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Just how many Bayeux Tapestries were there?
As a new theory, put forward by Professor John Blair, questions whether the embroidery was unique, David Musgrove asks historians whether there could have been more than one ‘Bayeux Tapestry’
The Bayeux Tapestry is an amazing artefact – and it’s exceptional not least because of its very existence today. Precious few pieces of embroidery from the medieval period survive, let alone ones that are almost 70 metres long. And, of course, the story it tells – of the conquest of England by the Normans – is one of immense historical significance. So we rightly celebrate it, and excitement about its forthcoming loan from Bayeux to the British Museum is high. But what if this artefact wasn’t really so very exceptional at the time it was made? What if it was just one of several embroideries produced to commemorate the Norman victory over the English at the battle of Hastings in October 1066? Professor John Blair, an expert in the Anglo-Saxon period at the University of Oxford, believes that might be the case. “This is a reaction against the idea that the Tapestry had to be something extraordinary or unique, beyond the fact that it is an extraordinary and unique survival,” he says. “There are abundant references to decorative domestic hangings, but of course they had virtually zero chance of survival. The Tapestry is a wonderful piece of design, but the actual stitching isn’t particularly fine, and a big team of embroiderers in a workshop could have done it quite expeditiously.” Purported patron Why did the Tapestry survive when so few other embroideries did? Well, most scholars agree that it was probably made some time after the battle that it records, so in the mid-late 11th century, and likely on the orders of – or to curry favour with – Bishop Odo of Bayeux. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/10/Odo-blessing-the-feast4548webready-e50a4fb.jpg" width="1921" height="1281" alt="Bishop Odo, William’s half-brother, says grace before a feast. It’s thought that Odo commissioned the Tapestry to be displayed in his new cathedral in Bayeux (Image by Bayeux Museum)" title="Bishop Odo, William’s half-brother, says grace before a feast. It’s thought that Odo commissioned the Tapestry to be displayed in his new cathedral in Bayeux (Image by Bayeux Museum)" /> Odo, the half-brother of William the Conqueror, was made Earl of Kent after the conquest. The case for him being the Tapestry’s patron rests on the fact that he plays a particularly prominent role in the embroidery. Additionally, three lower-profile characters called Wadard, Vital and Turold are specifically (and surprisingly, given their status and role in the story) named in the Tapestry. These three men are thought to have been Odo’s followers. Read more | “I counted the penises in the Bayeux Tapestry and I have no regrets”: what one Oxford professor found when he studied the rudest bits of the embroidery One line of thought suggests that the Tapestry was made to be displayed in Odo’s new cathedral in Bayeux on its consecration in 1077. We know nothing of what happened to the embroidery in the four centuries that followed – until the late 15th century, when we have a documentary reference to it in an inventory of that cathedral, noting that it was displayed annually on a specific feast day. It’s possible that the Tapestry survived for such a long time because, except for its annual airing, it was kept in a chest in the church. It therefore wasn’t subjected to the wear and tear of daily display that might have caused other contemporary embroideries to fray and fall apart. One theory even has it that the Tapestry might have been walled up in a crypt below Bayeux Cathedral for centuries. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/10/GettyImages-2154318346webready-cc73479.jpg" width="5600" height="3733" alt="Bayeux Cathedral, consecrated in 1077 by Bishop Odo but largely reconstructed in the 13th century (Image by Getty Images)" title="Bayeux Cathedral, consecrated in 1077 by Bishop Odo but largely reconstructed in the 13th century (Image by Getty Images)" /> So, if Professor Blair is right in his theory that the uniqueness of the Tapestry rests principally in its survival, what does he think about its original manufacture? Where was it made, by whom – and was it one of a kind? “Since it seems most unlikely that none of the other members of the Norman elite had embroidered hangings representing the Conquest,” he explains, “the possibility struck me that there might have been a set of stock designs, which the workshop then customised for each individual patron: we just happen to have the one made for Odo. “On that argument, the scenes highlighting Odo – the meal before the battle, Odo brandishing his club, and so on – and Odo’s named followers Wadard, Vital and Turold would be insertions into the standard sequence,” he continues. “To take that further would need a closer analysis of design, sequence, correlation with the borders and so on than I have done. But the Wadard scene definitely does have possibilities, since the mounted knight captioned ‘Hic est Wadard’ does rather look as though he has been interposed into a sequence of three houses and three followers.” <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/10/3AJKTPH-Doctored-CMYKbrightwebready-1eecbc0.jpg" width="1771" height="1181" alt="Our doctored version of the Tapestry (below) shows how it might have looked without Odo’s follower Wadard (on horseback in the upper, existing iteration), illustrating the idea that he might have been inserted into a stock design on Odo’s orders (Image by Alamy)" title="Our doctored version of the Tapestry (below) shows how it might have looked without Odo’s follower Wadard (on horseback in the upper, existing iteration), illustrating the idea that he might have been inserted into a stock design on Odo’s orders (Image by Alamy)" /> To see how that might have worked, we’ve doctored that section of the Tapestry (above) so that you can compare the original sequence with a version in which the mounted Wadard has been removed. Mass production Gale Owen-Crocker – professor emerita of the University of Manchester, one of the most respected and well-published Tapestry scholars, and author of the forthcoming book The Design of the Bayeux Tapestry – likes the idea. “I am sure that there were workshops making these woollen hangings,” she says. “The workmanship is too assured for the Bayeux Tapestry to be a one-off.” She has previously argued, along with her co-author, Maggie Kneen, that the Tapestry designers employed templates for the motifs and images that were most likely drawn onto the linen cloth as guides for the final stitching by the embroiderers. That, too, accords with Professor Blair’s theory. Read more | The Bayeux Tapestry: a political football for 900 years Manchester Metropolitan University’s Dr Alexandra Makin, an authority on early medieval embroidery and author of The Lost Art of the Anglo-Saxon World, is minded to agree in broad terms: “There’s no denying that the Bayeux Tapestry is an important embroidery, but we have evidence that indicates wall hangings that told stories were a popular way of memorialising the heroic deeds of family members,” she says. “An example is the Byrhtnoth wall hanging that was made by that ealdorman’s wife, Ælfflæd, and possibly other women in the household. It depicted the ‘great deeds’ of the ealdorman, and was given to the monastery at Ely at some point after his death at the battle of Maldon in 991. “Meanwhile, in a poem written by Baudri of Bourgueil to William the Conqueror’s daughter, Adela of Blois, Baudri describes three different wall hangings, one of which is very similar to the Bayeux Tapestry,” she adds. “The way the Bayeux Tapestry’s narrative is set out also brings to mind the woven tapestries found in the ninth-century Oseberg ship burial in Norway, which are thought to tell stories relating to warrior ideology in the Viking world,” Dr Makin continues. “The Bayeux Tapestry sits in a long tradition of telling heroic stories through textiles, so early medieval people were well aware of this and understood what it was telling them. This also suggests that other people could have commissioned embroidered or woven wall hangings to tell their own story of what happened in 1066. Whether these were as big as the Bayeux Tapestry is another question.” <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/10/hengteMennv005rework-Credit-Stig-Saxegaard-og-Kulturhistorisk-museumwebready-38495e2.jpg" width="5353" height="3569" alt="A colourful tapestry showing groups of people and a tree-like structure in the middle. On the right, there is a large blue horse. The border at the top and the bottom of the tapestry is blue, with a zigzag pattern on it" title="A reconstruction of a woven tapestry found in the ninth-century Oseberg ship burial in Norway, reflecting the tradition of telling heroic stories through textiles (Image by Stig Saxegaard & Museum of the Viking Age, University of Oslo)" /> According to Dr Makin, the way the embroidery was made lent itself ideally to the purpose for which it was designed. “The materials and stitches used to create the Bayeux Tapestry are perfect for the job,” she says. “They are bold, quick to work, cover the ground fabric easily and would be seen from a distance. This is not a fine piece of work like the 10th-century gold-and-silk embroidered stole, maniple and ribbons found in the tomb of St Cuthbert in Durham Cathedral – but using tiny stitches would not have worked for a wall hanging that was meant to be seen by lots of people at a distance. “When the stitching is examined, its precise execution, and the economical use of thread, demonstrates that the Bayeux Tapestry is an accomplished piece of work,” Dr Makin concludes. “But we simply cannot compare it to pieces made from gold and silk threads. They were meant to do a different job.” Evidence for uniqueness Professor Michael Lewis, another leading Tapestry expert based at the British Museum, is less convinced by Professor Blair’s theory. He contends that Bishop Odo’s presumed key role in the making of the Tapestry actually argues for it being a one-off embroidery: “We know from Domesday Book that Bishop Odo, the Tapestry’s likely patron, was a cultured man with the considerable wealth needed for the creation of a monumental artwork like the Bayeux embroidery,” he says. “Surely it was his unique position as Earl of Kent that also enabled access to the illuminated manuscripts that were evidently used in the Tapestry’s designs. Perhaps he could have granted similar access to other potential patrons – but is that likely or realistic? “Another aspect to consider – key, perhaps – is whether the Tapestry was ever actually used for its original purpose, presumably to be displayed from place to place as an advocacy piece for Odo’s role in the Conquest,” he continues. “The likely period of its creation (1072–77) was within a new political environment in which William was moving towards a more oppressive regime than in the early days of the Conquest. Yet the Tapestry’s story seems to reflect a pre-1070s narrative, with William hoping to bring the English around by more persuasive means. So maybe it was never toured [because it didn’t reflect the newly prevailing narrative] and was unlikely to be emulated.” <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/10/ManiplePetertrans1137webready-d304d89.jpg" width="756" height="504" alt="The 10th-century maniple found in the tomb of St Cuthbert in Durham Cathedral exhibits much finer needlework than the Bayeux Tapestry (Image by Stig Saxegaard & Museum of the Viking Age/Bayeux Museum)" title="The 10th-century maniple found in the tomb of St Cuthbert in Durham Cathedral exhibits much finer needlework than the Bayeux Tapestry (Image by Stig Saxegaard og Kulturhistorisk museum/Bayeux Museum)" /> Professor Lewis further wonders whether the scale of the embroidery and, thus, the resources required would have made duplicate versions less likely: “It is true that the Bayeux embroidery uses relatively simple materials – flax for linen, wool for its threads, and plant material as dyes – but its scale, which could have been even larger than its extant 70m, suggests a different level of resources than might have been typical,” he notes. “This has not been explored in any meaningful way, and surely it is an opportunity not to be missed [when the Tapestry is conserved in 2027] for scientifically investigating its materiality?” If Professor Blair’s theory does hold water – and clearly more research is needed to bolster the case – it demands that we consider the Tapestry and its message in a different light. As it stands, the Bayeux Tapestry is a key source for our understanding of the Norman conquest. The narrative it offers, which is at once celebratory for Duke William, conciliatory towards King Harold, and exclusionary of other dimensions to the story – the most obvious omission being Harald Hardrada’s invasion in northern England before Hastings – has had a significant influence on the way we see 1066. If it was only one of a number of similar but different embroideries, then we need to review our interpretative framework, and consider why this particular version showed this particular narrative. Read more | Why the Nazis fell in love with the Bayeux Tapestry “Should this idea turn out to be right, it would emphasise both the sophistication and the complexity of 11th-century life, with major embroideries produced for several aristocratic households on a factory-line basis,” Professor Blair remarks. “When trying to understand material culture in the early Middle Ages, we have to remember what a minute and unrepresentative sample has come down to us.” Hopefully, this article might lead to further research on this interesting theory. In the meantime, if anyone reading happens to be descended from one of the leading Norman families of the 11th century and has an unopened chest lying around, please feel free to have a look – and get in touch if it contains a 70 metres long embroidery. This article was first published in the December 2025 issue of BBC History Magazine
The assassins' reign of terror: how these 12th-century killers spread fear in the Middle East
In the 12th century, a sect of killers spread fear across the Middle East, executing a series of high-profile political murders. Steve Tibble introduces the original Assassins
There were 13 men: unlucky for someone. They were dressed to kill – but so was everyone else. In what was essentially an army camp, crammed with armed men, the assailants blended right in. Moving casually but intently through the bustling camp outside Aleppo in Syria, past stalls and shopkeepers, beggars and soldiers, they headed towards their target. Suddenly their progress was checked by a shout from behind: “What are you doing here?” Cover blown, their response was shocking: an explosion of violence, weapons flashing, blood splashing. The team of Assassins erupted into the tent where their victim sat unawares, surrounded by generals, lackeys and bodyguards. The attackers’ daggers and swords struck once more. The target that day in January 1175 was a Kurdish general, Salah al-Din Yusuf ibn Ayyub – better known to us as Saladin. He had displaced the Fatimid dynasty to rule as sultan of Egypt, and was now muscling in on Syria. That vicious attack on his life failed – for now. But who were these men? And why had they launched such a murderous and seemingly suicidal assault? Power through murder Those brutal killers were Assassins. The upper case seems pedantic, but it is important. In the true medieval sense, that term was used for members of the Nizari Ismailis, a Shia Muslim sect who sought to defend themselves and to project power through political murder. The word ‘Assassin’ (or hashishin) was used as a pejorative by those on the receiving end of their remorseless hit squads in the 12th and 13th centuries. And the name stuck, becoming synonymous for premeditated murderers or contract killers – even though most of the broader Nizari Ismaili community were in fact peaceful peasants, scholars and merchants. The origins of this sect lay in the chaos of the Middle East in the late 11th century. Turkic tribes from the Eurasian steppes had stormed into the region and seized power from local Arab rulers, before starting to jockey among themselves for control of these new lands. Then, between 1092 and 1094, most of the major political leaders in the region died, including the vizier and caliph-imam of Fatimid Egypt, and the Seljuq sultan Malik-Shah, who ruled a vast empire stretching from Anatolia through the Middle East to central Asia. The resulting power vacuum was quickly filled with mayhem. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/10/2S98R0TWeb-Ready-a1f81d5.jpg" width="1477" height="984" alt="An illustration showing a man in a white and red robe and red hat, standing in front of a group of four others, holding instruments. They are surrounded by a low white wall and there are two trees in the background" title="Hasan-i Sabbah, 11th-century founder of the Nizari Ismaili sect – and its band of fidais, highly trained killers – depicted in an early 14th-century illustration (Image by Alamy)" /> The Nizari Ismailis were widely despised by their powerful Sunni Muslim neighbours as heretics and traitors, so launched an audacious uprising against the Sunni Seljuq Turks in Persia – and, importantly for our story, sent out missionaries to set up bases in the mountains of Syria. This was occurring in the last decade of the 11th century, around the same time as the crusaders were sweeping into the area, carving out kingdoms of their own from which to defend the Holy Land. Read more | Saladin: a hero of Islam and scourge of the crusaders By the start of the 12th century, the entire region had become disastrously fragmented. For the Nizari Ismailis – and for the recently arrived crusaders – Syria now seemed a land of opportunity. Members of this small breakaway sect were small in number and without obvious economic assets, but they had a terrifyingly effective secret weapon: the savage skills and unquestioning loyalty of a cadre of elite killers – the fidais. Promise of death During the crusades, most major players employed a similar strategy: channel enormous amounts of money and energy into acquiring big armies, the basic building blocks upon which almost all power structures were built. But assembling these voraciously expensive and disruptive armies was a big enough challenge for wealthy nations – how could minor players survive? The short answer is that, in most cases, they did not. Before long, almost all of them were swept away. The Nizari Ismailis chose a revolutionary alternative: rather than rely on the generality of death embodied by large (and expensive) armies, they chose the specificity of death. Individuals are afraid of violent endings, so any power that could spark and exploit that primal fear had no need of costly, clumsy armies. For the Nizari Ismailis – now, for our purposes, synonymous with the Assassins – violent, targeted death became their power, and their promise. Their overall goal was to secure the survival and growth of the sect in a hostile environment, but specific tactical objectives varied. Murders were perpetrated for political reasons, to intimidate, for revenge, for money – for example, to pay for the construction of castles – out of personal animosity or, frequently, a combination of these reasons. In their remote bases in Syria, the Assassins perfected and professionalised their squads of fidais. Only the most committed and able, mentally as well as physically, were chosen to receive the rigorous training needed to fulfil their highly dangerous missions, often with slim chances of survival. Most of their attacks were on high-profile individuals, and took place in very public spaces. Every member of a fidai team had to be courageous and committed to the cause. They were described by their enemies as fanatical and brainwashed, but by admirers as dedicated and skilful. Regardless, the fidais were extraordinarily focused and effective – the ninjas of the 12th century Middle East. Then, as now, there were many lurid descriptions of the Assassins as drugged-up, deluded fanatics eager to die for a twisted cause. But this was all part of the illusion – an essential element in the promise of ‘unstoppable death’ at the heart of the brand. The fear sown by the fidais – along with their own fearlessness and relentlessness, which made them such terrifying and efficient killers – was at the core of the Assassins’ power. As one of their leaders retorted to an attempt at intimidation by an enemy, a general commanding vast armies: “Do you threaten a duck with the river?” If death was a river, in other words, the fidais were all too happy to swim in it. Most of the associated rumours were untrue. It is unlikely, for instance, that fidais were given drugs such as hashish (cannabis resin) to numb their senses and inspire fanaticism before they carried out a hit. Being under the influence of narcotics would have been counterproductive: a skilled Assassin needed to have his wits about him. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/10/2B02RYDWeb-Ready-6d625b4.jpg" width="5000" height="3334" alt="An illustration showing a group of men stabbing another man in the centre of the image" title="A disguised fidai fatally stabs the Seljuk vizier Nizam al-Mulk in 1092 – the Assassins’ first major hit – as shown in a 14th- century manuscript illustration (Image by Alamy)" /> Old Man of the Mountain The Assassins’ political murders started with a huge success in 1092, when a fidai named Bu Tahir Arrani stabbed the Seljuq vizier Nizam al-Mulk as he was being carried in a litter towards Baghdad. Other Sunni leaders were then attacked and killed, including Janah al-Dawla, the Turkic governor of Homs, in 1103. Even Mawdud, the ruler of Mosul and the general entrusted with coordinating the campaign against the crusaders, was killed in Damascus in 1113, despite being surrounded by the best bodyguards that money could buy. Mawdud’s successor, Aqsunqur al-Bursuqi, fared no better, assassinated while at his prayers in the Great Mosque of Mosul in 1126. Members of the fidai squad were, as usual, cut down by the numerous bodyguards stationed around the target, with only one, “a youth from Azaz”, surviving. (This was highly embarrassing for his mother, who was deeply proud of the celebrity status her brave son enjoyed in the sect and was already in mourning for him when he returned alive.) By the mid-12th century, the Assassins had become feared across the region. This reputation was further confirmed under the rule of Rashid ad-Din Sinan, known as Sinan, who became ruler of the de facto Nizari Ismaili state in Syria and Persia in 1162. He strengthened the Assassins’ network of mountain fortresses and perfected their deadly craft. Under him, the fidais became an even more professional and fearsome weapon – more formalised, better trained and increasingly highly motivated. Read more | Step onto the medieval Silk Road and you'll witness its intense wonders – and its hidden horror Sinan was an extraordinary figure: highly intelligent, a great leader and capable of acting with profound strategic insight. He was also a man of a deeply esoteric, mystical and, some would say, even ‘magical’ disposition. As one Sunni commentator later wrote, “the Ismaili sect followed him as they had followed no one else, and he was able to achieve what no other had achieved”. The main Nizari source about his life, an early 14th-century biography, was written by the scholar Abu Firas, who went to some lengths to emphasise the leader’s orthodox Islamic credentials but also listed Sinan’s supposed occult achievements. There were stories of telepathy and clairvoyance. Sinan was never seen eating, and he did not say much, but deliberately adopted strange poses. There were rumours among his own people that he did not cast a reflection in water. He became known as the ‘Old Man of the Mountain’ – a title that, though originally a personal honorific, was later used to signify the Assassins’ leader in Syria, a little like ‘Caesar’ or ‘Sultan’. This helped create a sense of fear that transcended death: regardless of who was in charge at any moment, there was always an ‘Old Man of the Mountain’. The ‘death cult’ image that Sinan so fastidiously cultivated was a huge success. The Assassins’ enemies fomented ‘legendary’ tales in attempts to denigrate and isolate their ruthless foe, but the killers benefited from the additional fear these stories fuelled. As one Nizari poet put it, a single fidai could strike fear into the heart of the most powerful king. And there was one particular ‘king’ that the Assassins had in their crosshairs. Saladin, a usurper desperate to shore up his image as a legitimate ruler, found it useful to pose as the champion of Sunni orthodoxy – and as Shia ‘heretics’, the Nizari Ismailis were handy scapegoats. They, along with the crusaders, were the unifying bogeymen of his self-justification. The Assassins correctly identified that his new Ayyubid empire posed an existential threat to the Nizari Ismaili sect – and decided that he should be eliminated. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/10/2B01T3YWeb-Ready-59a4a5a.jpg" width="4714" height="3143" alt="An illustration showing a small group of men approaching an orange castle on horses. In the castle, there are other men, attempting to defend it. One is at the front of the castle, riding a blue horse" title="A medieval miniature illustration shows Mongol warriors capturing Alamut Castle, the Nizari Ismaili sect’s headquarters in northern Persia (now Iran), in 1256 – auguring the end of the Assassins (Image by Alamy)" /> Hard target As outlined at the start of this story, and reported by the chronicler Ibn al-Athir the following century, the first fidai team struck while Saladin was besieging Aleppo in 1175, when 13 men armed with knives were dispatched to kill him. The attack was timed to coincide with the communal meal, when servants and guests would be distracted. But, as we’ve seen, on that occasion the fidais were thwarted by a piece of bad luck. An emir in Saladin’s camp recognised them as Nizari Ismailis, and asked: “What has brought you here? On what business have you come?” Knives were drawn: the Assassins stabbed the emir “with some deadly blows, and one of their number charged towards Saladin to slay him but was killed before he could reach him”, said Ibn al-Athir. The fidai who got closest had his head hacked off by an emir, and Saladin’s chancellor, Imad al-Din, wrote that “the others were not killed until they had killed a number of people”. The Assassins failed on this occasion – but they did not die quietly. The next year, Saladin was besieging the castle of Azaz, belonging to one of his Sunni rivals, north-west of Aleppo. Here the Assassins launched another, even more deadly attempt on his life, with a smaller but more focused team ordered to strike Saladin’s neck and head. Al-Athir wrote that “while Saladin was in a tent belonging to one of his emirs, [an Assassin] leapt on him, struck him on the head with a dagger and wounded him”. The blade met iron rather than flesh and bone. Spooked by the earlier attempt on his life, Saladin was almost totally covered in layers of concealed armour. “Had it not been for the mailed helmet under his cap,” wrote Ibn al-Athir, “he would have been killed. Saladin grasped the [Assassin’s] hand in his, although he was unable totally to prevent him striking a blow.” Read more | The crusade against the odds: how the First Crusade succeeded despite the obstacles The sultan’s men rushed to his aid, and killed that assailant. Another member of the hit squad killed one of Saladin’s commanders; a third fought on until he was killed by Saladin’s brother. The last surviving fidai escaped from the tent but was torn apart by the crowd outside. A bloodied Saladin was hustled away “in a state of shock, hardly crediting his escape… The sultan rode to his tent, terrified by this event, with his blood flowing down his cheek and the collar of his chain mail wet.” Saladin quickly sent a reassuring message back to Egypt to dispel any sign of weakness and to discourage possible uprisings. “There was only a scratch with some few drops of blood,” he wrote. But he knew that he could no longer ignore the Assassins. In July 1176, Saladin moved his armies into the heart of Nizari Ismaili territory and “ravaged their land, destroying and burning”. His armies besieged their fortress of Masyaf, about 30 miles north-west of Homs. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/10/BAL258593Web-Ready-be0b21a.jpg" width="3367" height="2244" alt="A photograph of a large grey ruin on top of a stone hill, against a dark blue sky" title="The ruins of Masyaf Castle in western Syria, one of the Assassins’ isolated fortresses from which the sect’s fidais were dispatched to kill Sunni adversaries and other targets (Image by Bridgeman Images)" /> No further hostilities developed. Sinan did not want a huge army camped outside his castle, ravaging the hard-won Nizari lands in Syria. Saladin wanted to preserve his life and family, and he had plenty of other enemies to attend to. Both sides quickly sought peace. After this, the Assassins generally remained neutral, presumably having given reassurances to Saladin about his personal safety. He seems to have pulled back from further antagonism, and even included them in treaties that might affect their interests. End of the Assassins Ultimately, the Assassins failed to overthrow the Seljuq Turks or their successors. They carved out a couple of minor principalities for a time, but little more, and did not hold any major cities. They were eventually brushed aside by much larger, more violent and less easily intimidated military opponents. In 1256–57, they were destroyed by the Mongols in Persia, then neutered by Sultan Baybars and the Mamluks in Syria after 1265. The Assassins had persisted for more than a century and a half – far longer than might have been expected. Despite being vastly outnumbered by their Sunni enemies, they had made themselves heard, hated and feared. They pushed the bounds of dedication and commitment to new limits. And it is that extraordinary legacy, with all its faults, that deserves to be remembered. This article was first published in the October 2025 issue of BBC History Magazine
Michael Wood on women's contributions to the Bayeux Tapestry
"We should remember the unknown women who made the Tapestry", writes Michael Wood
Like all readers, I am sure, I was thrilled to hear the news that the Bayeux Tapestry is coming to England next year. 1066 is the most important date in British history, and the Tapestry is the greatest single source, taking the tale from the last days of Edward the Confessor through the drama of Harold and William, the Norman invasion, and the defeat and death of Harold at Hastings. The Tapestry has been in Bayeux since the Middle Ages and has never left, save briefly during the Franco-German War and under Napoleon and the Nazis, who both sought to weaponise it prior to their own invasion attempts. But it was made in England in the aftermath of the Conquest, probably at Canterbury by English needlewomen. Scholars think that it was commissioned by the Conqueror’s brother Odo, bishop of Bayeux, who features prominently on the Tapestry along with his followers. One of those, Vitalis, is singled out and named, shown mounted and in full armour, reporting to William the whereabouts of the English army. Perhaps he was the leader of a scouting detachment who had gone ahead of the Norman army. Read more | The Bayeux Tapestry is finally coming home to Britain – and you can see it next year The artistic inspiration was the English school of manuscript painting in Canterbury, but there may have been Roman models, too. Trajan’s Column, in particular, depicts the emperor’s Dacian campaigns in a similar manner – like a strip cartoon. Odo himself had been to Rome; so, too, had Scolland, abbot of St Augustine’s Abbey, who may have designed the Tapestry – perhaps using a sketch book from his travels? It’s a huge artwork, some 68.3 metres long, but damaged at the end: perhaps as much as 3 metres is missing. It is generally agreed that the Tapestry originally finished with William’s crowning at Westminster at Christmas 1066 – a mirror image to the opening panel of the enthroned Edward the Confessor. Based on that assumption, a brilliant full-scale reconstruction has been completed by embroiderers on Alderney (alderneybayeuxtapestry.com). It’s thought that the Tapestry was commissioned for the consecration of Bayeux Cathedral in 1077. Art historian Christopher Norton suggests that its original length would perfectly fit the nave of Odo’s new church, along three walls of a rectangular space 31 metres long and 9 metres wide, taking account of doorways and architectural supports. Possibly the first record of the embroidery tells us that, in the 15th century, it was hung in the nave at Bayeux on the feast of the cathedral’s relics, 1 July, and for the following week. By the 18th century, that period stretched from the Feast of John the Baptist on 24 June till the end of July. This gives us a key clue to its original purpose: perhaps it was made specifically to be shown in the cathedral on the relic feast. On the Tapestry, Harold has a bigger role than William, and his story unfolds as a tragedy. Harold’s fate is sealed when he breaks his oath to support William’s claim to the English throne. Before then, he was a great and successful warrior. So he’s portrayed not as a Judas but as a Macbeth – a brave man led by his ambition into disloyalty. It is possible that his fateful oath was actually sworn on the cathedral’s relics at Bayeux. If the Tapestry was dedicated by Odo to his cathedral, then the part of the relics in the story is central. Read more | “I counted the penises in the Bayeux Tapestry and I have no regrets”: what one Oxford professor found when he studied the rudest bits of the embroidery We know nothing of the women who made it. Yet we do know that the work of Old English needlewomen was later prized abroad as opus Anglicanum, ‘English work’. We know that Earl Byrhtnoth, the hero of the battle of Maldon in 991, was depicted on a tapestry hung in Ely Abbey (now Ely Cathedral) that perhaps also commemorated the faithful retainers named in the famous Old English poem. And even middling people had embroideries in their houses depicting heroic or biblical scenes, which provided richly coloured decoration and acted as draught-proofing. In her will from the 940s, a woman called Wynflaed gives her friend her “long hall tapestry”, which must have been a fine heirloom. So much bigger in scale, the Bayeux Tapestry was commissioned by a rich and powerful person at the top of society. As for its actual makers, it is only later in the Middle Ages that we start to learn the names of some of the women who created such wonderful works of art that were prized across Europe. So when we stand in front of the Tapestry next year, and take in the immense drama of the Conquest, we should also remember the unknown women who made it: the likes (let’s imagine) of Eadgyth of Sittingbourne and Ælfflæd of Whitstable. Now, they would have a story to tell. This column was first published in the September 2025 issue of BBC History Magazine
The wrong moustache in the Battle of Hastings
What's going on with the facial hair in King and Conqueror, have we been suckered in by an overly literal understanding of the Bayeux Tapestry, and what did a Viking beard really look like?
How and why did they get the facial hair so wrong in the new BBC 1066 drama King and Conqueror, and what did an actual Viking look like on the hair and beard front? Find out in my in-depth analysis of moustache-gate, framed, as is my wont, in the context of the Bayeux Tapestry. The new 1066 drama King and Conqueror has been accused by numerous commentators of playing fast and loose with the historical narrative of the Norman Conquest. That’s a reasonable criticism, but on my assessment of the critiques of the series, the deepest opprobrium has been reserved for the facial hair fantasy. Dad tache or bad tache? The problem is that Nikolaj Coster-Waldau, as Duke William of Normandy, sports a bristling tache (memorably described by Lucy Mangan in the Guardian as a ‘1970s dad tache’ and in the Daily Mail as an Asterix look), while the upper lip of James Norton’s Harold Godwinson is unequivocally hairless. That, as many experts have pointed out, is directly at odds with the Bayeux Tapestry. The famous 11th-century embroidery, which provides the earliest visual representation of the 1066 story, quite clearly shows a moustachioed Harold and a clean-shaven William. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/09/528361-7b9d210.jpg" width="6224" height="4672" alt="A man with shaggy hair and a moustache stands on a beach, dressed in a dark cloak and holding a sword. Behind him, a small group of people gather around a wooden boat on the shoreline" title="William bosses the beach with his 1970s dad tache in King and Conqueror (Image by BBC/CBS Studios)" /> Harold’s facial hair in the Tapestry is in line with that of his Anglo-Saxon compatriots: they tend to (but don’t always) boast moustaches, some of which are thin and straggly, while others are impressive handlebar efforts. The Normans, on the other hand, lack upper lip action. The embroiderers were clearly following a style guide to try to offer a visual prompt to the viewer about which side the respective figures were on. Menacing reverse mullet It wasn’t just moustaches in the Tapestry that helped viewers to know who was on which team – the haircuts also offered a clue. The Normans often had curious shaved necks, which, in the words of the great Tapestry scholar Professor Gale Owen-Crocker were ‘sometimes accompanied by a menacing lock of hair at the forehead’, or a ‘reverse mullet’ as Dr Thomas Williams has fabulously described it. The English generally had a decidedly less scary bowl-cut bob sort of look going on. This was significant because one of the things with the Bayeux Tapestry is that it doesn’t give you very much information in the captions to describe what’s occurring and who is doing what, so you needed these visual hints to keep up with the story. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/09/GettyImages-moustach-Harold815687404-ddc875b.jpg" width="3543" height="2753" alt="A scene from the Bayeux Tapestry depicts a group of men sitting at a high table under a red, yellow and green canopy. Around them, there are animals" title="Anglo-Saxons feasting and drinking with their big Bayeux Tapestry taches (Image by Getty Images)" /> Read more | Shakespeare didn't do the Norman Conquest, but the Bayeux Tapestry did, so where does that leave the BBC's King and Conqueror? Aside from the moustache debacle, King and Conqueror doesn’t, for my money, capture the spirit of the Bayeux Tapestry with the barnets either. Norton’s haircut isn’t quite dorky enough, and Coster-Waldau’s isn’t really as shavenly intimidating as it ought to be. Maybe Luther Ford’s Tostig Godwinson gets closest to a Tapestry look with his bowl-cut (though Tostig himself does not specifically appear in the embroidery, so I’m generalising about the Anglo-Saxon vibe). I haven’t seen any explanation in the crew interviews for the TV series for this obvious diversion from the historical facial hair facts. However, I do note that Norton had originally hoped to play William. His plan, apparently, was scuppered by a contractual obligation with HBO that he could only appear in King and Conqueror if his character died. That legal stipulation ruled out the option of him appearing as the Norman Duke, who does not die at Hastings, and left him little choice but to take on the ill-fated Harold instead, who famously does. So maybe they just forgot who was supposed to grow the tache after that. Manly strength, modernity and bravery I do understand this level of moustache anxiety, particularly in these days of hipster facial hair. I’m reminded of a great HistoryExtra article from the eminent beard historian Dr Alun Withey on moustache matters. He said, “Like many other facial hair styles, the moustache has a long and complicated history. In some periods it has symbolised manly strength, modernity and bravery; in others it was decried as an affectation of fey young men. It’s easy to write facial hair off as something that is quirky or irrelevant, but it often tells us a very great deal about individual men across time, as well as shifting attitudes towards masculinity and the male body.” Having established the importance of facial hair, I’m surprised that not many people have been exercised by the chin of Eddie Marsan’s Edward the Confessor in King and Conqueror. Marsan’s simpering mother-beaten monarch is very different from the Bayeux Tapestry version, because the embroidered king wears a long flowing beard. I know Marsan can grow facial hair because he was bearded in his depiction of noted canoe conman John Darwin in an ITV drama a few years ago, so again, the King and Conqueror team have apparently made a deliberate decision to ignore the evidential pogonotrophy of the Bayeux Tapestry. I can only assume that they figured Marsan with a beard wouldn’t look as weak-willed as they wanted his King Edward to be. Someone who is clearly tooled up to look intimidating in King and Conqueror is the Norwegian King Harald Hardrada, played by Sveinn Ólafur Gunnarsson. He is resplendent with a big brash beard that Brian Blessed would be proud of. Hardrada’s invasion, accompanied by King Harold’s disaffected brother Tostig, is the preliminary story to the Norman Conquest (and if you want the full story, watch my chat with Marc Morris all about it on the HistoryExtra YouTube channel). Harold’s victory over his brother and the mighty Hardrada at the battle of Stamford Bridge would have been the stuff of legend if it wasn’t overshadowed by his own defeat and death a few days later at the hands of William and the Normans at Hastings. The Tapestry devotes zero attention to the Hardrada story so we cannot say whether the King and Conqueror depiction of a big beardy Viking is accurate. Actual Viking facial hair evidence However, and this is breaking news, an archaeologist at the National Museum of Denmark, Peter Pentz, has just published some research on a remarkable Viking period figurine, which gives us a very rare glimpse of what a Viking hair style actually looked like. Granted it’s from the 10th century rather than the 11th, and obviously sartorial trends can move fast, but nevertheless, it’s a good insight. The little figurine, currently on display in the Viking Sorceress exhibition at the museum in Copenhagen, has a middle parting with a side wave that leaves the ear visible, while the hair has been cropped at the back. Plus he’s got a large moustache, a long, braided goatee and sideburns. It’s some look, and according to Peter Pentz, it’s quite a find: “Hitherto, we haven’t had any detailed knowledge about Viking hairstyles, but here, we get all the details – even the little curl above the ear is marked. This is the first time we see a figure of a male Viking with his hair visible from all angles. It’s unique”. Hardrada, in King and Conqueror, isn’t quite aligned with this Viking look, given that he has a full beard rather than tache, goatee and sideburns, but this research has only just come to light, so we can let the producers of the series off on that one at least. Read more | How historically accurate is King and Conqueror? Here’s the real history that should have happened What’s interesting, I think, is to dwell briefly on whether we are reading far too much into these Bayeux Tapestry haircuts and moustache designs. Might perhaps we better assume that the designer and embroiders were simply trying to remind the viewers about who was English and who was Norman, as I mentioned above, and not really be attempting to represent the hairy reality of the day? As the noted scholar of Old English Dr Thijs Porck pointed out in this excellent blog post a few years ago, the early 11th-century Anglo-Saxon religious writer, Ælfric of Eynsham, had cause to write a letter of complaint, admonishing his fellow monks for adorning themselves ‘in Danish fashion, with bared neck and blinded eyes’. That shaved back of neck and hair flopping over the eyes sounds quite a lot like the Norman look in the Bayeux Tapestry, and not dissimilar to what we can see in the Viking figurine. So maybe both the Anglo-Saxons and the Normans were trying to look scarily Viking in the 11th century, and the Tapestry has slipped us a red herring by making out that the two groups adopted different hair styles. Maybe moustache-gate is simply an overly-literal reading of the embroidery. As Marc Morris has noted, however, there is other documentary evidence besides the Tapestry to suggest that there were stylistic differences in hair and face between Normans and English. William of Poitiers recorded how the French and Normans 'looked with curiosity' at the long-haired English hostages that the Conqueror brought home with him in 1067, and other sources do point to the Normans being clean-shaven and the English wearing facial hair. One final point on faces, moustaches and hair is this: quoting Professor Owen-Crocker once more, ‘No-one ever looks happy in the Bayeux Tapestry’. The range of facial expressions in the embroidery are limited, though Harold does look notably downtrodden when he’s making his famous oath in the presence of Duke William in Bayeux. So, if we’re being picky about facial hair and divergence from the Tapestry, we ought also to criticise King and Conqueror for allowing its characters to smile on occasion, because that really isn’t in the spirit of the embroidery. If you want to know more about the Bayeux Tapestry, feel free to have a scan of <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Story-Bayeux-Tapestry-Unravelling-Conquest/dp/0500297657/ref=sr_1_1?crid=36VNPUZVD7AT0&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.MMpoBk9Uovbmr3TEL7v4h5yCcHHB7TibT_bIrEGBOBxY2Pe3qyULcF9azzUe6FSS77dBGNHt1jXTxYq4ZklhYwbTl0vPLrwYXklZE3_uXH7g1YMSgVfU06y_VHZZkn57MW1kw48WMMOmwhS-d_wuHIBjqgzxJOdyiDL2g6zJrYe7mf3Joj6Mhuu-i1x8EDFrhQ6EEihQAOCndaf5Z0YMQXFMhbJ8bz6lOmHeW7nnRG8.LiqZZPaTMKhqXNti1OiwZBLnizdALx5kanimdfEvyVM&dib_tag=se&keywords=story+of+the+bayeux+tapestry&qid=1756389351&s=books&sprefix=story+of+the+bayeux+tapestry%2Cstripbooks%2C68&sr=1-1&tag=bbchistory045-21&ascsubtag=historyextra-288879" rel="sponsored" target="_blank">The Story of the Bayeux Tapestry, by myself and Professor Michael Lewis. This article is part of HistoryExtra's new Life Lessons from History Substack newsletter. Subscribe to the newsletter for more articles and podcasts exploring the ways in which history can help us live better, happier, healthier or more productive lives.
The murder of James III: who killed the king of Scots?
A portentous witch, a sinister cleric, a blood-soaked shirt – Gordon McKelvie delves into the mysterious murder of a Scots king who had legions of enemies eager to see him dead
On 11 June 1488, a Scottish king gathered his army and marched to a field south of Stirling known as Sauchieburn. This man was James III – great-great-great-great grandson of Robert the Bruce, famed for his pivotal victory over the English at the battle of Bannockburn. James faced not a foreign invasion, but a rebellion by his own subjects. To counter this threat, and eager to be seen as a ‘new Bruce’, he wielded the sword of his famous ancestor. Rather than winning a heroic victory, though, by the end of the day James lay dead – killed by one of his own subjects as he fled the battlefield. But by whom? The answer is a mystery that’s endured for more than five centuries. James III was a divisive figure. He alienated many Scots with his determination to secure a marriage alliance with England, and his familial relations were little better: he fell out with one brother, Alexander, Duke of Albany, who then joined an English invasion of Scotland in 1482. He was also accused of ordering the death of his other brother, the Earl of Mar, and of being behind the alleged poisoning of his wife, Margaret of Denmark, in 1486. As ruler, James proved unable to control feuds between rival noble families and debased the Scottish coinage, causing economic problems. In summary, he fell short in almost every way imaginable. Writing perhaps three-quarters of a century later in The Historie and Chronicles of Scotland, Robert Lindsay said that James, standing on the field of battle in 1488, had “remembered the words of the witch that said to him before that he should be destroyed and put down by his nearest of kin” – a dramatic image reminiscent of William Shakespeare’s Macbeth. The witch was not real, but the drama certainly was. The army that toppled James III had as its figurehead none other than the king’s eldest son who, on his father’s death, became James IV. Then just 14 years old, Prince James had left his residence in Stirling Castle in February 1488 and joined a group of individuals opposed to his father. At first, he probably merely wanted his status as heir better recognised, but he remained with the rebels when things became ugly, and a military campaign ensued. Despite the family feud, the younger James did not want to see his father harmed – a wish clearly not shared by his allies, one of whom took the opportunity to stab the king to death after the battle. James IV never forgave himself for his father’s demise; in penance, he reportedly wore an iron belt to which he added extra weights every year. Yet the prince had not wielded the dagger himself. We know very little about what actually happened at the battle of Sauchieburn, as the clash was later named; reports that do exist are vague, and written many years after the event. It seems that the royalist force was quickly overwhelmed, and that James III decided to flee. After his escape from the action, however, someone recognised the king and took their opportunity to kill him – though the specifics are unclear. The culprit took the secret to their grave, so what we’re left with is essentially rumour and speculation. Enduring ambiguity The earliest surviving account of the killing comes from the journal of an Englishman living in Dublin, which simply states that people spoke about the king of Scots being dead. It contains no information about how James III died, nor who – if anyone – was responsible. Such was the prevailing ambiguity, which continued for decades. For the new king and his government, the killing of a monarch was not something to celebrate. At a parliament in October 1488, nearly four months after the battle of Sauchieburn, the first glimpses of a cover-up emerged. It was said that James III “happened to be slain” – a casual and equivocal phrase. The overall impression was that, though James IV was sad to see his father killed, everyone else just wanted to forget and move on. There were some rumblings of disquiet about the episode. In January 1489, Alexander Gordon, eldest son of the Earl of Huntly, wrote to English king Henry VII, requesting help in challenging the new regime in Scotland and citing the “treasonable and cruel slaughter of my sovereign lord”. He was not the only Scotsman seemingly appalled by the cold-blooded killing of an anointed king. At some point later in 1489, probably around Easter, Lord Forbes “carried the late king’s shirt, stained with blood, and torn with the marks of the wounds suspended upon a spear, through Aberdeen and the chief towns of the adjacent counties, and by public proclamation, called upon men to avenge the horrid deed”. Because James III’s body had already been buried in the shirt he’d worn at his death, this could not have been the actual garment worn by the king on that fateful day – shirts and blood were both in plentiful supply, of course. But the item being carried through the streets acted as a powerful reminder of the crime. Read more | To kill a king: 350 years of regicide As the year progressed, James III’s fate was weaponised in a war for public opinion that took place during a full-blown rebellion. This uprising had more to do with how James IV’s supporters had enriched themselves after Sauchieburn than with the former king’s death, but the erstwhile monarch’s uncertain fate was too good a smear to ignore. On 12 September 1489, the rebels produced a manifesto noting four grievances, the first of which was that the “treasonable and vile persons” who killed James III had not been identified. The other complaints centred around the use of royal finances, how justice was administered, and the exaction of ransoms for those taken prisoner the previous year. Continuing cover-up The revolt ended with a negotiated settlement, but no real efforts were made to identify James III’s killer – to the chagrin of those protesting to his son, who wrote that the failure to bring to justice the late king’s killers was “to the perpetual defamation of our sovereign lord [James IV] and the whole realm [of Scotland]”. They did not name the killers, but hinted that various “partial persons” had been involved in a cover-up. James IV later called a parliament to patch things up with those who rose up against him, and to try to bring back stability to his kingdom. Yet even among them there was no serious attempt to find the culprit. In reality, it was useful for the rebels to raise the late king’s fate to show how unjust the new regime was; once that purpose had been served, the matter was not raised again. This outcome did not silence everyone, however. By 1492, the government was forced to act once again in response to “the heavy rumour and gossip of the people about the death and killing of our sovereign lord’s late father”. Anyone who came forward with information about the former king’s death would be granted 100 marks of land. Even though this was a substantial amount of land that could have been of lasting benefit to the informant and their heirs, no one ever claimed the reward. Unsurprisingly, at that point James III’s fate stopped being a concern for James IV or his government, who had nothing to gain from uncovering the killer’s identity. The new king was generally more successful and popular than his father; often referred to as a “renaissance prince”, he combined an affable public image with sound financial management. He did, though, make a fatal blunder in foreign policy. Some 25 years after his own father’s death, in late summer 1513, James IV took a Scottish army over the border into Northumberland, where it was met by English troops led by the Earl of Surrey. The ensuing battle of Flodden was a disaster for the Scots, many thousands of whom were slaughtered. Among the dead was James himself – the last king in the British Isles to die on the battlefield. In the decades that followed, various writers began to embellish the story of James III’s murder – in particular, specifying the location of his death. In the 1530s, Adam Abell stated that James IV had evil counsel who ignored his orders not to harm his father, and that the king had been killed near a mill at Bannockburn. Bishop John Lesley extended the story further, saying that certain “wicked men” who hated James III waited for him to flee the battle before slaying him at the mill. Giovanni Ferreri, a well-travelled Italian monk who spent time in Scotland, claimed that James III’s horse was spotted outside the mill while he was resting. The assassins, he said, had long held grudges against the king. Read more | 10 things you (probably) didn’t know about Scottish history Eventually, two chronicles provided names. In his Historie, Robert Lindsay claimed that, having fallen off his horse, James III was escorted to the mill by the miller and his wife. When the king asked for a priest to hear his confession, he was stabbed to death by an assassin dressed as a cleric – a man said to be a servant of Andrew, 2nd Lord Gray, a rebel and long-standing opponent of James III. George Buchanan, again writing in the mid-16th century, described James being pursued by three men: Patrick Gray, Andrew’s son; one ‘Stirling of Keir’; and a priest, Borthwick, who actually killed James and his companions. One other candidate for the crime suggested recently by historians is William Hepburn, whose family supported Prince James in the rebellion. He was briefly mentioned in a few records early in James IV’s reign, but disappeared after a few months – perhaps because his presence at court would be an embarrassment to his family. All of these men are plausible culprits, but nothing can be proved. We know that James III died after fleeing the battle, and that his son’s regime did not want to dwell too much on how he perished. The resulting conspiracy of silence allowed rumour and speculation to flourish, with various pet theories emerging. In truth, everyone was glad to see the back of the little-loved monarch. Though they could not openly celebrate the killing of a king in cold blood, plenty of individuals would have happily shaken the culprit’s hand and thanked him for what he’d done. James III’s murder was too good a crime to warrant punishment. Gordon McKelvie is senior lecturer in medieval history at the University of Winchester This article was first published in the Christmas 2024 issue of BBC History Magazine
England’s forgotten medieval hero: how John, Duke of Bedford carried on Henry V's fight
When the Hundred Years’ War was reaching a climax, one man was fighting tenaciously to secure the English claim to the French crown. So why, asks Joanna Arman, is Henry V’s formidable brother, John, Duke of Bedford, not better known?
As black skies faded to grey, and dawn broke on that fateful day in the early 15th century, an English army gazed across a field in northern France. What their eyes encountered was a vastly superior force: some 15,000 French-led troops glared back – their numbers nearly double those of England’s men-at-arms and archers. The English had faced seemingly insuperable odds before, and emerged victorious. But could they really triumph over this well-armed force bolstered by fearsome international allies? The Hundred Years’ War had been raging for close to a century already, with negotiations between England and France coming and going – but all ultimately failing to decisively end the conflict. The balance of military success had swung one way and then the other in clashes on land and, occasionally, at sea. Read more | Jonathan Sumpton on the Hundred Years’ War: “It was Joan of Arc who persuaded the French that they could win” Many confrontations had ended with English longbowmen proving decisive. But as morning ebbed and the afternoon rolled on, the outcome remained uncertain. Finally, battle commenced – and the English won a great and memorable victory against the odds. Sounds familiar? No, this is not a description of the battle of Agincourt, Henry V’s famous victory of 1415. Instead, it’s the story of the clash fought on 17 August 1424 – nearly nine years after Agincourt, and two after Henry’s death – outside the town of Verneuil-sur-Avre in Normandy. Here, the English army led by Henry’s younger brother John, Duke of Bedford, hammered a combined force of French and Scottish solders plus 2,000 Milanese heavy cavalry, killing perhaps 6,000 enemy troops while suffering minimal losses. Historians refer to the battle of Verneuil as ‘the second Agincourt’ – yet that clash, like John himself, is largely forgotten today. Why has such a heroic victory faded from memory? And what part did John play in that tumultuous period of English and French history? Born to battle We’ll return to the battle later, but to answer those questions, we must first turn the clock back 25 years. In 1399, Henry Bolingbroke, Duke of Lancaster – better known today as Henry IV – usurped the English throne from his cousin Richard II. John was just 10 years old at the time and, as Henry’s third son, would be unlikely to inherit the throne. Read more | The tyrant and the usurper: Richard II v Henry IV Yet the young man quickly proved himself a highly capable leader during his father’s turbulent reign. In 1403, aged just 14, John was made Warden of the East March, the region on the Scottish border around Berwick-on-Tweed. He soon proved his mettle defending England’s northern borders against Scottish incursions alongside his older cousin Ralph Neville, Earl of Westmoreland. After his brother succeeded to the English throne as Henry V in 1413, John was trusted with the rule of England during his warlike sibling’s many expeditions abroad, and was created Duke of Bedford in May 1414. The new king was closer to John than to any of his other brothers – even Thomas, Duke of Clarence, who was next in line for the throne. Henry was absent from England for almost half of his nine-year reign, and allowed Bedford to act as regent in all but name during most of that time. John appears to have discharged his growing responsibilities with aplomb. Yet nothing could have prepared him for what happened next. In August 1422, Henry V died while on campaign in France, possibly from dysentery. England had lost its indomitable warrior king. It was a perilous moment. With the crown now passing to Henry’s nine-month-old son, Henry VI, and England embroiled in war with the French, the nation urgently needed someone to shepherd it through the dangerous months ahead. Read more | Alternate history: what if Henry V hadn't died in 1422? Luckily, Henry V had realised that Bedford was up to the task, and appointed his brother as regent of France just before he died. For 13 years, Bedford effectively held together the English presence in the country. Ten months after his brother’s death, John married Anne, sister of Phillip, Duke of Burgundy. Unusually for medieval noblemen, a picture of John created during his lifetime survives in the Bedford Hours, a beautifully illuminated manuscript given by John to Anne as a wedding present and containing images of both him and his wife. It reveals that John bore a striking resemblance to his father and brother: tall, with a beaked nose and dark hair cut in a pudding-bowl style. A son’s guerrilla war John’s marriage to Anne cemented England’s alliance with the Duchy of Burgundy – and that alliance was to grow ever more crucial as relations between England and France continued to plumb the depths. In 1420, Henry V had been nominated as the heir of Charles VI of France by the terms of the Treaty of Troyes. This created a ‘dual monarchy’, by which the kings of England were entitled to rule both England and France. The biggest loser from the Treaty of Troyes was Charles VI’s disinherited son, also called Charles – and, in the early 1420s, he waged a sort of guerrilla war against the English, bolstered by aid from Scotland. It was in the younger Charles’s name that, in 1424, the French Count of Aumerle (along with John Stewart, Earl of Buchan and Archibald Douglas, Earl of Douglas) joined battle with the English outside Verneuil, which had recently been taken by trickery. After brutal hand-to-hand fighting, English longbowmen and crossbowmen turned the course of the battle, and the French were routed. John then determinedly finished off the Scottish contingent, reportedly crying out the name of Clarence – an act of vengeance for his brother, who had been killed three years earlier by a largely Scottish army at the battle of Baugé. Read more | What was it like to be a Prisoner of War during the Hundred Years’ War? John took seriously his promise to uphold his nephew Henry VI’s claim to the French throne and continued to defend the English territories in France over the years that followed. The fortunes of his forces oscillated in this war – not helped by the ill-advised marriage of his youngest brother, Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, to Jacqueline of Hainault, cousin of the Duke of Burgundy. This union threw the alliance with Burgundy into jeopardy, as Humphrey clashed with the duke, and John spent valuable time and effort building diplomatic bridges with England’s longstanding ally. Then, in 1429, a French peasant girl named Joan arrived on the scene. John and Joan of Arc’s paths crossed only a few times, and his relationship to the saintly French warrior is much misunderstood. In movies about Joan, John is typically cast as the villain, even the man responsible for her fate. In reality, the two never met, though Joan addressed two irate letters to him. “You, Duke of Bedford who call yourself Regent of France… make satisfaction to the king of Heaven,” she demanded in one missive. “Surrender to the Pucelle [maiden], who has been sent here by God, the king of Heaven, the keys of all the good towns that you have taken and violated in France… I am commander of war, and in whatever place I come upon your men in France, I will make them leave, whether they wish to or not. And if they do not wish to obey, I will have them all killed; I have been sent here… to drive you out of all France.” At first, John wasn’t too troubled by Joan’s declamations. Within five months of her arrival on the scene, however, she had relieved the siege of Orléans, and on 17 July had the younger Charles crowned King Charles VII of France in Reims Cathedral. By summer 1429, then, John was worried and annoyed. Like most of his English contemporaries, he considered Joan a witch – and he wasn’t going to allow her to threaten the dual monarchy. So he devised a plan to stop her in her tracks. First, he sent word to England to have Henry VI crowned king of France (though he’d succeeded his father in 1422, his coronation hadn’t yet taken place). Then, as his next gambit, he lured Joan and Charles to Paris, forcing them to expend time and resources in taking the capital instead of focusing on weak spots such as Orléans. John shored up Paris for a long siege that summer, and set about winning hearts and minds. His plan worked remarkably well. When Joan arrived in August, she was forced to wait outside the city, failing in her attempts to draw her enemies into open battle. John had learned from observation of Joan’s previous engagements not to take the bait, preferring to fight her on his own terms. Following a siege, the French took the small suburb of Saint-Denys, but Paris itself eluded them. Eventually, in frustration, Joan of Arc appeared before the walls, screaming that all inside should surrender – or, she threatened, she would bring down the wrath of God upon them and kill everybody. The defenders of Paris were not impressed: an English soldier reportedly shot her with a crossbow, calling her a “bloody tart”. Joan had to be dragged away from the gate, bleeding and humiliated, and Charles’s army withdrew from Paris. In 1430, Joan was captured – but John wasn’t able to enjoy this moment. As Henry VI was now in France, the council didn’t technically need a regent and so it threatened to fire John. As a result, he spent much of that year in limbo, unable to do much politically or militarily. He did not play a role in determining Joan’s fate; by then, she had been condemned for heresy, so the matter was left almost entirely in the hands of the church. John was not even present in Rouen on 30 May 1431, when Joan was burned at the stake. Instead, he was bringing supplies to Paris, which continued to suffer frequent attacks. Their fortunes at that moment contrasted starkly: while the young woman who became France’s potent and enduring figurehead was being brutally executed in Rouen, John of Bedford was being greeted as a hero in Paris. Yet the situation then was not as clear-cut as it may seem today. Timeline: the remarkable life of John, Duke of Bedford 20 June 1389 Mary de Bohun, wife of Henry Bolingbroke, Earl of Derby, gives birth to her third son, probably at Kenilworth Castle. He is named after his paternal grandfather, John of Gaunt. 30 September 1399 John’s father is proclaimed King Henry IV after deposing his cousin Richard II. 1403 In the aftermath of the battle of Shrewsbury on 21 July, John is appointed Warden of the East March, aged just 14, marking the beginning of his military training. 1414 At the second parliament of his oldest brother, Henry V, John is made Duke of Bedford and Earl of Kendal. October 1422 Just weeks after Henry V’s death, John takes up the office of regent of France. May 1423 John marries Anne, younger sister of Philip, Duke of Burgundy, one of England’s most important allies. 17 August 1424 John leads an English army to victory against combined Franco-Scottish forces near Verneuil-sur-Avre, Normandy. The battle becomes known as the ‘Second Agincourt’. August – September 1429 In response to a challenge by John, Joan of Arc and Charles VII of France attempt to take Paris, starting a fruitless siege. Bedford’s careful preparations ensure that the city does not fall. 13 November 1432 Anne of Burgundy dies in Paris, possibly of plague. John marries Jacquetta of Luxembourg the following April. 14 September 1435 John dies in Rouen, aged 46, one week before the Congress of Arras ends the alliance between England and Burgundy. A family at war Henry VI crossed the channel to France in the summer of 1430, and for the next 18 months rivalry simmered between John and various members of the council, especially his paternal uncle, Cardinal Beaufort, who was determined to assert his own primacy. These tensions resulted in the regency being removed from John, and for a time Henry’s council took charge of the war effort in France. Yet John had always had a good relationship with the young king. He had been in England when his nephew was born in late 1421, while Henry V was away in France. And his campaigns in France had been undertaken, it seems, not only to preserve his brother’s legacy but also to advance the interests of the young English monarch. Read more | How Henry VI's love of peace cost him the throne – and his life He must, then, have looked on with some satisfaction when – on 16 December 1431, at the tender age of 10 – Henry VI was crowned King of France at Notre Dame de Paris. The coronation proved something of a turning point for both Henry and John. The king would soon depart for England, never to set foot on French soil again. As for John, he was immediately reinstated as regent – reflecting overwhelming trust in his abilities, even if some in the English court didn’t want to admit it. He immediately set about reversing some of the policies Henry VI’s council had put into place. Then, in 1432, John lost the love of his life and his greatest ally: his wife, Anne. She was only in her late 20s, possibly succumbing to an outbreak of plague in Paris. Though John remarried the following year, he never produced any legitimate children. Anne’s death proved the final nail in the coffin for the alliance between England and Burgundy, though John managed to hold it together for almost three more years. During this time he had to return to England because he was the only person considered trustworthy enough to mediate between the rival factions forming in Henry VI’s government. His brother Humphrey and uncle Cardinal Beaufort were at odds – not for the first time – and the division was tearing the government apart. John had another problem: the continuing conflict in France was becoming increasingly unpopular in England. In the words of medieval historian Jonathan Sumption, John was “the only statesman who truly understood the demands of the dual monarchy and in the end truly believed in it”. That belief was stretched to breaking point in the summer of 1435 at the Congress of Arras. This summit saw Charles VII and Philip, Duke of Burgundy embarking on a series of negotiations that threatened to conclude with both of them rejecting English claims to the French throne. A young and healthy John, Duke of Bedford might have better represented English interests at the summit. But John, who hosted the English delegation at the congress, was not young and healthy. He was in his mid-forties, exhausted and on the edge of death. In fact, John died before the summit reached its end, breathing his last in Rouen Castle on 14 September 1435. One week later, Philip and Charles came to terms, ending the alliance between Burgundy and England that had endured for almost 15 years. John was buried not in England but in Rouen Cathedral. Today, nothing remains of his tomb nor any other memorial. Though England clung on to control of Normandy for 15 years after John’s death, the nation had been deprived of its most loyal, capable and dedicated leader. After his demise, commitment to the war in France waned, and the divisions in Henry VI’s government became increasingly virulent. By 1453, England had lost almost all of its remaining French possessions. In death, as in life, John’s reputation remained untarnished. The English would look back on the days of his regency as a golden age. He was even respected and admired in France. Read more | The miraculous afterlife of Henry VI One cannot help but think that if he had lived longer, the course of Henry VI’s reign might have run differently. Would the king’s famous and beloved uncle have helped to heal divisions – perhaps even persuading his nephew to go to France and fight? If John had produced a legitimate heir, would Henry have had a loyal cousin by his side when the House of York rose to challenge his throne? We can only guess at the answers to those conundrums. But we can, at least, remember and honour the valour and loyalty of this long-forgotten prince. This article was first published in the February 2025 issue of BBC History Magazine
“The reverberations lasted for generations” | Matthew Gabriele and David M Perry on the civil war of Charlemagne's grandsons
David Musgrove talks to Matthew Gabriele and David M Perry about the ninth-century civil war among Charlemagne’s grandsons, which shook the empire to its core and reshaped Europe
David Musgrove: Let’s begin with the battle of Fontenoy in AD 841. What happened there and why was it so important? Matthew Gabriele: Fontenoy is nowadays just a small village lying a little south-west of the city of Auxerre in central France. Even in the 840s, it wasn’t particularly significant. But it was there that a civil war erupted between the grandsons of Charlemagne, who were fighting about the fate of the Carolingian empire. After the death of their father, Louis the Pious, on 20 June 840, the three surviving brothers gathered at Fontenoy. Lothar, the eldest and the Frankish co-emperor, was trying to stitch the partitioned empire back together; his younger brothers, Louis the German and Charles the Bald, had their own claims. Lothar was joined by his nephew, Pepin II of Aquitaine, the son of another brother, also Pepin, who had died in 838. The three brothers and their nephew basically argued about the form that the empire should take. Should it be coherent and unified under Lothar, or would Charles and Louis be able to function as independent kings in their own domains? This dispute boiled over into a massive, bloody battle fought on 25 June 841. For most medieval battles, we have just a sense of where and when they were fought. For this clash, though, we have very specific details of the day and the time when the battle started, as well as the location. That’s because – as we argue at the start of our new book – it was so horrifying for everybody involved. It shook the empire and its participants to their core, creating reverberations that lasted for generations. What’s the backstory to the dispute? Matthew Gabriele: The Franks rose to power in the fifth and sixth centuries when, after interacting with the Romans for a long time, they were finally able to establish their own realm. The resulting empire was ruled for several centuries by a dynasty called the Merovingians. They were supplanted in 751 in a coup d’état by high nobles who started a new dynasty that, over time, came to be named for one of their progenitors, Charles Martel – Charles being Carolus in Latin, hence the dynastic name ‘Carolingian’. The apogee of that empire came under Charlemagne, who ruled for a substantial length of time, taking power in 768 and dying in 814. He expanded the Frankish empire to encompass most of western and central Europe, from Denmark in the north down to central Italy, across the Pyrenees into Catalonia and east into Saxony. Read more | The legacy of Charlemagne: how the king of the Franks continues to cast a shadow over Europe But what’s really interesting to us is how quickly it fell apart – within just two generations. This myth of unity that the Franks constructed for themselves – this great empire that Charlemagne had created – was built, as we say in the book, on a foundation of lies. They weren’t just lies that the Franks told to other people, but lies they told themselves about their place in the world and the way that their empire was organised. What we find so interesting is not just the things that happened but also the stories these people told themselves about those events. How did tensions escalate after Charlemagne’s death? David M Perry: Charlemagne had a lot of sons, and Louis was the only legitimate one who happened to survive. He had to work hard to build loyalty across his dad’s empire – it was not just handed to him. Some of that was done through persuasion and gifts, but some of it was achieved through violence and torture – in particular, the blinding of his nephew, Bernard of Italy, who then died. That caused great upset and upheaval in the court. Louis tried to kick out the old guard and bring in the new. However, it turned out that the nobles comprising the old guard were still very powerful – and not super-thrilled about being kicked out. So there were these tensions right from the start. Then Louis remarried, taking as his wife a younger woman. The old guard weren’t thrilled with that, either, because she brought in her own power centres. So Louis’ was not a stable reign, suffering from various internal problems, but it was also a moment at which the Franks started losing battles on the edges of the empire. And that was a whole other crisis of legitimacy. Matthew Gabriele: The stability and greatness of Charlemagne is often contrasted with the instability and fecklessness of Louis the Pious. But if you look at Charlemagne, he actually had a lot of problems governing, too. We talk about the coups of the 830s against Louis the Pious, but Charlemagne himself faced several attempted coups. One such attempt in 792 was led by his own eldest son, Pepin, known to later historians as Pepin the Hunchback, though he certainly wasn’t called that at the time. It seems baked into the way the Carolingians ruled their empires that they had to rely upon powerful nobles around them. So when these nobles got angry about their loss of status, that was a real problem for the kings. And just because only a few coups were successful, that doesn’t mean that there weren’t other coups plotted and executed along the way. What were Charlemagne’s grandsons trying to achieve at Fontenoy? Matthew Gabriele: They were trying to decide the fate of the empire. Lothar was trying to beat his brothers into submission, and ideally to restore the empire as it had been under his father and his grandfather. Charles and Louis wanted something different: they wanted their own functional kingdoms within the empire. They wanted to be free from the meddling of the emperor in their lands – Charles the Bald’s realm lying to the west, Louis the German’s to the east – and the right to act as independent Carolingians. They had, they argued, the same blood as Lothar’s flowing through their veins. Looking back, this event became – especially for 19th-century historians – the moment that made France and Germany. It was seen as the final division of Charlemagne’s empire, and the birthplace of the modern state. But today it seems clear that the debate was much more nuanced. Nobody was arguing that Lothar shouldn’t be emperor, they were just arguing about what his role should be there. It was an argument that was so important that they were willing to kill each other: brothers fought against brothers, and cousins, uncles and nephews were divided between the armies. These armies were camped across a field from each other, almost literally staring at each other. From all available sources, it seems that they exchanged emissaries, and decided that they would fight at 8 o’clock the following morning: Saturday 25 June 841. How did the battle play out? David M Perry: Lothar had a well-equipped army and probably slightly larger numbers of men, supported by Pepin’s forces. Charles the Bald had a quite large army, drawn from all over the Frankish heartland. Louis had a smaller army, but it was battle-hardened. Pepin and Charles met in the middle, Louis and Lothar met on the left, and there was a third division led by major nobles on the right. We know little about what actually happened in the battle, but it’s clear that Lothar’s forces engaged Louis and were beaten back, and then Pepin’s forces in the centre collapsed. After that, there was a pursuit that resulted in horrific killing, but Lothar got away. He headed north-east to Aachen with the imperial treasury – and, once there, he spent wildly. He launched a rumour campaign saying that one of his brothers was wounded and the other was dead, neither of which was true, and he immediately started rebuilding political support. This went on for some time. Eventually, Louis and Charles once again brought their armies together – and now they had clear military superiority, there was no dividing them again. So they brought Lothar to the negotiating table. That brings us to the Treaty of Verdun in 843. What happened then? David M Perry: I remember very clearly learning about the Treaty of Verdun while I was an undergraduate in my first medieval history class – and being taught a number of things that are not correct. I believed that there was a treaty – a document, like the Treaty of Versailles – that was written in Latin, German and French, and that it showed the division of France and Germany. I don’t want to call out my undergraduate medieval history professor, because he’s the reason I’m talking to you today – he was a wonderful professor – but I remember learning these things, and they’re just not true. We have no document. There is absolutely nothing surviving from that meeting in 843 that lays out the division of the empire explicitly. The year before the treaty, Louis and Charles travelled to the city of Strasbourg and undertook a public oath-taking. That was the moment when they came together and really made it clear they were going to sit down and talk until they reached an agreement – and where they confirmed their opposition to Lothar ruling the entire empire. As a result, Louis and Charles brought Lothar to the negotiating table, where they agreed that they would split up the empire into three parts. Then they had the problem that no one knew exactly how big the empire was, so they sent out nobles to do the accounting. Nine months later they met in Verdun, really just because it’s a convenient place where those nobles could come together. We can figure out exactly how the empire was divided up only by looking at what happened over the next couple of years – where the brothers went, and which allies got which bits of land. How did this civil war make medieval Europe? Matthew Gabriele: The nostalgia for Charlemagne’s empire animated the vast majority of continental European history through to the 15th or 16th century. The kings of France as they emerged, the emperors in what is now Germany, the rulers of Italy, even the Christian Iberian rulers, all tried to tie themselves in some ways – and in many ways it was accurate – back to the Carolingians through some bloodline that emerged there. In the 830s and 840s, there were just too many Carolingians. Whereas there had only been one Charlemagne, and then only one Louis the Pious, after that, there were too many legitimate children of Louis, and then their children, and then their children, all of whom had potential to rule. That tension, I think, was ultimately part of the problem that led to the civil war. But then, in the centuries thereafter, there was a dream of empire – and especially the dream of a sense of election, of being God’s chosen people – that never disappeared. This view guides many of the actions that these men’s descendants took, including the push for the kingdom of France to expand beyond the Île de France and to reunite with the Carolingian bloodline. Read more | Books interview with Janet Nelson: "The only way this huge regime could work was by Charlemagne trusting his own instincts" The desire to go on crusade in 1095, for example, was driven by the idea that these guys were all Franks and that they were fighting to reclaim Charlemagne’s claims to Jerusalem, which was another legend that evolved in the 10th and 11th centuries. These medieval realms were different from what we think of as modern nation states such as France and Germany – they were different things aiming for different ends. Those modern states have sought justification for their formation in these events of the European Middle Ages, but the reality is different. David M Perry: I just want to jump back into the oaths of Strasbourg, this famous moment on 14 February 842 for which we have a source written in Latin, but also French and German versions, because the men involved spoke all of these languages. Importantly, this was the first documented use of the French and German vernaculars. It’s not that there was a French troop and a German troop, and a linguistic divide between different peoples. The whole point is that there were a lot of languages spoken across this huge land mass, and the men involved wanted to make sure that everyone understood everything. In the Carolingian empire, people were able to speak all of these languages – that was just normal. It was a big, complicated empire, and people talked to each other. It was only 1,000 years later that this point became symbolic; a way of creating a narrative that linked the new French and German nation states and nationalistic identities back to that moment when the oaths were sworn. Looking at how people in the 19th century viewed events in the Middle Ages is something that Matt and I do a lot. We can definitely say that what they read into the situation was not what was actually happening in the ninth century. Did that mid-ninth-century civil war conclusively fracture the Carolingian empire? Matthew Gabriele: The short answer is: yes. The empire was never stitched back together, though there were attempts to do so, especially in the later ninth century and the 10th century. In the first and second generations after the battle of Fontenoy, these attempts failed because of the bad blood that was generated there. That wasn’t just because of the bloodiness of the battle itself, or the resentments on either side about who deserved what, but the way that the battle was pursued – the fact that Louis’ and Charles’s armies followed Lothar’s and cut down his men in their pursuit. It seems to have been a real massacre that people remembered for generations. Matthew Gabriele is a professor of medieval studies at Virginia Tech and David M Perry is a journalist and historian. They are the co-authors of The Bright Ages: A New History of Medieval Europe (HarperCollins, 2022) and Oathbreakers: The War of Brothers that Shattered an Empire and Made Medieval Europe (Harper, 2024) This article was first published in the January 2025 issue of BBC History Magazine
Best medieval videogames for history enthusiasts in 2025
Do you want to build a settlement or manage a feudal estate? Maybe you want to explore a richly detailed historic landscape? Or are you all about charging into battle and leading armies? Whatever you want as a player, here are 12 of the best medieval games to keep the history lovers entertained
The medieval period had big battles fought with swords and axes between knights in suits of armour; it had political intrigue, dealing and double-dealing; it had seismic change after seismic change, where kings came and went while peasants got caught in the middle; it had sex and violence, castles and war. It should therefore come as no surprise that the era – roughly a millennium from the fall of the Western Roman empire to the Renaissance – is of endless fascination, of course to historians but also avid videogame players. Throw in the popularity of the medieval fantasy genre, and you’ve got a cornerstone of modern gaming culture. To that end, we’ve curated a list of the best medieval videogames for those who are passionate about history and want to immerse themselves in the Middle Ages. Whether you want historical accuracy, or are looking to see what you’re made of in a medieval melee, these 12 games will provide hours of insight and entertainment. The best medieval videogames ● A Plague Tale: Innocence ● Chivalry 2 ● Crusader Kings III ● Dragon's Dogma: Dark Arisen ● Kingdom Come: Deliverance ● Manor Lords ● Medieval 2: Total War ● Mount & Blade II: Bannerlord ● Pentiment ● Total War Saga: Thrones of Britannia ● Wartales ● Yes, Your Grace A Plague Tale: Innocence PC, Xbox Series X/S, PlayStation 5, Switch | Action-Adventure Stealth | 2019 Set in France in 1348, when both the Hundred Years’ War and the Black Death are ravaging the land, A Plague Tale: Innocence follows two orphaned siblings, Amicia and Hugo de Rune, as they desperately attempt to navigate their way through a bleak, unforgiving landscape. Playing as the young Amicia, the goal is straightforward: survive. Through a combination of stealth and wit, all the while protecting Amicia’s sickly little brother, the gameplay blends puzzle-solving, action-adventure and facets of survival horror games. Read more | Black Death quarantine: how did we try to contain the most deadly disease in history? It can feel somewhat repetitive at times, with too much hand-holding to tell the player exactly what to do. But, the game’s dark and atmospheric setting, along with its compelling narrative and characters, ensures that it is a haunting and memorable experience to play. A Plague Tale: Innocence is made all the more rewarding if you can appreciate its medieval setting. Chivalry 2 PC, Xbox Series X/S, PlayStation 5 | Action | 2021 If you’re wanting nothing more than the hack-and-slash bloodlust and brutality of medieval warfare, Chivalry 2 delivers in spades. The scale of the multiplayer action game is massive and the execution is visceral and delightfully silly. In a similar vein to Second World War shooters such as Day of Defeat, it drops you feetfirst into the midst of chaotic and expansive battles as you wield a sword, axe or any other medieval weapon you can think of. The brutal, fast-paced combat takes place across a variety of maps. From mounting a defence or leading a siege, it’s a lot of fun pitting skill against copious, endless enemies. Admittedly, Chivalry 2 achieves this sense of no-holds-barred fun by entirely ditching any attempt at historical accuracy. It’s not interested in the who’s who of combat, or in emulating a specific time or place. What it does capture, though, is the raw experience of medieval combat. Crusader Kings III PC, Xbox Series X/S, PlayStation 5 | Strategy RPG | 2020 Crusader Kings III is a grand strategy role-playing game that, through meticulous research, welcomes players into a world of incredible depth and complexity. It is a genuine must-play for anyone wanting to explore medieval videogames. Read more | Hastings, Stamford Bridge and Gate Fulford: three battles that lost England Starting in either AD 867 or 1066, the year of the Norman Conquest, the point of Crusader Kings III is to build a dynasty in the complex political landscape that can span generations. What kind of ruler will you be? Fair and just? Clever? Cruel? Inevitably, managing your court and your vassals (and perhaps your liege) will lead you into war and intrigue; you’ll either dominate and thrive, or be dominated and face a battle to survive. With a focus on distinct characters and intertwining relationships, there’s something relatable and human underpinning the game’s vast and detailed world. Building on the two earlier Crusader Kings games, the third instalment is bigger and better than ever before; no wonder it is one of the highest-rated medieval games out there. Manor Lords PC | City-building RTS | 2024 The new kid on the block, Manor Lords isn’t even yet out of its early access period and yet has comfortably justified its position as one of the best medieval videogames. Manor Lords is at its heart a city building game with real-time strategy and large-scale battles, in which you take on the role of a titular lord of the manor. You begin with a handful of villagers in some tents, from which you build a settlement. Blending a neat level of realism and historical accuracy, you have to manage your resources and protect your lands. It’s up to you whether you then send an army to grow your domain. Manor Lords is an addictive gaming experience, and looks beautiful. You’re constantly juggling various competing tasks and setting your own priorities. Every decision leads to visible consequences, making for an immensely satisfying, moreish game. Just imagine what the finished product will be. Dragon's Dogma: Dark Arisen PC, Xbox One, PlayStation 4, Switch | Action RPG | 2012 While Dragon’s Dogma: Dark Arisen leans more heavily into fantasy than other games on this list – featuring dragons, as the title suggests, among other assorted creatures – its medieval-inspired backdrop does retain a certain authenticity. Besides, it is a thoroughly enjoyable game in other ways. Presenting an open world of depth, danger and reward, you can easily get lost exploring the dark dungeons or towering castles as you progress through the narrative. This is supplemented by a cleverly realised combat system, making Dragon’s Dogma: Dark Arisen a brilliant all-rounder with similarities to the more Norse-era inspired Viking game Skyrim. Read more | Norse gods and goddesses You won’t learn any real history, but there’s plenty of medieval-related fun to be had. Kingdom Come: Deliverance PC, Xbox One, PlayStation 4, Switch | Action RPG | 2018 Perhaps the single most accurate and carefully crafted game on this list, Kingdom Come: Deliverance’s modus operandi is its dedication to recreating a specific point of medieval history. Namely, the role-playing game is a spectacular portrait of the kingdom of Bohemia in the heart of 15th-century Europe. You play as Henry, the son of a blacksmith, on a quest for revenge after your village is destroyed by invading forces. With a sword in Henry’s hands, the game introduces you to intricate combat and exploration mechanics driven by an intriguing non-linear storyline. Playing Kingdom Come: Deliverance is a pleasure: with everything on screen always looking so rich, it’s impossible not to get drawn in as you notice every little detail. As with so much of history, historians could quibble on some of the ‘truth’ of the game, but what cannot be argued is that it offers a near-unparalleled depth and immersion into medieval society. The result is a unique and rewarding experience for gaming history enthusiasts. And the good news keeps coming: a sequel is set to be released in early 2025. Medieval II: Total War PC | Strategy | 2006 Medieval II: Total War is a seminal classic in the strategy genre, inescapable as a prime example of the medieval game. The clue’s in the name. Tasked with the control of a state complete with government, economy, religion and its armies, your campaign spans several centuries during this most turbulent period in European history. You’ll be dropped into numerous medieval conflicts including, but not limited to, the Crusades and the Hundred Years’ War. The calculated mix of turn-based strategy and real-time battles establishes this instalment in the Total War series as a rich simulation of medieval warfare. You’ll be stroking your proverbial beard with eyebrows furrowed in deep concentration. By modern standards, it may be a slower paced experience that could, at times, stray into the tedious. But always informative and insightful, Medieval II: Total War promises a rewarding challenge. Total War Saga: Thrones of Britannia PC | Strategy | 2018 Another instalment in the Total War franchise, Thrones of Britannia situates itself squarely in the chaos of the Anglo-Saxon British Isles in AD 878. Alfred the Great has just defeated the Vikings’ Great Heathen Army at the battle of Edington, and now it’s up to you to pick a faction and compete for power. With a mix of grand strategy and real-time battles, you can rewrite the history books as you build and defend a kingdom, before launching military campaigns of conquest. Read more | The truth about Viking berserkers While it may not be regarded among the top-tier of Total War games, its detailed portrayal of the period along with its focus on the varied cultures of the time (be it Anglo-Saxons, Gaelic clans or Viking settlers) make it a fascinating choice for those interested in the history of pre-Norman Britain. Pentiment PC, Xbox Series X/S, PlayStation 5, Switch | Action RPG | 2022 The reason to start playing Pentiment is for the deceptively complex and narrative-driven adventure, but what will keep you enthralled is the unique stylistic take on the medieval world (or, at least, medieval-ish, being set in the later period of the Middle Ages). The look of the game was inspired by the illuminated manuscripts and woodcuts of the period, creating a setting that is unmistakably medieval. You play Andreas Maler, an illustrator who becomes entangled in a number of murders. Set in 16th-century Bavaria, the story delves deeply into the period’s cultural and religious upheavals while exploring the contexts and influences feeding them. Thoughtful and engaging, Pentiment is a welcome change of pace if you want a medieval game that isn’t purely focused on war. That said, there’s still plenty of violence. Mount & Blade II: Bannerlord PC, Xbox Series X/S, PlayStation 5 | Strategy action RPG | 2022 Perhaps you’ve been reading Bernard Cornwell’s The Last Kingdom novels, or watching the Netflix series, and now you’re daydreaming about building your own early medieval kingdom. In that case, look no further than Mount & Blade II: Bannerlord. Set in a fictionalised medieval world, gameplay combines sandbox elements, allowing you to explore the world as you wish, with a complex combat system. This is where it excels. You can take part in massive battles or sieges, and build a vast and powerful empire from scratch. The intricate simulation of warfare – and its political and economic pretexts – provides a genuinely thrilling experience. There’s not much story, and some parts of the gameplay are thinner than others, but Mount & Blade II: Bannerlord is a powerhouse nonetheless. Wartales PC, Xbox Series X/S, Switch | Tactical RPG | 2023 Wartales is an open-world, turn-based role playing game with a focus firmly on survival and strategy. With a band of mercenaries on a quest for wealth, your task is to navigate a war-torn land filled with bandits, plague and political division. What makes Wartales special is just how open the world is: medieval-inspired but with a sprinkling of low fantasy. You can eschew a main quest and explore the game to decide where you want to go, what you want to do, and the type of anti-hero you want to be. The battle for survival, however, remains the central theme as you’ll see the harsh realities of medieval life. This helps to elevate the game, giving it a distinct voice and outlook. While it’s easy to gloss over the grim truth of much of medieval history, Wartales decidedly chooses not to. Yes, Your Grace PC, Xbox Series X/S, Switch | Strategy RPG | 2020 The severely underrated Yes, Your Grace asks a simple question: when you can’t win, what will you do? A role-playing strategy game set in a fictional medieval kingdom, you are placed in the shoes of a weary king, Eryk of Davern, beset by personal and political challenges, and struggling to manage a declining kingdom. Sat on your throne and confronted by endless choices, your sole job is to choose the least-worst option and offset disastrous consequences. Through this judgment, you’ll have to balance resource management and power building, and decide between emotions and logic. Be too hardheaded and you’ll become unpopular; too soft and enemies will tear you apart. The game is brought to life through a retro pixel art style, which gives it a resemblance to a medieval manuscript illustration while quietly evoking a dark atmosphere of impending dread. Yes, Your Grace is simple in its execution yet beautifully crafted and compelling in its puzzle solving strategy. The Vikings | A short course from HistoryExtra Academy Member exclusive | Join Professor Ryan Lavelle for our four-week course on the Viking period, covering everything from trading and raiding, to daily life. Explore the course now
How the Plantagenets forged the English state
Caroline Burt and Richard Partington consider how the reigns of six Plantagenet kings altered the face of English governance
Between 1199 and 1399, English politics was packed full of high drama, as the Plantagenet monarchs reacted - and adapted - to plague, warfare, uprisings and economic crises. But, according to medieval historians Caroline Burt and Richard Partington in their new book Arise, England, the Plantagenet age is also one that shines a light on England's emerging statehood. Speaking to Emily Briffett, and drawing on some listener questions, Caroline and Richard consider how the reigns of six Plantagenet kings altered the face of English governance. Caroline Burt and Richard Partington is the author of Arise, England: Six Kings and the Making of the English State (Faber & Faber, 2024) Buy now on Bookshop.org Buy now on Amazon <a href="https://www.awin1.com/cread.php?id=489797&clickref=historyextra-269496&awinmid=3787&p=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.waterstones.com%2Fbook%2Farise-england%2Fcaroline-burt%2Frichard-partington%2F9780571311989%23%3A%7E%3Atext%3DArise%252C%2520England%253A%2520Six%2520Kings%2520and%2Cof%2520the%2520English%2520State%2520%28Hardback%29%26text%3DZooming%2520in%2520on%2520England%27s%2520emergent%2CEnglish%2520politics%2520was%2520high%2520drama.#:~:text=Arise%2C%20England%3A%20Six%20Kings%20and,of%20the%20English%20State%20(Hardback)&text=Zooming%20in%20on%20England's%20emergent,English%20politics%20was%20high%20drama." rel="sponsored" target="_blank">Buy now on Waterstones
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