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The lie of succession: did James I steal Elizabeth I's crown?
Did James I ‘steal’ Elizabeth I’s crown? Tracy Borman considers evidence that the transition from Tudor to Stuart dynasties may not have been quite as seamless as we’ve been led to believe
Richmond Palace, 22 March 1603. Elizabeth I – the self-proclaimed Virgin Queen who had ruled England for 44 years, seeing off the Armada, healing religious divisions and creating a court so magnificent it was the envy of Europe – lay dying. Her anxious advisers clustered around her bedside, urging her to do the thing she had resisted throughout her long reign: name her successor. Rousing herself from her stupor, the 69-year-old queen declared: “I will that a king succeed me, and what king, but my nearest kinsman, the king of Scots?” Wanting to make completely sure, her chief minister, Robert Cecil, asked whether that was her “absolute resolution” – to which she irritably retorted: “I pray you trouble me no more, I’ll have none but him.” That “kinsman” was James VI of Scotland, son of Elizabeth’s old rival Mary, Queen of Scots. Her closest surviving blood relative, he had emerged as the front runner in the race for the English crown. He had the support of Cecil and most of his fellow privy councillors, who had been working behind the scenes to smooth James’s path to the throne. The queen, too, had shown him favour, sharing the pearls of her monarchical wisdom during their 20-year correspondence, as if grooming him as her successor. But she had always flinched from actually naming him as such. Now, almost with her last breath, she had. Elizabeth died two days later – and the Tudor dynasty gave way peacefully to the Stuarts. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/10/GettyImages-544183312webready-e7c6f5b.jpg" width="3727" height="2485" alt="A portrait of Mary, Queen of Scots. She had the strongest blood claim to Elizabeth's throne, but her son would go on to be the next monarch (Image by Getty Images)" title="A portrait of Mary, Queen of Scots. She had the strongest blood claim to Elizabeth's throne, but her son would go on to be the next monarch (Image by Getty Images)" /> This dramatic depiction of Elizabeth’s last-gasp naming of the Scottish king as her heir is based solely on an account by the contemporary historian and antiquarian William Camden. He had begun writing his monumental work Annales: The True and Royall History of the Famous Empresse Elizabeth (first published in Latin in 1615) during Elizabeth’s lifetime. Camden was close to some senior members of the queen’s court, and had access to the voluminous state papers of her reign, so historians have relied on his manuscript as one of the most important and accurate sources for the period. However, none of those present at Elizabeth’s deathbed testified that she had spoken the words Camden quoted in his account, only that the dying queen had raised her hand to her head when James’s name was mentioned – an ambiguous gesture at best. Rewriting history Now, groundbreaking new analysis of Camden’s original manuscript by a team at the British Library has revealed that key passages were covered over and rewritten after Elizabeth’s death to make them more favourable to her successor. No fewer than 200 pages have been pasted in, 65 of which replaced original text with a new version. The use of imaging technology has enabled researcher Helena Rutkowska to see the words underneath for the first time in 400 years. Among the findings are that Elizabeth’s naming of James as her heir was a work of fiction, designed to make his accession appear more predetermined than it had been. In fact, she had been the only monarch in English history not to make provision for the succession. Read more | The Virgin Queen? Elizabeth I's forbidden love If this had been more widely known at the time, it might have had profound repercussions for the Stuart dynasty. Rather than welcoming James as the king to whom ‘Good Queen Bess’ had given her blessing, the people of England might have refused to accept him. After all, England and Scotland had been bitter enemies for centuries, with fleeting periods of peace cut short by the clash of arms or threat of invasion. And James was by no means the only candidate with a strong claim to Elizabeth’s throne. Holding on by his fingertips Camden had first been commissioned to write his history of Elizabeth’s reign in 1596 by William Cecil (Robert’s father), Lord Burghley – Elizabeth’s most trusted advisor, whom she dubbed her ‘Spirit’. It was not a task that the author had embraced with any alacrity, grumbling about the “piles and heaps of papers and writings of all sorts” that had been placed at his disposal. He made only a faltering start during Elizabeth’s lifetime and, as soon as she died, he quietly set down his quill, hoping that the idea would be forgotten. Fast forward to 1607 and James VI & I had been on the English throne for four years. The initially peaceful transition from Tudors to Stuarts had given way to turbulence and uncertainty, conspiracy and persecution, witchcraft and gunpowder. With the accession of England’s first Stuart monarch, everything had been transformed – from court culture to royal ceremony, religious tolerance to parliamentary authority, morality to witch-hunting. Two countries that had been fierce rivals for centuries were now forged into an uncomfortably united kingdom. The fleeting popularity that James had enjoyed as the “bright star of the north” had been extinguished, and he was holding onto his new crown by his fingertips. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/10/William-Camden-MMTP8W-a7d2cb2.jpg" width="938" height="1302" alt="A painting of a bearded man dressed in dark clothing with a grey ruff, sitting against a black background" title="A portrait of William Camden, based on a work of 1609, the year after James ordered him to finish his history of Elizabeth’s reign (Image by Alamy)" /> It was at this moment that James heard about Camden’s stalled biography of his predecessor, and spied an opportunity. To have a published account of Elizabeth’s reign – and, in particular, the succession – written by one of the most esteemed historians of the age would help silence any whispers of usurpation. If, that is, the author was prepared to write it to the king’s satisfaction. It was with good reason that Camden expressed reluctance when first approached by the king to restart his history of Elizabeth. Quite apart from the heavy burden of research it entailed, writing the history of a queen who, even in death, was eclipsing her unpopular successor was fraught with difficulty. Camden knew that James would not want an unbiased appraisal but one written in his favour. Only the previous year, the king had ordered an account of the gunpowder plot to be rewritten so that it was even more complimentary towards him. Restarting the history of Elizabeth was the very definition of a poison chalice, and Camden tried everything to avoid drinking from it. But James gave him no choice. At the king’s command, work on the book resumed in 1608. Camden was his subject to command, and the succession was his to rewrite. Reviving the queen By the time Camden again took up his quill, rewriting sections to James’s benefit, the cult of ‘Gloriana’ was already in full swing. Elizabeth’s former subjects were quick to forget that they had grown tired of “an old woman’s government” and had longed to have a king ruling over them. One contemporary reflected that, a few short years after Elizabeth’s death, “when we had experience of the Scottish government, then… in hate and detestation of them, the queen did seem to revive. Then was her memory much magnified.” It was not long before praising the last Tudor queen became a powerful weapon used to attack her Stuart successor. Donning their rose-tinted glasses, her former subjects harked back to a halcyon time when England had enjoyed decades of peace and prosperity, triumphed over the might of Spain, and was presided over by a glorious queen and her court. The anniversary of Elizabeth’s accession day, 17 November, began to be celebrated each year with “joyful ringing of bells, running at tilt, and festival mirth… in testimony of their affectionate love towards her”. Read more | Why was King James VI and I obsessed with witch hunts? But this sentimental reverence masked the intense uncertainty that had been generated by the persistent refusal of ‘Good Queen Bess’ to name her heir. It’s worth revisiting the history of this reticence and the concerns it had fomented among court and populace. On 10 February 1559 Elizabeth had told the first parliament of her reign that “in the end this shall be for me sufficient: that a marble stone shall declare that a queen, having reigned such a time, lived and died a virgin”. She then declared that God would provide for the succession and would name an heir “peradventure more beneficial to the realm than such offspring as may come of me”. This was all very well but, without the wisdom of hindsight, Elizabeth’s subjects had no idea that she would reign longer and more successfully than any of the other Tudor monarchs. Her three predecessors, Edward VI, Lady Jane Grey and Mary I, had reigned for six years, nine days and five years, respectively, and there was no reason to suppose Elizabeth would escape the ill health that dogged the Tudor dynasty. Indeed, nearly four years into her reign she almost died of smallpox. This catapulted the succession to the forefront of people’s minds and, once there, it would not be forgotten. “Now all the talk is who is to be her successor,” reported the Spanish ambassador, Bishop Álvaro de la Quadra, in 1562. Elizabeth’s determination not to name her heir was born of direct experience. Being heir presumptive during her sister Mary’s brief, bloody reign had placed her in great jeopardy, including a spell in the Tower under threat of execution. “I stood in danger of my life, my sister was so incensed against me,” she told a delegation from parliament in 1566 that had been sent to persuade her to settle the succession. Elizabeth feared that, as soon as she named her heir, the individual chosen would be the focus of plots and rebellions, just as she herself had been during Mary’s reign. “Think you that I could love my winding-sheet?” she demanded to an ambassador, likening a named heir to a shroud. Fierce rivalry In remaining tight-lipped about the succession, Elizabeth gave rise to fierce rivalry between the blood claimants to her throne. Principal among them were Mary, Queen of Scots and her son James VI; his cousin Arbella Stuart; Lady Katherine Grey and her descendants; Henry Hastings, Earl of Huntingdon; and the Infanta Isabella, daughter of Philip II of Spain. As Elizabeth’s reign progressed, most of the rival claimants fell by the wayside, either through natural death, disinheritance or execution. In the race for Elizabeth’s throne, it was less a case of ‘who dares wins’, more ‘survival of the fittest’. In 1600, the English government official and keeper of records Thomas Wilson opined: “This crown is not like to fall to the ground for want of heads that claim to wear it.” Although he admitted that it was “straightly prohibited” to discuss the succession, he went on to give an account of at least 12 people with some kind of claim to the English throne who, in his words, “gape for” Elizabeth’s death. Of these, eight were home-grown candidates and four were from overseas. James VI might have emerged as the odds-on favourite, but his accession was by no means certain. As her long reign wore on, Elizabeth showed through her subtle, steady guiding of the king of Scots that he was, if not her ideal candidate, then at least the best of a bad lot. In the years leading up to her death, she did as much as she could to secure the succession without placing herself in danger by naming an heir. For all the anxiety, intrigue and rivalry that this engendered, the wisdom of her policy was proved by the fact that, to her last breath, her personal power in England had not been challenged by any “rising sun”. But the ultimate success of Elizabeth’s plan depended on James following the advice she had drip-fed him over the years. And that is where it fell apart. It soon became clear that the king had paid only lip service to Elizabeth’s guidance, and proceeded to flout it altogether when he took her throne. He refused to “play the king”, as she had urged, by investing in the magnificence of his court and public appearances, and instead spent most of his time in private with just a handful of favourites. Parliamentary revolt More ominously, James had no intention of sustaining the delicate relationship between crown and parliament that had been the cornerstone of Elizabeth’s success. Instead, he stood firmly by the Stuart belief in the divine right of kings, which in his view gave him the right to ride roughshod over the wishes of his people and his parliaments. This soon sparked resistance from his new English subjects. After a series of bad-tempered exchanges, parliament refused to agree to James’s plan for a formal union between his two kingdoms. Undeterred, he announced that a shared currency would be issued – a 20-shilling piece known as the ‘unite’ – and commissioned a new flag, the ‘Union Jack’ (for Jacobus, or James). Thereafter, rather than working in partnership with his government, he abandoned it altogether, spending his days hunting and cavorting with his favourites. One contemporary noted that this was “the cause of indescribable ill-humour among the king’s subjects, who in their needs and troubles find themselves cut off from their natural sovereign”. Read more | King James VI and I: your guide to the first Stuart monarch of England Meanwhile, growing popular resentment against the king erupted in numerous conspiracies to remove him from the throne. In June 1603, just three months after his accession, the ‘Bye’ plot came to light, involving a group of Catholics who planned to kidnap the king and secure concessions for the practice of their religion. More serious was the ‘Main’ plot to oust James and replace him with his cousin Arbella Stuart. The most dangerous conspiracy of all came in 1605, when a group of Catholics led by Robert Catesby schemed to blow up the king and his parliament. It was only thanks to an anonymous tip-off that Westminster was searched by the royal officials, and Guy Fawkes was discovered with a huge cache of gunpowder beneath the Houses of Parliament just hours before he was due to light the fuse. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/10/GettyImages-51245104webready-cdc8473.jpg" width="2844" height="1896" alt="A black and white woodcut shows a young man kneeling down, being embraced by an older man, who is the king. Behind them, there is a group of men and" title="Prince Charles is welcomed by his father, James VI & I, in a 1623 woodcut. The second Stuart monarch of England took seriously the divine right of kings, and alienated his people and parliament (Image by Getty Images)" /> Lessons not learned All of this might have made James pause to consider that perhaps he ought to follow his predecessor’s advice after all. Instead, he doggedly continued his preferred style of monarchy, no matter the cost. Worse still, in preparing his son and heir, Charles, for the throne, James passed on none of the lessons that Elizabeth had tried to teach him. Charles would be a king in the mould of his Stuart father, not his Tudor predecessor. He took his divine right to even greater extremes than his father, and dissolved parliament whenever it refused to carry out his will. As Charles’s turbulent reign wore on, the spectre of uncertainty over the Stuarts’ right to the Tudor throne – uncertainly that, we now know was all too valid – was thrown into sharp relief. By 1642, he had pushed the supremacy of the royal will too far on both sides of the border. The kingdom was plunged into bitterly fought civil wars that culminated in Charles’s execution and the destruction of the monarchy. In the space of half a century, the crown that had glittered so brightly on Elizabeth’s head had been consigned to the flames. CONTENDERS FOR THE CROWN There was no shortage of people with designs on Elizabeth I’s English throne. But who had the best chance of success? The Scottish thorn Mary, Queen of Scots had the strongest blood claim to Elizabeth’s throne. She was the granddaughter of Henry VIII’s elder sister, Margaret, who married James IV of Scotland. As a Catholic, she enjoyed considerable support among those in England who opposed their queen’s Protestant faith. But Henry VIII’s will had barred his Scottish relatives from inheriting the crown of England. Furthermore, a law passed in 1350, during the reign of Edward III, decreed that “aliens” (those not born on English soil) could not inherit any land there. Nevertheless, Mary campaigned tirelessly to be named heir, and was executed for trying to take the English throne by force. (Contender rating: 6 out of 10) The front runner James VI of Scotland, son of Mary, Queen of Scots, succeeded to his mother’s throne when she was ousted from it in 1567. He also inherited her claim to Elizabeth’s throne, though Mary’s execution in 1587 threw that into jeopardy, because those related to a convicted traitor were tainted by association. In his favour was the fact that by the time of Elizabeth’s death he had a proven track record of ruling a kingdom and, even better, was male. He also enjoyed the strongest support within the English government, and the tacit support of Elizabeth herself – though Henry VIII’s and Edward III’s statutes meant that James’s accession in 1603 was technically illegal. (Contender rating: 7 out of 10) The arrogant orphan Like James, Arbella Stuart was the great-granddaughter of Henry VIII’s elder sister, Margaret, but had the advantage of being born on English soil. Team Arbella was also bolstered by the efforts of her two indomitable grandmothers, Lady Margaret Douglas (Henry VIII’s niece) and Bess of Hardwick, who promoted the claim of “poor orphan Arbella”. Arbella, though, was her own worst enemy. Haughty and arrogant, she alienated Queen Elizabeth, and her unstable temperament made her ill-suited for the throne. During James’s reign, she secretly married another blood claimant, William Seymour, grandson of Lady Katherine Grey (see below), and spent the rest of her life a prisoner in the Tower. (Contender rating: 5 out of 10) The marrying type Henry VIII had decreed that, in the event that his three children died without issue, the crown would pass to the descendants of his younger sister Mary. This gave Katherine Grey (Mary’s granddaughter) and her descendants the strongest legal basis for their claim, strengthened by the fact that Edward VI had made the Greys his primary heirs. Katherine sought to boost her chances further by secretly marrying Edward Seymour, the nephew of Henry VIII’s third wife, Jane Seymour. But this backfired: Elizabeth condemned Katherine to life behind bars, and had her two sons declared illegitimate. However, they and their descendants continued to be seen as strong contenders for Elizabeth’s throne for years afterwards. (Contender rating: 6 out of 10) The "nearest in blood" Lady Margaret Stanley was the daughter of Eleanor Brandon, younger daughter of Henry VIII’s sister Mary. Margaret alleged that her cousins were debarred from the succession because of Lady Jane Grey’s treason, leaving her next in line by Henry VIII’s will and “as the nearest in blood… legitimately of English birth”. Also in her favour was the fact that she had two living sons, Ferdinando and William. She was, though, Catholic. (Contender rating: 4 out of 10) The uninterested Yorkist Henry Hastings, Earl of Huntingdon was of the old Yorkist line. His great-great-grandmother was Lady Margaret Pole, niece of King Edward IV. His grandfather had for a time been a close personal friend of Henry VIII. In stark contrast to all the other contenders, though, Hastings showed no interest in the crown, and spent his life in loyal service to Elizabeth. Still, she didn’t trust him, and it was only after years in the political wilderness that she finally appointed him to office. (Contender rating: 5 out of 10) The Spanish princess When his own attempts to seize Elizabeth’s throne by force failed, Philip II of Spain promoted those of his daughter, the Infanta Isabella Clara Eugenia. She was said to be “of the ancient blood royal of England” through her mother, Elisabeth of Valois. As such, she was a legitimate descendant of John of Gaunt, the fourth son of Edward III, whereas the Tudors were descended from his illegitimate line. But the people of England were notoriously xenophobic, viewing even James of Scotland as an “alien”, and unlikely to ever accept a Spanish queen. (Contender rating: 3 out of 10)
The conqueror’s queen: meet the real Matilda of Flanders
Matilda of Flanders sits in the shadow of her more famous husband but, writes Tracy Borman, she was an able political player who deserves to be better known
Matilda of Flanders was the formidable wife of William the Conqueror, the man who toppled Harold Godwinson to usher in the Norman Conquest in 1066. She broke the mould of queen consorts, wielding considerable power on behalf of – and sometimes in direct opposition to – her husband, and establishing an Anglo-Norman dynasty that would endure for centuries. But until the BBC 1066 drama King and Conqueror few people had heard of her, thanks to the male-dominated sources for the period. The Bayeux Tapestry, which depicts the Norman Conquest of England, includes over 600 different men and just three women – Edith of Wessex (who is Edward the Confessor’s wife, and also Harold Godwinson’s sister); an unnamed woman fleeing a building burned by William’s troops (who may or may not be Edith the Fair, Harold’s wife); and a woman the embroidery identifies as Aelfgyva, of whom we know less. What’s certain is that none of them are Matilda. Who was the real Matilda of Flanders? Piecing together the fragments of Matilda’s life before 1066 reveals a woman who was destined to rule – and given her pedigree, she was viewed as a great prize in the international marriage market. Although the records are scarce for Matilda’s years, she was probably born in around 1031. She was the daughter of the future Count Baldwin V of Flanders (then one of the most important principalities in Europe) and Adela, the daughter of King Robert II ‘the Pious’ of France. Matilda had two brothers, Baldwin and Robert. Described by a contemporary chronicler as ‘highly born’, she could trace her descent from the kings of France, the emperors of Germany and even the Anglo-Saxon dynasty. The latter connection would be of great value to her future husband, William of Normandy. Read more | Did Edward the Confessor really murder his mother? There is no surviving likeness of Matilda, but a later chronicler described her as “one of the most beautiful women that could be seen”. Her skeleton was examined in 1961 and recorded as being four feet two inches tall. This was likely a miscalculation, but she was known to be of small stature, as was her eldest son Robert ‘Curthose’ (meaning ‘short trousers’). Matilda was better educated than most noble women at the time. She was clever, politically astute, strong-willed and fiercely ambitious – qualities that would spark criticism and unease among her contemporaries, and that would shape the negative portrayals of her in the chronicles of the time. Among Matilda’s first suitors was a Saxon lord named Brihtric Mau (or Meaw), who had been sent to Flanders as an ambassador by King Edward the Confessor. Brihtric was one of the richest and most powerful nobles in England, and his vast lands spanned six western counties from Cornwall to Worcestershire. As well as being a man of wealth and influence, Brihtric was a tall and “stalwart”, with light blonde hair; one chronicler claims that Matilda fell in love with him at first sight. Without pausing to seek her father’s approval, she sent a messenger to England to offer herself in marriage. In an age when daughters were expected to meekly accept the fate that was decided for them by their parents, this was an astonishingly audacious act and gives an early glimpse of her forthright nature. But to her dismay and outrage, Brihtric rejected her proposal. Matilda never forgot the slight. Years later, when Queen of England, she had his lands confiscated and threw him into prison, where he died in mysterious circumstances. It was widely rumoured that Matilda had ordered his murder. View Green Video on the source website Matilda of Flanders and William of Normandy In the late 1040s, Matilda received a proposal of marriage from William, Duke of Normandy. He had been the duke since the age of about seven or eight, and was widely known as ‘William the Bastard’, thanks to his illegitimacy. Although he grew into a fierce warrior who saw off Normandy’s enemies and extended its territories, he never shook off the stain of bastardy. He therefore set his sights on a wife with more than enough royal blood for the both of them. Matilda’s father greeted Duke William’s proposal with enthusiasm – given his duchy bordered Flanders, it would be a strategically advantageous alliance. But when his daughter heard of it, she declared that she would not lower herself to marry a ‘base-born duke’. Furious, William rode over to Flanders and confronted his would-be bride, dragging her to the ground, rolling her in the mud and almost beating her to death “with his fists, heels, and spurs”. Read more | How historically accurate is King and Conqueror? According to contemporary chronicles, just a few days later Matilda announced that she would marry none but William, since “he must be a man of great courage and high daring” to have ventured to “come and beat me in my own father’s palace”. Whatever the truth of this outlandish tale, the couple were betrothed shortly afterwards. But there was another obstacle: Pope Leo IX prohibited the marriage on the grounds that William and Matilda were distantly related. Yet William and Matilda were not to be dissuaded; they defied the ban and married in secret in around 1050. Matilda as Duchess of Normandy Despite the inauspicious beginning, the marriage proved a resounding success. As the first Duchess of Normandy for thirty years, Matilda was immensely popular, both with the people of the duchy and her husband. One chronicler noted that her “fruitfulness in children excited in his [William’s] mind the tenderest regard for her”. She gave birth to at least ten children during their marriage, including four sons to continue the Norman dynasty – among them future Norman Duke Robert Curthose, and the future English kings William Rufus and Henry I. She played an active role in her children’s lives, superintending their education and ensuring that her daughters were imbued with as much learning as her sons. The growing status of this power couple on the European stage was acknowledged when, in 1059, Pope Benedict overturned the ban on their marriage. Matilda and her husband each commissioned a spectacular new abbey in Caen as a mark of their gratitude. The magnificent ‘Abbaye-aux-Dames’ and ‘Abbaye-aux-Hommes’ still tower over the city today. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/09/GettyImages-463982347-31caea2-e1758206602372.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="This mid-19th-century illustration imagines Queen Matilda, wife of William the Conqueror, working on the Bayeux Tapestry. Though widely believed in earlier centuries, there is no evidence she created the famous embroidery." title="'Queen Matilda And Her Tapestry', (c1850)." /> What part did Matilda of Flanders play in the Norman Conquest? Matilda not only enhanced William’s standing in Normandy, but also bolstered his claim to the crown of England. The Bayeux Tapestry shows the moment when the childless Edward the Confessor is said to have nominated William as his heir. In either 1064 or 1065, fate played into William’s hands when Harold Godwinson was shipwrecked off the coast of France. He was soon escorted to the ducal court as an honoured guest, but it was clear that William had no intention of letting his rival return to England until he had recognised his own claim to King Edward’s throne. Matilda went on a charm offensive with their Saxon guest, who (again, according to the Bayeux Tapestry) swore an oath to uphold William’s claim. However, when Edward the Confessor died in January 1066, Harold forgot any promise he might have made and seized the throne. William at once began planning to invade and Matilda was behind him every step of the way. More alive to the importance of public image than her husband, she sought the Pope’s sanction for the invasion and gave her daughter Cecilia to the Abbaye-aux-Dames as a token of thanks. Matilda also commissioned a magnificent flagship, The Mora, for her husband to sail across the Channel in September that year. Read more | How Tostig Godwinson’s brotherly betrayal hastened the fall of the Anglo-Saxons It was Matilda who managed affairs in Normandy once her husband set sail. She was in the Benedictine priory of Nôtre Dame du Pré, a small chapel that she had founded in 1060 on the banks of the river Seine near Rouen, praying for William’s success, when a messenger arrived with the news that he had vanquished Harold at the battle of Hastings. She joyfully proclaimed that the priory should henceforth be known as ‘Nôtre Dame de Bonnes Nouvelles’ (‘Our Lady of Good News’). Matilda had good reason to rejoice for she was now Queen of England. Matilda and her father, Baldwin of Flanders Matilda’s father Baldwin V, Count of Flanders, was just as wily as he is in King and Conqueror. 1066: The battle for England Member exclusive | The year 1066 is the most famous in English history, but there's a lot more to the story than one bloody battle at Hastings. In this four-part series, medievalist Marc Morris talks David Musgrove through the full story of the Norman Conquest. Watch all episodes now It was only after William offered him a substantial bribe that he agreed to provide troops for the invasion of England. Admittedly, Baldwin was in an awkward position, for although William was his son-in-law, his half-sister Judith was married to Harold Godwinson’s brother, the exiled Tostig, who had allied himself with the Norwegian king, Harald Hardrada. Baldwin was also anxious not to antagonise his overlord, the French King. In the end, he chose to hedge his bets. As well as providing limited support to William, Baldwin also supplied his brother-in-law Tostig with ships and men to attack England. What happened to Matilda after 1066? Decisive though it was, 1066 was just the beginning of a long and bitterly-contested battle for Norman supremacy in England. It was a battle that Matilda fought with diplomacy and PR, rather than the sword wielded by her husband. She eventually won the respect of the resentful Saxons, who had first called her ‘the strange woman’ but by the time of her death in 1083 praised her as ‘Matilda, wealthy and powerful.’ Tracy Borman is the author of Matilda: Wife of the Conqueror, First Queen of England (Vintage, 2012). Listen to her speaking about Matilda on the Historic Royal Palaces podcast. King and Conqueror is streaming on BBC iPlayer now. For more content like this, check out the best historical movies of all time as chosen by historians and ranked by you, history TV shows and films to stream tonight, and our picks of the new history TV and radio released in the UK this week.
Tudors in turmoil: deciphering Hans Holbein’s masterwork The Ambassadors
Hans Holbein’s masterwork The Ambassadors is an exquisite portrait of two 16th-century diplomats. But it is also crammed with symbols and hidden messages. Tracy Borman deciphers the clues that betray the turbulence of a fateful year
Europe was teetering on the brink of a major rift. Relations between England and continental powers, always fragile, were at risk of fracturing fatally. Often violent confrontations between the Catholic Church and burgeoning Protestant adherents were spreading like wildfire, and the English king seemed determined to add fuel to those flames. Tensions could scarcely be higher. It was at that moment, in 1533, that Hans Holbein the Younger – the most celebrated court painter of the Tudor age – accepted a commission from a recently arrived visitor to the English court. A portrait would be produced, celebrating the wealth of those depicted. But in its extraordinary details, some more obscure and cryptic than others, the picture also reveals important aspects of the sitters and the tempestuous era in which it was painted. As London’s National Gallery celebrates the reopening of its Sainsbury Wing and a major redisplay of its collection, it seems like an apposite moment to take a fresh look at this masterful painting and the turbulent year that spawned it. In the eye of the storm Henry VIII, king since 1509, had recently defied the pope by setting aside his first wife, Catherine of Aragon, to marry Anne Boleyn, the woman who had captivated him for the previous seven years. This sparked a seismic shift in England’s religious, political and social life that would reverberate down the centuries. Jean de Dinteville, ambassador of Henry VIII’s great rival, Francis I of France, instructed Holbein to capture this extraordinary moment with a portrait of himself and his fellow diplomat Georges de Selve, both of whom were caught in the eye of the gathering storm. The result would become one of the artist’s most celebrated works. Dinteville, then aged 28, was a member of one of the most influential families in France. His first embassy to England had been in 1531, the year when Henry was granted the title of supreme head of the English church. With the king of England now on the verge of severing all ties with Rome for good, the stakes were even higher on Dinteville’s second visit in 1533. It was vital for his royal master to receive accurate information about events in England as they unfolded. It was not a task that he accepted with any relish. He would have preferred to stay at home in his château of Polisy in the picturesque region of Champagne, close to the city of Troyes, south-east of Paris. Read more | Inside the six wives' bedchamber: the stories of Tudor ladies-in-waiting Upon arriving in London, Dinteville was lodged in Bridewell Palace on the banks of the Fleet river, the usual residence for French ambassadors. The splendour of his surroundings provided cold comfort. His correspondence is full of complaints about the English weather, and he was ill for most of his stay with an affliction similar to malaria. In a letter, he assured his brother that his illness was not serious, but wryly remarked: “You know how I love this country. I truly believe that as long as I am here, I shall never be entirely healthy.” The misery of Dinteville’s stay was alleviated in April 1533 by the arrival of Georges de Selve. As well as being bishop of Lavaur, de Selve served as ambassador to Emperor Charles V, the Venetian Republic and the Holy See. Being a cleric, de Selve was deeply affected by the religious divisions in Europe, and had witnessed the repression of Lutheranism (which became known as Protestantism) in German districts in recent years. It is not known how the two ambassadors – who were of similar ages – knew each other, but the affection with which Dinteville wrote of de Selve, and the fact that he commissioned a portrait of them together, suggests friendship, even intimacy. By the time of de Selve’s arrival in England, religious tensions had worsened and the political situation was on a knife edge. In May 1533, Henry VIII’s marriage to Catherine of Aragon was finally annulled and Anne Boleyn was confirmed as his legitimate queen by Thomas Cranmer, archbishop of Canterbury. For all the elaborate cordiality between the kings of England and France, their alliance was now under threat – which destabilised the entire power balance in Europe. It is not clear exactly when Dinteville commissioned Holbein to paint the double portrait, but de Selve had left England by early June so it must have been before then. Swirling upheaval Holbein came from a family of artists in Augsburg, southern Germany. He had first visited England in 1526 under the patronage of Thomas More, one of the most influential members of Henry VIII’s court. As well as undertaking portraits of More and his family, Holbein worked as a decorative painter at the royal court. His fame spread and, by the time he returned to England in 1532 (or possibly 1531), he was inundated with commissions. These included designs for table fountains and fireplaces, goldsmith’s work and other embellishments for the king’s palaces, as well as the portraits and miniatures of prominent courtiers for which he is best known today. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/06/BAL4572772-CMYK-b84315b.jpg" width="3175" height="2115" alt="A sketch shows a man with a serious expression on his face. He is turned to the left, facing back to the viewer." title="Hans Holbein the Younger c1542–43, likely sketched by his own hand. Having earlier visited England, the artist was inundated with commissions on his return in c1532" /> Dinteville’s commission, though, would be unlike any that Holbein had undertaken in England before then. The ambassador clearly intended the painting to be very different from the conventional portraits of prominent figures that had become the artist’s stock-in-trade at the Tudor court. Laden with clues, iconography and messages, it reflects a very particular and pivotal moment in time. England and Europe stood on the edge of a precipice, with religious turmoil, political and social upheaval swirling below. Dinteville knew that events were rapidly spiralling out of control; here, suspended in the painting, they would be captured for posterity in symbols, their complexities hidden in plain sight for future generations to discover. It is highly unlikely that Dinteville and de Selve ever posed for the portrait in the sumptuous and complex interior featured in the finished composition. Already accustomed to working with busy courtiers who had little time to sit, Holbein preferred to construct his paintings piecemeal, making numerous preparatory drawings and sketching the sitters from life so that their presence was not required during the longer process of painting. We don’t know how long it took Holbein to paint The Ambassadors, but he was in great demand as an artist and completed a number of other works in 1533, so it’s likely that he worked quickly. He took various shortcuts, such as the inclusion of a green curtain as a backdrop – a device that he had used in his paintings since the 1520s. The tiled floor that appears in the foreground was painted quite simply, and the tufts of the oriental carpet were created with a thick brush, possibly for speed as well as for effect. The finished portrait, though, was breathtaking. Measuring just over 2 metres square, it is one of the largest paintings Holbein ever produced – and one of the most unusual and intriguing. The two ambassadors dominate the composition. In contrast with the head-and-shoulders portraits popular with Henry’s courtiers, the men are shown full-length, standing on either side of a piece of furniture with two shelves. Their stances, each with an arm resting on the carpet that covers the shelves, seems to invite the viewer to study the objects displayed. These include scientific, astronomical and musical instruments: items on the upper shelf relate to the heavens, those on the lower to the Earth. In creating the double portrait, Holbein showcased an array of painting techniques that he had refined during his career to date. The sumptuousness of Dinteville’s clothes, with the sheen of his pink satin doublet and the play of light on the folds of the material, appears exquisitely lifelike. In contrast, de Selve is dressed in sombre colours, which was typical of many of Holbein’s sitters in the 1530s – notably Henry VIII’s chief minister, Thomas Cromwell, who had sat for the artist within the past year. However, the result is just as rich in depth and texture. Holbein also showed off his technique for decorative gilding to dazzling effect, picking out details such as Dinteville’s chain, hat badge and dagger sheath. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/06/2G2NDPK-CMYK-0237e0f.jpg" width="1785" height="1189" alt="Holbein’s sketch for the huge mural of Henry VIII and his family that graced Whitehall Palace. Was the king inspired to commission this major dynastic portrait after admiring the artist’s earlier The Ambassadors? (Image by Alamy)" title="Holbein’s sketch for the huge mural of Henry VIII and his family that graced Whitehall Palace. Was the king inspired to commission this major dynastic portrait after admiring the artist’s earlier The Ambassadors? (Image by Alamy)" /> There is no record of Dinteville’s reaction to the finished painting, nor of who else might have seen it. Dinteville attended Anne Boleyn’s coronation on 1 June, and was instructed by Francis I to remain in England until the birth of her child, to whom his master had agreed to be godfather. On 7 September 1533, though, the new queen gave birth not to the hoped-for boy but to a girl – the future Elizabeth I. “The King’s mistress was delivered of a daughter, to the great regret both of him and the lady,” reported the gleeful imperial ambassador, Eustace Chapuys. The celebratory jousts and fireworks were quietly cancelled, and the French king was no longer expected to stand as godfather to a mere princess. Dinteville left England two months later, returning to his home at Polisy. Though he almost certainly took The Ambassadors with him, the first recorded reference to it at the château is dated more than 50 years later – by which time Dinteville was long dead. The painting was later taken to England during the tumult of the French Revolution. It was acquired by the 2nd Earl of Radnor for the gallery of his Wiltshire home, Longford Castle, and then sold by the 5th Earl to London’s National Gallery in 1890. Read more | The swordplay’s the thing: Henry VIII's Masters of Defence and the thrilling world of 16th-century fencing Mystery men After some restoration work, The Ambassadors went on public display. The intense interest in the painting sparked debate about the identity of the sitters, which was not known at the time. It was widely assumed that they were English, given that Holbein produced numerous portraits of Henry VIII and his courtiers. Various names were put forward, including Anne Boleyn’s former companion and admirer, the poet Thomas Wyatt. It was thanks to detective work by the historian Mary Hervey, whose account of the painting was published in 1900, that both men were correctly identified. After sifting through numerous documents in French archives, she found a fragment of a 1653 inventory that correctly named the sitters. The Ambassadors is now one of the most famous paintings in the National Gallery, and millions of visitors admire it each year. Although it’s not known who among Holbein’s contemporaries saw the finished work, it is tempting to speculate that it inspired Henry VIII to commission one of the most famous paintings of the Tudor era. In 1536–37, Holbein painted a huge mural for the palace of Whitehall. It featured the king with his parents, Henry VII and Elizabeth of York, and his third wife, Jane Seymour, to whom he was betrothed a day after the execution of Anne Boleyn for adultery and treason in May 1536. The original was lost in the fire that destroyed Whitehall in 1698, but Holbein’s sketch for it still survives in the National Portrait Gallery. Just like the sitters in The Ambassadors, Henry was painted full-length, and his broad frame and strident pose are reminiscent of Jean de Dinteville’s. This portrait became the most famous depiction of the Tudor king – and an enduring image of royal power. The Ambassadors deciphered The shepherd's sundial The shepherd’s dial, a type of cylindrical sundial, appears to indicate a date of either 11 April or 15 August. On the former day in 1533, the court was told that Anne Boleyn would be accorded royal honours. However, the readings shown on this and other instruments in the painting can’t be relied upon, being dependent on sunlight but painted indoors. It’s possible Holbein intended the divergent times and dates to convey the message that Europe was out of joint – a world in transition. The terrestrial globe The terrestrial globe focuses on France – with Dinteville’s château, Polisy (spelt Policy, perhaps a pun on his diplomatic mission), in prime position. Centuries later, this would provide one of the most important clues to the identity of the sitter. Paris is shown as well (spelt with a ‘B’, which might be how Holbein pronounced it), along with Lyon, where the French court was also based. Europe is shown upside down – a reference, perhaps, to the religious turmoil sparked by the Reformation. The broken lute Another clue that this is no ordinary composition, the broken lute (on the table, centre-right) string symbolises discord. One flute is missing from the nearby case, inferring a lack of harmony; the music of flutes was also commonly associated with war. Left of the lute sits a German arithmetic book, propped open with a set square at a page about division – it begins with the word Dividirt (‘let division be made’). The Lutheran hymnbook It was dangerous to possess a Lutheran hymnbook like this (pictured open, on the right-hand side of the centre table) in England or France at the time, so it was probably there to convey a message about religious division. The hymns shown are not in the right place according to the original book on which this is based, suggesting disorder. Both were traditional Catholic anthems, but were published in German at the Lutheran town of Wittenberg in 1524. This may indicate Georges de Selve’s desire to bring together the warring sides of the church. The skull Viewed from below and left, this large anamorphic element snaps into view as a human skull. Dinteville’s personal motto was: ‘Remember thou shalt die.’ (His hat badge also features a skull.) Peeking out from the top left-hand corner of the painting, partially concealed by the green curtain, is a silver crucifix. This symbol of salvation and eternal life offered hope to Christians everywhere, Catholics and Protestants alike. The exquisite pavement The two ambassadors stand on an exquisite pavement inlaid with coloured stones set in an elaborate geometric design. It’s reminiscent of the Cosmati Pavement before the high altar in Westminster Abbey, named after the 13th-century Italian family of marble workers who completed it for Henry III in 1268. Dinteville would certainly have seen this pavement – because it was in that precise location that Anne Boleyn was crowned on 1 June 1533. This article was first published in the June 2025 issue of BBC History Magazine
What was Mary Tudor and Thomas Cromwell's relationship – did they plan to marry?
It was thanks to Thomas Cromwell that Mary Tudor – daughter of Catherine of Aragon – was demoted from heir to the throne to illegitimate outcast. So what was the relationship between the two really like?
The relationship between Thomas Cromwell and Princess Mary, Henry's VIII's daughter with Catherine of Aragon, is under the spotlight in Wolf Hall: The Mirror and the Light. Here. Tudor historian Tracy Borman explores the true relationship between the disinherited princess and the Lord Privy Seal – and whether she really was his 'loving friend' The future Mary I and Thomas Cromwell were diametrically opposed in every way that mattered. She was a staunch Roman Catholic; he a reformist who masterminded the destruction of the monasteries and England’s break from Rome. She was the daughter of Henry VIII’s first queen, Catherine of Aragon; he helped engineer the annulment of their marriage so that the king might marry Anne Boleyn. Thanks to Cromwell, Mary suffered the misery and humiliation of being demoted from heir to the throne to illegitimate outcast. Read more | Thomas Cromwell on screen: is Wolf Hall the best depiction of the Tudor statesman? Was Princess Mary Thomas Cromwell's 'loving friend'? On the surface at least, relations between the two were cordial. Their letters were filled with respectful, even affectionate sentiments. These should not be taken at face value, however. Even the fiercest of enemies would disguise their antipathy with the elaborate, courtly language of the Tudor age. Thus, Elizabeth I referred to her most deadly rival, Mary, Queen of Scots, as her “beloved sister” right up until the point when she ordered her execution. Nevertheless, there did seem to be a rapprochement between Mary and Cromwell after Anne Boleyn’s death in 1536. Did Thomas Cromwell hope to marry princess Mary? It was even rumoured that the king’s chief minister harboured secret plans to marry the Lady Mary so that his heirs might inherit the crown of England. There is little reliable proof that Cromwell ever presumed so far. Even if he had, it is highly unlikely that Henry VIII would have sanctioned such a marriage, or that Mary herself would have agreed to it. In fact, the real reason behind the apparent cordiality between Cromwell and Mary during the mid-1530s was that he was trying to persuade the king’s stubborn eldest daughter to acknowledge the invalidity of her parents’ marriage and accept her father’s new status as supreme head of the church. When Mary continued to resist, Cromwell dispensed with the niceties and bluntly told her: “To be plain with you, I think you the most obstinate woman that ever was.” The gloves, at last, were off. Read next | What did Mary Tudor think of her stepmothers, including Anne Boleyn? Six Wives: A HistoryExtra podcast series Member exclusive | In this six-part podcast series, we’ll be peeling back the layers of mythmaking to take another look at these fascinating women, who shaped the course of Henry’s reign – and the history of England. Listen to all episodes now
Thomas Cromwell on screen: is Wolf Hall the best depiction of the Tudor statesman?
Move over Thomas More – Tracy Borman argues that it was Thomas Cromwell, Henry VIII's 'faithful servant' who was truly the man for all seasons
This weekend sees the release of the long-awaited BBC dramatisation of Hilary Mantel’s The Mirror and the Light, the final instalment of her globally bestselling and Booker Prize winning Wolf Hall trilogy that traces the meteoric rise and dramatic fall of Thomas Cromwell in the court of Henry VIII. Here, historian Tracy Borman looks at five of the most famous screen portrayals of Henry’s trusted adviser – and makes the case for which comes closest to reality. Wolf Hall (2014 & 2024) The late Hilary Mantel’s compelling portrayal of Henry VIII’s henchman, Thomas Cromwell, (traditionally one of history’s greatest villains) so fired the public imagination that scriptwriters scrambled to translate it to stage and screen. The RSC’s production, starring Ben Miles, attracted sell-out crowds in the UK and US. The BBC’s screen version followed hot on its hills, a lavish six-part dramatisation starring Mark Rylance in the lead role and Damian Lewis as his royal master, Henry VIII. Rylance gave us an altogether different Cromwell to the ruthless schemer who masterminded Anne Boleyn’s fall, destroyed the monasteries and lined his own pockets in the process. The screen version was both more sympathetic and attractive: a tender husband and father, charming and self-deprecating, a self-made man and – as Mantel put it – “clever as a bag of snakes”. Rylance’s Cromwell was quiet and watchful, his expression conveying a thousand words without his lips uttering a single one. There was a dazzling supporting cast. Damian Lewis was just as charismatic, mercurial and, at times, psychopathic, as the Tudor king himself. Claire Foy’s Anne Boleyn was masterful: capricious, magnetic and vulnerable, with a hint of a French accent (‘Cremwell’) that was both condescending and entirely authentic. Jonathan Pryce gave us a charming, clever and humorous Cardinal Wolsey; Mark Gatiss was suitably snide and sinister as Cromwell’s archenemy Stephen Gardiner; and Saskia Reeves played his love interest with a gentle, heartbreaking touch. Some – notably Rylance, Lewis and Pryce – will return for the new series, while others, such as Tom Holland, who played Cromwell’s hapless son Gregory, has since been catapulted to Hollywood superstardom when he bagged the part of Spiderman. The Mirror and the Light will also feature new stars. I, for one, cannot wait to see Timothy Spall as the villainous Duke of Norfolk. Read more | What was Princess Mary and Thomas Cromwell's relationship – did they plan to marry? A Man for All Seasons (1966) Every film needs a hero and a villain, and in most screen portrayals of Henry VIII’s reign, Sir Thomas More and Thomas Cromwell adopt these roles. Diametrically opposed on everything, from the king’s divorce to the Reformation, these two arch-enemies provide ideal fodder for film makers. But until Wolf Hall, it was patently clear who the hero really was. The villainous Cromwell here is played by Leo McKern (later famous for playing the title role in TV’s Rumpole of the Bailey). It is not such a one-dimensional portrayal as others, however. McKern’s Cromwell may be an untrustworthy schemer, but he has humanity, humour and warmth. He also brings out Cromwell’s formidable intelligence, as well as a certain amount of chubby uncouthness to represent his humble origins. But overall – and particularly as the film makes it way towards its climax – McKern’s Cromwell is undoubtedly the embodiment of evil. He preys upon the weakness of Richard Rich in an almost diabolical manner in order to secure the condemnation of the saintly Thomas More, played by Paul Schofield. The audience is left in no doubt who they should be rooting for. What is the best historical movie of all time? Sword-and-sandals epic or soulful period piece? Gritty war drama or muddy medieval caper? HistoryExtra asked 22 historians to nominate the best historical movies of all time | Read more Anne of the Thousand Days (1969) A more extreme version of Cromwell the villain is found in Anne of the Thousand Days. Here, Thomas Cromwell is played by John Colicos (more famous for playing the Klingon commander Kor in Star Trek) in a manner more chilling in its depiction of the king’s minister than any other. Described in the film as “entirely without scruple”, Colicos uses a monotone voice and piercing eyes to portray Cromwell as almost devoid of any humanity whatsoever. This is seen most vividly in his cool indifference to the torture of Mark Smeaton, whom he frames for adultery with Anne Boleyn. In fact, the only point where any sense of humanity is allowed to emerge in Colicos’ Cromwell is when, having suggested the break with Rome to Richard Burton’s Henry VIII, he retreats through a doorway to breathe a huge sigh of relief at the apparent success of this risk. Henry VIII and His Six Wives (1972) Yet another Cromwell appears in Henry VIII and His Six Wives. Cromwell is played by Donald Pleasence (later to play the Bond villain Blofeld in You Only Live Twice), alongside Keith Michell’s celebrated Henry. In contrast to the choleric McKern and the icy Colicos, Pleasence’s Cromwell is more weasel-like, mumbling through a nasal voice and insincere smile in his constant efforts to ingratiate himself with the king. Unlike Anne of the Thousand Days and A Man for All Seasons, Henry VIII and His Six Wives continues long enough to depict Cromwell’s alienation of the nobility and his resulting arrest as he is led away from the council in dazed indignation at the sudden accusation of treason. Odd, and somewhat too quirky to be convincing, Pleasence’s Cromwell has the virtue of portraying the over-confidence that preceded the minister’s dramatic fall and his failure to anticipate the fickle indifference of the king to his fate. The Tudors (2007–10) While much of the credit for Cromwell’s rehabilitation in recent times is given to the novels of Hilary Mantel, the major revision in terms of the screen actually preceded Wolf Hall. James Frain’s portrayal of Cromwell in The Tudors gave us an altogether more rounded and human figure. One of the key factors here was the much longer running time of the lavish production, which appeared to liberate it from the need to provide the more one-dimensional hero versus villain portrayals of shorter films. Rather than being depicted in sharp, unflattering contrast to the Thomas More of Jeremy Northam, Frain’s Cromwell is allowed to possess a conscience and very obvious convictions alongside being extremely clever and hard working. Examples of this are the distaste that he shows during the torture of Mark Smeaton; the affection for his son Gregory, and the genuine Protestant convictions that shaped much of his service to the king. But this is no whitewash: Cromwell’s ruthlessness is displayed alongside the high handedness towards the nobility that later proved his undoing. Perhaps the most disturbing scene in the entire four seasons of The Tudors is its depiction of Cromwell's gruesome execution in 1540. Even if some of the details of this are largely imaginary, such as the executioner being plied with drink so that he botches Cromwell’s beheading, it is a very effective portrayal of the hatred felt for him by his opponents. So which of these portrayals comes closest to the real Cromwell? In researching his extraordinary life for my biography, I discovered a character at once warm, affectionate and humorous, but one who did not flinch from acts of astonishing ruthlessness and cruelty. In truth, Cromwell defies typecasting, and instead combines elements of all five portrayals. He, rather than More, was truly a man for all seasons. More from us HistoryExtra members can explore this topic further with exclusive content from our archives Wolf Hall: Author Hilary Mantel talks Tudors and Thomas Cromwell The Mirror & The Light book review: Hilary Mantel's epic finale "lives up to the hype" Thomas Cromwell: the best Italian in all England Not a HistoryExtra member? 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"To read a Shardlake novel is to be immersed in the turbulent world of the Tudors" | Tracy Borman reflects on the work of CJ Sansom
Following the sad news of the passing of CJ Sansom in April 2024, Tracy Borman reflects on the historical novelist’s popular Shardlake series, set in Tudor England, and how even through fiction he was able to make valuable contributions to our understanding of this historical period
The announcement of the death of historical novelist CJ Sansom on 27 April 2024 prompted widespread sorrow amongst his legions of fans across the world. He died, aged 71, just days before Shardlake, a major new TV adaptation of his first novel, Dissolution, starring Arthur Hughes as lawyer Matthew Shardlake and Sean Bean as his formidable master Thomas Cromwell, was released on Disney+. Christopher John Sansom, better known as CJ, was the author of numerous acclaimed works, including Winter in Madrid (2006), a spy novel set in the aftermath of the Spanish Civil War, and the alternate-history thriller Dominion (2012), which imagines a Britain that had surrendered to the Germans after Dunkirk. But it was his mystery novels set in Tudor England and featuring barrister Shardlake for which he was best known – and loved. To read a Shardlake novel is to be immersed in the turbulent world of the Tudors: the cutthroat courts of Henry VIII and his son Edward VI, the religious and social upheaval of the Reformation, and the sights, smells and sounds of 16th-century London. A succession of seismic events, such as Henry’s rapid succession of wives, his break with Rome and the sinking of the Mary Rose, provides the backdrop to Shardlake’s sleuthing. But what Sansom’s novels bring so vividly to life is the often-devastating impact that these events had on the lives of the ordinary people of Tudor England. His debut novel was inspired by Sansom’s fascination with the Tudors and his love of crime novels, as well as his home county of Sussex. Published in 2003, Dissolution is set in a fictional monastery on the Sussex coast on the eve of Henry VIII’s piecemeal dissolution of the monasteries. The seventh in the series, Tombland (2018), takes as its theme Kett’s Rebellion of 1549. At the time of his death, Sansom was working on an eighth, titled Ratcliff, set in the closing year of Edward VI’s reign. The spark of Sansom's historical fiction What sets the Shardlake novels apart from most other historical fiction is the depth of research that Sansom undertook to ensure that they were as accurate and authentic as possible. “The problem with history – and the further back you go, the truer this is – is that there are all sorts of gaps,” he once remarked. “With Tudor times, information is sparse: things have single or contradictory sources. But where there are established facts, I do everything I can to insert the story around them.” Sansom was well qualified for that task, having read history to PhD level at the University of Birmingham before leaving academia for a career in the law. Although he observed that a novel “cannot offer the accuracy you’d get in an academic article,” his research for each Shardlake novel was meticulous and extensive. In researching Sovereign (2006) – the third book in the series, which is based around Henry VIII’s tumultuous northern progress of 1541 – Sansom made a discovery so significant that he published an academic paper about it. The abortive Wakefield Plot of March 1541 is often overlooked, but Sansom’s research proved what a threat it was to Henry VIII’s regime and how the progress (which was armed) was at least partly in response to it. Each novel also ends with an extensive bibliography and a scrupulous historical note to explain exactly how the author has interpreted the facts to serve the interests of the story. Plots twist and turn and are never predictable. Many times, I have smugly identified whodunnit by the end of the first chapter, only to have my conclusions shattered by the end of the last. Bringing Tudor England to life Another mark of a great novelist is the crafting of characters that are as convincing as they are compelling. Here again, Sansom reigns supreme. Kings, queens, courtiers, lawyers, laymen and priests, rich and poor, virtuous and corrupt, famous and obscure; his characters are so startingly life-like that it feels as if they could step from the page at any moment. The star of the show is, of course, Matthew Shardlake, a solitary, physically-challenged and slightly irascible lawyer: in short, the unlikeliest of heroes. Although professionally successful, his scoliosis brings him both physical and emotional pain. It also marks him as an outsider in a superstitious age that regarded people with physical disabilities as unlucky – or, in Richard III’s case, plain evil. Read more | Why Tudor perspectives on disability might surprise you Although Sansom claimed that the character of Shardlake dropped into his head ‘fully formed’, it is tempting to see an element of the autobiographical here. Just as Charles Dickens had much in common with David Copperfield, so Sansom shares some facets with his novels’ hero. Both he and Shardlake were unmarried former lawyers who specialised in representing the less privileged and were prone to bouts of depression. The protagonist’s jovial, handsome and unshakeably loyal sidekick, Jack Barak, is the perfect foil. The growth of their friendship is one of the most touching elements of the series. It is telling that another close friend of Shardlake’s, Guy Malton, a Moorish healer turned Christian monk, is a fellow outsider in a world deeply suspicious of difference. As well as evoking the Tudor past, Sansom’s novels have plenty of resonance with modern-day Britain. “Political plotting is eternal and Henry VIII inserts himself into the lives of his subjects in a way that no English monarch ever had. Spin takes on a new lease of life under Henry and Cromwell,” he said. As if to prove the point, shortly before resigning in 2019, the then-prime minister Theresa May inaugurated a miniature library (housed in a redundant phone box) in her constituency by donating her copy of Dissolution. The Shardlake novels are arguably CJ Sansom’s greatest legacy and, now that they have finally begun to make the transition to the screen, they are set to attract swathes of new devotees across the world. Historians spend a lot of time quibbling over the merits and dangers of historical fiction and dramatisation. But, for me, novels as carefully crafted and richly authentic as Sansom’s deserve to be celebrated not just for the pleasures they provide, but for the contributions they make to our understanding of the past. On the podcast | Historical consultant Peter Wagstaff on bringing Shardlake to the small screen
Who was the real Thomas Cromwell? Your guide to Henry VIII's "faithful servant"
How much do you know about Thomas Cromwell? As Henry VIII's chief minister, he became one of the most powerful men in England – but little is known about his origins. Here, historian Tracy Borman answers all the questions you need to know – from his meteoric rise to his spectacular fall from favour…
What is Thomas Cromwell remembered for? Thomas Cromwell enjoyed a meteoric rise from the son of a Putney blacksmith to the chief minister of Henry VIII. A man of exceptional ability and with an enormous capacity for hard work, he dominated England’s political and religious life for a decade. He ruthlessly dispatched those who stood against him and his royal master, notably his rival Thomas More and Henry’s notorious second wife Anne Boleyn. He also masterminded the seismic religious changes of the 1530s, playing a key role in the split from Rome, the establishment of Henry as ‘Supreme Head’ of a new Church of England, and the dissolution of the monasteries that followed in its wake. When and where was Thomas Cromwell born? The man who would one day become the most powerful in England was of such humble origins that nobody can be sure when or where he was born. The likeliest date for his birth is 1485, which would be appropriate, given it was the year the Tudors seized the throne following the battle of Bosworth. His birthplace is often cited as Putney, which at the time would have been a small village by the river Thames, west of the City of London. What were Thomas Cromwell's origins? Records suggest that Thomas was the youngest of three children – and the only boy – born to Walter Cromwell and his wife Katherine née Meverell. Considerably younger than his sisters, he may have been an unexpected child. In the only recorded reference to his mother, Thomas made the unlikely claim that she was 52 when she bore him. He made the remark during the debate about Henry VIII’s annulment with reference to whether Catherine of Aragon was still capable of bearing a living son. Walter Cromwell was an enterprising if disreputable man with a number of different professions, including blacksmith, fuller (cloth dresser) and cloth merchant. He had ingratiated himself with the new Tudor dynasty by serving as a farrier in the future Henry VII’s contingent at the battle of Bosworth in 1485. He also owned a hostelry, called the Anchor, and a brewery. This was situated close to their home at the top of Brewhouse Lane, which today still runs the short distance from Putney Bridge Road to the river Thames. A house by the river in modern-day Putney would demand a premium, but the area was a good deal less salubrious in the 16th century. Cromwell’s father was often in trouble with the law. He was fined six pence by the manor court on no fewer than 48 occasions between 1475 and 1501 for "breaches of the assizes of ale" (which meant that he had been watering down the beer that he sold). But his most serious conviction came in 1477 when he was found guilty of assault. Although the sources reveal little of Thomas’s relationship with his father, a remark he made many years later suggests he had inherited some of Walter’s less admirable traits. He confided to his friend Archbishop Thomas Cranmer what a "ruffian he was in his young days". But he was eager to escape the family home. In 1503, when he was aged about 18, Cromwell left England for what would be a lengthy spell abroad. After a brief spell as a mercenary in the French army, he entered the household of the wealthy Florentine merchant, Francesco Frescobaldi. Living in one of the most culturally vibrant cities in the world had a profound impact upon Cromwell’s character, beliefs and interests. Artists such as Michelangelo were regular visitors to Frescobaldi’s house, and Niccolò Machiavelli was beginning to exert his influence in the government of Florence. Cromwell showed far more promise as an apprentice merchant than he had as a soldier, and by the time he returned to England in around 1512 he had both the experience and contacts to flourish in that profession. But like his father, he was not content to follow just one career path and soon after arriving back in London he was practising law. It was this profession that would win him greatest renown. Cromwell’s years on the continent had transformed him from a poorly educated, if precocious and streetwise ‘ruffian’, to a cultured, well-connected and successful man of business. If he had stayed in Putney and become an apprentice blacksmith or brewer, history would have turned out very differently. Did Thomas Cromwell marry? Soon after his return to England in 1514, Cromwell married Elizabeth Williams, née Wykys, a wealthy widow. It was a sign of how far he had come that he was able to make such a good match. It would prove a successful marriage and produced at least three children: Alice (or Anne), Grace and Gregory. The family lived in Fenchurch, on the eastern side of the City of London, a popular area with merchants, before moving to nearby Austin Friars. The contemporary sources provide very few details of Cromwell’s marriage and family life, but it appears to have been settled and harmonious. Tragically, Cromwell lost both his wife and daughters to the sweating sickness within the space of a year (1528/9). He never remarried and instead focused all of his affection upon his surviving child, Gregory. Although it is sometimes claimed that one ‘Jane Cromwell’ who appears in the contemporary sources was his illegitimate daughter, there is no proof of this. What was Thomas Cromwell's relationship with Cardinal Wolsey? By the time of his wife and daughters’ deaths, Cromwell was one of the most successful businessmen in London. He had also secured an influential patron in the form of Cardinal Thomas Wolsey, Henry VIII’s chief minister. It is not clear when Wolsey first enlisted Cromwell’s services, but he soon rose to become one of his most trusted servants. Wolsey once wrote to express his gratitude for Cromwell’s "good, sad, discreet advice and counsel". It is to Cromwell’s credit that in stark contrast to the majority of Wolsey’s sizeable entourage, Cromwell stood by his patron when Wolsey was thrown out of office in 1529 for failing to secure the annulment of the king’s marriage to Catherine of Aragon. Indeed, he went further still by going to court in order to secure Henry’s pardon for his master – apparently oblivious to the dangers of doing so. How did Thomas Cromwell come to power? Against the odds and within the space of just one year, Cromwell had not only succeeded in rehabilitating his fallen master but had won such favour with Henry VIII that he was appointed a member of the Privy Council. In consistently defending his fallen patron, Cromwell not only softened Henry’s mind towards Wolsey but also impressed him with his own loyalty. Cromwell’s quick-wittedness, irreverence and obvious ability also attracted the king. Self-taught rather than formally educated, he was more intelligent and articulate than most of the nobly born members of court, and he soon gained renown as an orator. His cosmopolitan upbringing also gave him an edge over them. But his lack of refinement showed in what one observer described as a "rough" style of management. While this upset his noble rivals, his direct and bullish approach appealed to a king who had spent so much of his life surrounded by sycophants and flatterers. In April 1532, Henry awarded Cromwell his first formal office, that of Master of the Jewels. The 17th-century antiquarian John Strype opined that this appointment was a sure sign that Cromwell had "grown in great favour with the King". Many more promotions would follow, bringing Cromwell great riches as well as immense power. His private businesses were also continuing to flourish, and together with his court appointments it has been estimated that by 1537 his annual income was around £12,000 – equivalent to more than £3.5m in today’s money. What is the story behind Hans Holbein's famous portrait of Thomas Cromwell? It was almost certainly to celebrate his appointment as Master of the Jewels that Cromwell commissioned Hans Holbein, the most celebrated artist of the age, to paint his portrait. Far from flattering the sitter, it offers a brutally honest appraisal. The first impression is of a pensive and rather grumpy bureaucrat. Cromwell has a bulky frame and appears to be of middling height, although as he is seated this is difficult to judge. Turned slightly to the right, his small, prying eyes stare intently at something in the middle distance. His eyebrows are slightly raised in a questioning, vaguely cynical stance, and his long, thin lips are pressed together in a line. Little wonder it is often thought that Holbein disliked Cromwell. In fact, though, they were firm friends. It was as the public statesman, not the private man, that Cromwell wished to be remembered. The portrait presents a compelling – if unflattering – testament to his brilliant mind and enormous capacity for hard work. It is as if the painter has happened upon him in his study, deep in thought on some weighty matter. This is no unworldly academic, consumed by the ideas contained within the letters and books by which he is surrounded; it is a man of action, a shrewd and decisive pragmatist driven by a desire to succeed in all things. When did Thomas Cromwell die? Thomas Cromwell was executed on 28 July 1540, Tower Hill, London. It took three blows of the axe by the "ragged and butcherly" executioner to sever his head. There is a theory that, in a particularly cruel fit of revenge, the Duke of Norfolk had either bribed the axeman or plied him with alcohol. Where is Thomas Cromwell buried? According to the established tradition for traitors, after his execution in 1540, Cromwell’s head was displayed on London Bridge. It was then reunited with the rest of his remains and buried at the Tower’s Chapel of St Peter ad Vincula, where his erstwhile rivals Anne Boleyn and Thomas More had been laid to rest. The woman whom Henry had married on the day of Cromwell’s execution would join him there just 18 months later. Are Thomas Cromwell and Oliver Cromwell related? Yes, Thomas Cromwell and Oliver Cromwell are related through Thomas’s nephew, Richard, the son of his sister Katherine and her husband Morgan Williams. Richard changed his name to Cromwell upon entering his uncle’s service. Oliver Cromwell was Richard’s great-grandson. Given the fate he suffered at Henry VIII’s hands, Oliver’s great-uncle Thomas might have approved of the fact that his descendant would one day rid the country of monarchical rule.
Why was King James VI and I obsessed with witch hunts?
The witch hunts that swept across Europe between 1450 and 1750 are one of the most controversial and terrifying phenomena in history, resulting in the trial of around 100,000 people (most of them women), a little under half of whom were put to death. Here, Tracy Borman explores the most notorious royal witch-hunter of all time: James VI and I...
A holocaust of their time, historians have long attempted to explain why and how the European witch craze that spread around Europe between the 15th and 18th century took such rapid and enduring hold. One of the most active centres of witch-hunting was Scotland, where up to 4,000 people were put to the flames. This was striking for such a small country, and was more than double the execution rate in England. The ferocity of the Scottish persecutions can be attributed to royal witch-hunter James VI and I. James’s obsession with witchcraft can be traced back to his childhood. The violent death of his mother, Mary, Queen of Scots, seems to have inspired a dark fascination with magic. “His Highness told me her death was visible in Scotland before it did really happen,” related Sir John Harington many years later, being, as he said, “spoken of in secret by those whose power of sight presented to them a bloody head dancing in the air”. Two years after Mary’s execution, another dramatic event deepened James’s growing obsession with magic and witchcraft. In 1589 he was betrothed to Anne of Denmark, but she almost lost her life in a violent tempest when she set sail across the North Sea to meet her new husband. In an uncharacteristic show of chivalry, James resolved to sail across to Denmark and collect her in person. But on their return voyage the royal fleet was battered by more storms and one of the ships was lost. James immediately placed the blame on witches, claiming that they must have cast evil spells upon his fleet. As soon as he reached Scottish shores, James ordered a witch-hunt on a scale never seen before. No fewer than 70 suspects were rounded up in the coastal Scottish town of North Berwick on suspicion of raising a storm to destroy James and his new bride. Most of the suspects soon confessed – under torture – to concocting a host of bizarre and gruesome spells and rituals in order to whip up the storm. They included binding the severed genitalia and limbs of a dead man to the legs of a cat and then tossing it into the waves, whereupon “there did arise such a tempest in the sea, as a greater hath not been seen”. On another occasion, Satan himself was said to have appeared to the witches and “promised to raise a mist, and cast the king into England, for which purpose he threw into the sea a thing like a foot-ball”. They were swiftly convicted and put to death. Read more | Witches in the dock: 10 of Britain’s most infamous witch trials As soon as the North Berwick trials had ended, James commissioned Newes from Scotland, a pamphlet that relayed the whole saga in scandalised language aimed at intensifying popular fear of witches. But he did not stop there. With all the passion of a religious zealot, James set about convincing his subjects of the evil that lay in their midst. King James VI and I's Daemonologie In 1597 James became the only monarch in history to publish a treatise on witchcraft: Daemonologie (literally, ‘the science of demons’) was the result of painstaking and meticulous work on James’s part and must have taken years to complete. As well as to convince the doubters of the existence of witchcraft, the purpose of Daemonologie was to inspire those who persecuted witches with new vigour and determination. James described witchcraft as “high treason against God”, which meant that all manner of horrors were justified in wringing confessions from the accused. The fact that the treatise had been written by a king made it enormously influential. It is no coincidence that cases of witchcraft multiplied at an alarming rate in his kingdom thereafter. Upon the death of Elizabeth I in March 1603 with no direct heirs, her throne passed to James. When he travelled south to take ownership of his new kingdom, the king of Scots was dismayed to find that his English subjects were far from sharing his witch-hunting fervour. By the end of Elizabeth’s reign, the number of witchcraft trials and executions in England had declined significantly. There was also a growing scepticism about the existence of witches. This was anathema to the new king, who was determined to drown out all dissenting voices within his new kingdom. During the first year of his reign, Daemonologie was reprinted twice. This prompted a rash of similar pamphlets aimed at whipping up popular fear of witches. As part of a state-controlled printing industry, they became one of the most valuable means by which James and his government could manipulate public opinion. But these publications were just the tip of the iceberg as far as James’s crusade against witches was concerned. In his view, the English law was by no means strict enough in prosecuting the crime. Barely a year after his accession, James therefore ordered that the Elizabethan statute on witchcraft be replaced by a much harsher version. Until now, those who practised witchcraft were severely punished only if they were found to have committed murder or other injuries through their devilish arts. However, James wanted the practice of any form of magic to be severely punished, regardless of whether it had caused harm to others. The Witchcraft Act of 1604 The Witchcraft Act of 1604 made hanging mandatory for a first offence of witchcraft, even if the accused had not committed murder. And if the suspected witch was found to have the devil’s mark on their body, this was enough to condemn them to death. The act stipulated: “If any person or persons... shall use practise or exercise any invocation or conjuration of any evil or wicked spirit, or shall consult, covenant with, entertain, employ, feed, or reward any evil and wicked spirit to or for any intent or purpose... [they] shall suffer pains of death”. James’s determination to stamp out witchcraft in all forms was brutally apparent: “All manner of practise, use or exercise of witchcraft, enchantment, charm or sorcery should be from henceforth utterly avoided, abolished, and taken away.” James’s new subjects were eager to curry favour with him by echoing his hatred of witches. In the same year that the new Witchcraft Act was passed, Christopher Marlowe’s dark morality play, The Tragicall History of the Life and Death of Doctor Faustus, was published. This had first been performed in around 1588, five years before the playwright’s death, and was one of the most shocking portrayals of witchcraft ever to be performed. Audiences were so aghast at the horrors that unfolded before them on stage that some claimed to have been driven mad by it, and on occasion real devils were said to have appeared on stage, “to the great amazement of both the actors and spectators”. As well as terrifying people into avoiding any dabbling with necromancy, the play also intensified their hatred and fear of witches. It can have been no coincidence that it was published in the very year that James I began his crusade against witchcraft in England. Other playwrights were quick to follow suit. Ben Jonson devised a number of masques for the entertainment of the king and his court. The ‘antimasque’ to his Masque of Queens included the presentation of a group of witches who represented “the opposites to good fame”. The playwright had clearly done a great deal of research, for he referenced a range of current and classical demonological works as his sources. He set out detailed instructions for the staging of the antimasque, describing the entering on stage of 11 witches “some with rats on their head; some on their shoulders; others with ointment pots at their girdles; all… making a confused noise, with strange gestures”. One of their number was “naked armed, bare-footed, her frock tucked, her hair knotted, and folded with vipers; in her hand a torch made of a dead man’s arm, lighted; girded with a snake”. How Shakespeare's Macbeth was influenced by King James's witch hunts But the most famous of all the literary works inspired by witchcraft, winning widespread acclaim in its day and ever since, was William Shakespeare’s Macbeth. Deliberately short in length (James was known to have little patience for sitting through long plays), it is significant that the occasion of its inaugural performance was a visit by Queen Anne’s brother, the king of Denmark, in 1606, given that it was James’s voyage to his wife’s native land that had prompted his obsession with witchcraft. Shakespeare wove in several references to this voyage in the play, such as when the First Witch claims that she set sail in a sieve, just as one of the North Berwick witches was accused of doing. The line “Though his bark cannot be lost/Yet it shall be tempest-tossed” almost certainly alluded to James’s near-death experience in 1589. All the leaders of the English judiciary would have been present at this important state occasion, and this was exactly the sort of play that would inspire within them the same witch-hunting fervour as their royal master. The drama centred around Macbeth and Lady Macbeth, who murdered King Duncan to seize the throne of Scotland after three witches prophesied Macbeth’s succession. Whether the witches thus caused the overthrow of the natural succession or merely brought out Macbeth’s inherent evil was left to the audience’s imagination. Either way, the play both confirmed and introduced new elements to the stereotypical view of a witch, with her spells, familiars and inherent evil. It also spawned two of the most-quoted lines in English literary history: “Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire burn, and cauldron bubble.” Macbeth instilled fear among those watching that witchcraft was not just a satanic confederacy, but a conspiracy against the state. The latter notion was all too readily accepted in England at this time because the play was performed just a few months after one of the most notorious conspiracies in history: the gunpowder plot. Within the space of three short years, England had been catapulted from the ‘golden age’ of the Virgin Queen into one of the darkest and most dangerous periods of its history. This article was first published by HistoryExtra in 2016
The Succession, with Professor Tracy Borman
HistoryExtra Academy Elizabethans course
In the fourth and final week of the HistoryExtra Academy Elizabethans course, Professor Tracy Borman explores the last days of the Virgin Queen, and looks at the long list of prospective monarchs waiting to take her place
View Green Video on the source website Discover more learning from week four of the HistoryExtra Elizabethans course Elizabeth I: the monarch behind the mask – reading time 11 mins King James VI and I: your guide to the first Stuart monarch of England – reading time 9 mins Bess of Hardwick: schemer, social climber, scourge of Elizabeth I – reading time 13 mins James VI and I: life of the week – listening time 44 mins
Plots and Rebellions, with Professor Tracy Borman
In the third week of the HistoryExtra Academy Elizabethans course, Professor Tracy Borman explains how Elizabeth's seat on the throne was far from secure, and explores some of the many threats to her life that she faced throughout her long reign
View Green Video on the source website Discover more learning from week three of the HistoryExtra Academy Elizabethans course Did Thomas Seymour sexually abuse the teenage Princess Elizabeth? – reading time 8 mins Sisters at war: Mary I and Elizabeth I – reading time 11 mins Margaret Douglas: The forgotten Tudor princess – reading time 8 mins Mary, Queen of Scots’ tragic life – listening time 33 mins Queens at war: Elizabeth I vs Mary, Queen of Scots – reading time 15 mins Sir Francis Walsingham: spy-master extraordinaire and Elizabeth I's security chief – reading time 11 mins Alternate history: what if the Babington Plot to assassinate Elizabeth I had succeeded? – reading time 5 mins