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One of medieval history’s biggest mysteries has just been solved – and it rewrites 1066
A fresh re-reading of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle suggests that King Harold Godwinson didn’t race south by land after Stamford Bridge, but instead used a coordinated naval strategy. What does that mean for how we should understand the events of 1066?
Alongside the Roman invasion of Britain in 43 AD, 1066 stands as one of the most pivotal years in British history. It marked the end of Anglo-Saxon rule and the ascendancy of the Normans under William the Conqueror. At the centre of this story is King Harold Godwinson, the last Anglo-Saxon king. In the space of just a few weeks, he fought two major battles at opposite ends of England. In September, he defeated the Viking king Harald Hardrada at the battle of Stamford Bridge in Yorkshire. He is then said to have rushed south, covering some 200 miles to confront William, Duke of Normandy, who had landed on the Sussex coast to attempt to take the throne. According to the traditional account, Harold and his army arrived exhausted – but just in time to fight at the battle of Hastings on 14 October, where he was killed. This dramatic forced march has been used to explain both the pace of events, and Harold’s eventual defeat: his troops, worn out from the journey, were at a disadvantage against William’s forces. But what if that version of the story is wrong? New research now suggests that one of the most famous – and decisive – military marches in English history may never have happened at all. A journey by land – or sea? In new research, Professor Tom Licence of the University of East Anglia argues that Harold didn’t lead a desperate overland march from Yorkshire to Sussex. Instead, much of the journey south may have been made by sea. The idea that the march itself may be implausible is not entirely new. “There’s an argument going back to the that this great heroic march is almost impossible,” he says, speaking to HistoryExtra. He explains that even when compared with the most demanding marching rates recorded in modern warfare (for example, in the American Civil War) the speed required to cover the distance simply doesn’t hold up. “To cover that distance in that period of time on foot is just unfeasible,” he says. Crucial to Licence’s argument, he says, is the finding that the long-assumed march is “nowhere mentioned” in the contemporary sources – and is rather a post-hoc interpretation. Previously, historians have offered explanations for this, saying that much of Harold’s army might have travelled on horseback, leaving slower troops behind. Partly, it’s interpretations such as this that have reinforced an image of Harold as a rash and desperate leader who rushed to confront William. 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 But what has been largely overlooked, Licence argues, is a far more practical option: the use of ships. Licence explains that his research centres on a reassessment of a key phrase in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, one of the key historical sources that tells this story. A long-standing Victorian interpretation claims that Harold’s ships “came home,” which has been taken to mean that he disbanded his fleet before the battle of Hastings. Licence argues this reading is mistaken. “One of the key breakthroughs in my research is that when it says that he “sent the fleet home” it’s actually referring to London,” he explains. “On previous occasions it refers to the fleet going homeward to London … so if we read it that way, which I think we must, then we see that Harold still had use of his fleet. If you’ve got good weather and you’ve got ships in which you can move your troops, you move them by sea,” he says. “That’s the pattern we see throughout the Chronicle.” Not all historians are convinced that the traditional account should be set aside. Stephen Morillo, emeritus professor of history at Wabash College, describes Licence’s argument as “an interesting theory, and certainly possible,” but has reservations. Speaking to HistoryExtra about the research, he says that, in his view, the traditional account “is not just a Victorian invention.” He points instead to the 12th-century text The Chronicle of John of Worcester, written decades after 1066 that records that after Stamford Bridge, Harold, “at once, and in great haste, marched his army towards London,” before continuing south to face William. He also notes that “none of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle versions says how Harold got south,” despite the source elsewhere not being “shy about noting sea transport when it happened.” Harold’s coordinated campaign Nevertheless, rather than a frantic dash across England, Licence’s research creates an image of a potentially far more organised and flexible campaign than was previously assumed. Under appropriate conditions at sea, a journey from the Humber to London would have taken no more than four days – far quicker than the twelve or thirteen days required for even the most extreme forced march. Adding to this, Licence says the scale of Harold’s available fleet may also have been greater than previously assumed, because the king might have added to his number of ships with those taken from the freshly defeated Harald Hardrada. “The Chronicle says that the Vikings came with 300 ships and left in 24,” Licence points out. “No one has really asked what happened to the other 276.” Licence isn’t suggesting that all of these ships would now have been at the disposal of the Anglo-Saxon fleet. But a large number might have been. And, if captured and repurposed, these vessels could have significantly expanded Harold’s naval capacity. “This is a maritime world. Ships are power,” he says. “You cannot overcome an opponent, particularly a seaborne opponent, unless you have a fleet yourself.” England in the 11th century was not a landlocked kingdom scrambling to respond, but a naval power whose fleet was “the talk of northern Europe.” Campaigns in Wales and Scotland in the years before 1066 consistently involved coordinated use of ships and land forces. And the advantages of sea transport went beyond speed and logistics. When moving an army by sea, “you give them a chance to rest, and you contain them all,” Licence explains. “If they’re on the ships they can’t desert, which they can if they’re part of a large army on the march.” Still, Licence doesn’t entirely rule out some movement by land or horseback; something that Morillo asserts would have been possible. Covering roughly 200 miles in twelve to thirteen days would require “a pace of sixteen to seventeen miles a day,” he says. “[That’s] well within the realm of possibility for a small force of around 5,000 men, most of whom would have been riding horses on campaign, as Anglo-Saxon thegns and certainly the housecarls always did, before dismounting to fight battles on foot.” But, central to Licence’s research is the idea that if ships were available (and, he says, they were) then the main body of troops including Harold himself would have travelled by sea. “He wouldn’t have wasted twelve days marching when he could have got down to London in three days.” Within this context, Licence says, Harold’s actions in the days leading up to Hastings begin to look much more strategic. “He is no longer this valiant but desperate character dashing south,” he argues. “He is a much more sophisticated operator, using forces by land and sea in tandem, like his opponents.” This also paints Hastings as less predetermined, Licence says. “I think the battle could have gone either way. It could easily have been William who was killed that day.” On this, Morillo agrees. He says the battle of Hastings was “a very near run thing, far from predetermined even on the day.” He concludes that what Licence’s research demonstrates for certain is that “there is always more to learn about the Hastings campaign and the battle itself.” Rethinking the sources for 1066 Beyond changing the record on how Harold reached Hastings, the research also raises questions about how historians should interpret key sources, and challenge assumptions. The Bayeux Tapestry, a vast embroidery depicting the events surrounding the Norman Conquest, has long been used alongside the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle to reconstruct 1066. But its selective narrative highlights the need to reassess familiar accounts. Dr David Musgrove, content director at HistoryExtra and co-author of The Story of the Bayeux Tapestry, notes that the tapestry itself omits Harold’s northern campaign entirely. “This discovery is particularly timely with the forthcoming arrival of the Bayeux Tapestry. It’s notable that the Tapestry completely ignores the fact that Harold fought a battle in the north before arriving to face Duke William in the south. The Tapestry’s narrative of the events of 1066 presents a very specific, and very partial account, of the conquest story. It focusses exclusively on southern England and northern France, and makes no reference at all to what happened in the north of England before the battle of Hastings.” He concludes, “research like this from Professor Licence is vital in helping to fill in gaps.” Unravelling The Bayeux Tapestry Member exclusive | Expert historians unpick some of the biggest questions surrounding the Bayeux Tapestry, from its creation and purpose, to the incomplete story it recounts and its modern-day legacy Listen to all episodes now Musgrove’s co-author, Professor Michael Lewis, curator of the Bayeux Tapestry exhibition at the British Museum, also relates the new research to the tapestry. He says, “with the Bayeux Tapestry coming to the British Museum later this year, Professor Tom Licence's research shows there is much still to be learned about the events of 1066. Hopefully this new research inspires people to also come and see the Tapestry whilst it is in London.” What the new research ultimately demonstrates is that the story of 1066 is far from settled. And, with the Bayeux Tapestry set to go on display in Britain, this reassessment arrives at a moment when the events of 1066 are returning to the forefront of public attention, inviting a fresh look at one of history’s most iconic narratives.
How England’s first king used an unexpected weapon to defeat the Vikings
When England’s first true king confronted Viking power in the north, one of his most effective weapons became his manipulation of loyalty
By the early 10th century, the concept of a unified England was still an unfinished project. Despite Alfred the Great’s victories against the Vikings – and the consolidating achievements of his children Edward the Elder and Æthelflæd – the power of the Norse raiders hadn’t simply disappeared. The Vikings had adapted to this new political landscape and embedded themselves within it, remaining the greatest threat to any ruler hoping to govern a unified English kingdom. Æthelstan was forced to grip this problem when he became king of the Anglo-Saxons in AD 924. As Professor David Woodman explains, speaking on an episode of the HistoryExtra podcast, it wasn’t until AD 927 that he was able to make moves against the Vikings that proved decisive, using an unexpected weapon to his advantage. England before Æthelstan The huge Viking invasions of the late ninth century had left much of eastern and northern England under Norse control. Later writers would call this region the Danelaw, but at the time it was simply a patchwork of settlements, armies and allegiances tied into a wider Viking world across the sea. Æthelstan’s grandfather, Alfred the Great, had stopped the Vikings from conquering the Anglo-Saxons completely. But he wasn’t able to restore the land to how it had been before the arrival of the Great Heathen Army in AD 865. Instead, in the decades that followed, Anglo-Saxon rulers learned to exist uneasily alongside Viking power, albeit with frequent bouts of violence and through tribute. Edward the Elder and Æthelflæd expanded English control, but by the time of Æthelstan’s reign, Anglo-Saxon authority still depended on vigilance against the Vikings. When he took the throne, his lands were surrounded by rivals: Norse settlers in the north, the kings of the Scots, and a constellation of Welsh rulers to the west. Any one of them might ally with future Viking attackers if the balance of advantage shifted, and no place demonstrated that danger more clearly than York. How Æthelstan responded to Viking pressure For decades, Scandinavian rulers had controlled York while forging alliances with neighbouring Anglo-Saxon and Scottish kings. That is why events moved so quickly when the Viking ruler of York, Sihtric died in AD 927. “Æthelstan marches quickly north and takes over in York,” says Woodman. “Contemporary narrative accounts don’t give much detail about how he did that, but we have detail from William of Malmesbury, who’s writing in the 12th century. “He talks about the fact that Æthelstan had to raze the Viking fortress at York to the ground. He had to burn it in order to take control there.” York had been the political and symbolic heart of Scandinavian power in Britain, linked into networks that stretched west toward the Irish Sea and east toward the wider Viking world. Seizing it bolstered Æthelstan’s position. But it also created new risks. Once York was taken, the question was no longer whether Æthelstan ruled a united England. For all intents and purposes, he did. But would his neighbours accept this new reality? “Quickly afterwards, he moves on to Eamont Bridge,” says Woodman. “And we have this remarkable occasion on which Æthelstan receives the submission of various kings.” The meeting at Eamont Bridge At Eamont Bridge, in what is now Cumbria, in the north west of England, Æthelstan summoned rulers who, until recently, had been his potential enemies. “King Constantine of the Scots, two Welsh kings, and the king of Strathclyde and Cumbria submit to Æthelstan at Eamont Bridge,” Woodman explains. “And they all seem to recognise his authority at this juncture. “Eamont Bridge is a really interesting place for Æthelstan to have selected,” he adds. “It’s at the very limits of his territory, so he’s right at the boundary of his extended kingdom at this moment.” There were also practical advantages to his choice of location. “Logistically speaking, it’s very interesting, in the sense that we have Roman roads converging in the area, from Scotland, Wales and York.” It was undoubtedly an easy place – relatively – for these disparate kings to converge. But it held another allure: it was a place of ancient monuments. “There’s a Roman fort there, there’s Mayburgh henge and there’s King Arthur’s Round Table henge,” says Woodfood. “There’s a sort of landscape of authority, a landscape of kingly power here that Æthelstan is using and harnessing to his own benefit.” ‘Devil money’ and the fear of Viking alliances The agreements made there were recorded in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, and one phrase in particular stands out to Woodman. “It says that they all agreed with Æthelstan that they would stop idolatry,” says Woodman. “The Old English word used is diobolgeldæ, which is a compound made up of ‘devil’ and ‘money’. It literally means ‘devil money’.” That phrase points to how Viking power was conceptualised in Æthelstan’s England. Paganism, violence and silver were closely linked in Anglo-Saxon thinking. Viking leaders were known for using silver acquired through raiding, tribute and trade, to secure loyalty and bind together shifting coalitions of allies. 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 From an English Christian perspective, this made Viking wealth deeply suspect. Silver used to purchase military support or political allegiance was portrayed as morally corrupting: wealth tainted by paganism and bloodshed, deployed to undermine Christian kingship from within. By weaponising these payments and describing them as ‘devil money’, Æthelstan and his supporters were attempting to delegitimise a key Viking strategy and cut off its effectiveness. “It raises an interesting possibility that, actually, part of the agreement at Eamont Bridge was that none of these kings would side with the Vikings against Æthelstan, who were thought of as a kind of plague sent by the devil,” says Woodman. Why AD 927 mattered For Æthelstan, taking York had created new opportunities and new risks. If his various regional rivals accepted Viking money and support, his newly expanded kingdom could be destabilised in an instant. “And I think that would have been a big fear of his,” Woodman concludes. But instead, by forcing neighbouring kings to renounce those connections, Æthelstan was isolating Viking power not only militarily, but diplomatically and economically, while strengthening his own hand. From AD 927 onwards, Æthelstan would transform from a powerful ruler into a recognised overlord of England. In the years ahead, Viking coalitions would still rise against him – not least in the decisive battle of Brunanburh in AD 937, where they were roundly defeated. But they would do so without the same web of British allies. Æthelstan had successfully turned one of the Vikings’ most potent weapons – silver – against them, transforming it into ‘devil money’ that no Christian ruler could accept. David Woodman was speaking to Dr David Musgrove on the HistoryExtra podcast. Listen to the full conversation.
Could the Queen Mother have secured the loan of the Bayeux Tapestry to the British Museum 45 years ago?
After many centuries, the Bayeux Tapestry is returning to Britain in 2026. But as the loan draws closer, new information about attempts to bring forth a previous loan have come to light
A visit by the Queen Mother (Elizabeth II’s mother) to the opening of the Memorial Museum of the Battle of Normandy in 1981 might have smoothed the way to a loan of the Bayeux Tapestry to the British Museum almost 50 years ago, according to recently released files seen by HistoryExtra. The Bayeux Tapestry is being loaned to the British Museum in 2026, but attempts at a previous loan in 1980-1 have newly come to light. In early 1981, the mayor of Bayeux, Monsieur Le Carpentier, sent an invitation to the Queen Mother to attend the opening of the Memorial Museum of the Battle of Normandy, and asked her if she would agree to be a patron of the new institution. Reginald Hibbert, the British Ambassador in Paris, in February 1981 wrote a note to the Foreign Office, advising on how to react to the invitation. “I do not intend to suggest that the negotiations between the British Museum and the Musées de France should affect decisions on the invitation now being extended to Queen Elizabeth, but it is perhaps something which should be borne in mind. The British Museum might take the view that if the Queen Mother extends her patronage to the new Bayeux Museum the Bayeux Authorities ought to be ready to encourage the Musées de France to be more forthcoming over the Bayeux Tapestry. I would advise against such linkage as wholly inappropriate, but I think the point needs to be borne in mind by those who will tender advice to Queen Elizabeth.” Further, Hibbert made reference to “a minor dispute which has looked like causing difficulty between the British Museum and the authorities at Bayeux”. He explained that “The British Museum has been wanting to borrow the Bayeux Tapestry for display in London. The Musées de France recently reached a decision that the Tapestry could not be lent because it is too fragile”. Read more | The Bayeux Tapestry is beautiful, but what was its purpose? New research might have the answer The newly released file also contains a draft note by a Foreign Office official, J.C.A. Dove, composed in March 1981, and intended for the Queen Mother’s private secretary: “I should also explain that a favourable decision by Her Majesty could be instrumental in encouraging the French authorities to authorise the loan of the Bayeux Tapestry to The British Museum although I hasten to add that our recommendation is in no way connected in this aspect. Nevertheless I felt you should know that there have been some difficulties over negotiating a loan of the Tapestry”. The failed move for a Bayeux Tapestry loan The timing of this note is curious, as the difficulties cited were that in the previous November, Monsieur Pattyn, the Director of Heritage at the French Ministry of Culture, had turned down a request from the British Museum for a loan of the Tapestry. It’s not surprising that there should have been such discussions at the time, as Neil Stratford, the British Museum keeper charged with exploring the possibility, recalled to HistoryExtra in an interview in December 2025. “The British Museum director, David Wilson, discovered that the Bayeux Tapestry was going to be conserved and its museum was going to be shut for about two years. David Wilson commissioned me to go off to France and talk to the relevant ministries in France and in Normandy about it being put on show in London during the period when it was off show in in Bayeux”. For much of the 20th century, the Tapestry had been housed in the town’s Hotel du Doyen, but in 1980 work had started on a purpose-built exhibition space within the fabric of the late 17th-century Grand Seminary building. The Tapestry was placed in its new home in the old seminary in 1983. The redisplay of the Tapestry provided a window of opportunity for a potential loan (similarly, today, the Tapestry is off display in Bayeux while its museum is being redeveloped). Neil Stratford received positive responses from Paris and Bayeux during his trip, and returned to the UK reasonably confident that a loan could be agreed. In the end, though, the decision on the loan was ‘non’ from France. According to a memo that Stratford wrote to the British Museum Director Wilson in December 1980, he gathered that Pattyn had been advised by his heritage experts that the tapestry required restoration, which would take five months. That would have necessitated the Tapestry being off display in Bayeux, and a consequent loss of tourism revenue. Pattyn had been further appraised that an extra period of time without the Tapestry on show in the town (were it on loan to the British Museum) would be unacceptable to Bayeux, particularly as restoration had to happen before any potential loan. Stratford understood that there were concerns in the French Ministry that if the tapestry were lent to the British Museum before this restoration was carried out, the Bayeux authorities might then reject the restoration work. Read more | The Bayeux Tapestry: a political football for 900 years There was clearly some mixed messaging over the dynamic between local and national forces in France, as Stratford makes reference to his own conversations with these authorities in Bayeux. His assumption was that it was with the town of Bayeux that the loan “initiative would founder” as it was his understanding that “the Tapestry was given to the citizens of Bayeux by Bonaparte and they have absolute legal control over its destiny”. Stratford acknowledged his surprise when he learnt that the Mayor of Bayeux and the town council had not actually refused the loan, though neither had they agreed to it. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/01/GettyImages-171166411-9c32e8c-e1768305774837.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="This scene from the Bayeux Tapestry shows William of Normandy’s fleet crossing the Channel in 1066, followed by fighting between Norman and English forces. The embroidery presents the conquest as a divinely sanctioned campaign, charting the invasion that would transform England’s ruling elite and political order." title="Bayeux tapestry. Norman attack" /> The long history of Bayeux Tapestry loan negotiations The various negotiations for loans of the Tapestry to the UK that occurred during the 20th century (in 1931, 1953, 1966, 1972, and as demonstrated by the recent release of files, 1980) involved a blend of local and national politics in Normandy and France. In these conversations, there was some confusion over whether it was the French state or the Municipality of Bayeux who had the authority to sanction a deal. Clarity was provided by a 2017 custodianship agreement which stated that the French state was the owner of the work, and the city of Bayeux its long-term custodian. This renewable agreement remains in force until 2066, which will be the year of the thousandth anniversary of the battle of Hastings. If confusion over the ownership of the Tapestry had dogged loan discussions in the past, the importance of not damaging the embroidery was never in doubt. In 1980, the British Museum was at pains to stress that they had put the work in to demonstrate that the Tapestry could be moved without risk, and that the safe transport and display of the embroidery was a paramount concern to them. Neil Stratford’s recollection today of the conversations he had back in 1980 with Mlle Bertrand, who had been the Tapestry curator in Bayeux for many years, suggests that there were no qualms about its fitness to travel on the Normandy side of the Channel either: “Mlle Bertrand knew every inch of the tapestry. She said to me that the only reason that the odd thread pulls out is because it was restored in the 19th century and it's those restorations which occasionally pull out, but the original medieval sewing is as tough as old boots and that there's no risk whatsoever about moving it. That’s what she said to me.” Read more | “I counted the penises in the Bayeux Tapestry and I have no regrets”: what one Oxford professor found when he studied the rudest bits of the embroidery In advance of the forthcoming loan in 2026, concerns have been raised about the Tapestry’s fragility, but British Museum curators are working closely with French colleagues to ensure that the embroidery will be transported to the UK in a safe fashion. Indeed, the agreement between the UK government’s Department for Culture, Media and Sport, British Museum and French Ministry of Culture states that the loan “shall be undertaken in the spirit of a balanced partnership and mutual scholarly interest”. The agreement contains extensive provision for measures designed to ensure that the embroidery is not put at risk during its passage to the UK nor its presentation in the museum. Discussions for the current loan project have been a long time in fruition. Following a Bayeux Tapestry conference at the British Museum in 2008, BBC History Magazine ran an article canvassing experts on whether the Tapestry might ever be loaned to the UK, after the British Museum’s in-house Tapestry expert Michael Lewis had raised the idea (partly in jest) during the conference. Ten years later in 2018, the New Yorker magazine reported that in 2013, Lewis, as part of Bayeux Museums’s Tapestry scientific committee, said the idea occurred to him straight-away that the Tapestry could be loaned while the new museum was being built. 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 How the Bayeux Tapestry loan was finally agreed It was only in 2018 that the concept became a reality, when French President Macron announced the intention to bring the loan to life during an Anglo-French summit in the UK with then Prime Minister Theresa May. The timescale touted then was that the loan might happen in 2022 when the museum in Bayeux was being remodelled. Read more | Who were the Normans? The timeline might have slipped, and several British Prime Ministers come and gone, but President Macron has remained in power. It was he that made the announcement this year of the definitive exhibition timetable (September 2026 for 10 months) and destination (British Museum), in another Anglo-French summit with Sir Keir Starmer. Lord Parkinson, the Heritage Minister from 2021 to 2024 under the Conservative administration, told HistoryExtra that it was President Macron’s personal determination that saw the process through. “I think this really has come from Emmanuel Macron himself. In the Royal Gallery address to parliament [in 2025], he saw Theresa May was sitting in the second row, and he acknowledged that this is an idea that began when Theresa May was Prime Minister and it’s taken too long. So I think he’s aware that he made this very kind suggestion [of loaning the Tapestry]. He wanted to deliver on his promise, and this summit has allowed him to do that”. Macron also noted, in his July 2025 address at the British Museum, that it was the personal support of King Charles III that helped move things forward, along with the work of the two governments’ special envoys, M. Belaval for France, and Lord Ricketts for the UK. Royal backing does not appear to have been sought by UK government officials in the previous request in 1980, with the hesitancy over linking the Queen Mother’s potential patronage of the new museum of the Battle of Normandy to the British Museum’s negotiations. The Queen Mother did not attend the opening of the Memorial Museum of the Battle of Normandy in 1981.
Æthelstan is the king who created England. That's the view of his biographer David Woodman, based on how far he managed to extend his authority beyond his powerbase of Wessex and Mercia in the 920s and 930s
Æthelstan was crowned in Kingston upon Thames 1100 years ago, in AD 925. He went on to extend his authority far beyond his initial powerbase of Wessex and Mercia to become the first king of England. David Musgrove talks to Professor David Woodman, author of The First King of England: Æthelstan and the Birth of a Kingdom, to hear why we should remember Æthelstan's reign.
The Bayeux Tapestry is beautiful, but what was its purpose? New research might have the answer
A new theory proposes that the Bayeux Tapestry was designed to deliver moral messages to medieval monks over dinner
The Bayeux Tapestry is one of the most astonishing artefacts to survive from medieval Europe. It tells the story of the end of Anglo-Saxon rule at the hands of Duke William of Normandy, whose victory in 1066 ushered in the Norman Conquest – one of the most significant turning points in British history. But beyond recounting the rise of Norman supremacy, what was the Bayeux Tapestry really for? Was it only an extraordinary work of propaganda, designed as a display of righteous power? Or was it intended to have a more specific and purposeful role? The answer to that latter question is: yes, according to historian Professor Benjamin Pohl of the University of Bristol. He argues that the Bayeux Tapestry was created to be a moral aid viewed by medieval monks while they silently ate their meals in a communal refectory. What was the Bayeux Tapestry for? Professor Pohl explains his argument in a new article 'Chewing over the Norman Conquest: the Bayeux Tapestry as monastic mealtime reading', in which he makes the case that the embroidery was designed specifically to be hung in the monastic dining hall of St Augustine’s Abbey, Canterbury, where it would have accompanied spoken readings and prompted moral reflection. Following the rule of St Benedict, which governed monastic life across much of medieval Europe, medieval monks were expected to maintain complete silence while eating, aside from the voice of the reader delivering the day’s text. These readings delivered moral instruction to the diners, in a setting where any visual imagery would have reinforced spoken words and offered a focus for contemplation. A tapestry made for monks The Bayeux Tapestry famously depicts the events leading up to the Norman Conquest of England in 1066 through a series of cartoon-style embroidered scenes, accompanied by short Latin captions. Most scholars agree that the embroidery was probably made in, or near, Canterbury in the 11th century. That conclusion rests on similarities in its style and content with illuminated manuscripts that are known to have been held in Canterbury’s monastic libraries at the time. Read more | What one Oxford professor found when he studied the rudest bits of the Bayeux Tapestry But Pohl contends that the Tapestry was not only made in Canterbury, but for Canterbury. He argues that it could have been designed to be hung around the walls of the monastic refectory of St Augustine’s Abbey on particular feast days, where it would have illustrated the moral themes of the day’s reading for the monks. He theorises that the embroidery would have been exhibited at head-height around their dining room, and that therefore it would have been “perfectly discernible from the seated position assumed by the monks and their guests during mealtimes in the refectory”. This followed “the long, pan-European tradition of using illustrated narratives in the form of wall paintings and – of particular interest here – textile hangings in monastic refectories”. Triumph and propaganda, or a moral warning? At first glance, the Bayeux Tapestry does not appear to be an ideal vehicle for moral instruction. On a basic level, it is a historical narrative that shows the events leading up to the Norman Conquest. In that, it appears to follow a broadly pro-Norman view of events, where the English King Harold makes, and then breaks, an oath to support Duke William of Normandy’s claim to the crown of England. This seeming act of perjury provides the context for William to muster his invasion fleet and then defeat Harold on the field of Hastings. Read in this way, the embroidery can appear to be a triumphalist account of conquest, leading some scholars to suggest that it was created for display in the great hall of a Norman castle, where warriors might reflect on their success. 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 However, other historians have suggested that the embroidery is more complex than this. Rather than being a celebration of conquest, it might alternatively offer a commentary on the worldly sins – namely the overambition and moral failure – of the people involved in the story. The borders of the embroidery contain scenes that draw on Aesop’s Fables, a body of stories widely used in medieval education to convey ethical lessons. Such imagery lends weight to the idea that the embroidery carried an underlying moralising message, one that would have been particularly suited to a monastic setting, where the rejection of worldly concerns was central to religious life. Professor Pohl contends that the ideal place for such moral messages to be delivered would have been in silent contemplation over dinner. Though the fabric of the refectory of St Augustine’s does not survive, documentary and archaeological evidence suggests that it was a substantial building, large enough to accommodate the full length of the Tapestry around its walls. Read more | How Tostig Godwinson’s brotherly betrayal hastened the fall of the Anglo-Saxons With the tapestry as an illustrative background, the mealtime reader would have talked about a moral theme while the monks ate and looked at the image in question. They would have been aided in this by the very basic Latin captions in the Tapestry, which would have been suitable for an audience of monks who did not all have deep Latin knowledge. Pohl points out that the way that the embroidery is split up into individual narrative scenes would also have allowed for a series of discrete, but interconnected, moral lessons to be taught to the munching monks. “Each episode is a tale of both good and evil, victory and defeat, damnation and redemption”, he says. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/12/GettyImages-51240889-c0967d0-e1765815066405.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="This section of the Bayeux Tapestry shows the Norman army crossing the Channel in 1066, followed by the preparation of food after landing in England. The detail underscores the logistical organisation behind William of Normandy’s invasion." title="Norman Invaders on Tapestry" /> Was the Bayeux Tapestry forgotten? He agrees with the view that Abbot Scolland, who led St Augustine’s Abbey in the years following the Conquest, was a driving force in the creation of the Tapestry (perhaps working with, or for, Bishop Odo of Bayeux, the half-brother of William the Conqueror). He notes that Scolland also instigated the post-conquest building programme that included the construction of a new refectory building for the monks. Read more | Has history’s most famous comet been misnamed for centuries? “The answer is clear,” say historians Pohl suggests that Scolland commissioned the embroidery specifically for display in the new refectory that he designed. However, Scolland died in 1087, long before it was eventually constructed. Pohl further argues that the Tapestry may never have actually been shown as planned because by the time the dining hall was finally built, Scolland had been dead for half a century and the Tapestry may never have been displayed as intended. If the Bayeux Tapestry was made, and then stored and never displayed, this could help to explain its remarkably good state of preservation. It also raises the question of how the Tapestry eventually came to be in Bayeux. By the end of the 15th century, it appears in the inventory of Bayeux Cathedral. Pohl suggests that it may have remained in storage in Canterbury, and stayed broadly forgotten, until the 1420s, when it could have been offered as collateral to settle a monastic debt. From there, it may have passed into the hands of the Duke of Burgundy before ultimately making its way to Bayeux, where it survives today.
Has history’s most famous comet been misnamed for centuries? “The answer is clear,” say historians
David Musgrove reports on new research that casts light on the appearance of the comet in the 11th century, and its depiction in the Bayeux Tapestry
Halley’s Comet was last seen from Earth in 1986 and is expected to return in 2061. It’s widely taken for granted that the Stuart astronomer Edmond Halley was the first to recognise its roughly 76-year cycle, an insight he formalised in 1705 and which ultimately gave the comet his name. However, new research by professors Michael Lewis of the British Museum and Simon Portegies Zwart of Leiden University says that attribution might be wrong. Their work suggests that credit may instead belong to an English medieval monk named Elmer. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/12/GettyImages-514079858-a25607f-e1764931346339.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="Halley’s Comet streaks across the sky in this 1986 photograph taken from the Ford Observatory, marking its most recent visit to the inner solar system. Once feared as a portent of upheaval, the comet is now a predictable visitor whose returns chart centuries of astronomical discovery." title="Halley's Comet, 1986" /> Elmer the flying monk Elmer, also known as Aethelmaer, lived in Malmesbury, Wiltshire, and is best remembered for leaping off Malmesbury Abbey attached to some homemade wings, attempting human flight, at some point between 1000-1010. In the words of chronicler William of Malmesbury, Elmer “had by some contrivance fastened to his hands and feet in order that he might fly as Daedalus, and collecting the air, on the summit of a tower, had flown for a distance of a furlong”. As well as recording Elmer’s early exploits in aviation, William also noted that – perhaps unsurprisingly – the flight did not end well. The monk ended up crashing to the ground, breaking his legs and becoming lame as a consequence. Despite this disability, he lived a long life and was still around (albeit elderly) during the Norman Conquest in 1066. Notwithstanding his very rough landing in 1005, Elmer’s legacy as the flying monk was secured, and even now, Malmesbury boasts a Flying Monk Brewery. Arguably, however, Elmer’s achievements in astronomy were more worthy of celebration than his achievements in aviation. Halley’s Comet, or Elmer’s? According to William of Malmesbury, a young Elmer observed Halley’s Comet in the year 989 and considered it a bad omen. Then, 77 years later, Elmer again saw the 1066 comet. William reported that Elmer once more saw it as a portent of doom, crouching “in terror at the sight of the gleaming star”. Given that Elmer seems to have identified the celestial body twice and attributed the same doom-laden values to it, is there an argument to be made that it was the medieval monk, rather than Edmond Halley, who should be celebrated for recognising its cycle? Read more | Isaac Newton: life, discoveries, rivalries and the truth about the apple According to Lewis, an expert on the Bayeux Tapestry, and the astrophysicist Portegies Zwart, “the answer is clear: Elmer beat Halley to identifying Halley’s Comet twice, also recognising (in some way) it had a regular cycle”. In their view, he effectively identified the comet’s recurrence centuries before Halley’s calculation. Elmer, 1066, and the Bayeux Tapestry Indeed, many medieval history enthusiasts will be aware that the comet is famously shown in the Bayeux Tapestry, which documents the course of the Norman Conquest. The article by Lewis and Portegies Zwart (titled The Significance of Halley’s Comet in the Bayeux Tapestry, published in the edited collection Dorestad and Everything After: Ports, Townscapes & Travellers in Europe, 800–1100) argues that Halley’s Comet would not have been visible from England in 1066 before 24 April, and possibly not until 30 April. But in the Bayeux Tapestry, the comet appears above a scene showing crowds reacting to the coronation of King Harold, which occurred in January. The mismatch between astronomical reality and artistic depiction raises questions about why the comet was placed in that scene. So what explains the discrepancy? Comet propaganda? Harold’s rise to the throne followed the death of Edward the Confessor and came at a moment of political uncertainty. In Normandy, Duke William regarded Harold’s accession as a usurpation, as William claimed Harold had sworn to support his own claim to the throne. The Bayeux Tapestry includes a prominent depiction of Harold swearing an oath on holy relics in William’s presence, but it offers no explanation of its purpose, leaving the episode open to interpretation. Lewis and Portegies Zwart suggest that linking the comet with Harold’s coronation was an intentional choice, designed to draw the two events together “for political reasons with the benefit of hindsight”. Their view reflects a broader trend in 11th and 12th-century sources, which retrospectively cast the comet as a portent of disaster for Harold and as a sign woven into the unfolding succession crisis. The most contemporary accounts (the various versions of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle) do not link the comet to the succession crisis. Instead, they associate it with the more immediate threat posed by Harold’s disaffected brother Tostig, who arrived shortly after the comet’s appearance with a fleet that raided England’s south coast. This occurred in the spring of 1066, several months before the Norman invasion. But, over time, the Norman interpretation prevailed. The comet became part of a retrospective narrative supporting William’s conquest and portraying Harold’s reign as doomed from the outset. Lewis and Portegies Zwart note that, had the outcome at Hastings been different, the same comet might instead have been remembered as an omen of the failure of William’s ambitions. Alas, for the Anglo-Saxons it was not to be… More from us HistoryExtra members can explore more medieval history with exclusive content from our archives Medieval manners and etiquette: dos and don’ts of the Middle Ages Medieval England's political miracle: how the 13th and 14th centuries laid the foundations for modern Britain How to go on a medieval pilgrimage Why there’s no such thing as a typical medieval peasant Not a HistoryExtra member? Explore our latest membership offers
In 1525, an army of revolting peasants seemed unstoppable – but a brutal end was on the horizon
Set alight by Reformation hopes and long-standing grievances, the German Peasants’ War looked like it might successfully upend the established order. Instead, it ended in catastrophe
In the spring of 1525, the German countryside erupted. Across the patchwork of states that made up the Holy Roman Empire, tens of thousands rose in arms, sacked castles and looted monasteries. For a few months the rebels looked unstoppable. Then, as summer wore on, their movement collapsed. “It was a disaster,” says historian Lyndal Roper, speaking on the HistoryExtra podcast: “a traumatic event that happens in the very middle of the Reformation.” The German Peasants’ War of 1524-1525 was the largest popular uprising in western Europe before the French Revolution. It spread at pace from the Black Forest through Swabia, Franconia, Saxony and Thuringia. What began as demands for redress turned into a continent-wide crisis that took thousands of lives. Europe in 1525 The Holy Roman Empire wasn’t a single kingdom but a mosaic of principalities, bishoprics and free cities owing loose allegiance to an emperor. Peasants shouldered rents, labour services and tithes to multiple overlords. In the 1510s prices rose sharply while wages lagged, and harvests failed in some years. Local lords tightened control over forests, rivers and game, fencing off resources that peasants had long used for food and fuel. At the same time, the Reformation was remaking Europe’s moral language. Martin Luther’s call to place scripture above church authority gave ordinary people a new set of ideas about rights and conscience. “One of the theological ideas behind it,” Roper explains, “is the really important idea that God created the world. He created the fish in the water, the birds in the air, the beasts in the forest, the wood, the water – all these resources were created by God, and therefore they should be free for mankind. “And therefore, the lords can’t go around saying: these are our ponds, these are our rivers, and you can’t fish in them, you can’t hunt animals in the forest, you aren’t allowed to hunt deer.” <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/10/GettyImages-596958418-e850f8a-e1761215302479.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="Eugène Siberdt’s painting portrays Martin Luther in 1521 at Wartburg Castle, where he translated the New Testament into German. Working in hiding after his excommunication, Luther’s translation made scripture accessible to ordinary believers." title="Martin Luther Translating the Bible, Wartburg Castle, 1521 by Eugene Siberdt" /> The Twelve Articles By early 1525 rebel bands, known as Haufen, were forming regional alliances and putting their case to the world. In Memmingen, Swabia, spokesmen drafted the Twelve Articles, a manifesto that asked for the right of ordinary people to choose their own pastors, have fair tithes and rents, an end to serfdom and freedom to fish, hunt and use wood for fuel. It framed social demands in religious language: if scripture didn’t forbid it, why should lords? Princes and abbots recognised how dangerous this was: disruptive ideas that were easy to copy and carry from village to village. Townspeople, miners and some lower members of the nobility joined in, while other powerful figures were coerced to lead peasant forces under duress. A revolt on the march As spring turned to early summer, the rebels won startling gains. Castles fell, and abbeys surrendered treasure and stores. The rebels’ stocks came, Roper notes, from the same institutions they attacked. “What I find more surprising is their success,” she says. “Because they were pretty much in charge for a couple of months. That was an extraordinary success.” Read more | Europe's holy war: how the Reformation convulsed a continent “The rebellion was able to keep going for so long, and it was able to arm itself and it was able to provide provisions for itself,” she explains. “And I think the key to understanding how that is possible is the way they were able to plunder convents and monasteries. And I think that made them better armed and better resourced than many revolts.” The shock was felt across Europe. “Many monasteries were burnt to the ground, and the castles were set on fire too,” says Roper. There was a sense that the established order was failing. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/10/GettyImages-1277808381-5daf75b-e1761215150884.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="Rebellious peasants killing a knight during the German Peasants’ War. The violent uprising, fuelled by demands for justice and reform, exposed deep social and religious tensions in the early Reformation era." title="Murder of a knight by rebellious peasants." /> Why the tide turned However, the rebels’ success brought attention. And attention eventually drew an organised response. “Really the war is at its peak through April to the middle of May of 1525,” Roper says, “but even then, it doesn’t end. It’s only in the autumn when it’s finally and irrevocably put down. And even then, the lords are still worried that there will be further revolts. But this tide certainly begins to turn [against the rebels] in the middle of May.” The reason for the change of fortunes? Fresh troops had become suddenly available to those looking to suppress the peasants and restore order. “By that point, you’ve had the battle of Pavia in Italy,” Roper explains, “and the mercenaries who are involved in fighting there then come on the market again. And so it’s possible to buy mercenaries to try and put the revolt down. And, gradually, a coalition is put together of princes who do put the revolt down in the end.” Read more | Your guide to the Peasants' Revolt of 1381 Veteran Landsknecht – pike-and-shot soldiers hardened in the Italian Wars – were hired by coalitions such as the Swabian League. Their artillery, cavalry and discipline exposed the weaknesses of peasant armies, which were large but poorly. Key defeats followed in quick succession, most famously at Frankenhausen in Thuringia in mid-May, where thousands of rebels died. A summer of blood The repression was brutal, and magnates meant to make an example. “These are very bloody battles; really dreadful atrocities,” says Roper, highlighting the particular brutality of an example from the village of Lupstein. “The populists are terrified, so they rush to the church, they seek refuge there, and then the troops set the village on fire in all four corners. And so the people in the church raised their hats at the windows as a sign of surrender, but it was too late and they all perished.” In all, as the fighting came to an end, the toll was extraordinary. “We’ll never know exactly how many people died,” she notes, “but our best guess is somewhere between 70,000 and 100,000 people. That’s an extraordinary number, and a lot of that was very bloody killing. People talked about the streets running with blood and they meant that literally, or they talked about going through the vineyards and those vineyards being full of butchered peasants. It really was a summer of fire, and then of blood.” By autumn, organised resistance had collapsed and many of its leaders were executed. Communities that, briefly, held some kind of power were now forced back into deference. Politically, the defeat strengthened territorial rulers and leagues like the Swabian League. In many regions dues were reimposed, seigneurial rights tightened and surveillance was increased. But the Twelve Articles remained a landmark in the language of rights, and the spirit of the Lutheran Reformation persisted. Lyndal Roper was speaking to Emily Briffett on the HistoryExtra podcast. Listen to the full conversation.
Forget the longships: this is the overlooked story of how the Vikings dominated eastern Europe
How did the Norse adventurers of the Viking Age impose themselves upon eastern Europe? Not with longships and raids, says one historian, but through canny adaptation
The Norse peoples of the Viking Age held much of western Europe tightly in their grip thanks to their imperious command of the sea. Their prowess as seafarers let them strike their targets at speed and then slip away just as swiftly, in repeated cycles of relentless raids from the fertile shores of the British Isles to the harsher coasts of Iceland that brought wealth and power. Viking longships carved with fearsome, dragon-headed prows crashed through imposing waves, delivering warriors to burn monasteries and terrorise prosperous lands. These vessels were key to their hit-and-run strategy, and to its eventual evolution into something more settled as the Norse forged enduring strongholds on hostile ground. But for the Vikings who ventured east toward the Slavic and Baltic regions, the story unfolded very differently. Conquests there weren’t defined by ocean raids, but by a remarkable capacity for canny adaptation. In the territories of today’s Russia, Ukraine and Belarus, the Norse traded the open sea for winding rivers, turning inland waterways into vital thoroughfares of commerce, conflict and state-building. “The rivers are absolutely critical,” explains historian Martyn Whittock, author of Vikings in the East, speaking on the HistoryExtra podcast. “We need to envisage them as the motorways of the early medieval world, which allow people access deep into the heart of the European continent, particularly the east.” When did the Vikings first head east? Archaeological finds from the mid-eighth century (including Scandinavian-style burials in places like Staraya Ladoga, near modern St Petersburg) show that the Norse were already present on the Baltic-Russian frontier before the famous raids on Britain had even begun. These early Norse pioneers were traders as well as warriors. They followed the Neva and Volkhov rivers into the interior, establishing bases like Ladoga and Novgorod. From there, they probed deeper, carrying boats and their cargo overland between river systems. Read more | Norse gods and goddesses: 14 of the most important deities venerated by the Vikings By the ninth century, Norse settlers were establishing footholds from which they could push further inland. “We first see Norse settlements appear in eastern Europe along the southern shores of the Baltic,” says Whittock. “Increasingly they were utilising river systems which flow into the Baltic, and by following them along their courses into what is now northwestern Russia, they could then port ships across gaps in the river systems to connect with other river systems.” Swapping longships for log boats While the famous longships were ideal for crossing seas, they were less suited to being hauled over rapids or dragging across portages. So, in the east, Vikings turned to different vessels. “To start with, we should be thinking of squatter, stronger and broader trading vessels than the dragon-prowed ships of popular imagination,” says Whittock. The Norse also adopted local craft. Archaeological evidence shows they purchased huge unfinished log boats from Finnic and Slavic neighbours, later fitting them with sails. These sturdy ships could handle rapids and were easier to portage than larger ships. Read more | The dark reality of Norse life on the edge And in winter, transport shifted to sledges, which were ideal for gliding across frozen rivers and snowbound plains. “We need to think of sledges, because we always think of summer transport,” says Whittock. “And yet in many of these areas, winter transport on frozen rivers or frozen, snowy landscapes would be on sledges. That's the kind of mental image we need to have: more of a mixed economy of transport.” By log boat or sledge, the Norse moved steadily southwards through modern-day Russia, past today’s Smolensk, into Ukraine, and eventually to Kyiv. That city became the hub of a new and lasting regional power: Kievan Rus, the central hub of the Rus Vikings. Who were the Rus, and where does the name come from? The name ‘Rus’ itself may refer explicitly to this river-faring identity. “It’s interesting that one of the possible word origins for the name ‘Rus’ is from a mixed Finnish, old East Norse word, which means rowers: those who row,” Whittock explains. Before they were the inhabitants of Kievan Rus, they were Vikings of the kind introduced by Whittock, moving along rivers, rowing against currents and hauling boats across land. This eastward expansion would have been impossible without the rivers that stretched across the Eurasian plain like veins. Read more | The truth about Viking berserkers “Those rivers that flow north into the Baltic allowed access well into the heart of Russia. It was then possible to pick up other major river systems that then flow south into Ukraine and towards the Caspian Sea,” Whittock notes. A closer look at the geography of eastern Europe shows the river system that made this possible. The Dnieper linked Novgorod and Smolensk to the Black Sea and Constantinople. The Volga carried Norse merchants towards the Caspian, opening routes to Persia and the Islamic caliphates. These rivers made Scandinavia part of a global economy stretching to Byzantium, Baghdad and beyond. The rise of Rus The Rus settlements steadily grew into a federation of principalities ruled by Scandinavian dynasties but populated mainly by Slavs. Over generations, intermarriage and cultural exchange transformed the Norse elites. They adopted Slavic languages, Byzantine Christianity and local customs. By the late ninth century, leaders like Rurik (credited as founder of the Rus dynasty) and his successors, Oleg and Igor, were consolidating power in Novgorod and Kyiv, extracting tribute from Slavic tribes and expanding their authority through warfare and alliances. By the late 10th century, rulers like Vladimir the Great were more Slavic than Norse in culture, even if their lineage traced back to Scandinavia. The Norse had become the Rus: a distinct identity forged by geography and circumstance. Kyiv emerged as the heart of this world. Its location on the Dnieper made it a natural hub for trade flowing between Scandinavia, Byzantium and the steppe. From here, the rulers of Rus built a power that stretched from the Baltic to the Black Sea. 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 A distinct Viking identity: the Rus vs the Icelanders The Rus experience diverged sharply from that of Norse settlers in the west. In Iceland, Vikings recreated a Scandinavian society, carrying their laws, sagas and language with them across the North Atlantic. Isolation preserved their Norse culture in near-pure form. Read more | 10 incredible Viking stories from Norse mythology In eastern Europe, by contrast, the Vikings were absorbed into a much larger Slavic world. Over time, the Norse language faded, replaced by Old East Slavic. Pagan traditions gave way to Byzantine Orthodox Christianity. Norse sagas never took root; instead, the Rus produced chronicles and legal codes in Slavic style. “This began as a Norse Slavic state, but it increasingly became a Slavic state with Norse echoes. There was an awareness of origins and a real awareness of connectivity to the northern world, but by the year 1,000 this was an increasingly a Slavic state,” says Whittock. The Viking story in eastern Europe is one of adaptation and transformation. In the west, Norsemen dominated seas and coastlines. In the east, they turned rivers, frozen or flowing, into a tool of power. In the process, they stopped being only Norse. They became the Rus: a people who built a state undeniably distinct from their cousins in Iceland or Norway. Martyn Whittock was speaking to James Osborne on the HistoryExtra podcast. Listen to the full conversation.
Why does Putin think Ukraine should be Russian? It’s all to do with the Vikings
Russian President Vladimir Putin’s narrative of a shared Russian–Ukrainian origin in the Viking-founded Kievan Rus is having dramatic implications in eastern Europe today. Here’s why the real history might be more complicated than the Russian president says
When Vladimir Putin states that Russians and Ukrainians are “one people”, he’s invoking a very specific vision of history. In essays and speeches, the Russian president has unfurled more than a thousand years of history to argue that modern Ukrainians and Russians share a single origin. “Putin’s claim is that because of a shared origin the Ukrainians and the Russians are one people, and that any division of them into two sovereign states is an artificial modern construct,” explains Martyn Whittock, speaking on the HistoryExtra podcast. Whittock is an author and historian whose recent book, Vikings in the East: From Vladimir the Great to Vladimir Putin – The Origins of a Contested Legacy in Russia and Ukraine, dissects that shared story and its connections to the medieval world of the Viking Age. Read more | Russia-Ukraine crisis: 9 milestone moments in history that explain today’s invasion At the centre of this origin story are the Rus (a particular group of Norse traders and warriors who settled in Eastern Europe and gave their name to both Russia and Belarus), and the towering 10th-century ruler Vladimir the Great, whose conversion to Christianity reshaped the destiny of the region. The Rus: the Vikings who headed east The Vikings are mostly remembered as violent raiders of the lands that lie south or west of Scandinavia: Britain, France, Ireland and Iceland. Yet from the 9th century, another branch of Norse seafarers set out east, rather than west. They navigated the great rivers of Eastern Europe – the Dnieper, the Don, the Volga – using their ships to link the Baltic to the Black Sea and the rich markets of Byzantium. These Norsemen became known as the Rus. “The Norse who came to this Slavic region are described as the Rus, and that’s a name that will run and run. It still exists in the name of Belarus and of course, Russia,” explains Whittock. The Rus were traders and warriors, dealing in furs, honey, wax and enslaved people. They established fortified towns along river routes, often marrying into Slavic elites. Over time they became culturally hybrid: Norse in origin but increasingly Slavic in language, custom and culture. Their most important political centre was Kyiv, which by the 10th century had become the capital of a loose federation of principalities known as Kievan Rus. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/09/GettyImages-961794534-e1090b6-e1758281079376.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="An illustration depicts Velikiy Novgorod during the Viking era. As a major trading hub on the river routes between Scandinavia and Byzantium, Novgorod played a crucial role in the development of the Rus’ and the wider Norse presence in Eastern Europe." title="Velikiy Novgorod" /> What was Kievan Rus? Kievan Rus wasn’t a centralised nation state but rather a network of regional centres including Kyiv, Novgorod, Smolensk and Chernihiv, bound together by dynastic ties and tribute. Its rulers belonged to the Rurikid dynasty, descended from the Viking chieftain Rurik. At its height in the 11th century, Kievan Rus stretched from the Baltic to the Black Sea. Trade flowed south to Byzantium and north to Scandinavia. The society was multi-ethnic, comprised of Slavs, Norse, Balts, Finnic peoples and steppe nomads. Read more | Could you survive on the Vikings’ furthest frontier? Here’s the dark reality of Norse life on the edge Kyiv’s wealth and culture gave it prestige, but already the threat of future fragmentation was present: powerful local princes, rival trade hubs and external threats from nomadic raiders were all emerging. Vladimir the Great and the baptism of Rus One of Kyiv’s most celebrated rulers was Vladimir the Great, who lived c958–1015. “In AD 988, a decision was made by Vladimir’s court to convert to Eastern Orthodox Christianity. It was a game changer and of immense historic importance because it allied the Rus with the Eastern Roman empire,” Whittock explains. Vladimir ordered mass baptisms in the River Dnieper. From this point on, the Rus elite looked to Constantinople, capital of the Byzantine empire, for spiritual authority. Read more | The Viking connections to the Byzantine empire This decision had far-reaching consequences. Rus Christianity was Orthodox, not Catholic. Its holy books were written in Old Church Slavonic, not Latin. Its priests and rituals bound the region eastward, and created the notion of Holy Rus: a concept of Russian origins connected to both geography and religion. “We have this highly enhanced religious, national and ethnic character,” says Whittock. And it’s that character that would form the shared basis of Russia and Ukraine and the broader Soviet landscape in eastern Europe. Collapse, Mongol conquest and the rise of Muscovy Kievan Rus never became a lasting empire. In the 12th century, internal rivalries and shifting trade routes weakened it. In the 13th century, Mongol invasions shattered its unity. Power shifted north and east. Novgorod survived as a trading hub, but over time, the newer principality of Muscovy, centred on modern Moscow, ascended in prominence. Its princes cooperated with the Mongol khans, gradually building resources and influence. By the end of the 15th century, Moscow had thrown off Mongol dominance and emerged as the core of a new Russian state. Its rulers claimed continuity with Kievan Rus, insisting that the sacred legacy of Vladimir’s baptism had passed to them. Shared origins but divergent paths Russia, Ukraine and Belarus all trace cultural and linguistic roots back to this early medieval era, and to Kievan Rus. But despite that shared origin, their histories would diverge significantly in the succeeding centuries. Much of western Ukraine came under the control of the Polish–Lithuanian Commonwealth between the 14th and 17th centuries. This exposed Ukrainians to Catholicism, Renaissance ideas and traditions of local autonomy. On the steppes, Cossack hosts developed a reputation for fierce independence, cultivating ideals of freedom and self-rule that became central to Ukrainian identity. Russia remained centred on Muscovy. From there it expanded eastwards, building a vast empire under an increasingly powerful autocracy. The tsars claimed universal authority, drawing church and state tightly together in ways that reinforced centralised control. Read more | Anglo-Saxon conversion: the coming of the cross (at the point of a sword) By the 19th century, the Russian empire sought to assert control over Ukrainian lands through Russification – the policy of imposing Russian language and culture to create cultural unity within the Russian Empire. Ukrainian language was restricted in schools and publishing, and folk culture was suppressed. “Very often the Russians are saying, ‘You’re exactly the same as we are’, and then carrying out Russification, which begs the question, why do you need to Russify if there’s no difference?” Whittock notes. The very act of trying to erase Ukrainian identity underscored its distinctiveness, but Russia succeeded in its aims, and most of Ukraine was absorbed into the Russian Empire. Ukraine in the Soviet century After the Russian Revolution that brought the Russian Empire to its end, Ukraine briefly declared independence in 1917–21 before being incorporated into the Soviet Union. Under Josef Stalin, Ukraine suffered terribly, not least during the Holodomor, the famine of 1932-33 that killed millions. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/09/GettyImages-96825291-b1bf3b3-e1758282037342.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="This propaganda poster depicts Joseph Stalin with his arm raised in a gesture of authority and leadership. Such imagery was central to the cult of personality that surrounded Stalin during his rule, presenting him as the guiding force of the Soviet Union." title="Stalin Poster" /> In Soviet ideology, Ukraine was part of the brotherhood of Slavic nations, yet its distinctiveness was tightly controlled. Expressions of Ukrainian nationalism were branded as separatism. At the same time, Ukrainians played a major role in Soviet life, from industry to the military. This Soviet legacy left Ukraine deeply entwined with Russia but also fostered resentment at repeated suppression of national identity. Putin’s use of history In the 21st century, Putin has used the Rus story as a historical anchor for his policies. Following the annexation of Crimea in 2014, he compared the peninsula to Jerusalem, calling it sacred Russian ground where Vladimir the Great had been baptised. “All of these statements are rooted in the origin stories of Kievan Rus and are used to support a narrative by Putin that there is one monolithic Russian nation that has been divided by modern events, but must be brought back together again, if necessary by force,” Whittock observes. By invoking the concept of Holy Rus – the notion of the religious, historic and geographical origin behind both Russia and Ukraine – Putin presents himself and the modern Russian state as a re-unifier, restoring a shared history broken apart by artificial borders. For Whittock, the flaw in Putin’s version of history is its denial of Ukrainian agency. Read more | Did the Cold War ever really end? “Although we are the inheritors of our history, we are not prisoners of our history. We still have agency,” he argues. Putin’s claim that Ukraine is inseparable from Russia rests on a story that begins with Viking adventurers and Vladimir the Great’s baptism. The Rus were Vikings who created a new Norse-Slavic identity and founded the basis of the cultures that became Russia, Belarus and Ukraine. And, by invoking the history of Holy Rus, Putin presents history as a chain binding Ukrainians to Russia. It’s a genuine shared history, but, Whittock argues, it’s not one that should bind the present or future. “Putin denies the agency whilst emphasising the original unification. You need to recognise the reality of origins, absolutely, but you also need to recognise current people’s agency to decide their own trajectory and their own future.” Martyn Whittock was speaking to James Osborne on the HistoryExtra podcast. Listen to the full conversation.
Could you survive on the Vikings’ furthest frontier? Here’s the dark reality of Norse life on the edge
Historian Eleanor Barraclough reveals the brutal challenges faced by Norse settlers in Greenland – a Viking world of fragile farms and endless winters
It’s true that the Vikings were formidable raiders, warriors and explorers – storming monasteries on the coasts of Britain, sailing rivers into the depths of eastern Europe and even journeying as far as North America – all while violently snatching territories and treasure as they went. But it’s also true that this only encapsulates a small aspect of the broader Norse world. The Vikings – those raiders and warriors – were one facet of a culturally and geographically expansive people who set out from the heart of Scandinavia to find wealth and land. That objective took them from Northern Europe to the fringes of the Abbasid Caliphate in the Middle East, to the depths of what would become Russia, and – far across the Atlantic – to Greenland: the ultimate destination of the fearsome Norse chieftain and father of Leif Erikson, Erik the Red. It was late in the 10th century, just before the turn of the milenium, that Erik the Red was exiled from Iceland for his violence. Seeking a new home, he led his followers west to one of the most unforgiving environments in the Norse world: Greenland. A harsh new Norse home For the Norse, Greenland was the furthest edge of the habitable world. Life there was not measured in the frequency of plunder or military glory, but in whether communities could last through freezing winters, scarce resources and constant uncertainty. Speaking on the HistoryExtra podcast, historian Eleanor Barraclough explained how the Norse arrived there in the first place, and what daily life was really like on this harsh frontier. “After being outlawed from Iceland, Erik the Red goes west and he explores the west coast of Greenland,” explains Barraclough. “Erik spends those three years as an outlaw going up and down all the fjords on this west coast, and he names it Greenland because people are more likely to want to settle there if it’s got a good name.” Greenland’s name may have been clever marketing, but the reality was anything but green. The island’s east coast was locked in ice, uninhabitable to all but nomadic hunters. As Erik soon learned, only the west coast, with fjords and small strips of grassland, offered a fragile foothold. Read more | A thousand years ago, the Vikings had a shock encounter with Native Americans that ended in disaster “The east coast is not habitable. It’s very, very icy. The west coast is a different matter … you can just about farm there. You’re very much on the edge of habitable land, but you are still at that edge, not beyond it.” Here, Norse settlers established two main farming regions: the Eastern Settlement, where Erik lived, and the Western Settlement further north. “At the Eastern settlement is a couple of thousand people and a good number of farmsteads,” Barraclough explains. “And then the Western settlement is smaller. There are maybe 80 farmsteads at its height.” <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/08/GettyImages-152200768-beac1f5-e1756397805244.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="These are the remains of Brattahlid, the eastern settlement founded by Erik the Red around AD 1000. As the heart of Norse Greenland, it thrived for several centuries — a remote outpost of Viking exploration and adaptation on the edge of the known world." title="Brattahlid, the eastern settlement, founded by Erik the Red" /> Farming at the edge of possibility Early settlers to this west coast of Greenland tried to transplant familiar Scandinavian farming practices. They brought cows, sheep, goats and horses in their ships, and attempted to grow crops such as barley. Archaeologists have found grinding stones that suggest early efforts to cultivate cereals. But Greenland’s climate made arable farming almost impossible. Read more | 8 Viking dates you need to know “They do try and grow crops initially, but it’s not really feasible,” says Barraclough. “It’s just too far north, it’s too remote. The winters are too long and cold and dark for that. For the most part, the Norse Greenlanders don’t see bread on their table.” Instead, livestock provided the basis of survival. During short summers, grass from fjord valleys was cut and stored as hay to feed animals through the winter. Cows supplied milk, sheep and goats provided wool and dairy products, while meat and hides were used sparingly. Families relied on butter, cheese and preserved dairy to survive the dark months – always hoping their fodder stores would last until spring. Vikings hunting the Arctic As time went on, farming alone could not sustain the settlements. Hunting and fishing became increasingly important. Seal meat and fat provided vital calories during the winter, with animals caught on sea ice or during migration. Reindeer offered venison and hides, while walrus supplied not only meat but also ivory tusks – a commodity so valuable it was exported to markets as far away as England. This delicate balance was constantly under threat. A failed fodder harvest or poor hunting season could tip households into famine. And crucially, unlike in Iceland or Norway, Greenlanders had no close neighbours to turn to for help. Life on the farmstead Daily life revolved around farmsteads built from stone, turf and timber. These were extended communities of families, workers and thralls: enslaved men and women who remain largely invisible in written sources but were central to Norse society. “The thralls, they are so often invisible, but there are a lot of them, and they’re usually doing the nastiest, coldest, dirtiest, most dangerous jobs in any farmstead,” Barraclough says. Read more | What was life like for Viking women? Thralls tended animals in freezing conditions, hauled fodder, cut turf and accompanied dangerous hunts. Their labour, though rarely acknowledged, underpinned the survival of the entire settlement. To live as a Viking Age thrall in Norse Greenland was to have one of the toughest lives across the entire Norse world. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/08/GettyImages-152204548-1-9d260f7-e1756397984165.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="This illumination from the Icelandic Flateyjarbók shows King Harald Fairhair freeing the giant Dofri, who, in Norse folklore, becomes his foster father. Blending legend and history, the manuscript reflects how Icelandic scribes preserved royal sagas and heroic tales in richly illustrated form." title="Illumination from the Icelandic manuscript Flateyjarbok which shows King Harold Fine Hair cutting the fetters from the giant Dofri who was to become his foster father in folklore" /> Winter: the ultimate Norse enemy Summer in the fjords could be deceptively pleasant, with green fields and grazing livestock. But winter was the true test of life in Greenland. “Where you find most North Greenland farms, you will find green grassy fields. But the problem is the winters are very cold, very long, very dark and very icy … longer, darker, colder even than in Iceland,” says Barraclough. Read more | The Norse gods and goddesses you need to know Unlike Iceland, where communities could trade or travel during hard times with the not-so-distant Norway, a Norse heartland, Greenland’s isolation made mistakes deadly. Firewood was scarce, hay ran short, and livestock could starve in barns. Families endured months of darkness, surviving on dried seal meat, dairy products and whatever stores had been put aside. Survival on the edge of the world Ultimately, Erik the Red’s ‘Greenland’ was more an act of branding than of accurate description. For the Norse who followed him, survival here demanded a constant balancing act between fragile farmland, risky hunting and the uncertain rewards of trade. For centuries they endured, maintaining links to Europe through ivory and occasional voyages, even as their settlements clung to the limits of habitable land. But theirs was far from the Viking world of raids and conquest. It was a world of ceaseless struggle against climate and geography – where winters were the harshest enemies, thralls bore the toughest burdens and mere survival was the greatest reward. 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 This article is based on an interview with Eleanor Barraclough, speaking to James Osborne on the HistoryExtra podcast. Listen to the full conversation.