cases.” But the law made no allowances. Even in periods of famine, villages were fined when unknown bodies were found, as the king sought to bring more money into the coffers by any means possible. The burden fell hardest on poorer communities, who were least able to absorb the financial penalties. Reform and the limits of royal power Change came only with the political crisis of the late 1250s, when reformers sought to curb royal authority and address grievances against Henry III’s rule. “They don’t abolish [the murdrum fine] completely,” Foddy explains, “but they make it clear that it should only apply in the case of felonious slayings.” Crucially, these reforms explicitly acknowledged the extraordinary social disruption caused by famine. By narrowing the scope of the law, reformers reduced its most punitive effects. “This was a really positive step certainly for the poorer people in the country,” Foddy says, “who were getting hammered by these really unjust customs.” But still, nearly two centuries after the Norman Conquest, the country was reckoning with its far-reaching effects. Luke Foddy was speaking to Emily Briffett on the HistoryExtra podcast. Listen to the full conversation.
Dr Jackson Crawford explores the history and stories of Old Norse mythology told in the Poetic Edda, including what we can learn about the relationships between men and women
What do we know for certain about Old Norse ideas about masculinity and femininity, and can Viking Age mythology provide any answers? In conversation with James Osborne, Dr Jackson Crawford discusses the second edition of his translation of the Poetic Edda, and explores what can still be learned from the collection of Old Norse narrative poems that forms the foundation of our understanding of Viking mythology.
Warhorses were one of the most deadly weapons on a medieval battlefield. But why didn’t they run away?
Horses are instinctively wired to run from danger. So how did medieval armies train them to thunder towards enemy lines without breaking?
The medieval warhorse is, seemingly, a contradiction in terms. Horses are prey animals. Their instinct, when confronted with loud noises, sudden movement or danger, is to run as far away as possible, as quickly as possible. And yet, for centuries across the Middle Ages, these animals were incredible weapons of war. With armoured warriors in the saddle, they charged directly into some of the most terrifying scenes imaginable: walls of sharpened spears held by lines of screaming men. And warhorses weren’t a peripheral tool, either. They were at the centre of medieval warfare. Mounted combat dominated European battlefields for hundreds of years, shaping the grand military strategies that upheld political power. Cavalry charges could decide entire battles, and the men who could afford to fight on horseback were part of a powerful military elite. None of that was possible without horses that could be controlled under extreme stress. So how did they do it? As historian Robert Liddiard explains on the HistoryExtra podcast, these horses were honed through immense financial investment and extraordinary, long-term training. Why medieval warhorses mattered But first, what was so special about warhorses anyway? The answer, according to Liddiard, can be found in 1066’s battle of Hastings, which was a potent demonstration of the differences between a force that deployed warhorses – the Normans – in contrast to a force that didn’t – the Anglo-Saxons. “Arguably it's horses that allowed Duke William of Normandy to gain the edge,” he says. “The warhorses provide mobility on the battlefield in a way that Harold Godwinson’s forces simply haven't got, and this has great tactical benefits. The possession of trained cavalry allows William to have greater tactical options and flexibility.” A trained warhorse was, therefore, a force multiplier. And alongside the tactical advantage, they offered a psychological one, too. The sight and sound of armoured men charging toward you at speed could cause discipline to collapse before contact was even made. That importance explains why medieval rulers increasingly treated horse production as a vital matter of attention, worth immense expense. Read more | Medieval warhorses: 5 moments horsepower changed the course of history Breeding a medieval weapon of war “What I can’t overstate,” Liddiard says, “is the amount of time, money, and effort that went into producing these warhorses. It is absolutely extraordinary.” This wasn’t a matter of purchasing animals at market when war broke out. In England, the Crown maintained “a network of about a dozen horse studs across the kingdom, which are almost entirely devoted to producing warhorses.” These royal studs controlled breeding from the outset. Foals were selected for size, strength and temperament, traits that were all essential for animals expected to remain responsive amid the chaos of battle. Calmness under pressure absolutely mattered as much as physical power. From around the age of one, these young horses were weaned and moved into the next stage of development. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/12/GettyImages-2226536309-b64e70e-e1766496582958.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="This later medieval depiction shows the Norman victory over Harold’s Anglo-Saxon army at the battle of Hastings in 1066. Norman knights charge on horseback as archers loose arrows, while the tents of both armies and a distant castle frame the scene." title="Battle Of Hastings" /> Growing up to fight “We know quite a lot about the life course of these animals,” Liddiard explains. In southern England, young horses were transferred to what were known as colt parks. Here, “you’ve got the equivalent of teenage warhorses roaming around by themselves.” This was a period of prolonged assessment of behaviour: how the horse responded to other animals and unfamiliar environments was all carefully monitored. At around three years old, training intensified. Horses were placed “within a group of trained warhorses that itinerate around the kingdom where they learn their future trade.” This mattered because horses learn socially. By moving alongside experienced animals, younger horses absorbed calm behaviour through repetition and years of conditioning. This was how the instinct to flee was supressed. But it wasn’t erased. Only after years of preparation and training would a horse be deemed suitable for service and transferred into a noble or royal household. From birth to battlefield readiness, “you could be talking about five to seven years,” Liddiard notes. Time, money and risk The length of time this took imposed an immense financial burden. “You’re talking hundreds and thousands of pounds, cumulatively,” he says, adding that royal horse keepers often finished their annual accounts in deficit. Medieval kings were acutely aware of the cost but accepted it because the military payoff was decisive. That’s something that still hasn’t changed. “You talk to anyone who breeds and trains horses now and they always tell you how expensive it is. I can assure you it is absolutely the same in the Middle Ages.” At times, the expense became unsustainable. In 1360, following the Treaty of Brétigny during the Hundred Years’ War, Edward III shut down England’s royal stud network. The decision reflected both a lull in the large-scale conflict, and the crushing cost of maintaining the system. When warhorses failed But even the best-trained warhorses could sometimes become a liability. And, when control over a warhorse failed, the consequences could be incredibly stark. At Bannockburn in 1314, Scottish forces exploited terrain and dense spear formations to deny cavalry room to manoeuvre, turning horses into liabilities. At Bosworth in 1485, Richard III’s fall from his horse marked the collapse of his kingship. But despite those rare instances, a medieval warhorse was an incredible boon to any army that could afford them. From William the Conqueror’s cavalry at Hastings to the mounted knights of the Hundred Years’ War, warhorses proved decisive in medieval warfare over centuries. And they were the result of sustained human effort: generations of breeding, years of training, and vast financial investment, all geared toward teaching prey animals how to advance into battle, rather than flee. Robert Liddiard was speaking to Spencer Mizen on the HistoryExtra podcast. Listen to the full conversation.
No, Marty Supreme isn’t a true story. But the history of the real Marty Reisman is just as exciting
Sports drama Marty Supreme might not be a true story, but it is loosely based on the real history of its titular table tennis champ, Marty Reisman. Here are all the facts you need to know about the real history of Marty Supreme
It’s New York in the 1950s. The Second World War is over, the Cold War has begun, and the United States is grappling with its newfound position as the world’s premier superpower: this is Eisenhower’s America. It’s also the America that serves as the setting for Marty Supreme: Timothée Chalamet’s explosive sports drama about a young hustler’s rise to ping-pong superstardom. But how much of Marty Supreme is based on a true story, and how close does the film get to the real history of Marty Reisman? Is Marty Supreme based on a true story? Marty Supreme is loosely inspired by the real Marty Reisman’s 1974 autobiography and memoir, The Money Player. But it is not a true story. Chalamet takes on a fictionalised version of the real Marty Reisman: an obscure sports star who became one of the most distinctive figures in 20th-century American sport. Though the film fictionalises its subject, the true story of Marty Reisman is one that needs no embellishment to be entertaining. Who was the real Marty Reisman? The real Marty Reisman was an American table tennis champion, professional hustler and showman whose career spanned more than six decades. Born in 1930, Reisman became a two-time US men’s singles table tennis champion and a celebrated practitioner of the traditional hardbat style (which uses rackets with short outward "pips" and no sponge). During his career, Reisman was one of the most recognisable personalities in the sport. His memoir, The Money Player (1974), chronicled his early life in New York’s postwar street-hustling scene and cemented his legacy as an athlete and entertainer. How did Marty Reisman begin his career? Reisman was born on 1 February 1930 in Manhattan and grew up in the city’s Lower East Side. In the late 1930s and early 1940s, table tennis was still developing as a competitive sport in the United States and offered unique opportunities for aspiring young players with a burgeoning and enthusiastic subculture. It was in this context that Reisman first encountered the sport. As a boy, Reisman spent hours in local clubs watching older street players and observing their techniques. Within a few years, he was practising obsessively and winning small-stakes games for money. Reisman’s teenage years coincided with a period when table tennis was still primarily amateur and went hand-in-hand with gambling. Many of the city’s best players earned their income from money matches rather than official tournaments. Read more | When Vichy France banned rugby By 14, Reisman was already part of this subculture. What defined Marty Reisman’s playing style and persona? Reisman’s appeal rested on two virtues: his playing style and his showmanship. In the 1950s, table tennis was changing: the widespread introduction of sponge rubber paddles. These allowed far greater speed and spin, reshaping competitive play. Reisman, however, remained a traditionalist. He argued that sponge play distorted the sport, making rallies shorter and emphasising equipment over skill. He refused to adopt the new technology, which marginalised him from the top levels of international competition, where sponge was now required to remain competitive. But Reisman used the controversy to strengthen his public persona. He emerged as the outspoken defender of hardbat table tennis, and when the hardbat movement revived in later decades, he was among its leading advocates. But his personality was just as important as his playing style. He dressed in tailored jackets and emphasised the theatrics of the sport. For sponsors and journalists, he was magnetic, being both quotable and unpredictable. His showmanship helped keep table tennis in the public eye during periods when attention to the sport might otherwise have faded. How did Marty Reisman rise to national prominence? Reisman came to national attention in the late 1940s. At 17, he reached the quarter-finals of the 1947 US Open and, in the same year, was crowned US National Junior Champion. He had already established himself as one of the country’s leading talents. Soon he was representing the United States internationally, and he won three bronze medals at the 1949 World Championships. Nationally, Reisman’s reputation continued to grow. He won the US Men’s Singles Championship twice (1958 and 1960), and consistently placed at the top of national tournaments throughout the 1950s and 1960s. At the same time, he continued to take part in unofficial money matches. His reputation as a gambler was just as prominent as his identity as a professional athlete. The culture of table-tennis hustling in mid-century America Reisman’s career was only possible because of the culture of his environment. In mid-century New York, table tennis was a socially inclusive and inexpensive sport. Anyone with a paddle could participate. The city’s clubs became meeting points for immigrants, jazz musicians, and hustlers looking to earn extra cash through informal wagers. Reisman slotted into this world seamlessly. He had a knack for hustling, which required strong intuition and the ability to size up an opponent quickly, along with genuine competitiveness and performance. The skills he honed there under the pressure of that informal environment helped him as he stepped onto larger stages. Marty Reisman’s later life and death In the 1970s Reisman published The Money Player –part autobiography, part-memoir, part philosophy on life – detailing his years hustling in New York and offering insight into both the culture of the sport and his experience of it. The book broadened his profile beyond the table-tennis world. In the 1990s and 2000s, he helped promote a renewed interest in hardbat tournaments, frequently competing in (and winning) senior events. In 1997, at age 67, he won the US National Hardbat Championship, a victory that was widely covered in the mainstream press due to his age and the symbolic passing of eras within the sport. He also went on to make television appearances, participate in exhibitions, and remained a well-known personality in New York’s sporting circles. Marty Reisman died on 7 December 2012, aged 82. As an athlete, he was regarded as one of the United States’ most accomplished hardbat table tennis players. As a public figure, he helped to raise the national profile of table tennis. And, as an author, he captured the fading culture and character of mid-century New York. For more content like this, check out the best historical movies of all time as chosen by historians and ranked by you, and our picks of the new history TV and radio released in the UK this week
The First World War’s Christmas truce is a heartwarming story – but it never happened
In the early stages of the First World War, Brits and Germans came together on the frontlines to pause the fighting for Christmas – at least, that’s how the story goes. But what really happened, and are Christmas truces just a wishful myth?
The story is genuinely irresistible. On a frozen battlefield in December 1914, the sound of artillery stops, and British and German soldiers fighting in the First World War climb out of the trenches. They meet in the hellscape that is No Man's Land, transforming it into a site of warm Christmas spirit. They exchange gifts, sing carols and play football together. It’s a reassuringly humanising moment that proves ordinary people could still recognise one another as individuals, even if they were still enemies. The problem is that this version of events is largely a myth. As historian Alex Churchill explains on the HistoryExtra podcast, what did happen across European battlefields during the Christmas of 1914 was far more limited and fragmented than popular memory suggests. So, what really happened, and why does the myth persist? No single Christmas truce, and no football match “The Christmas truce is a misnomer,” Churchill says. “It’s Christmas truces: plural.” There was no single, unified ceasefire stretching along the Western Front and crucially, as Churchill emphasises, “fighting didn’t officially stop”. Instead, what occurred in late December 1914 was a series of highly localised, informal pauses in certain sectors, while in others, the war continued uninterrupted. That’s one of the biggest misconceptions. Another is the story of the football match – perhaps the single most enduring part of the Christmas truce story. In retellings, British and German soldiers are said to have organised an impromptu but orderly game in No Man's Land, complete with teams, goals and spectators. It’s subsequently become a symbol of the combatants’ shared culture, values and goodwill. Read more | Life in the trenches during WWI: your essential guide But, as Churchill sets out, this almost certainly never happened. “What people think happened is the equivalent of a Premier League football match with thousands of people watching on a vast open space,” Churchill explains. “But that didn’t happen.” The physical environment alone makes the idea implausible. No Man's Land was not a flat, snowy field. It was a cratered wasteland littered with barbed wire and corpses. At best, there may have been brief, informal kickabouts, most likely involving soldiers from the same side passing a ball between themselves. The idea of organised, cross-trench football matches is a later embellishment. “That whole image of a giant football game, and a big coming together, didn’t happen on the western front,” she says. What fraternisation really looked like The reality of what took place might be more revealing, when stripped of its mythology. As Churchill explains, it’s true that, in some areas, soldiers cautiously emerged from their trenches to speak to the enemy. They exchanged cigarettes, buttons, food and small souvenirs. Some sang together too, especially in the days leading up to Christmas. Churchill recounts one episode that captures this reality particularly well. A territorial officer named George Fletcher – a languages teacher from Eton who spoke fluent German – was determined to arrange a truce in his sector. “He went on this relentless campaign to convince his battalion commander that they should pause the war and have a Christmas,” Churchill says. But he was unsuccessful. Read more | The First World War: Was it worth it? “His commanding officer told him to stop being an idiot.” When Christmas Day arrived, Fletcher’s own section remained quiet and hostile. Disappointed, he took matters into his own hands. “He wandered down to a Scottish battalion next door,” Churchill explains, “and actually that’s where he experienced the Christmas truce.” There, soldiers were milling about in No Man's Land, talking and sharing cigarettes. A football was being kicked around, but without any real structure. At one point, men even began “scampering in and out of each other’s trenches”. Even then, the limits were obvious. Fletcher himself eventually felt compelled to intervene. Churchill explains how he thought, “we need to be a bit more sensible about letting the enemy rampage round our lines”. The episode ended soon afterwards, and the men returned to their positions. “That’s a good example of what any Christmas truces did look like, and it does have participation from both Germans and British,” says Churchill. When and if they occurred, they were brief, improvised encounters on borrowed time. Why truces weren’t repeated Christmas 1914 took place early in the war, before hatred had fully hardened and before the scale of the conflict became clear. Many soldiers still believed the war might be short. The trench system was not yet as rigid or heavily defended as it would later become. In subsequent years, officers actively worked to prevent fraternisation, ordering artillery fire during holidays, and emphasising the need to maintain hostility. Read more | 10 facts you (probably) didn't know about the First World War But why does the myth remain so powerful? The First World War was the first fully industrialised conflict, marked by mass mobilisation, mechanised killing and staggering loss of life. “It’s massively dehumanising,” Churchill says, “and I think the inaccurate stories of the Christmas truces are one small element that we can cling to that shows that actually people were still human and still reasonable.” But even though the reality was less grand than the later myths suggest, it’s not less meaningful. Christmas truces weren’t dramatic or cinematic pauses in the war when enemies came together to form friendships. However, they do point to a cautious optimism at a moment when it was still possible, early in the conflict, for enemies to recognise each other’s shared values. It was an optimism that wouldn’t last. Alex Churchill was speaking to Rachel Dinning on the HistoryExtra podcast. Listen to the full conversation.
Is The Sound of Music a true story? The astonishing real history of the von Trapp family’s escape from Nazism
The Sound of Music has long sat among the greatest historical films of all time – and become a staple of the winter TV schedule. But how much of it is a true story, and what's the real history of the von Trapp family?
Since its movie release in 1965, 20 years after the end of the Second World War, The Sound of Music has cemented itself among the best historical films of its era. It’s a timeless story of romance, family and the power of art and resistance, premiering on Broadway in 1959, before becoming the box office hit starring Julie Andrews and Christopher Plummer later that decade. But behind the soaring musical numbers, it’s inseparable from the darker backdrop that serves as its setting – Adolf Hitler’s relentless ascent to power in Germany, culminating in the Anschluss: the annexation of Austria and the rise of Nazism in the adjoining country. Clearly, it’s not entirely fiction. But where is the line drawn? How much of the story of The Sound of Music is rooted in the true story of the von Trapp family? How accurate is The Sound of Music overall? The Sound of Music is a broadly accurate retelling of the story of the von Trapp family, their struggle to escape the clutches of Nazi officials, and the context surrounding the Anschluss. There’s a lot of real history in how the film portrays Maria’s entry into the von Trapp household, her subsequent marriage to Georg, the family’s opposition to Nazism, and their eventual departure from Austria. Indeed, the real von Trapp family lived through profound political upheaval amid the transformation of Austria in the 1930s. However, there are also substantial liberties taken with timelines, characterisation and events: Maria and Georg were married in the 1920s, not on the eve of the Anschluss; the children were older than portrayed, and their names were changed for the film. They really did flee the country shortly after the Anschluss – but not in the way the film suggests. So, what’s the reality that inspired The Sound of Music? Who were the real von Trapp family? The von Trapps were an upper-middle-class Austrian family centred around Georg von Trapp, a decorated former naval officer, and Maria Kutschera, who entered the household as a tutor and later became stepmother to the children. Their story became known mostly through Maria’s 1949 memoir The Story of the Trapp Family Singers. The book inspired both a German film (Die Trapp-Familie) in 1956, and celebrated composer-and-lyricist duo Rodgers and Hammerstein’s musical The Sound of Music (1959), which in turn became the basis of the Hollywood film. What was Maria’s early life like? Maria Augusta Kutschera was born on 26 January 1905, on a train heading to Vienna. Orphaned as a child, Maria grew up in a succession of foster homes and boarding schools. As a young adult, she studied at Vienna's State Teachers College for Progressive Education, aspiring to become a teacher. But a chance encounter with a Catholic mass at the Karlskirche was a stark turning point. Finding the experience incredibly moving, she went on to join the Nonnberg Abbey in Salzburg as a novice. It was from the abbey that Maria was sent to the von Trapp household in 1926. But she was not to be a governess for all the children. She was specifically tasked with the tuition of one child, Maria Franziska, who was recovering from scarlet fever. When she arrived, she stepped into a house that was ruled by Georg von Trapp. Who was Georg von Trapp? Georg Ludwig von Trapp had been a submarine commander in the Austro-Hungarian Navy, earning honours during the First World War. The dissolution of the empire in 1918 ended his naval career. Georg married Agathe Whitehead (granddaughter of the inventor of the torpedo) in 1911, and together they had seven children. When Agathe died of scarlet fever in 1922, Georg was left a widower raising a large family in a tumultuous Austria that was still finding its position in a rapidly changing Europe. By the mid-1920s, the family lived in a villa in Aigen, near Salzburg, where the children learned instruments and sang together informally. This musical culture predated Maria’s arrival. Another difference is that, in The Sound of Music, Captain von Trapp is portrayed as a stern, emotionally distant disciplinarian. It works as a dramatic device. But in reality, Georg von Trapp was widely regarded as a warm father who was deeply involved with his children. How did Maria and Georg actually come to be married? Maria’s role in the household gradually expanded from tutoring a single child to helping care for the whole family. She fostered close relationships with all the children and enjoyed the structure of family life that was in stark contrast to her time in the abbey. Georg, meanwhile, valued her care, and her ability to organise the large household. Despite being 25 years her senior, he soon asked her to marry him. Maria returned to the abbey to seek advice from her former mother abbess, who counselled her to accept the proposal. Maria took the advice and returned to the family. Maria later wrote that she accepted Georg’s proposal partly out of affection and partly from a sense of duty. She believed the children needed a mother and that this calling aligned with her own developing sense of purpose. She said that, when Georg had proposed to her, she didn’t love him – but that those feelings grew with time. Their marriage took place in 1927, a full decade earlier than depicted in the musical. The couple went on to have three children together, further expanding the family. Why did the von Trapps begin performing publicly? The von Trapps did not initially plan to become a professional singing group. In the 1930s, Austria was in economic crisis. The global depression hit the country hard, and the von Trapp family suffered a sharp financial blow when they lost much of their savings following the collapse of an Austrian bank with which Georg had invested heavily. To reduce expenses, they dismissed most of the household staff and rented out parts of their home. Music became a more formal pursuit when Father Franz Wasner (a Catholic priest and musician) began coaching them. Under his guidance, the family developed a polished repertoire of Renaissance madrigals, Austrian folk music and sacred works. They made their public debut in 1934, and in 1936 they won first prize at the Salzburg Music Festival, establishing themselves as a professional ensemble. How accurate is the film’s portrayal of Austria in the 1930s? The film’s backdrop – the annexation of Austria by Nazi Germany in March 1938 – is historically accurate. But the version that the film presents is simplified. Interwar Austria was grappling with political instability, economic turmoil and competing visions of national identity. Many Austrians supported unification with Germany. But many also opposed Nazism and valued Austria’s sovereignty. By 1938, the Nazi Party had gained considerable influence within Austria. When German troops crossed the border on 12 March 1938, they met little formal resistance. Austria was swiftly absorbed into the Third Reich. The merged political context placed individuals like the von Trapps in a difficult situation. Georg von Trapp was viewed by the German authorities as a potentially valuable figure for propaganda or naval leadership. In reality, the family’s opposition to Nazism was firm, but not as theatrically defiant as portrayed in the film. Rather than ripping apart Nazi flags, their resistance took the form of refusing to perform and engage with events for the new regime, and declining offers that would have aligned them with the German state. How did the von Trapp family really leave Austria? The Sound of Music concludes with the family’s escape over the Alps to Switzerland. It’s cinematic and brings the film back to where it began: in the mountains above Austria. But while cinematic, it’s also geographically impossible. Salzburg borders Germany, not Switzerland, and crossing the mountains in that direction would have brought the family deeper into Nazi territory. The real story is less dramatic but far more plausible. In August 1938, the family left Austria by train, travelling openly to Italy. Georg still held citizenship rights from his birthplace (the coastal town of Zadar, which after the First World War became part of Italy) and this provided a legal route of departure. From Italy, the family travelled on to London via France, and then to the United States, where they had previously toured as a musical group. They settled first in Pennsylvania and later in Stowe, Vermont, where they opened the Trapp Family Lodge, which remains in operation today. The family did not flee under pursuit. Rather, they chose not to return to Austria after their US concert tour, recognising the political climate and the growing risks associated with Georg’s refusal to serve the Nazi regime. What became of the von Trapps in America? In the United States, the Von Trapp Family Singers built a successful career, touring nationally throughout the 1940s and early 1950s. They became naturalised American citizens, and their life in Vermont gave them a new stability. Maria, in particular, became a prominent figure in their emerging business ventures and later ran the lodge after Georg’s death in 1947. The family ensemble eventually disbanded, but several members continued musical careers independently. Maria continued writing and lecturing, and her memoir became the basis for later adaptations of the family’s story. For more content like this, check out the best historical movies of all time as chosen by historians and ranked by you, and our picks of the new history TV and radio released in the UK this week
Meet the reluctant US president who accidentally changed American political norms forever
In an era when candidates were expected to remain silent, detached and above the chase for votes, James Garfield’s improvised presidential campaign in the late 19th century transformed the race for the highest office in the USA
When James A Garfield reluctantly accepted the Republican nomination for president in June 1880, he stepped into a fraught political culture that was governed by strict codes of restraint. Put simply, in the late 19th century, a presidential candidate wasn’t meant to appear eager for the job. Publicly courting votes was distasteful, demeaning, and incompatible with the dignity of the office. As biographer CW Goodyear puts it, speaking on the HistoryExtra podcast, the prevailing view was that “if you are interested in the job, it’s not for you.” The job of actively campaigning was delegated to party operatives, loyal newspapers and travelling surrogates. The candidate was supposed to stay out of public view while conveying lofty neutrality. On one level, that was a culture that suited Garfield. He was a man who, to all appearances, never intended to become the Republican party’s presidential nominee, let alone the actual president. So how did he – who was both dignified and reluctant – end up being the man who dismantled such norms of dignified reluctance? It feels like an irony, and yet, as Goodyear explains, Garfield’s election campaign of 1880 did indeed mark a turning point that upended the long-standing taboo against candidates speaking directly to voters. It changed campaign culture forever. American presidential ideals in the 19th century “It was seen as being desperate and pathetic for a presidential candidate to go rally voters. That was seen as being beneath the office,” explains Goodyear, setting out the attitudes that prevailed as the 1880 presidential election loomed. But where had that notion come from? Read more | The 5 most notorious presidents in US history The expectation that candidates should remain silent was rooted in early republican ideals inherited from the late 18th century, when the American colonies had won their independence from Britain and forged the United States of America. The Founding Fathers had worried that unrestrained electioneering might debase public life and turn politics into petty spectacle. As the USA expanded, the principle endured: it was parties that mobilised voters, while candidates remained above the fray. It was this culture that Garfield – a former Union general, lawyer, minister and congressman – was suddenly forced into. In a divided Republican party, he was a compromise nominee who ostensibly hadn’t sought, or expected, the nomination. Upon being nominated at the 1880 Republican National Convention, he returned immediately to his “bucolic home life at his farm” in Mentor, Ohio, where he lived with his wife Lucretia Garfield and their children, to observe those rules of sober political propriety. How Garfield’s farm became an unexpected political stage Garfield was looking to “flee” from the public eye by returning home, says Goodyear. Instead, his farm became the focus of national attention. Spurred on by new railway expansion and mass political participation, voters saw a rare opportunity to meet a potential president face-to-face. Goodyear describes how it was an opportunity for marginalised groups in particular, with “legions of black voters, wannabe women voters – who didn’t have the right to vote yet – and industrial groups” soon turning up at Garfield’s door, looking to catch a glimpse of this prospective leader. Read more | Abraham Lincoln: the greatest US president? This placed Garfield in an awkward position. Addressing them risked violating the taboo against campaigning directly to voters. But refusing to greet visitors would appear cold and inhospitable. Clearly that wouldn’t do. Backed into a corner, Garfield chose courtesy. He fed his visitors and spoke with them. And, in doing so, inadvertently invented a new kind of political campaign. A revolutionary presidential campaign The “front porch campaign”, as it later became known, evolved almost organically. “Garfield goes out onto his front porch, and he gives all these impromptu speeches to these visitors,” says Goodyear. These were informal and conversational, in sharp contrast to the scripted, lofty communication that previously defined presidential races. For many Americans, this was the first time they had heard a presidential candidate address national issues directly. Newspapers reprinted his remarks, and political operatives recognised that Garfield had found a way to engage voters without appearing to pursue them. “It was seen as being very revolutionary, and it was not uncontroversial,” says Goodyear. Read more | Life after the White House: what the US presidents did next “But Garfield was able to get around this by insisting that, ‘I'm not going out to talk to these people. I'm not asking them to vote for me. They are knocking on my front door. What am I to do? Just shut the door and put guards out and get the people to get away from me?’” The political establishment was divided. Senior Republicans debated how much visibility Garfield could risk without undermining the decorum of the office. Democrat-backing newspapers accused him of encouraging spectacle. Summing up the reaction of Garfield’s own party, Goodyear explains how one senior Republican, Senator James Blaine, who went on to be Garfield's Secretary of State, would later write and say: “Until this point in history, to have a presidential candidate comment on current events and issues, and his own opinions on them, was seen as being demeaning, and beneath the office.” Without intending to, Garfield had just changed that norm. And with that change, the expectations of presidential campaigning had shifted too. Boston Tea Party: Igniting a Revolution Member exclusive | Discover the causes, tensions, and violent origins of the Boston Tea Party. Join leading experts as they explain the key players involved in the plan – and why tea was so important to the story. Listen to all episodes now Why Garfield’s approach succeeded Garfield’s personal qualities made the experiment work. A trained orator and former college professor, he could speak fluently and without notes, adjusting his tone to suit his shifting audience of farmers, industrial workers, veterans and reform groups. And crucially, because he never left Mentor, he could credibly claim he was not campaigning in the traditional sense. In the end, it helped Garfield win the presidency, alongside his nominee for vice-president, Chester Arthur. Garfield’s presidency was brief; he served only a few months before being shot by the deluded assassin Charles Guiteau. The president died from infection in September 1881. Read more | 6 shocking presidential scandals that rocked the White House But his unintentional ‘front porch’ campaign format became an accepted political strategy. In 1896, Republican nominee William McKinley would perfect it, orchestrating a highly choreographed version from his own home in Canton, Ohio. Through the early 20th century, the distance between presidential candidates and voters continued to shrink. Train tours, national speaking circuits, radio broadcasts, and television debates all built on the same principle: that presidential hopefuls should directly persuade and speak to the electorate. In doing so, the presidential role has gradually evolved and has since been expected to be a more partisan figure than the Founding Fathers had envisioned. Ultimately, Garfield’s campaign wasn’t just the “first front porch campaign in American history,” says Goodyear. It was “one of the first active presidential campaigns in US history.” CW Goodyear was speaking to Elinor Evans on the HistoryExtra podcast. Listen to the full conversation.