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Kavita Puri explores the rise, fall and enduring charm of a Suffolk village
Lavenham is one of Britain's best-preserved medieval and Tudor villages. Roaming its narrow streets, past crooked timber-framed houses with steep gables, you feel as if you’ve stepped back in time. Henry III gave this Suffolk settlement a market charter in 1257, stimulating the local economy, and Lavenham soon became a major hub for the wool trade. By the late 15th century, it was one of the richest towns in England, that status reflected in magnificent buildings built by prosperous merchant families. By 1524, it was the 14th-wealthiest place in the kingdom, paying more tax than large cities including Lincoln or York. The village was famed for its prestigious ‘Lavenham blue’ cloth. This was coloured at the raw wool stage using a natural dye from a plant called woad, then spun into yarn before being woven into fabric. Woollen cloth and raw wool were Britain’s most important exports during the Middle Ages. Continental Europe – especially towns such as Bruges and Ghent – depended on English wool to fuel their textile industries, and Lavenham was a significant contributor. Read more | Want to understand modern Britain? Look towards its villages However, the village’s fortunes declined precipitously during the 16th century. Flemish weavers arrived in nearby Colchester and began to weave cheaper, lighter and more fashionable cloth, with a greater variety of dye colours, using new techniques. Lavenham failed to adapt to these newer methods, or to diversify its industry beyond the wool trade. As that income dwindled, money was no longer available to update village houses in newer styles, and Lavenham essentially became preserved largely as it was five centuries ago. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/05/GettyImages-118386210-d2f0f3a-e1777621450819.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="Two wooden wool carders with angled handles rest on a wooden surface; one has raw wool fibres caught on its metal teeth." title="Lavenham’s Guildhall is a precious survivor of the Tudor era, featuring relics reflecting the village’s wool-dyeing and weaving heyday (Image by Getty Images)" /> One building in particular reflects the changing fortunes of the village and wider society: the Guildhall. Five guildhalls are recorded as being built for wealthy cloth and wool merchants from Lavenham over the years, but only one survives to this day. When built in 1530, it was called the Guildhall of Corpus Christi. The religious guilds, which dated back to the 11th century, were originally associated with the monasteries. By the 14th century, though, as well as their role in raising funds for Catholic priests’ duties and celebrating patron saints, the guilds also took on community responsibilities that included repairing roads, and establishing schools and almshouses. After the Reformation, Protestants ensured that such guilds were abolished through acts of parliament in 1545 and 1547. Luckily, the Guildhall that still stands today in Lavenham was then repurposed for various uses. In later years, it operated as a workhouse to help the poor of the village and others who’d fallen on hard times. Up to 40 people lived and worked there, mostly spinning yarn, and were trained as housemaids or apprentices to help them find jobs. Read more | 5 things you (probably) didn't know about the Tudors From 1785, another part of the Guildhall was used as a ‘bridewell’, or jail. One moving story from the records of that time tells of a young girl called Ann Baker. Probably no more than 10 years old when she was apprehended, Ann was whipped and locked in the jail with others who had fallen foul of the often harsh laws of the time. Convicted of larceny, this “incorrigible rogue” was sentenced to seven years’ transportation to the penal colony in New South Wales (now in Australia). She survived the arduous seven-month voyage, arriving in June 1790, but died there at the age of just 29. Over time, the Guildhall also served as a Methodist chapel, a pub, a grain store and a social meeting place for US soldiers stationed nearby during the Second World War. Today, it’s one of the finest timber-framed buildings in England, managed by the National Trust. Unsurprisingly, given its exceptionally coherent medieval and Tudor architecture, Lavenham has featured in many film and television productions, perhaps most notably being transformed into the wizarding village of Godric’s Hollow for Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part 1. Lavenham has experienced both great fortune and sad decline – and the Guildhall reflects the many stages in its rich history. This article was first published in the April 2026 issue of HistoryExtra Magazine
Margaret Beaufort catapulted the Tudors to the throne. But that wasn’t her original plan
Before Bosworth, Margaret Beaufort’s actions were shaped less by maternal devotion to Henry Tudor than by trauma – and the harsh reality of shifting politics
Who was responsible for the ascendency of the Tudor dynasty, defining over a century of English history? There might not be a single answer – but Margaret Beaufort must surely take as much credit as anyone. Often depicted as a Game of Thrones-like schemer, Beaufort could be portrayed as a calculating woman who orchestrated the rise of her son, later Henry VII – and in doing so, sank the fortunes of the Plantagenets while simultaneously ending decades of ferocious civil war. But how much of that view rests on hindsight? Speaking on the HistoryExtra podcast, historian Lauren Johnson explains that, rather than following a carefully drawn blueprint for royal success, Margaret’s manoeuvring was born out of constant – though certainly canny – adaptation to changing and dangerous circumstances. Her relationship with her son, and her ambitions for his future, developed gradually. Indeed, in the first phase of her motherhood she seemed to want nothing to do with him. A kingdom in crisis Henry was born during the opening phase of the Wars of the Roses, which rumbled on for some three decades from 1455. This was a series of intermittent conflicts between rival branches of the English royal family: the House of Lancaster and the House of York. Both factions claimed descent from King Edward III, and competed for the throne. Henry Tudor’s claim came through his young mother. Margaret was a descendant of John of Gaunt, a son of Edward III, though through a line that had originally been barred from royal succession. This made Henry’s claim relatively weak, especially compared with rival Yorkist claimants. At the time of his birth, there was no clear expectation that he would ever become king. Read more | Married three times by the age of 15: Margaret Beaufort, the woman who birthed the Tudor Dynasty Henry was born on 28 January 1457 at Pembroke Castle, south Wales. His mother, Margaret, was only 13 years old. In the 15th century, noble girls were technically eligible for marriage at the age of 12 onwards, but actual childbirth at such an age was exceptionally rare – and dangerous. “She was probably physically, as well as psychologically, damaged by the experience,” Johnson says. “We are not talking about a fully grown woman but a very young girl.” Margaret was also isolated at Pembroke Castle, far from her family in England. Adding to that, her husband, Edmund Tudor, had died months earlier, leaving her an exceptionally young widow in a politically unstable landscape. “She has none of… her immediate female support network,” Johnson notes. Childbirth in this period was typically a communal and female-centred event, attended by midwives and relatives. Margaret appears to have faced it largely without any such support. Distance, not maternal focus The months following the birth of her son challenge the later image of Margaret as an intensely focused, domineering mother. “I think it’s really telling that, within two months of childbirth, she sets off across Wales to go and arrange another marriage,” Johnson explains. Travel in 15th-century Britain was slow, physically demanding and potentially dangerous – especially for a woman recovering from childbirth. “She’s still going to be suffering the physical after-effects,” Johnson says. The implication is that she must have been desperate to escape Pembroke Castle – and connections to her former husband. She also left behind her infant son. This was not entirely unusual among the nobility – children were often fostered in other households –but, says Johnson, it seems as if “she gets away from that child as quickly as she can.” Read more | The medieval childbirth guide: 6 tips for pregnant mothers in the Middle Ages Within a year, Margaret had remarried and established a new life in Lincolnshire. Henry, meanwhile, remained in Wales under the care of male guardians. There’s no evidence of any emotional closeness between Margaret and her child at that stage, and certainly no clever political designs for him. “That baby is actually the source of a lot of pain and difficulty for her,” Johnson says. So, for much of his early life, Henry grew up at a distance from his mother, and “there isn’t much of a relationship in the early years,” Johnson explains. This reflects both aristocratic norms and Margaret’s specific circumstances. Noble children were frequently raised in other households to build alliances and receive training. Even so, the separation between Margaret and her son is stark. “As far as we know, the first time she visits him is when he is about 10 or 11,” Johnson says. A gradual shift in priorities By the mid-1460s, Margaret’s attitude toward her son began to change. One likely factor was the absence of other children: Margaret had expected to have more with her new husband, but didn’t. “Margaret must think: ‘If Henry is it, I need to invest more in him’,” Johnson says. This marks a turning point at which Henry clearly became more central to her thinking, not necessarily as a future king but certainly as her only heir. In 1471, Henry’s own situation became far more precarious. After major Yorkist victories, the Lancastrian cause effectively collapsed. Leading figures were killed, and Henry – one of the last viable Lancastrian heirs – was forced into exile in Brittany. Meanwhile, in England, the Yorkist King Edward IV strengthened his rule. “He kills a number of Margaret’s cousins,” Johnson notes, eliminating rivals. Read more | Did the Tudors invent the Wars of the Roses? In this context, it would have been extremely dangerous for Henry to return to England. “I think Margaret, quite rightly, is thinking he should not come back,” Johnson says. By the early 1480s, though, the political situation appeared more stable. Edward IV was firmly in power, and there were discussions about bringing Henry back safely. Indeed, with Margaret’s involvement, “there start to be whispers of a marriage alliance,” between Henry and one of Edward’s daughters – a sign that the king was trying to decisively end the internecine violence. This was a pragmatic solution but still, says Johnson, “Margaret wasn’t trying to manoeuvre her son onto the throne.” Crisis and opportunity That changed in 1483. Edward IV died unexpectedly. His 12-year-old son briefly succeeded him as Edward V, but within weeks the boy’s uncle seized power, having himself crowned as Richard III. The disappearance of Edward V and his younger brother Richard of Shrewsbury, Duke of York – the Princes in the Tower – further destabilised the Plantagenet dynasty. The threat to Henry’s life – as a potential rival to the new king – was so great that “there’s no way he can come back. And it is only then that [Margaret] starts to manoeuvre for Henry to become a rebel,” Johnson explains. Margaret’s role in the political rise of her son then became far more active. She began to build alliances among disaffected nobles, coordinating support and promoting Henry as an alternative ruler. These efforts culminated in Henry’s invasion. Landing in Wales on 7 August 1485, he won a pivotal victory at the battle of Bosworth just over two weeks later – during which Richard III was killed. After the clash, Henry was crowned king. In hindsight, Margaret might well seem like the primary architect of a new dynasty. But, as Johnson says, this perspective smooths over decades of complexity and uncertainty when Margaret had no plans for Henry to become a king. Lauren Johnson was speaking to Emily Briffett on the HistoryExtra podcast. Listen to the full conversation.
What was it like to be a Viking in the Great Heathen Army?
When a Viking force unlike any before it landed in England in the 9th century, it changed everything. HistoryExtra’s James Osborne explores how this formidable army was formed…
Known to contemporaries as the Great Heathen Army, this was no ordinary raid. It was a coordinated invasion, bringing together warriors from across Scandinavia with a clear aim: conquest. HistoryExtra’s James Osborne explores how this formidable army was formed, and how it swept through Anglo-Saxon kingdoms, toppling rulers, seizing territory, and reshaping the political landscape of England. From the fall of Northumbria to the struggles of Wessex, it's the story of a turning point in British history. How did the army come together, and what was it like to travel and camp with them? Who were the leaders behind the army? Why did they come? And how did Anglo-Saxon kings respond to this new kind of threat? You'll hear expertise from historian and broadcaster Dr Eleanor Barraclough, who takes us inside life in the camps. Drawing on historical sources and archaeological evidence, we reveal how the Great Heathen Army transformed England and paved the way for the Viking age in Britain. View Green Video on the source website
Robert Colls traces George Orwell's final years, as the novelist found critical acclaim as the Second World War ended
Did you know that George Orwell only found national acclaim as an author in the final years of his life, as his health was worsening? Or that, with the prospect of death looming increasingly large, he sought refuge on a remote Scottish island? Historian Robert Colls tells James Osborne about these last stages of Orwell's life, and the toll that writing his two most celebrated works – Animal Farm and Nineteen Eighty-Four – took on the author.
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The 'Nine Days Queen' is one of England's most controversial monarchs - here's why
Has history captured Lady Jane Grey’s story accurately? As her childhood home re-opens to the public, we investigate the misunderstood queen
In April 2026, Bradgate House – the childhood home of Lady Jane Grey – was reopened to the public after extensive conservation work, bringing with it a new wave of interest in the so-called ‘Nine Days Queen’. But what do we actually know about this enigmatic Tudor noble, who is often cast as a tragic victim? Who was Lady Jane Grey? In 1537, Jane was born into the noble Grey family. Her parents were the Duke of Suffolk, Henry Grey, and Lady Frances Brandon. As the great-granddaughter of Henry VII and great-niece of Henry VIII, Jane was orbiting the English throne from birth. However, as historian Nicola Tallis explains on an upcoming episode of the HistoryExtra podcast, “she wasn’t ever raised as an heir to the throne. She was just this great-niece of Henry VIII who had been living in the countryside." <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/04/dreamstimel173782772-53db152-e1777556403679.jpg" width="1498" height="1000" alt="A man dressed in ornate Tudor clothing stands against a dark backdrop, wearing a fur‑trimmed robe, a heavy gold chain set with jewels, and a black hat decorated with pearls and gold." title="A portrait of Henry VIII, modelled after Hans Holbein the Younger’s iconic depiction. Grey’s distant relation to the king meant she was never raised as an heir to the throne (Image by Dreamstime)" /> In 1553, that all changed. King Edward VI was in increasingly ill-health but, being the first English monarch raised as a Protestant, he was desperate for his Protestant legacy to live on. So, he issued his Devise for the Succession. This legislation barred both of Edward’s half-sisters, Mary and Elizabeth, from succeeding to the throne. Read more | Edward VI: why the forgotten Tudor king had the makings of a monster “[Edward] didn’t want his Catholic half-sister [Mary] to be given the opportunity to reverse all of his good work in the cause of religion”, explains Nicola. “However, Edward realised that he couldn’t exclude one half-sister without also excluding the other. And so, he bars both Mary and his younger half-sister Elizabeth from the succession by reason of their illegitimacy." This catapulted Jane to first in line for the throne – a place she didn’t want to be. A reluctant queen On 6 July 1553, just a few weeks after the Devise for the Succession, Edward VI died at age 15. This officially made Lady Jane Grey the Queen of England. “She had no wish or desire to be queen whatsoever, but this was an impossible situation for Jane because she was pressured into accepting the throne," says Nicola. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/04/dreamstimel107873088-1e3f4b0-e1777556619751.jpg" width="1500" height="996" alt="A detailed stone relief depicts two elaborately dressed women surrounded by attendants, with one kneeling figure offering a crown on a cushion in a ceremonial scene." title="A frieze on the Supreme Court in Parliament Square, London, shows Lady Jane Grey being offered the crown of England. Jane was a reluctant queen, who was “pressured into accepting the throne” (Image by Dreamstime)" /> So, Jane reluctantly took to the throne and was publicly proclaimed Queen on 10 July 1553. Though, it would not last long; Jane would hold the title for a mere nine days. She was soon toppled by Mary I. Was she really queen? There has been some debate about whether Lady Jane Grey should be considered one of Britain’s monarchs, given the fact that the Devise for the Succession was never passed through parliament. But as Diarmaid MacCulloch, speaking to HistoryExtra, points out, “the monarchy has never descended by strict primogeniture, and Queen Jane had a perfectly good claim to the throne: the sort of claim that brought James VI of Scotland to be James I of England in 1603." Tudor historian Tracy Borman agrees. “Edward’s Devise for the Succession was legally binding, so Jane’s claim was entirely valid – and arguably more so than other monarchs who claimed the throne without being legally named." <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/04/GettyImages-464447577-2a78898-e1777556709437.jpg" width="1496" height="1000" alt="A woman in a richly embroidered dark Renaissance gown sits in a red and gold upholstered chair, holding a red carnation in one hand and gloves in the other, framed by a dark backdrop." title="A portrait of Mary I of England, 1554. Originally barred from the succession due to her Catholicism, Mary would take the throne from Jane Grey after just nine days (Image by Getty Images)" /> So, why is Jane often left off the list of British monarchs? “Mary I [Edward VI’s half-sister who took the throne from Lady Jane Grey] had to ensure that her subjects saw her – not the woman she had supplanted – as the only true queen," explains Tracy. The dismissal of Lady Jane Grey was, therefore, a form of propaganda. Read more | Mary I: your guide to the life and rule of Henry VIII's daughter – plus a timeline and 7 little-known facts In the battle over religious belief, Catholic Mary I had many supporters following the intense Protestantism of Edward VI’s reign, and that meant Lady Jane Grey – as a devout Protestant herself – made many enemies. As soon as Mary came to the throne on 19 July 1553, Jane was imprisoned in the Tower of London. Why was Bradgate House so important? Within the tumultuous story of Lady Jane Grey’s life, Bradgate House was the place that defined her childhood and provided the environment that shaped her. “Jane would have grown up in an elite Protestant setting at Bradgate and, during the reign of Edward, some star Protestant preachers such as Bishop Hugh Latimer were welcome guests there," says Diarmaid. This moulded Jane’s Protestant beliefs, which made her such a good candidate to follow in Edward’s footsteps. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/04/dreamstimexl106240335-ce8e09c-e1777556805118.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="The reddish‑brown stone ruins of a hilltop castle rise above large moss‑covered rocks, set against dark, dramatic clouds." title="The ruins of Bradgate House, Lady Jane Grey’s childhood home. Growing up here strengthened Jane’s Protestant beliefs and allowed her to have an education (Image by Dreamstime)" /> Living at Bradgate also gave Jane the opportunity to be educated, in a world where women were still often limited in this regard. Speaking to HistoryExtra, biographer James D Taylor explains that Jane’s scholarly abilities and intellect were nurtured in an environment where education was encouraged: “at a time when schools that we know of now did not exist, [growing up at Bradgate] allowed Jane to read and study with the guidance of tutors." What can we learn from the story of Lady Jane Grey? Whether or not Jane is considered a true queen, she was a certainly a definitive figure of the Tudor period, and representative of the era’s religious tensions. “She’s a great symbol of historical might-have-beens,” says MacCulloch. Of her short reign, Taylor adds, “though ill-prepared to rule, she did the best she could in the short amount of time she sat on the throne." <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/04/GettyImages-113494497-b8b07ab-e1777556907324.jpg" width="1498" height="1000" alt="A blindfolded woman in a white gown kneels on straw, reaching for an execution block with the help of an older man, while an executioner with an axe stands nearby and two distressed onlookers sit to the side." title="Lady Jane Grey is led to the block on the day of her execution, as depicted in this 1833 painting. Grey’s death means she is “a great symbol of historical might-have-beens” (Image by Getty Images)" /> Jane refused to have her husband, Lord Guildford, proclaimed king without an Act of Parliament and, as Tallis explains, “the odds did seem to be very much stacked in Jane's favour to begin with. Even Mary's supporters were urging her to flee abroad for her safety because they were convinced that Jane's reign was going to be secure.” Read more | The curse of the nine-day queen But despite her best efforts, Jane couldn’t compete with a vengeful Mary I, who, after being denied her birth right once before, was not willing to let it happen again. When Jane’s father was revealed as a key conspirator in Wyatt's rebellion – a 1554 uprising that aimed to prevent Mary I’s marriage to Philip II of Spain – Jane’s fate was sealed. On 12 February 1554, Jane was executed at the Tower of London. But perhaps she shouldn’t be remembered solely as a victim. “Jane's story vividly illustrates how powerless women could be in the face of ambitious male relatives," says Borman. “Yet it also provides an inspiring example of a young woman with unshakeable religious convictions and principles – one who might, if history had turned out differently, have proved an excellent queen.” Nicola Tallis was speaking to Isabel King on an upcoming episode of the HistoryExtra podcast, available soon.
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From ancient China to modern America: an astonishing history of censorship
A mistrust of ‘experts’ and ‘intellectuals’ has recently crystallised into US government interventions targeting academic institutions. Emily Knox and Joan Scott share their thoughts with Danny Bird about the troubling history of anti-intellectualism
Danny Bird: Anti-intellectualism can feel like quite a contemporary concern – but when did this phenomenon emerge? Joan Scott: It goes back a long way. In the case of the United States, a key reference is Anti-intellectualism in American Life by Richard Hofstadter, published in 1963 in the wake of the McCarthy anti-communist hearings. I return to it often. Hofstadter traces anti-intellectualism almost to the nation’s beginnings, particularly in debates over education. Attempts to centralise schooling repeatedly provoked hostile reactions from local communities determined to control what their children were taught. Hofstadter locates this strain chiefly among non-elite, less formally educated groups who are suspicious of expertise and claims to superior competence, and wary of those in elite positions. The US therefore has a long history of anti-intellectualism, though it also appears in different forms elsewhere. France may be something of an exception – as a historian, I have seen philosophical disputes conducted at every level of French society in a way quite unlike anything in the US. In any case, though the tradition of anti-intellectualism is long-standing, we may now be experiencing it at its most acute. Emily Knox: When I think about anti-intellectualism, I see a rift. There is a fear that, if someone becomes more educated or begins to listen to experts, a break opens within their community. This is especially visible with first-generation university students, who can feel pulled away from their families and local ties. In many cases, anti-intellectualism grows from that sense of separation. It is rooted less in abstract questions of trust than in fear of loss, distance and change. Viewing it in those terms helps us to understand it more clearly. Has it commonly been during times of upheaval – such as religious conflicts, revolutions and the rise of authoritarian and populist regimes – when academic freedom has been attacked? EK: Yes. One of the earliest and most well-known recorded instances of book burning occurred in 213 BC under China’s first imperial dynasty, when the emperor, Qin Shi Huang, suppressed dissent by executing scholars and destroying their texts. Scholars are often targeted during periods of unrest or reactionary upheaval. In moments of crisis, people look for someone to blame: where did these ideas come from? Suspicion frequently falls on education and on those who produce and transmit knowledge. Across history, intellectual life repeatedly becomes suspect when societies fracture. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/04/PA49MG-c6ca6cc-e1777451862538.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A traditional Chinese painting depicting figures in red and white robes burning books in the foreground while others in blue‑green robes are pushed into a pit beside an ornate building." title="An 18th-century illustration shows books burned and scholars buried on the orders of the first Chinese emperor, Qin Shi Huang, in 213 BC – an early example of the suppression of intellectual activity (Image by Alamy)" /> JS: I think it stems from the association between scholarship and criticism. From the outset, the scholar’s role has been to reflect on and critique the conditions in which people live. To pursue truth, however defined, is to question authority, and that questioning has long been linked to education. It is this critical function that makes scholars targets. As Immanuel Kant argued in The Conflict of the Faculties at the end of the 18th century, philosophers are uniquely placed to tell rulers what is wrong and what ought to be done. That task does not belong to theology or to the more practical disciplines. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/04/GettyImages-600033141-5864189-e1777451781506.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="An oval-framed painted portrait of an older individual with white curled hair, dressed in a brown coat with decorative buttons and a white cravat, set against a dark background." title="German philosopher Immanuel Kant, pictured in 1765, stated that philosophers are uniquely placed to tell rulers what is wrong, says Joan Scott (Image by Getty Images)" /> This year marks 250 years since the American Revolution, which was led by a group of individuals strongly influenced by Enlightenment ideals. But did any anti-intellectual responses emerge from that upheaval? EK: The American context is particularly difficult because the revolution was incomplete in many ways. The promises of the founding documents are continually invoked, yet often fall short. For black Americans, the original revolution did not apply; another, still ongoing struggle was necessary. The more approximate parallel is the Reconstruction era (1865–77) after the Civil War, when American society attempted to redefine the rights of black people – a process still unfinished today. Read more | Women in the American Revolution: what were their lives like? We are now a generation beyond the civil rights movement, which itself was incomplete. Today, we see reactionary efforts to undo its achievements: attacks on the Voting Rights Act, resistance to feminist advances, and hostility toward LGBTQIA+ rights. Understanding this requires grappling with history, which Americans often struggle to do. The controversy over the 1619 Project illustrates this: presenting American history from a non-triumphalist perspective, centring it beyond the founding fathers, provoked deep resistance. Nikole Hannah-Jones originally created it as a New York Times Magazine special, marking the arrival of the first enslaved Africans in Virginia as the starting point of American history. She produced a series of essays centring the experiences of enslaved people and their descendants across time. It represents Hannah-Jones’s effort to reframe American history through a new, often contested lens. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/04/2RXWT0B-faa6c5a-e1777451938667.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A historical photograph shows children and adults gathered in front of a log building with a sign reading “Freedmen’s School,” surrounded by trees." title="A freedmen’s school in the US, c1868. “After the Civil War, American society attempted to redefine the rights of black people – a process still unfinished today,” says Emily Knox (Image by Alamy)" /> The project later expanded into a full book and a children’s edition, and quickly became a lightning rod, particularly among critics of what is called ‘critical race theory’. Similarly, images from the civil rights movement can unsettle people because they expose their own families’ histories, which remain raw for those who lived through it. Coming to terms with these histories is a profoundly difficult, ongoing challenge in the US. JS: Many of the critics of the 1619 Project who saw themselves as progressive or left-leaning attacked it not for ideological reasons but by accusing it of factual errors. In doing so, I believe some of them may have been denying the underlying biases they bring to the study of history themselves: a commitment to a triumphalist, progressivist vision of America. It illustrates how historians can obscure the assumptions that shape their own work while critiquing others. Why have books so often been targeted during waves of anti-intellectualism? EK: I am fascinated by the book as a technology: it collapses time and space, allowing us to access what people thought centuries ago. Books are particularly powerful in the Global North, shaped by the influence of Christianity, especially Protestantism. In my work on the Reformation, I emphasise two doctrines: sola scriptura, the idea that one can save one’s soul through reading [scripture]; and the ‘priesthood of all believers’ – the principle that no intermediary is required between God and people, reader and text. Books occupy a unique place in our lives. I often ask students if they break the bindings of their books; some are horrified by the idea while others are indifferent. Unlike other objects, the way we engage with texts shapes how we understand ourselves. That is why books are frequently banned: they are among the most powerful tools for shaping thought and identity. Control over knowledge has always been exercised through text, because this is how ideas are communicated, shared and contested. Censorship is another method often deployed to actively police the public understanding of reality. Where does this practice originate? EK: The origin of the term stretches back to the ancient Roman censor – the magistrate responsible for overseeing public morality. Authorised knowledge has always been central not only to authoritarian control but even to self-identifying democratic governments when they define what information is sanctioned and what is forbidden. Historically, this is seen in the ‘king’s imprimatur’ – the official seal approving a text. Today, the same principle appears in cases such the Epstein files: redactions signal what the government deems authorised for public access versus knowledge it withholds. Often, authorised knowledge focuses on victims, while information about perpetrators is restricted. This illustrates how governments generally manage and control knowledge. JS: Historically, almost every authoritarian regime has relied on censorship to impose its will. This illustrates how law can both censor knowledge and impose a singular view of human identity. Similar patterns appear throughout history: during the French Revolution, the Jacobins dictated what could be taught about society, politics and relationships; Maoist China imposed its ideological framework on education. Censorship has consistently been a key tool of authoritarian regimes for controlling thought, knowledge and social norms. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/04/GettyImages-2232572087-2c6c79f-e1777452592240.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A marcher holds a large orange sign that says “Why We March: Freedom Fairness Security,” while others behind them carry signs that read “Fighting for a Better Future.”" title="A participant in the 28 August 2025 March on Wall Street, a rally protesting against US government policies towards Diversity, Equity and Inclusion programmes (Image by Getty Images)" /> The study of history itself has often been at the forefront of anti-intellectual crusades. How can our comprehension of the past be sanitised or distorted by political pressures – and what are the consequences? JS: This raises a complex question, because I don’t believe in a single, objective truth of history. The history we write always reflects the ethical positions and values we bring to it. For example, the 1619 Project cannot be told without addressing both the history of slavery and its ongoing legacy of racism. My choices in research and teaching are guided by these values. There is no history without values – not in the sense of imposing an ‘official’ version but in recognising that the questions we ask about the past are shaped by the present. This is why it is crucial that the stories we teach, whether to children or the wider public, acknowledge the contemporary concerns that motivate them. Criticisms framed as objections to ‘presentism’ misunderstand this: the past exists only as we interpret it. So, in response to critics of undertakings such as the 1619 Project, the debate should centre not on alleged factual errors but on the values and principles that inform one’s approach to history. That is the lens through which I, as a professional historian, understand the importance of my work. Read more | "Violence and American politics have gone hand in hand right from the beginning": a history of political violence EK: My work focuses on very recent history. For example, I’m interested in how the Covid-19 pandemic will be presented to children today. The youngest kids who truly remember it are now around eight to 10 years old. For many in school, the pre-pandemic world is already history. Recent events, such as the 6 January 2021 attack on the US Capitol [by supporters of Donald Trump who believed the 2020 presidential election was ‘stolen’], illustrate how contested history can be. Even when reported widely, narratives vary: should words such as ‘insurrection’ be used to describe that episode? How do we interpret the actions of those involved, and the political consequences? These debates will eventually filter down into schoolbooks and children’s literature, and that is where history becomes contested at the community level, not just among scholars. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/04/GettyImages-1230460050-19b9753-e1777452378158.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A dense crowd at an outdoor political rally holds numerous flags and banners while a row of helmeted police officers in high‑visibility jackets forms a barrier in front of them." title="Supporters of Donald Trump storm the US Capitol on 6 January 2021, aiming to overturn Joe Biden’s election win. Such events demonstrate just how contested even recent history can be, says Emily Knox (Image by Getty Images)" /> Many students note that history covered in formal lessons in the US often stops at 9/11, leaving everything since then largely unexamined. My work explores how recent events are already history, how their presentation is debated, and how these debates shape what children and the public understand about our shared past. JS: Statues are often used to memorialise figures as heroes of the nation, state or community. For example, Donald Trump has proposed marking the country’s 250th anniversary with a National Garden of American Heroes featuring 250 statues of people he considers important in US history. Meanwhile, statues depicting historical figures such as Christopher Columbus are being restored, alongside some of Confederate generals that had been removed or relocated to museums. In my view, plaques in such institutions explaining those people’s actions are far more appropriate than central heroic displays. The controversy over Columbus illustrates how historical narratives shift: he was once taught as the discoverer of America, but recognition of Native American perspectives has reshaped that story. President Trump’s recognition of Columbus Day, while not acknowledging Indigenous Peoples’ Day, reflects the politics of history. Television documentaries such as Ken Burns’ The American Revolution (2025) show how historical scholarship can reshape public understanding. Burns highlights slavery, Native American displacement and figures including Crispus Attucks, the first casualty of the revolution, who happened to be of African and Native American heritage – a critical intervention that revises the traditional triumphalist narrative. Why and when do anti-intellectual movements demonise scholars and experts as ‘out-of-touch’ elites? Is it specifically during times of economic or other social crises? EK: You can’t discuss anti-intellectualism without considering class. The intellectual class is rarely working class; it is defined less by economics and more by markers of middle or upper-middle-class life. Intellectuals work with their minds rather than their hands, spend years in study – a luxury that many cannot afford – and are often associated with habits such as publishing, reading and other cultural signifiers. These markers set them apart. My father, for example, was the first in our family to earn a PhD in mathematics, and for years he was told he was ‘wasting his time’ instead of getting a job. Anti-intellectualism is often rooted in the perception of these class-based privileges, yet that dimension is not always acknowledged in discussions of the phenomenon. JS: Anti-intellectualism can emerge during times of crisis, but not always. Sometimes it is used opportunistically to advance a political agenda. Take the McCarthy era: the Cold War generated anxieties about communism, but it was Joseph McCarthy who manufactured a crisis, investigating and summoning individuals, ruining careers and dominating public attention for a decade. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/04/GettyImages-515468158-20125d2-e1777452445708.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="Two individuals sit at a table with microphones in a formal indoor setting; the person in the foreground holds up several sheets of paper while speaking." title="Joseph McCarthy’s anti-communist crusade was, says Emily Knox, driven as much by personal opportunism as genuine political crisis (Image by Getty Images)" /> A similar pattern exists in higher education today. The sector has long faced structural challenges, including reduced state and federal funding, a shift to student debt, and widespread financial insecurity. However the Trump administration’s higher education interventions have transformed these ongoing difficulties into what I believe is a full-blown crisis. Political opportunism, layered onto long-term structural pressures, plays a crucial role in the rise of anti-intellectualism. The internet was once hailed as a means of democratising access to information. However, in recent years it has gained a reputation for transmitting disinformation and conspiracy theories. How has this enabled anti-intellectualism to amplify distrust of expertise? EK: A good example comes from Reddit, where the AskHistorians subreddit is highly regulated: answers require citations and are usually provided by professional historians. It allows people to ask complex questions and ensures careful, informed responses. Yet Reddit also hosts substantial misinformation, especially on health topics, making it a fascinating place to observe how knowledge and misunderstanding can coexist. Read more | "Forget AI – never has the role of the historian been more urgent" Subreddits that encourage questions – for example, NoStupidQuestions and explainlikeimfive [years old] – provide spaces for people to seek understanding in a non-judgmental way. These forums highlight the importance of proactive, clear communication, rather than leaving people to rely solely on news or social media snippets. Is there a consistent thread that unites all of the anti-intellectual movements throughout history? EK: It’s largely about control. Take the Index Librorum Prohibitorum (Index of Forbidden Books) compiled by the Catholic church, for example. It was created in response to Protestantism, to assert authority over ideas that the Catholic church could no longer directly control. The logic was simple: if people couldn’t read certain texts, they wouldn’t question doctrine, and the church’s authority would remain intact. In practice, this often backfired. Listing a book could make it more appealing. Even in the medieval period, putting a book on the Index often simply drew attention to it, making people want to read it. Attempts to control thought through banning texts rarely work as intended. Emily JM Knox is a professor in the School of Information Sciences at the University of Illinois, Urbana-Champaign. The second edition of Book Banning in 21st-century America was published by Bloomsbury in January 2026 Joan Wallach Scott is professor emerita in the Institute for Advanced Study at Princeton University. Her books include Knowledge, Power, and Academic Freedom (Columbia University Press, 2019) This article was first published in the April 2026 issue of HistoryExtra Magazine
Churchill's ‘finest hour’ helped defeat the Nazis. But was it a double-edged sword?
Winston Churchill’s leadership in 1940 became one of the defining moments of modern British history – but the legacy of that triumph may have shaped Britain’s future as much as the war itself
On 18 June 1940, Nazism was sweeping across continental Europe and Britain seemed on a precipice. France, Britain’s principal ally on the continent, had rapidly collapsed under the force of the German invasion. The British Expeditionary Force had escaped from Dunkirk, but only by abandoning vast quantities of weapons and equipment on the beaches of northern France. Britain now faced the very real possibility of invasion, defeat, or a long war fought in near isolation. In that context, Winston Churchill stood in the House of Commons to deliver one of the most well-known speeches in British history. “If the British empire and its Commonwealth last for a thousand years,” he declared, “men will still say, ‘This was their finest hour.’” This crystallised a moment when an increasingly isolated Britain resolved to continue the fight. But as historian Richard Vinen suggests, for all that Churchill’s famous words marked the moment, they also conveyed a deeper ambiguity about Britain’s post-war future. The meaning of ‘finest hour’ “It always seems to me that the most double-edged words Churchill ever uses are on this very iconic date – 18 June 1940,” Vinen explains, speaking on the HistoryExtra podcast. On the same day that Churchill sought to rally the British, Charles de Gaulle delivered his own appeal from London, urging the French people to continue resisting after their government had sought an armistice with Germany. Together, these speeches marked the opening of a new phase of the war, in which resistance against occupation became an essential theme. Indeed, Churchill’s phrase “finest hour” was intended to inspire – and it did. It recast the ongoing disaster as a test of national character, suggesting that greatness would be forged in the fires of conflict. But, Vinen says, that central phrase also has an edge of pessimism. “If you say people are going to look back on June 1940 as our finest hour,” Vinen notes, “you also mean that one day that finest hour is going to be passed.” In other words, to declare a moment as the summit of national greatness is also, implicitly, to place that greatness in the past. As it turned out, that more pessimistic implication might have also been correct. Nazi Germany | A short course from HistoryExtra Academy Member exclusive | Everything you need to know about Nazi Germany, guided by historian, author and broadcaster Laurence Rees. Explore the course now Victory and memory Britain emerged from the Second World War on the winning side, but the costs of victory were immense. The country was financially exhausted, burdened by debt and increasingly dependent on the United States. At the same time, the foundations of the British empire were beginning to crumble. India gained its independence in 1947; other colonies would follow, as Britain’s global position steadily contracted in the post-war decades. In this new, diminished world, the memory of 1940 assumed even greater importance. “In some ways, a feature of post-war Britain is looking back to 1940 as though that was a moment of greatness that Britain can never recover,” Vinen says. Later decades – shaped by economic difficulty, imperial retreat and the loss of great-power status – could seem diminished by comparison. The more keenly 1940 shone in public memory, the easier it was for the post-war present to appear as a story of decline. Churchill’s own post-war story would have the same theme. Read more | How did the Nazis justify the Holocaust? “What they told us was, at the time, they felt it was the right thing to do” The former prime minister returned to Downing Street in 1951, serving a second term in office until 1955. “Almost nobody, and especially conservatives, regard that as a successful premiership,” Vinen says. Part of the explanation lies in the difference between leading in war and leading in peace. In 1940, Churchill’s gifts – his rhetoric, certainty, instinct for drama and refusal to contemplate surrender – were exactly what the national emergency demanded. But post-war Britain faced different challenges: the practical work of economic reconstruction, the expansion of the welfare state, the management of imperial decline and the realities of a world increasingly shaped by Cold War rivalry. “I think Churchill’s vision becomes, in some ways, out-of-date after 1945,” Vinen explains. A different path: de Gaulle Meanwhile, the other man who had tried to rouse his nation with a speech on 18 June 1940 charted a different path. Charles de Gaulle had laid the foundations for the Free French movement and helped sustain the idea of a France that hadn’t surrendered after military defeat, even while Phillipe Petain’s collaborationist Vichy regime conspired with Nazi Germany. But de Gaulle’s post-war career unfolded very differently to Churchill’s. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/04/GettyImages-120455835-1-ebef4e4-e1777471762782.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="Black-and-white photograph of Charles de Gaulle in military uniform standing near the Arc de Triomphe in Paris, speaking with Georges Bidault and others in a crowd." title="Charles De Gaulle And Georges Bidault In Paris, France On August 26, 1944 -" /> After a period in the political wilderness, de Gaulle returned to power in 1958 amid the crisis of the Algerian war and the collapse of the Fourth Republic. He oversaw the creation of the Fifth Republic, establishing a new constitutional settlement that greatly strengthened the presidency. “He then dominates France during the 1960s,” Vinen notes. “In some ways, de Gaulle’s great achievement is to be a peacetime leader more than a wartime leader.” He “moulds post-war France much more than Churchill moulds post-war Britain”. Rather than allowing wartime memory to define him completely, de Gaulle sought to reshape France for a changing world marked by decolonisation, technological change and new geopolitical realities. “He emphatically doesn’t want to be remembered as the man of 1940,” Vinen explains. De Gaulle recognised that France could not simply cling to the past. It had to adjust to weakened imperial power while still asserting its sovereignty and independence. This included pursuing an independent nuclear deterrent and carving out a distinct position within the Cold War order. “He understands modernity,” Vinen says. “He understands the challenges of new technology… [and] the way in which France can adjust to a new kind of position.” Churchill, by contrast, remained more attached to an older conception of Britain as a great imperial power with a global mission. “I think there is also a question of ego here,” Vinen suggests. Churchill “finds it very hard to walk away from power, and very hard to imagine what life is going to be like after it.” Meanwhile, “de Gaulle is, in a way, modest about himself,” Vinen says. “He doesn’t need to be the centre of attention.” He stepped away from power more than once, and when he finally left office in 1969 after losing a referendum, he did so decisively. He resigned the presidency and withdrew almost completely from public life. “He never goes to Paris again after he resigns,” Vinen notes, apart from a single family occasion. Instead, he retired to his home in Colombey-les-Deux-Églises and devoted himself to writing his memoirs. “It’s inconceivable that Churchill would have said, ‘I’m never going to visit the capital city again,’” Vinen concludes. Richard Vinen was speaking to James Osborne on the HistoryExtra podcast. Listen to the full conversation.