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After 1066, this medieval fine was imposed to deter anti-Norman violence
Introduced in the wake of the Norman Conquest, the murdrum fine was meant to protect Norman settlers from revenge killings. But it quickly became a blunt instrument of inequality and exploitation
It’s early in the 13th century. You stumble across a corpse: clearly the victim of murder. What should you do? To modern eyes, there’s no question; no reasonable grounds for equivocation. The only option is to tell someone. But in medieval England, finding a dead body was a more fraught – and risky – incident. Entire villages and communities could be fined not because they had committed a crime, but because the burden lay with them to prove who the deceased was – or, more precisely, whether they were English or Norman. This wasn’t a quirk of legal technicality. In the decades after the Norman Conquest of 1066, questions of identity were difficult and tense. To deter violence against Norman settlers, a striking piece of collective punishment known as the murdrum fine was designed. It was created to limit violence against Normans in post-Conquest England, but in practice, all it did was expose resonant inequalities within medieval society. Speaking on the HistoryExtra podcast, historian Luke Foddy explains how the murdrum fine emerged, how it operated on the ground, and how it was later manipulated in ways that caused real hardship. A legal system under strain after the Norman Conquest The Norman Conquest in 1066 had reshaped England’s ruling class with extraordinary speed. William the Conqueror replaced much of the Anglo-Saxon aristocracy with Norman lords, bishops and officials, creating a sharp national and social divide between rulers and the majority English population they governed. The legal system struggled to cope with this change, and it was in this strained legal environment that the murdrum fine took on particular importance. What was the murdrum fine? The murdrum fine was enforced by King William I after 1066, although, as Foddy notes, “there’s some evidence that it was around before then, particularly in the Danelaw” – referring to the English region where the Vikings and Anglo-Saxons coexisted uneasily together from the late 9th century. It was imposed on communities that were close to where dead bodies were discovered. “If a body was found, the people of the local area – typically four nearby villages – had to prove, or convince the coroner, that this person was English. So, they had to know the person and they had to identify them.” If the local people couldn’t identify the deceased, the law assumed that the victim was Norman and that he had been murdered by the local English population. In that case, the entire community was fined. “The rationale was that it was to stop the English bumping off the Normans every time their backs were turned,” Foddy explains. Through a vicious collective punishment, the law aimed to protect the new ruling elite and deter violence against them. At first, the fine applied only to clear cases of murder. But over time, that definition began to erode. When revenue became a motivation By the reign of Henry III (1216–1272), the murdrum fine had shifted in character. “During Henry III’s reign, and his drive to get more revenue,” Foddy explains, “it became applied to any corpse that was found.” This expansion coincided with a period of acute crisis. In 1258, England was struck by severe famine. Crops failed and food prices soared, and people travelled the country in search of food and work. Contemporary chronicler Matthew Paris described bodies lying unburied in streets and pigsties, scattered across towns and countryside alike. In such itinerant conditions, proving ‘Englishry’ – the legal requirement to show that the deceased was English – became extraordinarily difficult. Read more | Was Henry III the worst king in medieval history? Our expert uncovers one of England's most disastrous reigns “You can imagine that there are people coming from other communities that villages don’t know,” Foddy says. “They can’t prove Englishry in these cases.” But the law made no allowances. Even in periods of famine, villages were fined when unknown bodies were found, as the king sought to bring more money into the coffers by any means possible. The burden fell hardest on poorer communities, who were least able to absorb the financial penalties. Reform and the limits of royal power Change came only with the political crisis of the late 1250s, when reformers sought to curb royal authority and address grievances against Henry III’s rule. “They don’t abolish [the murdrum fine] completely,” Foddy explains, “but they make it clear that it should only apply in the case of felonious slayings.” Crucially, these reforms explicitly acknowledged the extraordinary social disruption caused by famine. By narrowing the scope of the law, reformers reduced its most punitive effects. “This was a really positive step certainly for the poorer people in the country,” Foddy says, “who were getting hammered by these really unjust customs.” But still, nearly two centuries after the Norman Conquest, the country was reckoning with its far-reaching effects. Luke Foddy was speaking to Emily Briffett on the HistoryExtra podcast. Listen to the full conversation.
Warhorses were one of the most deadly weapons on a medieval battlefield. But why didn’t they run away?
Horses are instinctively wired to run from danger. So how did medieval armies train them to thunder towards enemy lines without breaking?
The medieval warhorse is, seemingly, a contradiction in terms. Horses are prey animals. Their instinct, when confronted with loud noises, sudden movement or danger, is to run as far away as possible, as quickly as possible. And yet, for centuries across the Middle Ages, these animals were incredible weapons of war. With armoured warriors in the saddle, they charged directly into some of the most terrifying scenes imaginable: walls of sharpened spears held by lines of screaming men. And warhorses weren’t a peripheral tool, either. They were at the centre of medieval warfare. Mounted combat dominated European battlefields for hundreds of years, shaping the grand military strategies that upheld political power. Cavalry charges could decide entire battles, and the men who could afford to fight on horseback were part of a powerful military elite. None of that was possible without horses that could be controlled under extreme stress. So how did they do it? As historian Robert Liddiard explains on the HistoryExtra podcast, these horses were honed through immense financial investment and extraordinary, long-term training. Why medieval warhorses mattered But first, what was so special about warhorses anyway? The answer, according to Liddiard, can be found in 1066’s battle of Hastings, which was a potent demonstration of the differences between a force that deployed warhorses – the Normans – in contrast to a force that didn’t – the Anglo-Saxons. “Arguably it's horses that allowed Duke William of Normandy to gain the edge,” he says. “The warhorses provide mobility on the battlefield in a way that Harold Godwinson’s forces simply haven't got, and this has great tactical benefits. The possession of trained cavalry allows William to have greater tactical options and flexibility.” A trained warhorse was, therefore, a force multiplier. And alongside the tactical advantage, they offered a psychological one, too. The sight and sound of armoured men charging toward you at speed could cause discipline to collapse before contact was even made. That importance explains why medieval rulers increasingly treated horse production as a vital matter of attention, worth immense expense. Read more | Medieval warhorses: 5 moments horsepower changed the course of history Breeding a medieval weapon of war “What I can’t overstate,” Liddiard says, “is the amount of time, money, and effort that went into producing these warhorses. It is absolutely extraordinary.” This wasn’t a matter of purchasing animals at market when war broke out. In England, the Crown maintained “a network of about a dozen horse studs across the kingdom, which are almost entirely devoted to producing warhorses.” These royal studs controlled breeding from the outset. Foals were selected for size, strength and temperament, traits that were all essential for animals expected to remain responsive amid the chaos of battle. Calmness under pressure absolutely mattered as much as physical power. From around the age of one, these young horses were weaned and moved into the next stage of development. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/12/GettyImages-2226536309-b64e70e-e1766496582958.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="This later medieval depiction shows the Norman victory over Harold’s Anglo-Saxon army at the battle of Hastings in 1066. Norman knights charge on horseback as archers loose arrows, while the tents of both armies and a distant castle frame the scene." title="Battle Of Hastings" /> Growing up to fight “We know quite a lot about the life course of these animals,” Liddiard explains. In southern England, young horses were transferred to what were known as colt parks. Here, “you’ve got the equivalent of teenage warhorses roaming around by themselves.” This was a period of prolonged assessment of behaviour: how the horse responded to other animals and unfamiliar environments was all carefully monitored. At around three years old, training intensified. Horses were placed “within a group of trained warhorses that itinerate around the kingdom where they learn their future trade.” This mattered because horses learn socially. By moving alongside experienced animals, younger horses absorbed calm behaviour through repetition and years of conditioning. This was how the instinct to flee was supressed. But it wasn’t erased. Only after years of preparation and training would a horse be deemed suitable for service and transferred into a noble or royal household. From birth to battlefield readiness, “you could be talking about five to seven years,” Liddiard notes. Time, money and risk The length of time this took imposed an immense financial burden. “You’re talking hundreds and thousands of pounds, cumulatively,” he says, adding that royal horse keepers often finished their annual accounts in deficit. Medieval kings were acutely aware of the cost but accepted it because the military payoff was decisive. That’s something that still hasn’t changed. “You talk to anyone who breeds and trains horses now and they always tell you how expensive it is. I can assure you it is absolutely the same in the Middle Ages.” At times, the expense became unsustainable. In 1360, following the Treaty of Brétigny during the Hundred Years’ War, Edward III shut down England’s royal stud network. The decision reflected both a lull in the large-scale conflict, and the crushing cost of maintaining the system. When warhorses failed But even the best-trained warhorses could sometimes become a liability. And, when control over a warhorse failed, the consequences could be incredibly stark. At Bannockburn in 1314, Scottish forces exploited terrain and dense spear formations to deny cavalry room to manoeuvre, turning horses into liabilities. At Bosworth in 1485, Richard III’s fall from his horse marked the collapse of his kingship. But despite those rare instances, a medieval warhorse was an incredible boon to any army that could afford them. From William the Conqueror’s cavalry at Hastings to the mounted knights of the Hundred Years’ War, warhorses proved decisive in medieval warfare over centuries. And they were the result of sustained human effort: generations of breeding, years of training, and vast financial investment, all geared toward teaching prey animals how to advance into battle, rather than flee. Robert Liddiard was speaking to Spencer Mizen on the HistoryExtra podcast. Listen to the full conversation.
Ian Mortimer suggests that we should look back to the medieval period to seek inspiration for sustainable living
We know we should all be living sustainably if we can. Bestselling historian Ian Mortimer suggests that we should look back to the medieval period – an era in which people took a very local attitude to life – to seek inspiration for sustainable living.
Meet the shadowy assassins who were seconds from taking out Saladin – and upending the Crusades
Two near-fatal attacks on Saladin by the Nizari Ismailis reveal a Middle Eastern landscape far more complex than the usual Crusader-versus-Muslim narrative – and show how close the Crusades came to taking a very different path
When Saladin sat down to supper in the spring of 1175, he was already one of the most significant figures in the Islamic world. The former commander of the Fatimid armies in Egypt had, within a decade, dismantled the Shi’a caliphate there, restored Sunni rule, and begun extending his authority across Syria. He was building the first unified Sunni power in the region since the Seljuk empire, and it was set to transform the balance of power in the Crusades. That evening, encamped outside Aleppo in Syria during a campaign against a regional Sunni rival, Saladin’s camp was busy with the hum of military life. It seemed an unlikely moment for immediate peril. But amid all the bustling activity, a small group of strangers, disguised as common merchants, slipped inside Saladin’s tent. Moments later, as medieval historian Dr Steve Tibble recounts on the HistoryExtra podcast, “all hell [broke] loose, and they [went] straight for Saladin.” These were deadly members of the Nizari Ismailis. A group who would later be labelled as ‘the Assassins’ in Western chronicles, the Nizari Ismailis were a small, embattled Shi’a sect who, says Tibble, “took the art of political murder to a new level of sophistication”. But why had Saladin become a target? And what might have happened if they had succeeded? Why the Assassins saw Saladin as an existential threat By the 12th century, the Middle East was a patchwork of competing powers. Two Islamic powers, the Sunni and Shi’a, battled among themselves while Crusader states took and held key territories along the Levantine coast. The Nizari Ismailis were a minority Shi’a community centred in remote mountain fortresses in Persia and Syria. And they had their own desires. Their strategy, Tibble explains, stemmed from necessity. “From their perspective, they were a tiny group fighting for their survival in the only way that they could.” Surrounded by larger Sunni powers and despised by many for their beliefs, they honed assassination as a tool that allowed them to strike out at rulers who threatened them. Without great armies or territory, they used small teams of elite devotees (known as the fida’is) who were willing to die in their missions – it was a canny way to wield power. On the podcast | Jonathan Phillips details the astronomic rise of Saladin Saladin’s meteoric rise posed exactly the kind of danger that they were concerned about. By the early 1170s he controlled Egypt, held Damascus, and sought to bring northern Syria under his authority. More importantly, as Tibble notes, he held opposing religious beliefs. “He’s a Sunni Muslim, standing up for Sunni Islam.” It was his push to unite the region under Sunni leadership (an objective would go on to prove decisive in the story of the Crusades) that directly endangered the Assassins. Their response was to act before they were surrounded. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/12/GettyImages-2226537421-8634304-e1765893956786.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="This 15th-century illustration shows Saladin holding a scimitar, the weapon emblematic of medieval Islamic warfare. Founder of the Ayyubid dynasty and ruler of both Egypt and Syria, Saladin emerged as the leading Muslim figure of the Third Crusade, renowned for his military skill and chivalry in the struggle against the Crusader states." title="Illustration Of Saladin" /> 1175: the first attempt on Saladin’s life The first major attempt on Saladin’s life came during his 1175 campaign near Aleppo. “These 13 fida’is, ostensibly unarmed, just wandered into the camp and made for Saladin’s tent,” Tibble says. At the last moment, one of Saladin’s men recognised them for who they really were. But it wasn’t quick enough to prevent the chaos. The attackers cut down guards and senior emirs [military commanders] before reaching Saladin himself. Crucially, they “drew blood.” Saladin survived only because he was wearing armour beneath his robes: “head to toe, very good quality armour,” Tibble describes. His habit of remaining armoured even while eating showed his awareness of the threat the Assassins posed. Read more | Your ultimate guide to the First Crusade All thirteen fida’is died. Saladin survived. But it proved the Assassins could reach the most powerful man in the Islamic world. 1176: the second attempt A year later, at the siege of Azaz (also in Syria), they tried again. This time, a smaller group of three or four fida’is penetrated the camp and went straight for Saladin. Accounting for his armour, Tibble describes how they adapted their tactics, aiming for the unprotected parts of Saladin’s body. Again, they wounded him. He narrowly survived but, Tibble notes, “It was very close.” <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/12/GettyImages-1435557517-e8b4c80-e1765894166908.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="This 14th-century illustration depicts Saladin’s siege of Jerusalem in 1187, a decisive moment of the Crusades. The scene recalls the Muslim recapture of the holy city after nearly a century of Crusader rule." title="The Siege Of Jerusalem By Saladin" /> Saladin’s revenge against the Assassins For Saladin, these back-to-back assaults were a turning point. “Saladin was scared by this. He was worried about his family, and he was worried about himself,” says Tibble. He was shaken. And he resolved to take revenge. Saladin mobilised his full army and marched on the Assassins’ Syrian strongholds. His aim was to crush them before they could strike again. But even with the full weight of his military power, Saladin couldn’t force a decisive victory. The Nizari castles were perched in near-impregnable mountain terrain, but the Assassins, overwhelmed by the scale of the force approaching them, were unable to defend themselves in open battle. The result was a tense stalemate. “Then it got really weird,” says Tibble. “It seems as though they started going into negotiations.” Read more | Why does Saladin have such an enduring reputation? Despite the resentment between the two forces, the negotiations were a pragmatic way forward. They concluded with the withdrawal of Saladin’s forces. While the precise details remain obscure, Tibble speculates that Saladin might have agreed to leave the Assassins in peace, in exchange for a moratorium on attacks on him and his allies. When Saladin later negotiated a truce with the Crusaders, Tibble notes, he even insisted that the Assassins be included in its terms. The First Crusade Member exclusive | Walk in the footsteps of the first crusaders, witnessing the hardships they faced, meeting the people they came across and seeing the landscapes they traversed through their eyes. Listen to all episodes now What was at stake? The Crusades without Saladin Had either of the assassination attempts on Saladin succeeded, the Crusades might have taken a dramatically different course. Saladin’s authority and power as a leader of the Islamic forces against the Crusader states was unique. His victory at Hattin in 1187 and subsequent capture of Jerusalem reshaped the entire crusading movement, prompting the Third Crusade and the campaigns of Richard the Lionheart. Without him, the Sunni world might have remained divided. Rival rulers could have checked each other rather than confronting the Crusader states. The Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem may have endured longer. The political map of the Middle East might have fractured, rather than coalesced. Read more | 50 assassinations that changed the world The Assassins understood that removing Saladin could transform the region in complex ways – ones that might be in their favour. But it never happened. After the peace agreement, a tense stalemate settled between Saladin and the Assassins. Neither side trusted the other, but there was nothing to be gained by renewing hostilities: the Assassins would once again be besieged, while Saladin and those around him would again have their lives under threat. It was a peace that lasted until both Saladin and Sinan, the Assassins’ leader, died in the 1190s. With his death, Saladin’s empire fractured, giving the Crusader states a reprieve that set the stage for future waves of assault. And the violence continued. Dr Steve Tibble was speaking to Emily Briffett on the HistoryExtra podcast. Listen to the full conversation.
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.
The Book of Kells: "a masterpiece of medieval calligraphy and painting"
"The Book of Kells is a masterwork of medieval calligraphy and painting", writes Michael Wood
The Book of Kells, one of the greatest pieces of medieval art, is today displayed in the library of Trinity College Dublin. This illuminated gospel book is named after the monastery in County Meath where it was kept in the Middle Ages. It’s a masterwork of medieval calligraphy and painting, with its Celtic knot patterns, scintillating colour, and the staggering intricacies of the display pages and canon tables – all smoky golden magnificence. An Irish annalist called the book “the great Gospel of Columcille [Columba], the chief relic of the western world”. It may be the work described by the historian Gerald of Wales in the 1180s, in his book on Ireland. “Look more keenly at it and you will penetrate to the very shrine of art,” he wrote. “You will make out intricacies so delicate and so subtle… that you might say that all this were the work of an angel, and not of a man.” The book survived war, plunder and the English – Cromwell’s troops were once billeted in Kells. In the 19th century, it was a huge influence on the Celtic revival movement in the arts, and today is seen as the pinnacle of the western tradition of illuminated manuscripts. Read more | Michael Wood on amazing insights into medieval daily life The book was produced around the end of the eighth century, just at the moment Britain and Ireland were about to be changed forever by the arrival of the Vikings. It was long believed to have been created on Iona. But in The Book of Kells: Unlocking the Enigma, published in October, Victoria Whitworth suggests that it was actually written at the Pictish monastery of Portmahomack on the Moray Firth in north-east Scotland. This is one of the least known areas of the medieval British Isles. The Pictish monasteries were destroyed in the Viking age, and with them virtually all written records. The kingdom of the Picts became part of the Scottish kingdom of Alba in the ninth century, and gradually the memory of the Picts faded, leaving many unsolved mysteries. One key survival is their stone carving, of which there are brilliant examples in the National Museum of Scotland in Edinburgh. Some, such as the huge memorial slab from Hilton of Cadboll etched with horsemen and hunting dogs, are absolutely stunning. You can still see these wonderful works of art on the ground when you head up the coast of north-east Scotland. At Aberlemno is a magnificent carving perhaps commemorating the battle of Nechtansmere in 685 at which the Pictish king Bridei defeated and killed the Northumbrian invader King Ecgfrith. And by St Vigeans Church on the outskirts of Arbroath there’s a fascinating museum holding more than 30 pieces of Pictish sculpture. This Pictish trail leads to Portmahomack, a beautiful spot on the Tarbat peninsula looking across to the distant hills of Sutherland. The origins of Christianity here are still obscure. Bede mentions a saint whom we know as Ninnian, who evangelised in the fifth century. In the sixth century came St Columba, who reached as far north as Moray. Read more | Medieval miracle worker: how St Columba transformed Christianity in Britain But it was only in the 1990s that the first excavation of a Pictish monastery took place at Portmahomack. Its construction began around 550 – which might fit with a foundation by St Columba – and was probably destroyed in a Viking attack in the early ninth century, though some kind of community hung on after that. It was later dedicated to St Colman of Lindisfarne, who played a famous role in the Synod of Whitby in 664 – the great debate over Celtic and Roman traditions of Easter. Colman then returned to Iona and died in Ireland, but he was still celebrated in later times at Portmahomack. When excavating the levels burned during the Viking raid, the archaeologist found over 200 fragments of Pictish stone carving in a style very similar to the Book of Kells. This led Dr Whitworth to propose that the most famous of all Irish manuscripts was actually made here. Indeed, finds from the dig included workshops and a room where vellum was prepared, interpreted as a scriptorium – perhaps the very place where the Book of Kells was written? All of this only underlines how much we still don’t know about the early Middle Ages in the outer reaches of Britain. We don’t even know the site’s original name. As for the Picts themselves – still known today by the name that the late Romans gave them, meaning the ‘painted people’ – their identity eventually merged with the Scots, and their language (probably pre-Indo-European?) became extinct. But recent DNA studies suggest that their legacy endures in the genetic inheritance of people across Scotland. And of course in Trinity College Dublin you can still glimpse the unique, dazzling, colourful vision that infused the astonishing art of the Picti. This column was first published in the December 2025 issue of BBC History Magazine
Lauren Johnson charts how Margaret Beaufort skilfully navigated the chaos of the 15th century – and ultimately gave us the Tudor dynasty
Born in the tumultuous 15th century, Margaret Beaufort – mother of Henry VII – endured personal tragedy, dynastic danger, and the ever-shifting fortunes of power. Yet she emerged as one of the most influential figures of late medieval England. In this episode, Emily Briffett is joined by historian Lauren Johnson to delve into the remarkable life of Margaret – a mother and patron whose autonomy, determination and political acumen helped forge the Tudor dynasty. Lauren Johnson is the author of Margaret Beaufort: Survivor, Rebel, Kingmaker (Apollo, 2025). Buy it now from Amazon
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
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