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Maria of Modena: The queen who started a revolution
She was an Italian Catholic in a ferociously anti-papist English court. An aspiring nun in a hotbed of hedonism. Breeze Barrington follows the extraordinary trials and tribulations of James II & VII’s second wife, Maria of Modena
Shortly after the queen rose on 10 June 1688, she felt a familiar swell of pain. “Send for the king!” she called, while her ladies helped her back into bed. Maria (Mary) of Modena was in labour. Soon the room in St James’s Palace began to fill: some 70 people crowded in to watch the queen give birth. There was no screen to shield her, and the bedcurtains were kept open as she screamed in pain: “I die! Oh! You kill me! You kill me!” Her cries were so terrible that many said they could hardly bear to listen. Yet the king – James II & VII – exhorted the members of his council to come nearer, to look more closely. He had heard the rumours that the pregnancy was fake, and was determined to ensure that no one could say this child was not born of the queen. The sight of so many faces so close to Maria was overwhelming; she could not give birth with so many men looking on her, she said. But while James stooped to cover her face with his periwig, the rest of her body remained on full display – and everyone present witnessed that crucial moment. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/08/BAL405188-640310b.jpg" width="1772" height="1181" alt="A painting shows a queen dressed in an orange gown and blue robe sitting on a throne. To her right stands a small boy in blue tights and a red cloak. To her left, a young girl in a blue dress sits on a table. On the far right, a king, also in a blue robe and with a large wig on sits on another throne." title="A 1694 portrait of James II and Maria of Modena, with their two children, Louisa Maria Teresa (right) and James Francis Edward. After the Glorious Revolution, the family fled England for France (Image by Bridgeman Images)" /> That evening, the London Gazette reported the news to the citizens of the capital: “This day between 9 and 10 in the morning the Queen was safely delivered of a PRINCE.” Protestant England now had a Catholic heir – and a constitutional crisis. It did not take long for the crisis to unfold. To keep the queen warm as her labour began, a serving woman had placed a bedpan full of hot coals under the blankets. That simple act prompted whispers that a child had been smuggled in – and, whether or not anyone believed the rumour, it provided sufficient pretext for seven politicians and nobles to invite William of Orange to invade England, launching the episode now widely known as the ‘Glorious Revolution’. If Queen Maria of Modena is known today, it is for these events of 1688. But behind the story of political upheavals lies another tale – of an Italian Catholic princess who, at just 15 years old, was sent to a Protestant country that feared ‘popery’ more than anything else. There she would marry a man 25 years her senior, heir to the English throne. It is the story of a young woman whose purpose in life was seen as the breeder of heirs, but who deserves to be viewed as far more than merely a Catholic womb. Dynasty in decline Maria Beatrice d’Este was born on 5 October 1658 in Modena, around 23 miles north-west of Bologna in northern Italy. Though once a great ruling dynasty, by the mid-17th century the Estensi family was much in decline. Maria’s father died when she was not yet four years old, leaving her two-year-old brother, Francesco, to take his place as Duke of Modena, with their mother, Laura, acting as regent. A formidable and highly educated woman, Laura kept her children at what Maria later called an “awful distance” from her, and was determined that both of them would be scholars. Much of Maria’s education took place in the convent attached to the palace, and she felt at home in that life of devotion to God, in a place of education, community and friendship. While still a child, she determined that she would become a nun. Unbeknown to her, events unfolding in England would soon change the course of her life. Anne Hyde, the first wife of James, Duke of York – younger brother of King Charles II – died in 1671. Her body was hardly cold before talk turned to James’s remarriage. Charles’s nine-year marriage to Catherine of Braganza had produced no children, so James was the heir to the thrones of England, Scotland and Ireland, and would have to make a dynastic match with one of the princesses of Europe. James sent his trusted friend the Earl of Peterborough as ambassador extraordinary, to find him a wife and future queen. After many months of searching, Peterborough encountered a portrait of a beautiful young girl, and wrote to James and Charles that he had “found his mistress and the Fortune of England”. Read more | Alternate history: what if James II and VII had kept his throne? The fact that Maria wanted to become a nun mattered little to these powerful men. When she told Peterborough that she would rather throw herself in the fire than marry James, he replied that he “could not believe… that she was made for any other end than to give Princes to the World”. Tellingly, another powerful man had taken an interest in the match: Pope Clement X. He informed Maria by letter that, in marrying James, she would open herself “to a vaster field of merit than that of the virginal cloister”: by bearing Catholic heirs, she could bring England back to the true faith. After reading this letter, she cried for three days – to the extent that she was held down by force. Peterborough merely wrote that: “The princess at last gave herself up to the will of her friends.” Over in England, James sent a note to his daughters, Mary and Anne, explaining that he had “found a new playfellow”. They were 11 and 8 years old, respectively; Maria was 14. Controversial match Maria arrived at the hedonistic court of the ‘Merrie Monarch’ in 1673, completely unprepared for what she encountered there. “I cannot yet adapt myself to this state – a state to which, as you know, I have been opposed,” she wrote to her former mother superior. “Many nights I weep and grieve and cannot get rid of this melancholy.” The match caused controversy. Cruel and scurrilous pamphlets circulated, in which it was hoped that she would “be envenom’d with the pox” and to “die before 20, rot before 16”. But though young in years, Maria was resourceful. She learned English quickly, and began to navigate court politics by using the kind of soft power for which the Estensi family was so celebrated – notably, through patronage of the arts. The poet John Dryden wrote verse in her honour, Dutch artist Peter Lely painted her portrait, and the court was filled with the sounds of Italian opera – “the first that had been in England of this kind”, according to renowned diarist John Evelyn. As her friendship with her stepdaughters burgeoned, Maria encouraged their talents for singing and dancing by commissioning The Masque of Calisto. This was a lavish spectacle even by the standards of the Restoration court, and the princesses – along with Maria’s favoured maid of honour, Sarah Jennings (later Sarah Churchill, Queen Anne’s ‘favourite’) – took the starring roles. Shortly before the masque’s first performance, Maria gave birth to her first child. It was not the hoped-for boy, but the infant’s parents were overjoyed, and named her Catherine Laura – Catherine after the queen, Laura after Maria’s mother. Soon after, Maria had her daughter baptised in her rooms – as a Catholic. When her brother-in-law, King Charles II, learned what she’d done, he smiled and patted her hand. That was all very well, Charles said, but the child would be raised in the English church, so she would have to be baptised again, as a Protestant. This experience gave Maria a concrete understanding of her position at court for the first time. Her children were not just her own, but children of the crown; though she gave birth to them, she had no say over their upbringing. (Tragically, Catherine Laura did not live long; though Maria was pregnant a total of 12 times, only two of her children survived to adulthood and one outlived her). Read more | How glorious was the Glorious Revolution? Maria’s own life as Duchess of York was one of constant uncertainty, as anti-Catholic feeling intensified. Parliament was increasingly divided into two factions, Tories and Whigs; the former supported hereditary monarchy, while the latter was implacably opposed to James ever becoming king. Meanwhile, tensions were rising more broadly in London. The years after Maria’s arrival in England were marked by two plots. The first, the so-called ‘Popish Plot’ of 1678, was a series of accusations by the fantasist Titus Oates, who claimed to have unearthed treasonous Catholic plans to kill the king. Despite being a complete fabrication, it resulted in imprisonments and the execution of some of Maria’s close friends, and she and James were sent into exile – first in Brussels, then in Scotland. The second plot was real, and came shortly after James and Maria’s return to court in 1682. Had it been successful, the ‘Rye House Plot’ of 1683 would have seen Charles and James assassinated, with James, Duke of Monmouth – Charles’s favourite illegitimate son – made king. It was over the years following the Rye House Plot that Maria was finally able to recreate something of the life of female friendship and intellectual endeavour that she had enjoyed in the convent in Modena. Two of her maids of honour, Anne Kingsmill (later Finch) and Anne Killigrew, were prodigiously talented: both were poets, and Killigrew was also a painter. Among her maids more generally, Maria encouraged a culture of learning and intellectual endeavour, and both Annes produced work in her honour. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/08/2WF05B1-63d8096.jpg" width="1181" height="788" alt="A young woman in a bright pink gown sits for a painting with one arm resting in her lap and the other leant on a step to her left side" title="Anne Killigrew was one of Maria’s maids of honour and a talented poet and painter. Killigrew died at 25 and a volume of her poems was published posthumously (Image by Alamy)" /> Two pieces in particular provide a snapshot of this shared creative life, both depicting Maria as the goddess Venus. The first, a collaboration between Kingsmill and Killigrew, was a masque entitled Venus and Adonis – a proto-feminist retelling of the classical myth. The second was Killigrew’s painting Venus Attired by the Graces, featuring both Annes among the Graces. A new dawn of women’s art and poetry seemed on the horizon. A Catholic queen On 6 February 1685, Charles II died suddenly, aged 54. Maria mourned him deeply – though was wary of displaying her grief in public. “I was so greatly afflicted by the death of King Charles that I dared not show how much,” she wrote, “lest I be suspected of hypocrisy.” Despite their worries about the reception they might encounter, James and Maria were welcomed as the king and queen. This gave her an opportunity for greater patronage: the writer Aphra Behn wrote a celebratory coronation ode, and Anne Killigrew painted coronation portraits. Then tragedy struck again in April when Killigrew died of smallpox, aged just 25. The new king, James II & VII, had learned all the wrong lessons from the execution of his father, Charles I; he thought that anyone who disagreed with him was against him, and believed that all of parliament were his enemies. His longstanding mistress, Catherine Sedley, was made a countess, and seemed to hold more influence over him than anyone, including his wife. It was said that Maria “loves her husband in all sincerity” but that “she is an Italian, and very proud”. She decided that, unlike queens who had come before, she would not tolerate this situation, and told James to choose: his mistress or his wife. If he continued his affair, she would leave England. “Give her my dower,” she told him. “Make her Queen of England, but let me see her no more!” If James was surprised by this outburst, he would soon be even more astonished when he encountered Maria’s priests, all on their knees, begging him to send away his mistress and save his soul. Overwhelmed, he agreed. These growing tensions were heightened by the absence of a male heir. Maria had not been pregnant in three years so, at the end of August 1687, went to Bath to take the waters in search of fertility. Her treatment became a form of popular entertainment: members of the public flocked to the galleries to watch her bathe as an Italian orchestra performed. Almost immediately afterwards Maria became pregnant but, no sooner had she found out, rumours began – fuelled (perhaps even started) by King James’s daughter Anne, whose own anti-Catholicism had turned her against her father and stepmother. Hot coals in a bedpan After the keenly observed birth of Prince James Francis Edward in June 1688, the rumours only intensified. Some said that the pregnancy had been a hoax; others claimed that Maria had miscarried, or that the child had been a girl and replaced with a boy. All agreed that the child, who was given the title of Prince of Wales, had been smuggled into the room in a bedpan, even though at least two Protestant witnesses saw the bedpan full of hot coals at the beginning of the labour. The seven men who wrote to encourage the invasion by James’s nephew and son-in-law, William of Orange, exploited these rumours, including in their letter the claim that the child was an imposter. William ensured that his fleet landed on 5 November – a day on which effigies of the pope were ritually burned in bonfires. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/08/2WREX7C-41eff94.jpg" width="1772" height="1181" alt="An engraving from 1690 shows King Louis XIV of France greeting James II at Saint-Germain-en-Laye, west of Paris, where the exiled English king and queen lived for the rest of their lives (Image by Alamy)" title="An engraving from 1690 shows King Louis XIV of France greeting James II at Saint-Germain-en-Laye, west of Paris, where the exiled English king and queen lived for the rest of their lives (Image by Alamy)" /> Fearing for their safety, James and Maria took their baby and fled into exile at the court of Louis XIV in France. They never stopped believing they might be able to get back the throne. But it wasn’t to be, and they remained at Saint-Germain-en-Laye for the rest of their lives. Here, freed from the obligations of queenship, Maria could once again devote herself to patronage of the arts and of women’s education. In some ways, her life had come full circle: she became the patron of a convent of the Visitation – the same order that she had wanted to join as a child. Maria outlived her husband by 17 years, bearing him another child in exile. She “has been overwhelmed with calumnies,” James said of Maria on his deathbed. “But time, the mother of Truth, will I hope, at last make her virtues shine as bright as the sun.” MARIA'S MOMENTS The times and travails of a Catholic queen 1658: Maria is born on 5 October at the Ducal Palace (right) in Modena to Duke Alfonso IV d’Este and Laura Martinozzi 1662: Maria’s father dies and her two-year-old brother, Francesco, becomes Duke of Modena. Laura is appointed regent until he comes of age 1673: On her 15th birthday, Maria begins the journey to England to take her place as Duchess of York, escorted by her mother 1675: Maria’s first child, Catherine Laura, is born in January but dies in October. Racked with grief, Maria suffers the first of multiple miscarriages 1678: Titus Oates comes forward with tales of a Catholic conspiracy against Charles II, and in 1679 Maria and James are sent into exile. While she is away, Maria’s four-year-old daughter, Isabella, dies in London 1682: The court of James and Maria returns to England. Maria’s new maids of honour include the poet Anne Kingsmill and the poet/painter Anne Killigrew 1685: Charles II dies on 6 February. James and Maria’s coronation is on 23 April 1688: Maria gives birth to James Francis Edward Stuart on 10 June, an event dubbed the “baby in the bedpan myth”. It is the catalyst for the so-called Glorious Revolution – the invasion of Britain by William of Orange 1689: With Maria and James in exile in France, William and his wife, Mary (James II’s daughter), are crowned as joint monarchs of England, Scotland and Ireland on 11 April 1718: Maria dies in Paris on 7 May. She is buried at the convent in Chaillot, of which she has been a patron while in exile Breeze Barrington is a cultural historian specialising in the artistic cultures of the 17th century. Her new book is The Graces: The Extraordinary Untold Lives of Women at the Restoration Court (Bloomsbury, July) This article was first published in the August 2025 issue of BBC History Magazine
How are popes elected? Here's what happens after a pope dies
What comes after a pope dies? Step through the doors of Vatican into the conclave – the secretive, ritualistic and sometimes scandalous process that turns a cardinal into the next pontiff
From the death (or more rarely, resignation) of a pope to the famous white smoke drifting out of a Sistine Chapel chimney, the centuries-old process of electing a new pope is defined by ritual and ceremony, but also secrecy. Taking place behind closed doors, it falls to an assembly of cardinals – a conclave – to vote for the new head of the Catholic Church. What happens when a pope dies? The death of a pope has to be confirmed by a medic, but it is only official once a particular action is taken by the camerlengo – the cardinal who oversees the running of the Vatican’s property and revenue. The camerlengo calls out the pope’s baptismal name three times and only when he receives no response can he declare the death. Traditionally, the camerlengo have also tapped the pontiff’s head with a silver hammer. He then notifies both senior church officials and the general public. The pope’s apartment will be locked – according to a historic practice that prevented looting – and preparations are made for the symbolic destruction of the pope’s ring and seal, signalling the end of his authority. The pope must be buried between four and six days after the death, while the official period of mourning is observed for nine days. Not long after that, the cardinals gather for the conclave. How is a new pope chosen? The conclave explained A conclave is the gathering of cardinals summoned to the Vatican to elect a new pope. Not all members of the College of Cardinals, the most senior clergy of the Catholic Church below the papacy itself, are eligible to participate due to age restrictions. The word derives from the Latin for ‘with a key’, referring to how the cardinals are literally shut away from the wider world while they vote. Conclaves nearly always take place in the event of a pope’s death. Since Gregory XII in 1415, there has only been one papal resignation: Benedict XVI, who, in 2013, left the Holy See citing his advanced age. Read more | Holy smoke, antipopes and power struggles: a guide to popes and the papacy Why are the cardinals shut off from the world? The conclave is held in the highest secrecy, well away from public glare and with the cardinals isolated from any potential external influence. Even the two non-cardinal masters of ceremonies must leave before voting commences. For the entire duration of the conclave, the assembled cardinals must remain in a sealed-off section of the Vatican. They have no access to televisions, radios, newspapers or mobile phones, and must take – along with members of Vatican staff – an oath of secrecy, on threat of excommunication. The process was brought to life in the 2024 film Conclave, helmed by All Quiet on the Western Front director Edward Berger and starring Ralph Fiennes and Stanley Tucci, and based on the bestselling novel by Robert Harris. It follows the workings of a fictional conclave – one filled with scandal and even-deeper secrets – but still helps us to see behind the doors of this peculiar and sometimes controversial procedure. Who votes for a new pope? Not all cardinals are permitted to participate in a conclave. In November 2024, there were more than 230 members of the College of Cardinals around the world, but the maximum number of who can vote is 120. This goes back to 1975, when Paul VI changed the rules so that no cardinal over the age of 80 could be in a conclave. The College of Cardinals have held the responsibility of electing a new pope since 1059, when the process was reformed by Nicholas II. Prior to that, the pope, officially known as the Bishop of Rome, was most likely elected by local clergy and churchgoers, and often under the influence of the Roman emperors and then Holy Roman emperors. Who can be elected as pope? In theory, any baptised male Catholic can become pope. In practice, however, the College of Cardinals always makes their choice from within their own number. The last head of the Catholic Church who was not previously a cardinal was Urban VI, who was elected in 1378. Read more | Has there ever been a married pope? Where are most popes from? Of the 266 popes there have been to date, 217 were born in Italy. The remaining pontiffs have come from 14 other countries, mostly France (16). The only Englishman to head the Catholic Church was Adrian IV, who held the office from 1154-1159. How do cardinals elect a pope? Once gathered from all around the world, the cardinals enter the Sistine Chapel. This is the venue for the conclave. Nine cardinals are randomly selected for particular roles during the election: three ‘scrutineers’ count, check and announce the votes; three ‘infirmarii’ deliver the ballots of any cardinals whose ill health prevents them attending a round of voting; and three ‘revisers’ double-check the work of the scrutineers. A round of voting, or scrutiny, consists of two masters of ceremony distributing paper ballots. They and the other handful of non-cardinals permitted in the Sistine Chapel must then exit. Each cardinal writes the name of their preferred candidate on their ballot, disguising their handwriting, and folds the paper twice, before walking to the chapel’s altar, placing it on a paten (a plate used during the Mass) and sliding it into a chalice. As they do so, they declare, “I call as my witness Christ the Lord who will be my judge that my vote is given to the one before God I think should be elected”. The collated ballots are examined one by one by the scrutineers, one whom reads the name on each ballot out loud and another pierces them with a needle to attach them onto a single thread. They are counted to see if any candidate has received the required two-thirds share of the vote. If no one achieves this majority, further rounds of voting will continue until there is a new pope. After a single vote on the first day, there can be four ballots per day. It is forbidden for a cardinal to openly campaign, but discussions in between rounds can assist particular candidates in building support. Finally, the ballots from a failed scrutiny are burned, giving off black smoke to let those outside the Sistine Chapel know that the conclave continues. How long does a conclave take? A conclave will last as long as necessary to secure the election of a new pope. During the last century, the quickest came in 1939 when Pius XII was elected in the third ballot (although the fact that the College of Cardinals only consisted of 62 eligible voters presumably helped the swiftness of the process). The longest conclave in history was held in 1268; or, at least, it began in 1268. Political infighting meant there was no result for nearly three years. During that time, three cardinals died and frustrations reached such a level that the local magistrate removed the roof where the conclave was being held and limited the cardinals to bread and water to force them to agree on a decision. How is a new pope announced? Smoke emanating from the Sistine Chapel chimney is still the first way that announcements from the conclave are made. While black smoke means a failed vote, white smoke means there is a new pope. The different colours are achieved by burning certain chemical mixtures. This is followed by the ringing of the bells of St Peter’s Basilica. Meanwhile, the candidate with the two-thirds majority must formally accept the result of the election. They will then select their papal name, before preparations are made for them to appear on the St Peter’s Basilica balcony for his first blessing. When conclaves go wrong The 13th-century conclave that lasted nearly three years was far from the only time that a papal election did not go to plan. The election of 1378 was accompanied by rioting in Rome from those calling for the new pope to be Italian. They were concerned that most of the cardinals were French. Although Urban VI was elected, there was a split in the Church – the Western Schism – which saw two popes: one in Rome and the other in Avignon. Further civil discord erupted during the conclave of 1559, with protests against one of the strongest candidates after it was revealed he had fathered a son. The election took almost four months before Pius IV became the new pope. That was despite the fact that he had children of his own; he successfully kept their existence a secret.
How to build a radical: what the Gunpowder Plot can teach us about extremism today
The experiences that shaped Guy Fawkes and his Gunpowder Plot co-conspirators into violent extremists seem all too familiar today. Lucy Worsley tells a story of religious clashes, state-sanctioned torture and comrades-in-arms willing to die for the cause
Towards the end of 1605, a man was being interrogated in a smallish building deep within the fortress of the Tower of London. It was here, in the most secure place in Britain, that the state dealt with its enemies. This particular enemy of the state was named Guy Fawkes. The records of that interrogation are today among the treasures of the National Archives, and going there to film them for the new series of Lucy Worsley Investigates was an unbelievable thrill. It’s evident that a secretary recorded Fawkes’s words, and that the conspirator was asked to sign his name to verify that the record was accurate. On one page, his signature is clear and confident: Guido Fawkes. Two days later, though, his name is no more than the faintest of scrawls. Historians generally agree that this difference is because, in the time between scribbling the two signatures, he’d been tortured and had lost the use of his hands. A few weeks later, he would also lose his life. Guy Fawkes and his Gunpowder Plot conspirators It’s quite extraordinary to think that, 400 years later, this tale of violence has morphed into an annual occasion for family-friendly fun. The reason for lighting bonfires and fireworks on the fifth of November is now largely forgotten. Technically, we’re celebrating the foiling of a plot against King James VI & I, planned by Catholic extremists whom many would call terrorists. Read more | Remember remember the 5th of November: why Bonfire Night is a 400-year-old political hot potato If you step off a London Underground train at Charing Cross, you can admire an enormous tiled image of the gunpowder plotters that takes up the whole height of the platform wall. Seen by thousands of commuters, tourists and schoolkids on a London day out, the image of the conspirators – with their tall hats, flowing locks and furtive body language – makes them look like a rather stylish rock band. But with violence and religious extremism wreaking havoc round the globe today, it seems timely to revisit what might be mistaken for a cosy old story of plots and plotters. Because when we compare our knowledge of radicalisation in the modern world with what happened to Fawkes and his fellow conspirators, many similarities become clear. Perhaps because the name of Guy Fawkes is so well known today, many people don’t realise that he wasn’t the most significant of the conspirators. The plot’s mastermind was actually a Warwickshire gentleman called Robert Catesby, whose role has been rather overshadowed by the dramatic circumstances of Fawkes’s capture and subsequent torture. What the Charing Cross tube picture does do accurately is give the sense that the group felt a strong social connection – like a band of brothers, which some of them were, literally: among the conspirators were two sets of siblings, including Christopher and John Wright. Read more | Why did the 1605 gunpowder plot fail? 9 big questions about the conspiracy to blow up parliament They were among Fawkes’s fellow plotters who had known each other during their childhoods in the city of York. There, the Catholic faith was alive and well – and subject to intense persecution – in the later years of the reign of the Protestant queen Elizabeth I. Guy was himself baptised a Protestant in 1570 but in his teens, it seems, he embraced Catholicism with all the fervour of a convert. His journey towards radicalisation could have begun as early as 1586, when he may have witnessed the appalling public execution of a York woman, Margaret Clitherow. Having been caught sheltering priests of the outlawed Catholic faith, she was crushed to death with heavy weights. In the eyes of her fellow Catholics, her death turned Margaret into a martyr. A brown and shrivelled hand, purportedly one of Margaret’s, is venerated today in the Bar Convent in York as a holy relic. It seems likely, then, that Fawkes and the Wrights would have realised early on that life would not be easy for them unless they gave up on Catholicism – or on the government. Guy Fawkes: an extremist abroad In his early twenties, Fawkes made a big life change. He sold his possessions near York and travelled to mainland Europe to fight as a paid soldier for the Catholic cause. Many modern-day extremists make similar life choices. Learning the trade of warfare abroad, surrounded by young men with the same beliefs and removed from the calming influence of family and community at home, the world view of a soldier fighting in the name of faith often narrows to black and white. Jason Burke, The Guardian’s international security correspondent, knows all about this process. An extremist fighter, he explains, is ‘best’ trained over several weeks in a special camp. It’s vital to prevent the wannabe soldier from going home each evening to see mum. Read more | Guy Fawkes “is like a modern-day jihadist,” says counter-terrorism expert In Europe, Fawkes was soon on the payroll of Catholic Spain, learning skills that would, in time, make him attractive to the plotters. In particularly, he became familiar with gunpowder and explosions. Meanwhile, another young man was also being radicalised – Robert Catesby, whose idea it later was to blow up the House of Lords in order to kill the king, some of his family, his members of parliament and the whole seat of power. Catesby had long been dissatisfied with the way England was governed. Under Elizabeth, his family had paid the fines exacted for refusing to attend Protestant church services. More dangerously, he got himself caught up in the Essex Rebellion of 1601. This wasn’t specifically a Catholic plot but, rather, involved a grouping of disaffected people of various stripes who aimed to change the power constellations at court. That uprising was unsuccessful, and Catesby was forced to pay a huge fine for his part in it. Then, in 1603, Elizabeth died and James VI of Scotland inherited her crown. It seems that Catesby had high hopes of the new regime. England under James VI & I The new king knew that his succession as James I of England might well be challenged – so, being a clever politician, he tried to appeal to a wide base of potential supporters in England, hinting strongly that he’d be more sympathetic than Elizabeth to those of his future subjects who were Catholics. After all, he had a Catholic wife, Anne of Denmark. When James came to the English throne, though, those who knew him best perhaps weren’t surprised to find that the hinted-at new policy of tolerance never materialised – quite the opposite, in fact. Catesby and other Catholics were chagrined to find the new king proclaiming in parliament that he was never going to tolerate their religion. Another staging post on the journey towards direct action was passed. Catesby did not know Guy Fawkes at this stage, but they had one key thing in common: Fawkes’s new friends, the Spanish. Spanish archives contain correspondence from Fawkes, reporting from the European mainland on what he understood about the situation in England. The new king’s regime was not stable, Fawkes claimed, arguing that it was justifiable to use violence to promote the ‘right’ kind of religion. Fawkes was clearly ripe for recruitment as a Catholic conspirator. And so we come to vital documents for the history of the gunpowder plot: the records of the confessions made by the surviving conspirators after it was all over. I looked at one set, held at Hatfield House Archives, which take us right into the room during some of the plotters’ meetings, allowing us to overhear those dangerous conversations. Read more | Traitor or Faithful: British history's most notorious treason cases One of the conspirators, Thomas Wintour (sometimes spelled Winter), described the moment when Catesby told him that he’d thought of a way of restoring Catholicism to England. His idea was to blow up parliament on the day of its opening session, killing the king and all of the MPs who had passed unjust laws against Catholics. Chillingly, Catesby believed that those actions were reason enough for them to die. Catesby had a task for Wintour. He was to travel to Europe to find some “confident” gentleman – meaning one in whom they could have confidence – to act as the plot’s technician. He’d heard that a certain Guy Fawkes might be a suitable candidate – and one who also offered another important advantage. Having lived abroad for so many years, few people in England would remember Fawkes’s face. Catesby was already on the authorities’ radar, but Fawkes might walk down the street in Westminster without being recognised. To further obscure his identity, Fawkes also did something common in modern-day extremism: he adopted a war-name. He would now go by the moniker John Johnson. The failure of the Gunpowder Plot The plot was taking shape. After the planned explosion in Westminster, Catesby intended to take advantage of the chaos. With James’s regime in disarray, a great uprising would be launched in Catesby’s native Midlands, and Catesby would snatch James’s daughter, Elizabeth, to place her on the throne as a puppet queen. But time ticked on. There was a delay when the opening of parliament was postponed, and soon there were just too many people in on the secret. Then there was a leak. One plotter, anxious that Catholics present in parliament on the key day would also lose their lives, wrote an anonymous warning: the Catholic Lord Monteagle received a letter telling him not to attend. Read more | Alternate history: what if… the gunpowder plot had succeeded? This missive, known as the Monteagle Letter, made its way into the hands of the authorities, where it caused much concern. Was the threat real? Many questions remain about how much the authorities already knew at that point, but certainly an extra patrol was laid on in Westminster. As every schoolkid now knows, Fawkes was found hiding in a cellar with his dark lantern, his barrels of gunpowder and the fuse to ignite an explosion that would very likely have transformed Britain’s religion. Interrogation and torture of Guy Fawkes Captured and taken to the Tower, Fawkes next experienced something else still common worldwide: interrogation. I asked psychologist Laura Farrugia, assistant professor at Northumberland University, who helps to train police in carrying out ethical and effective interviews, to assess the techniques used on Fawkes. She noted that the initial questions posed by authorities at the Tower, who were accustomed to interrogating suspects, were concise, targeted, comprehensible. Whenever Fawkes knew or guessed that the authorities already knew the answers, he gave them freely. Read more | 9 places associated with Guy Fawkes and the gunpowder plot However, Fawkes didn’t name his fellow conspirators. So the king himself stepped in, drawing up a list of less-successful, more ‘clever’, complicated questions that would have been difficult and confusing for any suspect to answer. Unsurprisingly, this approach failed. Nevertheless, Fawkes did say something that provides perhaps the first and the last piece in the jigsaw of his radicalisation: he would not betray his friends. Extremists were, and are, social creatures. They rely on friendship and camaraderie. This, as well as their political and religious beliefs, keeps them going. The king ordered torture, and Fawkes did eventually crack. Ironically, though, the authorities didn’t need his information. They had followed other leads, tracking Catholics who had left London suddenly just before the attack, and eventually caught up with the key plotters in a safe house in the Midlands. Thomas Wintour’s confession recounts a scene, just before the authorities stormed in, that would have been romantic – if it were not acted out by men who’d been willing to take hundreds, if not thousands, of lives. They agreed to die together. And when the local sheriff entered, guns blazing, Catesby did just that, taking a bullet that killed him. Fawkes and a few other surviving conspirators were hanged, drawn and quartered in London. The plotters would perhaps have been mortified to know that their plot not only failed in its aims but even helped to secure James’s regime. It turned him into a survivor – someone with God on his side. He insisted that his personal achievement in defeating this plot be commemorated on its anniversary every year. Four centuries later, many Britons are still obeying him – even though most have forgotten exactly why. This article was first published in the January 2025 issue of BBC History Magazine
The 17th-century expulsion of the Moriscos from Spain: what happened?
In 1609, Spain initiated the expulsion of 300,000 'Moriscos' - descendants of Muslims converted to Christianity - in what was then among the largest forced depopulations in history. Matt Carr explores divergent experiences of an early exercise in 'ethnic cleansing'
On 4 April 1609, the Habsburg king Philip III of Spain and his corrupt, all-powerful first minister, the Duke of Lerma, authorised the phased expulsion of the entire population of the people known as Moriscos (‘Little Moors’) from Iberian soil. These were all nominal Catholics, their ancestors having been forcibly converted to Christianity in the late 15th and early 16th centuries. The king’s order was not made public, in order to preclude flight or rebellion, and stipulated that the expulsion should begin that autumn in the kingdom of Valencia – home to the largest Morisco population in Spain. Throughout the spring and summer, Spanish officials worked in total secrecy to prepare for the expulsion of the Valencian Moriscos. Spanish naval ships and specially commissioned foreign ships from across Europe were brought to designated ports on the Valencian coast. Soldiers and militia forces stockpiled weapons throughout Valencia and also inland in Castile to prevent the Moriscos from retreating into the interior. On 24 September, town criers in the city of Valencia accused the kingdom’s entire Morisco population of apostasy, heresy and “divine and human lese-majesty”, and announced the king’s intention to expel them to Barbary (as the north African coast was then known) to ensure the “conservation and security” of his realms. The persecution of Jews in medieval England Perilous journeys Over the following three days, Morisco families and communities across the kingdom frantically attempted to gather their possessions and sell them to their Christian neighbours before they were escorted by the king’s officers to their designated ports. Not all acquiesced quietly: in October, thousands of Moriscos in the Valencian interior launched a doomed rebellion that was quickly and brutally suppressed. Your guide to the Spanish Inquisition At the coast, some were taken immediately on board the waiting ships and shipped across the Mediterranean to Barbary. Others waited for days and even weeks before their transportation. Many were robbed and even murdered by their escorts or by Christian bandits before they could reach the Spanish coast. Hundreds and perhaps even thousands of Moriscos were attacked by Muslim pirates on the high seas, were killed by their own crews, or were robbed and murdered in north Africa by nomadic Muslim tribesmen who took them for Spaniards and Christians. By the end of 1609, some 130,000 Valencian Moriscos had been expelled. A jubilant Philip and his ministers extended the expulsion to Castile, Andalusia and Aragon. Over the next four years, Moriscos across Spain were escorted to the Mediterranean coast or driven overland across the Pyrenees. By the time the expulsion was called to a halt in August 1614, Spain had sent some 300,000 men, women and children – about 4% of its population – to exile and death, almost eradicating from the Iberian peninsula the last traces of the old Moorish emirate of al-Andalus. The Christian perspective To Spain’s Habsburg rulers and the anti-Morisco lobbyists who had for many years called for the Moriscos to be driven from Spain, the expulsion was a glorious and divinely ordained act of religious purging. In their eyes it removed a seditious and heretical enemy from Spanish soil, and cleansed Spain of the last remnants of its despised Islamic past. During the tumultuous autumn of 1609 in Valencia, supporters of the expulsion – such as the archbishop of Valencia Juan de Ribera and the Dominican monk Jaime Bleda – praised the king for having finally taken action against an inveterate Muslim “enemy within” that had stubbornly continued to worship “the sect of Muhammad” ever since the initial conversions of the Moriscos around a century before. Bleda witnessed the expulsion in Valencia, and found confirmation of this treachery and dishonesty in the Moriscos who arrived in Valencia singing and dancing, or who waded into the sea to praise Allah for their deliverance. Philip III and his ministers saw the Moriscos in very similar terms. In the many ministerial discussions on the ‘Morisco question’ that had preceded the expulsion, clerics and ministers argued that the Moriscos had been given ample time to become “good and faithful Christians” and had collectively refused to embrace their new faith. Some noted how the Moriscos had failed to take advantage of the periods of grace that had been granted to them at various times since their conversions, and had continued to worship as Muslims despite the attentions of the Spanish Inquisition. Others described the Moriscos as a fifth column whose members were secretly colluding with Spain’s Muslim and Protestant enemies and with Muslim corsairs operating from north Africa. Some cited Inquisition reports of real or imagined Morisco plots. Some expressed fears of another rebellion, like the savage War of the Alpujarras (1568–71) during which the Moriscos of Granada had risen up against Philip II’s decrees prohibiting their language and customs, and committed vicious atrocities against the Christian population in the mountains south and east of Granada with the support of Turkish and north African volunteers. Turkish threat These security fears were exacerbated by the ongoing Turkish threat – Ottoman forces having fought Habsburg empires, including Spain, since 1526 – and also by reports of Morisco banditry emanating from various parts of the country. Proponents of expulsion argued that the Moriscos were religiously incompatible with Christian Spain, and that they were also culturally inferior. Some pointed to the Morisco birth rate, claiming that the ‘New Christian’ Morisco population was inexorably increasing while the ‘Old Christian’ population was decreasing, and that this would result in the collapse of Christian Spain. Elizabeth I’s war with England’s Catholics Philip III, in common with many of his Christian subjects, regarded the descendants of Spain’s former Islamic occupiers as an unwanted aberration and a threat to its religious identity. He also saw Catholic Spain’s recent military reverses in its wars against ‘heretics’ (Calvinist Lutheran rebels in Flanders, the English in various naval encounters) as evidence of divine disapproval for having allowed the Moriscos to ‘defile’ the country. During the reign of his father, Philip II, clerics and ministers had considered radical and even genocidal ‘solutions’ to the ‘Morisco question’ that included castration of all Morisco males, or even wholesale massacre. Eventually, Philip II settled on expulsion as the most humane ‘Christian’ option, but the ‘prudent king’ did not implement his own decision. Instead, it was left to his famously lazy son to carry out what the Portuguese Dominican monk Damián Fonseca called “the agreeable holocaust” and settle the ‘Morisco question’ once and for all. By the time Philip decided to implement his father’s expulsion order, the anti-Morisco consensus in the upper echelons of church and state was no longer prepared to listen to Christian landowners who regarded Moriscos as an essential component of their labour force. Nor would it heed the more moderate clerics who insisted that it was un-Christian to expel baptised Morisco children. To the king and his ministers, these children carried in their blood the ‘bad seed’ of their parents’ Islamic faith that would continue to grow if they were not expelled. Faced with criticism from European diplomats and the pope himself regarding the inhumanity of the expulsion, Philip insisted that it had been carried out humanely. He hailed the destruction of Spanish Islam as a great victory for Spain and Christendom that restored Spain to its rightful destiny as a Catholic state. These assumptions continued to echo down through the work of historians of the 19th and 20th centuries who hailed the expulsion of the Moriscos as a painful but essential milestone in Spanish and European history. The Morisco perspective The hagiographic accounts of the expulsion written in the early 17th century tend to ignore the complexities of the Morisco predicament that might have allowed for less radical ‘solutions’. They also ignored the extent to which Christian Spain itself had helped create the problem the expulsion was intended to solve. There is no doubt that some Moriscos saw their expulsion as a form of liberation and deliverance, and relished the opportunity to return to a land of Islam where they could worship openly as Muslims. Certainly, many Moriscos had little reason to feel any affection towards the Catholic church or the Spanish state. This antipathy was partly due to the Inquisition. For the best part of a century, the institution that many Moriscos regarded as the ‘devil’s tribunal’ had tormented and punished them for a range of transgressions that included actual Islamic religious worship as well as ‘Moorish’ cultural practices such as eating couscous, bathing or refusing to eat pork. Exploited by priests Such repression did not endear many Moriscos to Christianity, yet even the most embittered were not allowed to leave Spain but were forced to remain in ‘Morisco lands’ where their parish priests despised and exploited them. Some Morisco parishes rarely saw a priest at all, and had no idea what their new faith even expected of them. As a result, the intermittent ‘periods of grace’ granted to the Moriscos were often fruitless – and, too often, punctuated by repression. When Philip II introduced his draconian prohibitions in Granada in 1566, leading Moriscos and Christians warned the king that they would provoke rebellion. These protestations were ignored, and the result was a bloody rebellion in the Alpujarras. The expulsion and dispersion of the entire Morisco population of Granada across Castile that followed the suppression of the rebellion only added to the bitterness and alienation felt by many Moriscos. Crusading for God and gold: The crusades were driven by religious zeal. But profit was also a powerful motive… Some Moriscos undoubtedly colluded with Spain’s Muslim and Lutheran enemies abroad, and dreamed of an Islamic restoration. Others took to the roads and became bandits in order to take revenge on Christian society. Moriscos near the Mediterranean coast sometimes facilitated the slave-hunting expeditions of the Barbary corsairs – some even became corsairs themselves. But many, perhaps the majority, had no such ambitions – and even fewer opportunities to realise them. Most Moriscos occupied humble positions as artisans, muleteers, labourers, entertainers and shopkeepers, living on the fringes of a Spanish society that feared and despised them – yet which still insisted that they become ‘good and faithful Christians’. Though it was true that some Moriscos never accepted their conversion to Christianity, others eventually came to sincerely embrace their new faith. Philip III discovered this himself, to his astonishment, when he extended the expulsion to Castile and Andalusia, where he found many local bishops and priests who testified to the ardent piety of their Morisco parishioners. Even then, the king and his ministers insisted that both ‘good’ and ‘bad’ Moriscos were to be expelled. Spain’s rulers also failed to appreciate that most Moriscos, whatever their religious convictions, regarded Spain as their homeland. Most of them spoke Spanish, not Arabic, and knew little of the world beyond the estates and villages in which they lived. In Valencia in 1609, rebel Morisco women threw themselves and their children off cliffs rather than allow themselves to be escorted to the coast. Aftermath of the expulsion Many expelled Moriscos experienced a profound culture shock on their forced arrival in North Africa. One of the reasons why the expulsion lasted as long as it did was because many Moriscos, like the character Ricote in Don Quixote, returned to their towns and villages after their expulsion. Some expelled Moriscos languished in France, from where they petitioned the king to allow them to return to Spain. Many shared the sentiments of the expelled Morisco Diego Luis Morlem, who wrote to his former lord in Castile that he and his fellow exiles were “crying tears of blood” for their lost country, and were determined to return to it “even if they hang us”. Many returned to Spain, where they were flogged and expelled again, but some succeeded in remaining in their homes after the expulsion process was stopped, and continued to live in Spain. Others found new homes in Algiers, Tunis and Morocco, and eventually managed to integrate and form the distinctively ‘Andalusi’ communities whose traces can still be found across North Africa. Matt Carr is a journalist and writer, author of Blood and Faith: The Purging of Muslim Spain, 1492–1614 (Hurst, new edition 2017) This article was taken from issue 05 of BBC World Histories magazine
What does it take to be declared a person of exceptional holiness? Historian Emma J Wells explains how to enter the holy A-List…
Cardinal John Newman’s canonisation in 2019 was no small deal for us Brits: he is Britain’s first saint in more than 30 years (and the first to be canonised who has lived since the 17th century). The last were John Ogilvie, a Scottish Jesuit priest hanged for treasonable activities (namely declining the king’s authority) in 1615, and the famed Forty Martyrs (Catholics executed under Reformation laws), canonised in the 1970s. It was Newman’s journey from ordained Anglican priest to leader of the Oxford Movement before a conversion to Catholicism in 1845 that secured him the supreme title of saint: a person of exceptional holiness. Gaining this special status as one who demonstrates a life of almost perfect virtue is no easy feat. But, if you think sainthood in the Roman Catholic Church might be for you, here are some tips on how to enter the holy A-List… Medieval saints and sinners: tales of saintly miracles in the Middle Ages Don’t bother befriending the pope To start, don’t even think about reeling off a quick email to the pope. He doesn’t have the supreme jurisdiction to promote you to this exclusive club. That’s the canny job of the Vatican group exclusively created to sanction the official canonisation process to authorise people for sainthood: The Congregation for the Causes of Saints. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2019/10/GettyImages-1173047460-4bf873f.jpg" width="5356" height="3318" alt="Pope Francis waves to worshipers as he arrives to hold the weekly general audience on 2 October 2019 at St Peter's square in the Vatican. (Photo by Tiziana Fabi/AFP via Getty Images)" title="Pope Francis waves to worshipers as he arrives to hold the weekly general audience on 2 October 2019 at St Peter's square in the Vatican. (Photo by Tiziana Fabi/AFP via Getty Images)" /> Don’t expect sainthood in your lifetime Some more bad news: wannabe-saints have to shuffle off their mortal coils to be in the running. As the entire point is consideration as a “heavenly being”, being alive just won’t cut it. And there’s no fast pass, either. The process is lengthy, often taking decades or even centuries to complete. Since 1588, the time between death and canonisation was just over 180 years. Poor Joan of Arc waited almost 500 years to be canonised following her harrowing martyrdom at the stake in 1431. And that’s nothing compared to the Venerable (Saint) Bede, who waited 1,164 years! On average, the wheels don’t even start turning until at least five years post-mortem (to allow greater balance and objectivity in evaluating the case), unless you’re extra special like Mother Teresa (1910–1997) or Pope John Paul II (1920–2005), whose processes commenced just two years and a month after their deaths respectively! It’s also worth noting that the Vatican bases its decision on the actions and writings of the person, so you’ll need to keep busy before and beyond the grave. After all that, if you’re still resigned to achieving this supreme honour, read on. Martyrs v Confessors Saints generally fall into two categories based on their holy actions. The first group are the martyrs, who show willingness to be put to a violent death for refusing to renounce Christ. The deacon of Jerusalem, Saint Stephen, was the first Christian martyr stoned to death for blasphemy against the Jewish Temple. “Confessors", meanwhile, as the name suggests, confess the virtues of a Christian life (to a valorous degree). It is a somewhat easier route, as they don’t actually have to die for their faith, but are witnesses to it under difficult and often dangerous conditions. Saint Justin is a fine example: he saved many Christian lives by explaining faith through the writing of his Apologia. When facing martyrdom in c165, he exclaimed to the government official who asked him, “Do you think by dying you will receive a reward from God?” that, “I do not think; I know.” A history of the Bible: who wrote it and when? As luck would have it, there are now another two ways to reach that divine goal. “Exceptional cases” are based on the confirmation of an already widespread venerable reputation, i.e. you need to be a baller of good deeds. This one tends to be used sparingly, like Mother Teresa, or Hildegard of Bingen (1098–1179), whose holiness were known worldwide. In 2017, Pope Francis created the final category: laying down one’s life for others. Stemming from the John 15.13 passage: “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends”, this effectively opened the gates to sainthood for us all (well, mostly). This overruled the previous subcategory – martyrs of love – superseding it and encompassing the laying down of one’s life for others as well as dying for love. Live virtuously – and make sure everyone knows about it So, you’ve decided which category might suit. Now what? Although the process is strictly rigorous today, prior to 1234, no formal process existed. Public opinion commonly informed who qualified as a saint, with their vitae (or lives) compiled by local cults, although bishops were the primary ecclesiastical authority in determining the historical veracity of martyrs and confessors. Transferring a saint’s body to an altar or shrine also came to be interpreted as the act of canonisation. A great example is Archbishop Thomas Becket. Soon after his grisly murder at Canterbury Cathedral in December 1170, accounts of miraculous healing spread. Now viewed as a martyr, Becket became revered by Christians across Europe. This led to official canonisation not even three years later, and his translation from a tomb to shrine in 1220. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2019/10/GettyImages-463912865-1cf91d8.jpg" width="2942" height="3563" alt="An illustration of Thomas Becket, from 'Liber Chronicarum Mundi (Nuremberg Chronicle)' by Hartmann Schedel, 1493. (Photo by Ann Ronan Pictures/Print Collector/Getty Images)" title="An illustration of Thomas Becket, from 'Liber Chronicarum Mundi (Nuremberg Chronicle)' by Hartmann Schedel, 1493. (Photo by Ann Ronan Pictures/Print Collector/Getty Images)" /> The unholy feud that killed Thomas Becket Over the past millennium, numerous popes have revised the canonisation process, largely to tighten procedures to ensure that only holy people were recognised. The 10th century saw Pope John XV assert that veneration must have the Catholic Church’s approval and, in 1234, Pope Gregory IX confirmed papal authority over the investigation and documentation of a candidate saint. The first recorded saint to be papally canonised was Ulrich of Augsburg in 993, a mere 20 years after his death. In 1983, Pope John Paul II simplified the entire process and the number of saints increased dramatically. Prior to his 26-year reign, about 300 saints had been made, however John Paul personally canonised 482 saints and beatified 1,327 people. Perhaps he was attempting to secure his heavenly place in the process. Today, once the five-year waiting period is up following the death of someone of “famed sanctity or martyrdom” (unless the pope waives this interim period), the local bishop is under obligation to collect evidence to merit the claim of holiness. He then sends the findings over and commences a dialogue with the Vatican. As soon as they are accepted for consideration, they are referred to as a “Servant of God”. 6 facts you might not know about the history of St Patrick’s Day Many individuals – of every stature – have endured this process. In the early 18th century, the English Benedictines in Paris explored the cause of James II’s canonisation, following accounts of miraculous cures. Nothing came of it, unsurprisingly. This information-gathering process – or scrutiny – assesses whether the person lived a life of heroic virtue. It covers everything from writings and spoken works (to ensure “purity”); testimonials from eyewitnesses (of reputation and activities on earth); and even conformation that no one is already honouring the person as a saint before official declaration. The body of the candidate is then exhumed to ensure that they, well, actually existed. No doubt Saint Barbara was a catalyst in this thought-process. Once considered among the “Fourteen Holy Helpers”, the Catholic Church was forced to officially deny her existence in 1969; even the monks of St Augustine’s Abbey in Ramsgate suggested her legend was entirely spurious. Once these background checks are satisfied, a panel of theologians and the Congregation for Cause of Saints then evaluate the “life” of the person. If deemed virtuous (which may take years), a “Decree of Heroic Virtue” may be issued thereby declaring them worthy of the title “Venerable”: a role model of Catholic virtues. Listen | Janina Ramirez introduces some remarkable medieval religious figures Work a miracle The next step is beatification, the part of the process that allows the person to be venerated publicly, but only within a religious community, diocese or region. This element is a little trickier to muster: you must be responsible for a posthumous miracle – that is, unless you’re a martyr whose manner of death automatically wins you a heavenly spot alongside the ‘beatified’ clan, without even the hint of a supernatural deed (at this stage)! When did the pope rule England? Why do popes change their names? St George’s Day: 10 things you (probably) didn’t know about England's patron saint Otherwise, if you’re just a lowly “Venerable Servant of God”, being credited with a miracle is a non-negotiable. And don’t think a lifetime bribe to a friend will work: miracles must be authenticated by an entire expert panel. A scientific commission (known as Consulta Medica) attempt to confirm whether the miracle has no scientific or medical explanation; and a theological commission has to conclude that God performed the miracle through intercession. If agreed, the pope then officially announces the candidate beatified, or “Blessed”. But it isn’t just miracles that count for this part of the ‘exam’. You could also be found incorrupt: free of decay when exhumed from the grave. In 698, Cuthbert's tomb on Lindisfarne was reopened and his body discovered intact, thus leading to his canonisation. Stranger still, when Saint Anthony was exhumed 32 years after his 1231 death, his entire body was decomposed except for his tongue. Taken as a miraculous sign of his speaking about the Word of God, Anthony’s canonisation was the fastest on record, taking less than 12 months. There are also instances where the dried blood of a long-dead saint miraculously liquefies on their feast day. The most famous account is Saint Januarius (San Gennaro in Italian), the martyred patron saint of Naples. Now kept in a sealed glass ampoule in Naples Cathedral, his dried blood liquefies three specific days each year (though others have claimed up to 18.) Finally, an “odour of sanctity” or mystical fragrance may signal the divine presence of a saint, contrasted against the customary putridity of a rotten corpse. At York Minster, a sweet-smelling oil exuded from Saint William’s tomb from 1223 onwards, sealed in ampullae and sold to pilgrims as miraculous souvenirs. Unfortunately, your posthumous work is still not done. After beatification, another authenticated miracle must be verified; only then can the candidate be accepted a saint. Cardinal Newman’s sainthood was only secured at this final stage after a second miracle – the inexplicable healing in 2013 of a woman with life-threatening pregnancy complications after she prayed to Newman – was approved by Pope Francis this year. The first Newman-miracle came in 2010: the inexplicable healing of a man’s crippling spinal condition. But we are not finished yet. The final verdict depends on nine theologians who give their vote. Soon after, the candidate is publicly recognised by the pope, usually in St Peter’s Square outside the Vatican. Or, on occasion, the pope beatifies and canonises in the country where the person lived and died, as was the case with the largest number of saints canonised at one time: the 103 Korean Martyrs at Seoul, South Korea in 1984. Become a pope Not convinced? There’s one final way of securing canonisation: become a pope. Roughly 30 per cent of all popes are saints. Emma J Wells is an ecclesiastical and architectural historian specialising in the late medieval/early modern English parish church/cathedral and the cult of saints. She is also a broadcaster and the author of numerous books including Pilgrim Routes of the British Isles (Robert Hale, 2016). To find out more, visit www.emmajwells.com or follow Emma on Twitter @Emma_J_Wells
Why did the papacy move to Avignon in the 14th century?
The Italian capital city of Rome took an unprecedented break in the 14th century when the residence of the papacy relocated to the French city of Avignon. BBC History Revealed explains why
From 1309 to 1377, the Italian capital took an unprecedented break as the residence of the papacy, which relocated to the French city of Avignon. French-born Pope Clement V ordered the move in response to the increasingly fractious and political environment in Rome, which had seen his predecessors face off against Philip IV of France – the man who had ensured Clement’s election by the conclave and who was pressing for the papal residence to move to France. Everything you need to know about the Holy Roman Empire Europe's holy war: how the Reformation convulsed a continent The influence of the French crown over the Roman Catholic Church was significant. Not only did Clement choose Lyon as the site of his coronation in 1305, but all six of his successors in the Avignon Papacy and 111 of the 134 cardinals installed at this time were French. The idea that these popes were puppets for France, whether entirely true or not, hurt the Church’s reputation. But things only got worse. When Gregory XI returned the papal court to Rome in 1377, many of the cardinals weren’t happy with that decision, or with his successor, Urban VI. They chose an alternative pope to continue in Avignon. This was the start of the Great Schism, 40 turbulent years when the papacy in Rome was challenged by a line of rival claimants. This article was first published in the September 2019 issue of BBC History Revealed
Jessie Childs tells the story of Tudor gentleman Thomas Tresham whose faith set him at odds with the Virgin Queen
Historian Jessie Childs tells the story of Thomas Tresham, a Tudor gentleman who built a remarkable monument to his Catholic faith and risked the anger of the Virgin Queen
Antonia Fraser discusses her new book The King and the Catholics: The Fight for Rights 1829
Acclaimed historian and author Antonia Fraser joins us to discuss her new book The King and the Catholics: The Fight for Rights 1829.
Taxing Catholics: how one Georgian government targeted a religious community
When the British government discovered a plot to kill George I, it responded by demanding money from an entire religious community. Ted Vallance describes what happened next...
In April 1722, Prime Minister Sir Robert Walpole received news of a plot to restore the exiled Stuart dynasty to the British throne. The conspirators, a horrified Walpole learned, hoped to seize power through a series of co-ordinated local risings in England. Meanwhile, leading Jacobites, such as the exiled Irish soldier the Duke of Ormond, would land invasion forces in Scotland and south-west England. Walpole acted fast, ordering the opening of post to smoke out further evidence of the conspiracy. However, it was not until the summer that he discovered any substantial evidence of the plot, in the form of a series of letters penned by Christopher Layer, a Norfolk lawyer who acted as an agent for the Jacobite lord William North. These letters contained detailed plans for the rebellion and the assassination of King George. The authorities arrested Layer and other leading plotters – including Francis Atterbury, bishop of Rochester, after whom the plot would derive its name – and had the lawyer hanged, drawn and quartered for treason on 17 May 1723 (his severed head was reportedly later sold to the antiquary Richard Rawlinson). Read more | The Gordon Riots: how an anti-Catholic petition escalated into the most destructive riots in London’s history Yet Layer’s intransigence – he repeatedly refused to implicate his co-conspirators, despite having the possibility of a reprieve repeatedly dangled before him – meant that there was not enough evidence to put Atterbury himself on trial. Instead, Walpole forced through parliament a special act designed to inflict severe punishments less than death on an individual deemed guilty of serious offences. As a result, Atterbury was stripped of his bishopric and sentenced to perpetual banishment. Walpole’s prosecution of the plot, however, did not end with the punishment of the leading Jacobites. Habeas Corpus – a writ that was often seen to offer protection from arbitrary imprisonment – probably pre-dated Magna Carta, and was enshrined in statute law in 1679. Walpole, however, successfully suspended this important legal safeguard on the grounds of national security. He also gave the military greater powers to guard against further invasion attempts and domestic insurrections. Most extraordinary of all was how Walpole decreed that these new powers should be paid for – through a £100,000 tax on Catholics’ estates. The legislation laid out fixed sums that each county was required to raise as part of their contribution to the levy – and any Catholics who refused the oaths of allegiance, supremacy and abjuration (denying the title of the Stuart Pretender to the throne) were deemed liable to pay. Enemies of the state The tax was given royal assent in May 1723. Yet by then Catholics were already bearing the brunt of existing punitive legislation. Local officials were soon gathering lists of ‘disaffected persons’ (a description usually interpreted as being synonymous with Catholicism), and seizing and itemising Catholic holdings of horses and weapons. While the Catholic tax did become law, the bill faced significant opposition in parliament, passing by only 16 votes. Historian Eveline Cruickshanks has suggested that the government may have deliberately delayed reintroducing the bill – to a point when numbers in the house had thinned – as a way of overcoming parliamentary opposition. One Tory MP claimed that “had not many of our friends been gone into ye country… we had rejected it”. Opponents of the tax pointed out that it seemed unfair to penalise Catholics when those involved in Atterbury’s plot had largely been Anglican Tories (opponents of the ruling Whig administration in parliament). Others felt that the measure bore unflattering comparison with the system of ‘compounding’ and ‘sequestration’ used by the parliamentarian regime to exploit the estate of royalists. Some Whigs objected to the measure too as an assault on liberty of conscience, often seen as one of the key principles that the revolution of 1688 (when the Protestant William III and II had overthrown the Catholic James II and VII to become king of England, Scotland and Ireland) had sought to defend. Yet the government minister Lord Carteret was having none of it, arguing that the tax was perfectly compatible with religious liberty. In a series of letters to the British ambassador Lord Polwarth, Carteret declared that it was “known throughout Europe that there is nothing so alien to the spirit of this nation than persecution for the sake of religion.” But the tax and other penal legislation against Catholics had been made neither to “force their consciences or to persecute them”, but because Catholics had been involved in conspiracies and rebellions against the crown. Even when Catholics had not been implicated in plotting, they had still withheld recognising the government by swearing allegiance “which cannot be justified by any principle of religion”. Carteret’s letters defending the tax were intended to justify the measure to Britain’s European Catholic allies. However, while Catholics had been involved in the 1715 Jacobite rebellion (when James Francis Edward Stuart’s attempt to regain the throne for the House of Stuart ended in bloody failure), many Catholics were prepared to swear allegiance to George I. The problem was that they were not prepared to take the oath of supremacy or the declaration against transubstantion incorporated into the so-called ‘Test Acts’, which involved repudiating the authority of the pope and core elements of Catholic doctrine. The difficult situation Catholics found themselves in was explained clearly in a statement made by Henry Englefield of Shinfield, Berkshire in the wake of the 1715 rebellion when required to register his estate. Englefield stated that he would “willingly take an oath of fidelity to King George” but “the real presence of the body and blood of our saviour in the sacrament of the Eucharist was always believed by the holy Catholic church”. Catholics continued to protest their loyalty to the crown, among them Edward Elwall of Wolverhampton, who in 1724 declared: “God almighty bless King George and all his royal family… All good Christians love the king as does Edward Elwall.” As the research of Eamon Duffy and Gabriel Glickman has shown, these individual declarations of loyalty fitted in with broader schemes by the Catholic leadership after 1715 to devise an oath of allegiance that would be acceptable both to the Catholic community and to the government. These proposals were given short shrift by Walpole, who told a deputation of Catholic lords that he “found fault with their religion which procured interest abroad, and it was fit they should suffer for it”. And they certainly did suffer: Nicholas Blundell of Little Crosby, Lancashire recorded that the “Grand Tax”, as he called it, had cost him £14 17s 2d (about £2,000 in modern terms). Despite this, historians have usually viewed the £100,000 tax as a failure, as did many of Walpole’s contemporaries. Sir Richard Coxe warned the prime minister that the “difficulties we are meeting with in laying the tax on papists are insuperable without directions from above”. The tax never raised the anticipated amount and counties were slow to return payments. The last to pay, Devon, only did so in 1743, two decades after the tax had first been imposed. Yet the intention of the tax, as Walpole revealed in his response to the Catholic peers, was not simply to milk a religious community for money. He wanted primarily to exert pressure on Catholics, especially the aristocracy and gentry, and deter foreign states from harbouring exiled Jacobites. The records of the tax made at a local level reveal that in this respect it was highly effective. Yet, returns of ‘papists’, such as those for the City of London held at the London Metropolitan Archives, reveal that it wasn’t just the wealthy who suffered. Charles Matison of Bishopsgate Ward, London was entered into the lists despite being of “peasable behavier and of little or noe substance suposed”. Women as well as men were included in these lists and, as the use of descriptions such as “lives very handsom[e]” or “in mean circumstances” implied, the state used the evidence of informers, as well as existing tax records, to identify Catholics and calculate their wealth. The pressure on the Catholic community was such that Bishop Bonaventura Giffard feared that his co-religionists would be reduced to an “extremity of want”. However, the £100,000 tax, as with other punitive laws against Catholics, operated, as the chief justice Lord Mansfield later put it, in terrorem, through the threat of implementation rather than via actual enforcement. The aim was to subdue the Catholic community and make it do the British government’s bidding, not to annihilate it. The readiness of many Catholics to pledge obedience to George I reveals the difficulty of viewing, as government ministers such as Carteret did, England’s small Catholic community as a dangerous ‘fifth column’. Rather, the refusal of Walpole’s government to countenance the loyalist overtures made by leading Catholics left the mostly peaceful Catholic community excluded from English public life for another 50 years. It is a historic reminder, perhaps, of the difficulties that can arise from equating the actions of a few individuals with an entire religious group. Pope-burnings, land grabs and “half-citizens” Five ways in which Catholics were made to suffer in Georgian Britain A war on worship The 18th century began badly for England’s Catholic community. In 1700, ‘An Act for Further Preventing the Growth of Popery’ systematised existing anti-Catholic legislation, continuing Elizabethan and Jacobean restrictions on Catholic worship, and on educating children in the Catholic religion. The act was enforced via a system of payments to informers. Prison awaits Even pieces of legislation that appeared to take the heat off Catholics were in fact intended to do the opposite. The translation of the death penalty to life imprisonment for Catholic priests was really designed to ensure its effectiveness: it was believed that more judges would convict Catholic priests if a custodial rather than a capital sentence was imposed. Paying double Post-revolutionary laws also targeted Catholics economically: the Land Tax first imposed in 1692 was levied at a double rate on Catholic estates. After the 1715 rebellion, Catholics were forced to register their property in land, and those judged popish ‘recusants’ could be subject to the confiscation of two-thirds of their estate. Chapels under attack Although these penal laws were rarely enforced, their impact on Catholics was far from minimal. As historian Colin Haydon has argued, they left Catholics as “half-citizens”, while the state’s hostile attitude towards them gave anti-Catholic prejudice and violence (such as a series of attacks on Lancashire chapels in 1715) the stamp of official approval. Riots erupt Fed by the enduring literary tradition of Protestant ‘martyrology’ and by festivals such as the ‘pope-burnings’ held in English towns every 5 November, ‘anti-popery’ remained a powerful force in public life. This was starkly revealed in the wake of the Catholic Relief Act of 1778, which removed the penalties of the 1700 legislation for Catholics who were prepared to swear a modified oath of allegiance to the crown. In 1780, following a demonstration against the act, the Gordon Riots erupted in London, leaving nearly 300 dead and 200 wounded. In context: The Atterbury Plot Though he had ruled Britain for seven years, in 1721 King George I’s grip on the throne remained far from secure. Ever since the Protestant William of Orange had ousted the Catholic Stuart James II as king in 1688, the so-called Jacobites had dreamed of returning a Stuart ruler to the throne – and had launched a series of failed uprisings to achieve that aim. In the early 1720s, they continued to cast a long shadow over the monarchy. The year 1721 was also a perilous one for Britain’s Whig government, which fiercely opposed the prospect of a Catholic king. Having just presided over the ‘South Sea Bubble’ financial crisis – when stocks in the South Sea Company crashed, ruining thousands of investors – it found itself deeply unpopular with the British public. In an attempt to capitalise on this disaffection, a group of conspirators – a combination of Jacobites and Tories (the Whigs’ opponents in parliament) – conceived the Atterbury plot to assassinate George I and replace him with James II’s son, James Francis Edward Stuart. Yet, before they could strike, the Duke of Orleans, regent of France, revealed to Lord Carteret, secretary of state for the south, that the Jacobites had asked him to send 3,000 men in support of a coup d’etat. As a result, the plot collapsed. Ted Vallance is professor of early modern British political culture at the University of Roehampton This article was first published in the September 2015 issue of BBC History Magazine
The term ‘Pontiff’ comes from the Latin title Pontifex maximus, which was traditionally awarded to the high priest of Rome
The origins of the title, which may literally be translated as ‘the greatest (maximus) bridge-builder / maker of bridges (pons facere)’ are obscure. Christ’s communists: the radical religious sect that challenged the Holy Roman Empire Roman Britain’s greatest rebel It may have initially been used as an acknowledgement of the importance of the man whose job it was to oversee the spanning of the sacred river Tiber, or it may have been intended to convey a more symbolic role, an official whose job it was to act as a bridge between the human world and that of the gods. The chief priest had many important duties, including the overseeing of the state calendar, the regulation of marriage and the supervision of public morals. According to Roman legend, the first Pontifex maximus was Numa Marcius, appointed by Numa Pompilius, the second king of Rome, in around 700 BC. Augustus, the first emperor, took control of the priesthood in 13 BC, the title becoming one of many used by successive heads of the Roman State, Pope Leo I acquiring it in the mid 5th century. Today the term ‘Pontiff’ is used to describe any bishop, the Pope having the official title of ‘Supreme Pontiff of the whole Church’ (Summus Pontifex Ecclesiae Universalis). This article was taken from BBC History Revealed magazine