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40,000 years ago, our ancestors left these strange symbols behind. What do they really mean?
Research has unveiled a 43,000-year-old system of symbols – but is it evidence of a forerunner of writing systems, or something altogether different?
Writing is a tool for documenting ideas and events, and its invention transformed human history. It’s widely accepted that this world-changing technology was invented independently in at least four places: Mesopotamia, Egypt, China and Mesoamerica. Of these four great centres of innovation, it was in Mesopotamia and Egypt that the technology first emerged. Both ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs and Mesopotamian cuneiform are roughly 5,200 years old. Thanks to archaeology, it’s also possible to trace the technological innovations that preceded writing, eventually evolving into it. In Mesopotamia, about 9,500 years ago, traders were using small lumps of clay as numerical tokens to help calculate the value of goods. They soon began encapsulating these tokens in hollow clay balls, perhaps to signify trade transactions that were considered settled and permanent. These clay balls were opaque, so administrators made impressions on the outer surface to represent the tokens held inside. An important third step occurred roughly 5,500 years ago, when traders dispensed entirely with the tokens and flattened out the clay balls. These were still marked with impressions representing the now-abandoned tokens, producing the first clay tablets bearing symbols – a clear forerunner of cuneiform: the world's oldest writing system, marked onto clay tablets. All the steps in this technological journey took place within the past 10,000 years. But in early 2026, one team of researchers made a striking claim. According to them, there is evidence that humans associated with the Aurignacian culture (which existed in Palaeolithic Europe between around 43,000 and 26,000 years ago) developed a system of signs and markings that shared features in common with a forerunner of cuneiform writing. The announcement was interpreted by some as proof that the roots of writing are far older than had been thought – by an order of tens of thousands of years. A Stone Age script? Archaeologists have known for a century that the Aurignacians carved marks onto the surface of bones and small figurines. These marks include rows of dots or crosses. They were clearly intentionally made, but no one had taken the trouble to seriously analyse and interpret them, says Christian Bentz, a computational linguist at Saarland University in Germany. He and his colleague, archaeologist Ewa Dutkiewicz at the Berlin State Museums in Germany, have now performed such an analysis. The two researchers focused in particular on the potential for the marks to encode information. Essentially, this involves measuring the degree of variety in a sequence of marks: a row of identical crosses has little potential to convey information, but a row containing different symbols could be information dense. This is why a string of alphabetic symbols (like this sentence, or any word) can convey a complex message. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/04/Screenshot-2026-04-17-at-13.57.09-aa36546-e1776430775976.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="This ivory plaque, known as the 'Adorant' from Geißenklösterle Cave in the Ach Valley shows a human figure with lion features on one side and rows of dots example on the other. It is 40,000 years old.(Photo by University of Tübingen / Hildegard Jensen)" title="Screenshot 2026-04-17 at 13.57.09" /> Bentz and Dutkiewicz compared the marks on the Aurignacian objects to 5,500-year-old Mesopotamian inscriptions written using a forerunner of cuneiform known as proto-cuneiform. To their surprise, they discovered that both the Aurignacian markings and proto-cuneiform had a similar information-carrying potential. “I couldn’t believe it,” says Bentz, speaking to HistoryExtra. “I thought I must have messed up the analysis somehow.” But even after checking and rechecking the results, the finding stood. That comparison is sound, according to linguistic anthropologist Piers Kelly at the University of New England in Australia. But this isn’t because the Aurignacians had developed a Stone Age script; it’s because the proto-cuneiform inscriptions can hardly be considered writing at all. Proto-cuneiform clearly resembles writing, particularly since it was produced using the tools – a stylus and clay tablet – we associate with Mesopotamian cuneiform. But the information it encodes is very basic, because the earliest versions of proto-cuneiform employed a very limited number of distinct signs, representing a restricted set of ideas. Read more | 'Green-eyed monster' and 'stiff upper lip’: the evolution of the English language Proto-cuneiform only developed a much richer “dictionary” of signs by about 5,200 years ago, and it was then that it had the potential to store more information. Indeed, Bentz and Dutkiewicz’s analysis confirms this, showing that later proto-cuneiform inscriptions have a far greater information-carrying potential than the Aurignacian marks. “It can look as if there is a neat continuity between [the early and late proto-cuneiform inscriptions],” says Kelly, speaking to HistoryExtra. “But they are categorically different systems.” Cuneiform is writing, proto-cuneiform isn’t, says Kelly. He, and many other scholars, prefer not to label any of the proto-cuneiform inscriptions (even the later, richer proto-cuneiform examples) with the W-word. Writing, says Kelly, is a system for encoding linguistic information – in simple terms, a tool for recording speech. This means writing involves assigning specific sound values to signs. Proto-cuneiform never did this. Its sign for “sheep” – a cross inside a circle – tells us nothing about how ancient Mesopotamians voiced the word “sheep”. In fact, it wasn’t until about 4,900 years ago that Mesopotamians began encoding speech with writing, repurposing signs to represent spoken syllables. This, according to Kelly, is when writing was actually invented in the region. “The various notational systems that preceded and influenced this innovation were simply part of the symbolic raw material that made writing possible,” he says. In other words, the Aurignacian artefacts don’t necessarily show us that writing has roots stretching back 43,000 years. They only show us that humans were iteratively experimenting with the technologies that would allow for the invention of writing, tens of thousands of years later. Searching for meaning in the Stone Age But why were humans experimenting with signs 43,000 years ago? “It is generally accepted that the signs have a communication function,” says archaeologist April Nowell at the University of Victoria in Canada, speaking to HistoryExtra about the research. “We have known for a long time that they are not random.” However, not everyone is convinced by this idea. Archaeologist Silvia Ferrara at the University of Bologna in Italy and her colleagues recently published an analysis of even older marks, these produced by members of our species in southern Africa roughly 65,000 years ago. The marks in question include parallel lines or crosshatched grids, carefully scratched into the surface of ostrich eggshell fragments. Speaking to HistoryExtra, Ferrara says the analysis deliberately avoided making any assumptions about the purpose of those marks, instead merely exploring the cognitive behaviours that allowed humans to produce them in the first place. “Writing was not part of the picture,” she says. The suggestion is that humans began intentionally producing marks on objects long before they began assigning any communicative meaning to those marks. Predictably, these ideas complicate our understanding of the Aurignacian marks. While Bentz and Dutkiewicz showed they had the potential to store information, that doesn’t mean they actually did. “I’m not convinced they have the same kind of information content as the proto-cuneiform signs, for which we can often assign definite meanings,” says computational linguist Richard Sproat at Sakana.ai in Japan, commenting on the research to HistoryExtra. And, there is one more factor to consider, says Kelly. From our modern perspective, writing often serves as a substitute for speech, conveying every detail of a message. But non-writing sign systems are more complex. For instance, indigenous Australians have long made use of a communication device known as the message stick – typically a length of wood engraved with a series of marks. But, says Kelly, the message stick is just one element in the communication process. “Message stick communication is highly multimodal involving spoken language, gesture and body paint,” he says. “As such, message sticks can be thought of as an almost supplementary prop within a multi-channel communicative routine.” They cannot be understood in isolation. This doesn’t mean that the Aurignacian artefacts, and the marks they carried, were part of a similarly elaborate multi-channel communication system. But it does serve as a reminder that we might be missing important context that could help us understand how – if at all – the artefacts helped convey a message. “Anthropologists have always championed the importance of ‘being there’ as an active participant-observer in the communities they want to understand,” says Kelly. Because it’s impossible for archaeologists to “be there” with the Aurignacians, we may never work out how they used the artefacts they left behind.
Politics and the Bayeux Tapestry: the inside story of the blockbuster loan to the British Museum
History’s most famous embroidery has sparked endless fascination and controversy over the circa 950 years since its creation. In the run-up to its arrival in London, David Musgrove spoke to the UK Government’s Envoy for the Bayeux Tapestry Loan, Lord Peter Ricketts
Not many 11th-century embroideries get plastered across the vast billboards on Piccadilly Circus. In fact, I can think of only one – the Bayeux Tapestry. On 26 February this year, the British Museum managed to secure a full 15 minutes of primetime advertising overlooking Eros to announce details of its blockbuster Tapestry exhibition, kicking off in September. I went along to witness this event at London’s landmark traffic junction. It’s hard to judge whether people walking past were more surprised to see the Tapestry flashing across the big screens, or former chancellor (and now British Museum chair of trustees) George Osborne standing on the street staring up at it. The Tapestry has been living rent-free in my head since January 2018, when I got a wake-up call from Radio 4’s Today programme asking me on to discuss the impending announcement of the loan of the Tapestry to the UK by France’s President Emmanuel Macron. They had my number because I’d written an article for BBC History Magazine (now renamed HistoryExtra Magazine) some years earlier canvassing experts on whether a loan like this could ever come to pass. Overexcited by that turn of events, I partnered up with the British Museum’s in-house Tapestry expert, Michael Lewis – curator of the forthcoming major exhibition, scheduled to open in September – to write The Story of the Bayeux Tapestry. Leaping into action, we had the book written and on sale by spring of 2021, just in time for… nothing much at all to happen. For several years, the proposed loan was challenged and delayed, the idea being eclipsed by bigger geopolitical trends, according to Lord Peter Ricketts, the UK government’s Bayeux Tapestry Envoy. When I interviewed him for the HistoryExtra podcast, he explained that period of radio silence. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/04/23DWB86G-6994025-e1776266960920.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="Four officials stand in Piccadilly Circus at the 26 February 2026 announcement of the British Museum’s Bayeux Tapestry exhibition, with a large curved billboard behind them displaying tapestry imagery and the message “The Bayeux Tapestry is coming this September”. From left to right are Lord Peter Ricketts, Hélène Duchêne, Nicholas Cullinan and George Osborne." title="The British Museum’s Bayeux Tapestry exhibition was formally announced at an event in London’s Piccadilly Circus on 26 February 2026. Left to right: Lord Peter Ricketts, Bayeux Tapestry envoy; Hélène Duchêne, French ambassador to the United Kingdom; Nicholas Cullinan, director of the British Museum; George Osborne, chair of trustees of the British Museum (Photo by Getty Images)" /> “The first hint of President Macron's interest in loaning the tapestry came at the Sandhurst Summit in 2018 with Theresa May,” he recalled. “But then everything went rather quiet, mainly because of Brexit and all the difficult politics around that and Covid. It wasn't really until relations began to improve that the idea was rekindled – particularly at a meeting between [then Labour Culture minister] Chris Bryant and his counterpart, the French culture minister Rachida Dati at the Cannes Film Festival in 2025. There, they essentially agreed at a political level that Macron’s idea should be pursued.” Macron’s mission I’ve been following the politics of the loan since 2018, and it’s clear that progress has been driven by President Macron. While several UK prime ministers have come and gone since Macron’s first statement, he has remained an ever-present in discussions – and, it seems, an enthusiastic champion of the idea. “I think this really has come from Emmanuel Macron himself,” Lord Parkinson, Conservative heritage minister from 2021 to 2024, told HistoryExtra in an interview last year. “I think he’s aware that he made this very kind suggestion [of loaning the Tapestry]; he wanted to deliver on his promise, and this summit has allowed him to do that”. “I do think Emmanuel Macron has been the driving force,” agrees Lord Ricketts. But, he notes, it was circumstances in Bayeux that kickstarted the loan conversation as much as it was about politics. “Over the decades, there have been sporadic discussions about the tapestry coming to the UK,” he continues. “I think the key thing was the decision that the museum where the Tapestry is now exhibited was going to be knocked down and rebuilt as a more modern museum. That meant the Tapestry was going to go off display and into storage.” <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/04/3GettyImages-906692136-cb0c43b-e1776267218810.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="French president Emmanuel Macron stands at a podium, smiling and gesturing as he speaks, with then UK prime minister Theresa May slightly behind him. National flags are visible in the background, indicating a joint press appearance." title="French president Emmanuel Macron holds a joint press conference with then UK prime minister Theresa May in January 2018. According to Lord Ricketts, Macron has been the “driving force” behind the Bayeux Tapestry loan (Photo by Getty Images)" /> Those sporadic discussions occurred five times in the 20th century, when requests were made to loan the Bayeux Tapestry to Britain. The first was in 1931, for a ‘French exhibition’ at the Royal Academy of Arts in Burlington House, London. It was repeated in 1953 for Queen Elizabeth II’s coronation, and again in 1966, on the 900th anniversary of the battle of Hastings, when both the Victoria and Albert Museum and Westminster Abbey hoped to display it. In 1972, when France sought to have the Rosetta Stone exhibited in Paris, Britain enquired about receiving the Mona Lisa and the Bayeux Tapestry in return. And in 1980, the British Museum again requested a loan, but to no avail. Read more | The Bayeux Tapestry: a political football for 900 years The story of those negotiations, and the reasons why they didn’t get anywhere, are outlined in an updated chapter of the brand-new edition of The Story of the Bayeux Tapestry. Often the conversations faltered because it wasn’t clear whether the UK representatives should be talking to people in Bayeux or in the French government. Even the possibility of a reciprocal royal visit by the Queen Mother to Bayeux in 1981 wasn’t enough to get a deal over the line. This time, we have envoys to make sure that both sides are talking to the right people. Ricketts’s role is to be the ‘docking point’ of contact between the UK and French administrations, working in partnership with his French counterpart, Philippe Bélaval. Damage prevention Nevertheless, concerns have been raised. A petition in France objecting to the loan has garnered more than 70,000 signatures, and the celebrated English artist (and Normandy resident) David Hockney has also come out in opposition. The principal worry is that the venerable artefact could be damaged in transit. Similar concerns were voiced when previous loan requests were made. However, it is important to note that, since those earlier negotiations, the Channel Tunnel has opened, providing a much smoother transit route than sea or air. “We are talking now about how the tapestry will come, not whether it will come,” according to Ricketts. “Whether it will come was decided when Emmanuel Macron and Keir Starmer signed that agreement last July. That's a formal government agreement, and that will be implemented.” “The question now is the practical logistics of getting it here safely,” he continues. “Both sides, of course, are equally attached to ensuring the preservation and the protection of this incredibly fragile and precious object.” Read more | Is the Bayeux Tapestry in “mortal danger”? “Clearly, everyone wants to avoid the risk of any kind of incident while it’s travelling. So I think the date on which it travels will be kept private. It will be very carefully protected and guarded by the gendarmerie on the French side and the British police when it arrives in Kent to be safely conveyed to London. And of course, from the moment it's in British hands, it will be extremely carefully protected, whether it’s moving or once it’s in the British Museum.” <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/04/10GettyImages-2236196280-71aa66f-e1776267276126.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="The Bayeux Tapestry is displayed on a long, raised mount inside the museum, showing detailed embroidered scenes of medieval figures, horses and ships. A staff member stands nearby in the gallery, with modern lighting and exhibition signage visible in the background." title="A worker prepares the Bayeux Tapestry for packing in September 2025. The embroidery is currently being housed at a secret location ahead of its loan to the British Museum (Photo by Getty Images)" /> Those arrangements sound rather more stringent than those proposed in 1953. Plans for the loan then had progressed to the point at which British bureaucrats and police officials discussed transport arrangements. Two armed officers were to join the vehicle carrying the Tapestry when it arrived by ship in Southampton, and two motorcyclists were to provide an escort from there to the Victoria and Albert Museum. Back then, the Tapestry was insured for £250,000 – but, as was noted, “it is regarded as irreplaceable”. That sum today is £800 million. Different perspectives We should expect a more sophisticated transport operation with the Bayeux Tapestry in 2026 than the plans from 1953. Even so, the concerns raised in France indicate that not everyone is sanguine about the loan. This might be a reflection of the fact that the embroidery is seen differently by the French to us in Britain. Back in 2018, I spoke to the Tapestry museum curator in Bayeux, Antoine Verney, who sadly has passed away recently. In his experience, he said, the British tend to recognise the Tapestry as marking the end of a period, while the French consider it more as the start of a story of Anglo-Norman expansion. Verney also noted a very different level of knowledge about the Norman conquest story. For the British, the one date everyone knows is 1066; for the French, it is 1789. “A lot of French people think that Hastings is actually in Normandy,” Verney told me, “and that the battle took place in the Hundred Years’ War rather than the 11th century.” According to Ricketts, President Macron clocked this too. “I think Emmanuel Macron understood something that's essential to this loan, which is that the tapestry is far more fundamental to the British national story than it is to the French,” he observed. “It's not central to the development of modern France in the way that 1066 and the Norman invasion is here. So the loan of the tapestry would be a hugely powerful cultural event that would underline the links between the two countries at a time when they'd been going through some pretty rocky times after Brexit, and also with war in Europe [in Ukraine]. It’s a good time to remind the people of the two countries how much we share.” Listen now | A new take on the battle of Hastings It’s also a good time to remind people in both France and the UK about the Tapestry itself. Though it is justly famous already, the forthcoming exhibition – and the major media operation launched around it, Piccadilly Circus billboards and all – is going to propel the Tapestry even deeper into the popular consciousness. Sure, there is some risk in moving the embroidery, but the reward is that it gets a generational boost in awareness in France and Britain. That ought to secure a long-term flow of visitors not just to the British Museum but also back in Bayeux when the Tapestry returns there in time for the 2027 Year of the Normans, celebrating a millennium since the birth of Duke William. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/04/42XGHEW0-05ef025-e1776267399699.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="The Bayeux Tapestry Museum in Normandy, a grand historic building with a slate roof, surrounds a landscaped courtyard filled with neatly trimmed topiary trees and flower beds. Visitors gather near the entrance steps, with signage directing them into the museum." title="The embroidery will return to the newly refurbished Bayeux Tapestry Museum in 2027 – just in time for celebrations marking 1,000 years since the birth of William the Conqueror (Photo by Alamy)" /> Ricketts even reckons that the French will come to Britain to see it. “I think it will certainly bring an awful lot of French people to London to see it,” he states. “We already know that a large number of French schools are interested... We are producing a lot of materials for schools in French as well as in English.” “You can see it in a more vivid way than you ever were able to in Bayeux, as we’re showing it at full length,” he adds. “Then, of course, when the tapestry goes back, the Bayeux Museum will be reopening, providing a very modern setting there as well. I think the impact it has in the UK will immediately feed back into France.” The loan is a political gesture born of a need to reboot cross-channel relations. It would be remarkable indeed if a 950-year-old embroidery could help to smooth political differences today – but, with the vivid potency of its imagery, the Bayeux Tapestry reaches parts that other medieval sources cannot hope to. That’s why this exhibition is so exciting, so important, and so timely. Lord Peter Ricketts was speaking to Dr David Musgrove on the HistoryExtra podcast. Listen to the full conversation.
What did Anne Boleyn REALLY look like? Our new research could change everything
Dark or brunette? Fair or swarthy? A paragon of beauty or a refined charmer? Our picture of Henry VIII’s ill-fated second queen has become distorted over five centuries – but new research by Owen Emmerson and others comes closer to revealing her true appearance
Close your eyes and picture Anne Boleyn. Chances are you can conjure up a pretty clear and detailed image in your imagination – because few figures in English history seem as visually familiar as Henry VIII’s second queen. Representations of her face appear everywhere: in films, television dramas and novels, in museum gift shops and digital reconstructions. She is often depicted in popular culture as an elegant brunette whose sophistication distinguishes her from others at court. Over time, this image has hardened into something close to fact. Anne Boleyn, we are told, was devastatingly beautiful. Yet this certainty is built on fragile foundations, and surviving evidence provides a less concrete understanding of Anne’s appearance. No formal painted portraits from life survive today, though images in a number of smaller, more intimate formats – particularly miniatures – are candidates for having captured her true likeness based on contemporary encounters. The more-familiar portraits featuring the now-iconic ‘B’ pendant necklace, meanwhile, were likely created decades later, influenced by politics, artistic convention and hindsight. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/03/DXFXNM-38bec64-e1773309603951.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A woman with long dark braids, wearing a white period-style gown, sits on a cushioned bed and gently holds a baby wrapped in richly patterned blue and gold fabric. Dark wooden furniture and white bedding frame the intimate, historical-feeling scene" title="Natalie Dormer played Anne Boleyn in the television series The Tudors, which perpetuated modern ideas of the ill-fated queen as a dark-haired beauty (Image by Alamy)" /> For generations, historians assumed that any accurate representations created during Anne’s life had been lost altogether, erased after her execution in 1536 on the orders of Henry VIII. That story is compelling, but it is wrong. My research – which underpins Capturing a Queen: The Image of Anne Boleyn, a new exhibition at Anne’s childhood home, Hever Castle – suggests that her true likeness remained visible long after her dramatic death. Her image circulated widely in several different forms: in print, on medals and in drawings that outlived her. Alongside written descriptions left by those who saw her, these sources allow us to come close to understanding how Anne Boleyn looked. They also prompt a more revealing question: during her lifetime, was Anne admired for beauty – at least, as the 16th century understood it? And how much did beauty really matter in a court where power, conviction and function carried far greater weight? Ideals of beauty Today, audiences are encouraged to believe that Anne Boleyn must have been very beautiful indeed to have displaced Queen Catherine of Aragon in Henry VIII’s affections, and to have inspired him to reshape England’s religious and political landscape in order to marry her. This assumption reflects modern ideas about attraction and agency far more than it does the reality of Tudor mores. Different priorities shaped ideals of female beauty then: light colouring and complexion were widely admired. In 16th-century England, though, beauty alone rarely secured influence. At court, education, connections and presence mattered far more than looks. Intelligence, conversation and the ability to command attention in a highly performative environment were prized qualities. Anne excelled in these attributes. Read more | Anne Boleyn’s fatal French connection Anne stood out, but not because she perfectly embodied an ideal of beauty. Her continental education, her penchant for French fashions and her finely honed courtly manner set her apart in a milieu still shaped by conservative English expectations. Contemporary responses to her appearance consistently suggest moderate attractiveness rather than conventional beauty. To understand that distinction properly, we must turn to the accounts of her appearance and demeanour from people who saw her. Consistent picture Contemporary descriptions of Anne are limited but broadly consistent. Simon Grynaeus, a German humanist who visited the English court in 1531, wrote to a compatriot that she was “young, good-looking, of a rather dark complexion”. In October 1532, the Venetian ambassador Carlo Capello, in a report later recorded in Marino Sanuto’s Diarii, described her as “not one of the handsomest women in the world… of middling stature, swarthy complexion, long neck, wide mouth, bosom not much raised… and her eyes, which are black and beautiful”. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/03/PD1438753-1778ee6-e1773309357932.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="Engraved profile portrait of a man with long hair and a full beard, wearing high‑collared, layered Renaissance garments. The image is rendered with fine linework and cross‑hatching" title="An 18th-century engraving of German scholar Simon Grynaeus who, having met Anne Boleyn, described her as “young, good-looking, of a rather dark complexion” (Image by Topfoto)" /> Lancelot de Carle, secretary to the French ambassador in London, wrote a long poetic account of Anne’s fall and execution in 1536, emphasising her expression and presence rather than physical features. Even sympathetic observers were measured: the reformist cleric John Barlow described her as “reasonably good-looking”, a phrase that in Tudor usage suggested composure and refinement rather than striking beauty. What emerges is not the image of a woman celebrated for physical perfection but of someone whose appearance was animated by intelligence and presence. Observers repeatedly returned to her eyes and manner. The French diplomat Lancelot de Carle said of her eyes that she “knew well how to use [them] with effect”, capturing a sense of engagement, wit and command that made her captivating in person. For centuries, the absence of a painted portrait from Anne’s lifetime was explained by a dramatic story: that Henry VIII ordered every likeness of her be destroyed after her execution. The image of a furious king erasing the woman for whom he had broken with Rome is powerful, but has no basis in contemporary sources. The story appeared first in the 19th century, when historians sought an explanation for Anne’s apparent visual disappearance. What happened after the queen’s fall was administrative rather than vengeful. Anne’s badges and monograms were removed from royal buildings and replaced with those of her successor, Jane Seymour, just as Catherine of Aragon’s emblems had earlier been replaced by Anne’s. The King’s Works accounts for September 1536 list payments for removing Anne’s devices alongside those of Cardinal Wolsey, the king’s former chief minister, by then long dead. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/03/3BDA0P2-4f33c37-e1773310304248.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="Gilded wooden sculpture of a bird holding a staff. Intricate carved motifs and textured wings stand out against a red display background." title="A falcon badge from Hampton Court. This emblem of Anne Boleyn remained in place after her demise, despite claims that Henry ordered all traces of her be removed (Image by Alamy)" /> No orders to destroy Anne’s portraits have been found, and even the command to remove her emblems was carried out only partly. Many of her falcon badges remain in the roof of Hampton Court’s Great Hall, blackened with paint but intact. Moreover, inventories taken after Henry’s death show that he continued to own objects that had once belonged to Anne and were decorated with her iconography, albeit packed away in chests. Anne herself had become valueless to him, but the gold and silver fashioned into her goods had not. He did not destroy them, just ensured that they were no longer seen. The people’s prints Though no painted panel portrait survives from Anne’s lifetime, images of her certainly do. Some of the most revealing were created not for the elite interiors of palaces but for public circulation. In the summer of 1533, the prolific printer Wynkyn de Worde was employed to publish a pamphlet titled The Noble Tryumphaunt Coronacyon of Quene Anne. Its cover features a small woodcut long dismissed by historians as a generic courtly scene. However, in collaboration with historian Jessica Carey-Bunning, I have identified this as a narrative composition including three contemporary images of Anne Boleyn at distinct stages of her relationship with Henry VIII. The woodcut provides a visual sequence affirming the validity of the union. To the left, Henry courts Anne; in the centre, the couple are joined in marriage; and in the most prominent image, at the right, Henry and Anne are crowned beneath a cloth of estate, the king’s hand resting on his queen’s stomach. To a contemporary viewer, this was an explicit declaration of pregnancy. When the pamphlet was published, Anne was about six months pregnant with the child who would reign as Elizabeth I. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/03/BAL3286974-85c45de-e1773310578859.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A detailed black and white woodcut showing the same two figures three times over, in different positions, facing each other, standing and sitting" title="A 1533 woodcut shows three stages in the relationship between Henry and Anne, from left to right: wooing, the wedding, and a tender moment apparently signalling pregnancy (Image by Bridgeman Images)" /> This woodcut image operated as a tool of legitimacy, fertility and dynastic hope. It was intended not to capture Anne’s features but, rather, to put her face to work. It was circulated deliberately and widely at the most politically sensitive moment of her queenship. Other contemporary images reinforce this visibility. A lead prototype or proof known as the ‘Moost Happi’ medal, likely commissioned in anticipation of a male heir and struck in 1534, depicts Anne in part profile wearing a gable hood, and bears the initials AR (for Anna Regina). Edward Hawkins, keeper of antiquities at the British Museum in the 19th century, suggested that another surviving lead prototype showing Henry was a companion to Anne’s medal. My discovery of a fully cast example of the companion medal of Henry, fashioned as a hat pin in modest tin, indicates that these likenesses were destined for a wide distribution beyond the court – an effort to disseminate images of the king and his new queen. Read more | Tudors in turmoil: deciphering Hans Holbein’s masterwork The Ambassadors Another contemporary image of Anne survives in a sketch of her coronation banquet, depicting her crowned beneath a cloth of estate in Westminster Hall, the focal point of an elaborate theatrical display. Even in this crude drawing, Anne is unmistakably the axis around which the ceremony revolves. Together, these show that Anne was among the most visually represented queens of early Tudor England. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/03/hip2593496-f6287f1-e1773310819221.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A detailed pencil and chalk profile portrait of a person wearing a wrapped head covering, shown against a lightly toned background." title="Hans Holbein the Younger's drawing, likely depicting Anne, shows a number of key similarities to Hollar's picture (below) (Image by Topfoto)" /> Something rarer also survives: a glimpse of Anne Boleyn as she may have been seen by those who knew her personally. A chalk drawing by Hans Holbein the Younger, now in the Royal Collection at Windsor, depicts a woman in a fur-trimmed nightgown with a simple coif, her eyes lowered in contemplation. Though its subject has long been debated, recent scholarship by Dr Kate Heard has fundamentally reshaped understanding of this work, strongly supporting its identification as Anne Boleyn. The drawing dates securely to Holbein’s second period in England, when he was working at the heart of the Tudor court, producing preparatory studies for both painted portraits and miniatures – and, crucially, working extensively under Anne’s patronage. The apparent informality of the portrait, once used to argue against the identification, now strengthens it. Comparable works by the Horenbout workshop similarly depict elite sitters such as Henry VIII’s son, the Duke of Richmond, in a state of undress, intended for private viewing. Technical examination by the Royal Collection Trust has revealed that the sitter’s hair was originally far darker than it appears today. Layers of red, brown and black chalk have been largely worn away, with only remnants visible. Most compelling, however, is the later inscription identifying Anne as the sitter, based on an attribution by Sir John Cheke, who had met Anne in 1534, benefited from her patronage, and was closely connected to her circle through his wife, Mary Hill. If identified correctly, which now seems highly likely, this drawing represents the most direct surviving contemporary likeness of Anne. It shows her not as a crowned emblem of dynastic hope, as her public image had been crafted, but as a thinking, contemplative and private individual. The Windsor drawing also unlocks the meaning of a later engraving by Wenceslaus Hollar titled Faith, or St Barbara, produced in 1647. This print, based on a now-lost Holbein design once in the Earl of Arundel’s collection, depicts a crowned female figure holding a chalice and wafer set against a landscape of cliffs and water. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/03/2TCATRR-055fb42-e1773310923192.jpg" width="620" height="413" alt="A finely detailed historical engraving depicting a crowned woman in elaborate robes. She stands holding a large chalice with a smooth sphere balanced on its rim. The line work is delicate and textured, and the background features soft shading and cloudlike forms, giving the scene a symbolic or allegorical tone." title="Wenceslaus Hollar based his engraving Faith, or Saint Barbara on a picture by Hans Holbein the Younger (Image by Alamy)" /> When compared closely with the Windsor drawing, the resemblance is striking: they share the same profile, jawline, eye shape and cranial structure. The correspondence between the two strongly suggests that Holbein’s use of Anne’s face for Saint Barbara was drawn from his preparatory study. In this reading, the Windsor drawing was not an isolated likeness but part of a broader artistic conception. The choice of that saint is significant because, like the reformist Anne, Barbara was associated with steadfast Christian faith and resistance to coercion when compelled to revert to traditional beliefs. In Anne’s book of hours, King’s MS 9, the illumination of Saint Barbara shares compositional similarities with the Windsor sketch and Hollar engraving, including a distinctive looped plait, indicating direct visual continuity. Portraying Anne in this guise would have aligned her queenship with conscience and reform. Seen in this light, the image becomes both devotional and political. It presents Anne not simply as consort but as belief embodied. Saint Barbara was martyred and executed by the sword – a parallel that later viewers of this image could hardly have missed. The tragic irony is inescapable, though clearly it lies beyond the image’s original intent. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/03/BAL7392888-edf5339-e1773314139385.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A circular portrait miniature of Anne Boleyn framed in gold. She wears a richly decorated Tudor headdress with gold embroidery and pearls, a dark gown with a square lace‑trimmed neckline, and a chain necklace, set against a deep blue background" title="Other portrait miniatures – including this one now in the collection of the Duke of Bucchleuch – share "a striking physiognomy" with other paintings (Image by Bridgeman Images)" /> The possibility that Anne’s contemporary likeness survives in smaller, more intimate painted formats is strongly supported by this pairing of the Windsor sketch and the image of her as Saint Barbara. Two other near-identical portrait miniatures – one now in the collection of the Duke of Bucchleuch, the other in the Royal Ontario Museum, Canada – long associated with Anne, share a striking physiognomy with these two. When viewed together, the alignment of the facial structures is too close to be dismissed as a coincidence. These works appear to preserve a recognisable likeness circulating within and shortly after Anne’s lifetime, intended for private recognition rather than public proclamation. Though we can’t be absolutely certain of the person whom they portray, these miniatures stand as the most plausible painted candidates for capturing Anne Boleyn’s likeness from life. Read more | The Virgin Queen? Elizabeth I's forbidden love Changing faces After her execution, Anne’s image fell out of use. When it re-emerged during the reign of her daughter, Elizabeth I, it was in a radically altered political landscape. One of the most familiar images of Anne today is the portrait painted c1584 and catalogued as NPG 668 in the National Portrait Gallery. Long treated as a posthumously created likeness of Anne herself, it preserves something else: Elizabeth’s face. Art historian Lawrence Hendra has identified the creator of this famous panel painting as the as-yet-unnamed ‘Pearl Artist’. Comparing this artist’s other works – including portraits of Elizabeth I, her half-sister Mary I and her great-grandfather, Edward IV – it is clear that the painter used the same facial pattern for each sitter, including Anne Boleyn. The elongated facial structure, refined nose and controlled expression closely mirror Elizabeth’s physiognomy. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/03/GettyImages-92818829-f98bc7d-e1773311146880.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A richly detailed Tudor portrait of Anne Boleyn shown against a dark background. She wears an elaborate pearl‑studded headdress framing her face, a dark gown decorated with gold embroidery and pearls, and a necklace with a prominent gold “B” pendant. At the top of the painting, Latin text identifies her as “Anna Bolina, wife of Henry VIII.”" title="The 'Pearl Artist' painting of Anne. This was produced c1584 (Image by Getty Images)" /> This effort to make Elizabeth’s relatives, some of whom likely bore no resemblance to one another, look alike was deliberate. In the 1580s, Elizabeth’s position was vulnerable. She was unmarried, without an heir, and facing both internal Catholic resistance and external threat. So repainting her ancestors with her own facial features anchored her visually as the rightful queen at a time when her legitimacy was again in question. Ensuring that Elizabeth looked like her father’s relatives as well as her mother, who had been accused of adultery, was a covert attempt to transform Anne from a condemned queen into a dynastic foundation stone, visually legitimising her daughter’s rule. A different but equally deliberate innovation appears in the so-called Hever Rose portrait. Recent multi-modal scientific analysis by the Hamilton Kerr Institute, combined with dendrochronology (the dating of the wooden panel), places its painting in c1583, just one year before the famous picture in the National Portrait Gallery. Infrared reflectography reveals that the artist initially followed a pre-existing design but then interrupted it, inserting fully articulated hands holding a rose. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/03/Anne-Boleyn-16th-Century-Hever-Rose-24ca6bb-e1773311339212.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A richly detailed Tudor portrait of Anne Boleyn shown against a dark background. She wears an elaborate pearl‑studded headdress framing her face, a dark gown decorated with gold embroidery and pearls, and a necklace with a prominent gold “B” pendant. She has her hands held up against her chest. At the top of the painting, Latin text identifies her as “Anna Bolina, wife of Henry VIII.”" title="The Hever Rose portrait, painted c1583, is notable in deliberately depicting Anne’s hands – probably an attempt to nullify defamatory claims that she had possessed six fingers (Image by Hever Castle)" /> This moment matters, because it marks the first time Anne’s hands appeared in her posthumous iconography – a choice that was almost certainly polemical. In the early 1580s, defamatory claims by Nicholas Sander alleging that Anne possessed a sixth finger were already circulating widely in manuscript, years before they appeared in print. By depicting elegant, unblemished hands, with each finger made carefully visible, the artist offers a quiet but pointed rebuttal to this claim. Both portraits respond to the same anxiety. In a period when Elizabeth’s legitimacy was under attack, Anne’s image was re-engineered to defend it: her face reshaped to mirror the queen’s, her body corrected to refute slander. Art became a form of political repair. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/03/BAL872290-3b47074-e1773313278928.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A highly detailed Elizabethan portrait showing a figure in an opulent gown covered with pearls, gemstones, and intricate gold embroidery. A tall, floral-patterned lace ruff frames the neck, and the sitter’s tightly curled hair is topped with a pearl‑ and jewel‑encrusted headdress. The dark background emphasizes the elaborate textures and craftsmanship of the clothing and accessories." title="Contemporary portraits, like the one of Elizabeth I above, were clearly based on the same facial pattern used in the 'Pearl Artist' painting of Anne (Image by Bridgeman Images)" /> Lost likeness Nearly five centuries after her execution, we may never know precisely what Anne Boleyn looked like. Her face survives only in fragments, refracted through prisms of politics, art and memory. Yet this uncertainty is not a failure of evidence; it is part of her history. The images and descriptions that survive show that Anne was not invisible, and not admired solely for her beauty. She was compelling because of her presence, intelligence and conviction. She understood the power of being seen, and used imagery, print and ceremony to assert her place in the world. In the end, the question of her appearance matters not because it satisfies curiosity but because it restores agency. Anne Boleyn was not merely a face shaped by others but an active participant – through her patronage of Holbein and the Horenbout family, not least – in how she was represented, remembered and contested. Approaching 500 years on, we are still learning to see her clearly. Unpicking locks What colour was Anne Boleyn's hair? Modern portrayals often depict Anne with jet-black hair, reinforcing an image of dark, exotic beauty. The historical record, however, is more ambiguous. Contemporary descriptions mention dark eyes and darker complexion, but none explicitly describe hair colour – likely because it may not have seemed remarkable enough to comment upon. Some later sources describe Anne as “witch-like” with black hair; others suggest chestnut or reddish tones. The poet Thomas Wyatt may have been referring to her when he wrote of a “brunet” woman. In Tudor usage, that could refer to dark hair, darker skin or both, and was often used to signal complexion rather than colouring alone. Genetics adds more uncertainty. Anne’s daughter, Elizabeth I, was red-haired, as was Henry VIII in his youth. Red hair is linked to variants of the MC1R gene expressed only if inherited from both parents, so Anne must have carried at least one such variant. Though not proof that she herself was red-haired, this significantly increases the likelihood, and makes chestnut or auburn tones entirely plausible. Later portraits often show Anne with lighter reddish-brown hair. These may reflect attempts to align her appearance more closely with Elizabeth’s, reinforcing dynastic continuity. In a culture where fair hair was associated with virtue, this shift was politically advantageous. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/03/GettyImages-544168286-132885d-e1773314361550.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A richly detailed Tudor portrait of Anne Boleyn shown against a dark background. She wears an elaborate pearl‑studded headdress framing her face, a dark gown decorated with gold embroidery and pearls, and a necklace with a prominent gold “B” pendant." title="A late 16th-century portrait shows Anne with reddish hair, again perhaps tying her to Elizabeth (Image by Getty Images)" /> This article was first published in the March 2026 issue of HistoryExtra Magazine
Is the Bayeux Tapestry in "mortal danger"? I think that's the wrong question to ask
Rather than focusing on the risk to the Bayeux Tapestry in its forthcoming loan to the British Museum, David Musgrove argues that we should be talking about how the massive media interest in the exhibition will surely be a huge reward for the venerable embroidery – and guarantee its long-term survival
It’s not often that a medieval embroidery gets broadcast across the huge electronic billboards at Piccadilly Circus. But that’s what happened on the morning of 26 February, as the British Museum made its first big splash to announce details of its forthcoming blockbuster Bayeux Tapestry exhibition (tickets go on sale 1 July). I was there to enjoy the experience, and it was a delight to see an artefact that I’ve spent a long time thinking about getting the full film-star treatment (I’m co-author of The Story of the Bayeux Tapestry). The exhibition is not without controversy. Questions have been raised by French campaigners and one celebrated English artist (David Hockney) on how fit the Bayeux Tapestry is to travel, and whether it’s right to subject this venerable artefact to the rigours of a trip from Normandy to London. These are reasonable concerns, but they miss the point. Yes, there is risk, but what about the reward? What does the Tapestry gain from being transported and displayed in such a high-profile way? I’d argue that, rather than putting the Tapestry at mortal danger of destruction, the loan guarantees its long-term survival and will be a boon for the tourist business in Bayeux to boot. What other medieval artwork or contemporary documentary source could hope to receive the wall-to-wall media exposure that the Tapestry is currently receiving? <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/02/20260226090016-92f3207-rotated-e1772119755759.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A busy city street with pedestrians and vehicles passes beneath a large digital billboard mounted on the side of a modern building. The billboard displays an advertisement for the British Museum, featuring a scene from the Bayeux Tapestry, with figures in period clothing and the words “REX,” “HAROLD,” and “The British Museum – From Egypt to…”. Surrounding buildings include shops with street‑level storefronts, and a white truck and van are visible in the foreground" title="The Bayeux Tapestry is broadcast across Piccadilly Circus, 26 February 2026. It has received the “full film-star treatment”, says David Musgrove (Image by David Musgrove)" /> When the exhibition opens in London in the autumn, there surely won’t be many people who haven’t heard of the Tapestry, the story it tells and the many mysteries it still contains. The queues will be round the block to see it. And when it returns to its newly revamped museum back in Bayeux in 2027, in time for the millennial commemorations of the birth of William the Conqueror, the press interest will be just as high: people will be keen to see how it will be displayed in its new permanent home. This is priceless PR, and it will keep a steady flood of visitors heading to Normandy for years to come, paying the museum entrance fee and spending their tourist money in the town and region. That is the long-term reward for the risk of the loan. Surviving against the odds The Bayeux Tapestry is likely around 950 years old (we don’t actually know when it was made, but most experts would agree that it was shortly after the event it depicts, the Norman Conquest of 1066). It was designed to be displayed, and probably to be moved around. Whether it was made for secular great halls or to be hung around the naves of churches, it was meant for show. The artefact offers a specific, partial and male-heavy telling of the Conquest story, positioning the Norman invasion as a straight clash between two worthy military men – England’s Harold and Normandy’s William – and excluding other important figures from the narrative (women generally, Norway’s Hardrada, Harold’s brother Tostig and Edgar Ætheling, the closest blood relative to the old king Edward the Confessor). I imagine that the designers would be delighted to see that, almost a thousand years on, the Tapestry is being displayed once more to such fanfare and is still able to get its message across. Read more | The strange story of the Nazi obsession with this legendary artefact still isn't over Given the Tapestry’s age, it’s not surprising that it’s a fragile artefact. It’s been through some tough times, having nearly been chopped up in the frenzied years of the French Revolution, wound and unwound for visitors on a rolling mechanism in the 19th century, soldered into a cylindrical zinc case during the Franco-Prussian War, and manhandled by the Nazis in the 1940s. These various depredations explain why it seems to be lacking its final panel, fraying into oblivion as the defeated Anglo-Saxon troops flee the field after William’s great victory at the battle of Hastings. It’s been patched up over the years, and wears some of this repair work pretty obviously. It’s fair to say that the 19th-century restoration it underwent wasn’t always particularly sensitively done. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/02/Coll.ections-Musee-Tapisserie-de-Bayeux-Fonds-documentaire-H.-Jeschke-Cliche-Rolf-Alber-FT-746.44-JESPHO09-a34a40a-e1772122650745.jpg" width="613" height="429" alt="A group of high‑ranking German military officers from the World War II era stand around a large table studying the Bayeux Tapestry. They wear dark uniforms with insignia and medals, and several lean in closely as if discussing strategy. The room is formal and dimly lit, with the tapestry dominating the centre of the scene." title="Coll.ections Musée Tapisserie de Bayeux - Fonds documentaire H. Jeschke -Cliché Rolf Alber - FT 746.44 JES_PHO09" /> So yes, the Tapestry demands careful attention and handling, and yes, we need to be mindful of potholes on the roads from Bayeux to Bloomsbury. But as Nicholas Cullinan, director of the British Museum, has pointed out, the business of moving priceless and fragile historical artefacts around the world is precisely what museums do on a regular basis. French and British experts are working together to ensure that the move and redisplay in London is carried out to the highest standards. Lessons from the Ladies of Leek To see what impact the loan exhibition will have, we need only look a little to the west of London and consider the story of its fabulous full-size 19th-century replica, housed today in Reading Museum. It was made by the Ladies of the Leek Embroidery Society 140 years ago, under the strenuous stewardship of Mrs Elizabeth Wardle. Almost immediately after they’d completed their work, Mrs Wardle and the stitching Ladies of Leek allowed their labour of love to go on tour, around the UK, and as far afield as Germany and the US. At a time when international travel was more challenging than today, the replica gave crowds on both sides of the Atlantic a first-hand view of this celebrated medieval artwork. Read more | Michael Wood on women's contributions to the Bayeux Tapestry Five times in the 20th century, requests were made from the UK for a loan of the original Bayeux Tapestry: in 1931, 1953, 1966, 1972 and 1980. All these attempts to secure a loan came to nought. In 1953, staff at the V&A were so confident that the Tapestry was coming that they prepared an introductory guidebook, and, as I reported in a recent article for HistoryExtra, in 1980 officials even considered whether a trip to Bayeux by the Queen Mother might have helped seal a deal. In 1966, negotiations faltered because it wasn’t clear to the British delegates whether they should be talking to the French state or the municipality of Bayeux to make progress. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/02/GettyImages-2236196240-7778166-e1772120361828.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A person in a white protective suit and blue gloves adjusts a large historic tapestry that hangs from a metal rail system in a controlled conservation workspace. The tapestry shows intricate woven patterns and text, and the individual is carefully supporting its surface with both hands, highlighting the delicate, detailed work of preserving cultural artefacts" title="A worker prepares the Bayeux Tapestry for transfer to the British Museum, September 2025. There were five attempts at securing a loan of this kind in the 20th century, all of which failed (Image by Getty Images)" /> In that year, the 900th anniversary of the battle of Hastings, though the original did not cross the Channel, the Reading replica sated the interest in Britain for a Bayeux Tapestry tour. It was sent on an extensive exhibition circuit around the UK from 1965 to 1967. From Aberdeen to Bournemouth, via Gateshead, Anglesey, Doncaster, Hereford and many other stops between, the replica was on show to anyone who wanted to have a look at this recreation of the medieval marvel. It was this sort of exposure that helped to cement the Tapestry’s place in our national consciousness as the archetypal artwork of the Middle Ages. Read more | The Bayeux Tapestry: a political football for 900 years From Tutmania to Tapmania If the Reading replica’s extensive touring schedule through the 19th and 20th centuries has helped to drive awareness of the Bayeux Tapestry, that is nothing to what the loan of the original 11th-century embroidery will do when it comes to London this year. Interest will be stratospheric. As Helena Dollimore, MP for Hastings and Rye, noted in a parliamentary debate on the Tapestry on 25 February, “The Bayeux Tapestry exhibition at the British Museum will be the exhibition of a generation”. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/02/K08G5Y-3103f6b-e1772120781998.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A section of the Bayeux Tapestry showing mounted soldiers in chainmail riding horses and holding spears, arranged in a dynamic battle scene. Decorative animals and motifs run along the top and bottom borders, and a line of Latin text appears above the riders." title="A section of Reading Museum’s replica Bayeux Tapestry. This facsimile toured the UK after requests for the original to be loaned were rejected (Image by Alamy)" /> She’s right, based on the recent polling carried out on behalf of the British Museum that says that 71 per cent of parents want their child to learn more about the story of the Tapestry whilst it is in the UK. Those children will, in time, want to share the memory of this experience with their offspring, and so the Tapestry will indeed get a generational boost from this. According to the British Museum’s chair of trustees, George Osborne, 7.5 million visitors are expected to flock to see the Tapestry. This loan will do for early medieval history what the mighty Tutankhamun exhibition at the British Museum in 1972 did for Egyptology. Tutmania blossomed then, and Tapmania will bloom among us this year. The ongoing visitor flow to Bayeux will mean that it will be amply financially supported for decades to come. That’s the reward to balance the risk, and that’s why the forthcoming loan to the British Museum is something we should celebrate and be immensely excited about.
10 children and 12,000 pieces of art: the remarkable life of Lady Charlotte Schreiber
She was a headstrong scholar who contributed hugely to the study of medieval literature and challenged the societal norms of the 19th century. So why isn’t she better known? Caroline McCaffrey-Howarth traces the adventures of an unsung heroine
While hunting for antiques in the Netherlands in the 1880s, the esteemed art dealer Joseph Joel Duveen received a tip-off that some “wonderful pieces of china” had come up for sale in a remote village. Getting there would involve a tediously long journey but, undeterred, Duveen set out. Several hours later, however, he spotted a carriage speeding past in the opposite direction, and was able to make out its passenger. Recognising the face of his great rival, Duveen promptly turned around, empty-handed, ruefully realising that she had beaten him to the village and “snatched the prize”. The victor on this occasion was Lady Charlotte Schreiber. Surprisingly, given her long life – she was 82 when she died, in 1895 – which included two marriages, 10 children, scandalous affairs and a celebrated translation of the medieval Welsh Mabinogion, Lady Charlotte remains relatively unknown today. Often erroneously dismissed as a mere magpie obsessed with trinkets, for decades her second husband and sons were credited for accumulating her great collection. Yet, shortly before her death, she donated a trove of some 5,000 pieces to the South Kensington Museum (now the V&A) and the British Museum. Defiance and scandal Charlotte endured a difficult childhood. Born Lady Charlotte Elizabeth Bertie in 1812, she lost her father, the 9th Earl of Lindsey, when she was only six years old. Her mother remarried, and her new stepfather, the Reverend Peter Pegus, turned out to be a violent alcoholic; he once drank a whole mug of lamp oil, mistaking it for beer. Read more | 5 things you (probably) didn't know about Victorian Britain At the age of 10, Charlotte started keeping a diary, in which she wrote almost every day until she lost her eyesight in her late seventies. A true polymath, she gave herself “a man’s education”, studying history and literature, and learning Arabic and Farsi (Persian) as well as Greek, Latin, French, German, Italian and even Hebrew. She dedicated hours to her “oriental studies”, devouring Barthélemy d’Herbelot de Molainville’s monumental 1697 compendium Bibliothèque Orientale, and later became a subscriber to the Oriental Translation Fund. To a young woman frustrated by her privileged yet undeniably restrained upbringing, the ‘Orient’ represented an imagined place of freedom where the stagnant and gendered traditions of elite British life did not exist. Throughout her years, Charlotte defied the strict protocols of Georgian and Victorian society, causing various scandals. As a teenager she fell in love with a local squire, Augustus O’Brien, but her mother “had sooner see me in my grave than married to Augustus”. She also had a dalliance with her brother’s tutor, a Mr Martin, and shortly after became “very good friends” with Benjamin Disraeli, whom she described as “wild, enthusiastic, and very poetical”. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/02/HYB33K-fcd5698-e1771492464411.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A historical-style painting of a large industrial complex with many smokestacks releasing thick smoke into the sky. Several furnaces glow with open flames. In the foreground, workers shovel coal and operate machinery, surrounded by carts and industrial equipment. The scene conveys the intensity, pollution, and harsh labor conditions of early industrialisation." title="A painting of the Dowlais Ironworks, where Charlotte and her husband Josiah oversaw the management of over 5,000 employees (Image by Alamy)" /> In 1833, Charlotte married Welsh ironmaster and Whig politician Josiah John Guest. Although he was 27 years her senior, the two fell madly in love and had 10 children. Together they oversaw the day-to-day management of the Dowlais ironworks and its 5,000-plus employees. Charlotte managed the financial accounts, translated engineering manuals, established evening schools for the workers and their families, and even conducted business meetings. By 1839, she observed that she had successfully “schooled myself into habits of business that it is more congenial to me to calculate the advantage of half percent commission on a cargo of iron than to go to the finest ball in the world”. Welsh legend Charlotte’s marriage to John – whom she called Merthyr, Welsh for ‘martyr’ – gave her the freedom she so desperately craved. She used her autonomy to embrace her passion for history, carrying out archaeological excavations at ruins such as Morlais Castle in Glamorgan, where she discovered medieval seals and coins. Inspired by her “violent affection for Welsh castles”, Charlotte became a founding member of the Cymdeithas Cymreigyddion y Fenni (Abergavenny Welsh Society), encouraging the use of the Welsh language among all social classes. Resolving to outwardly demonstrate a sense of Welsh patriotism befitting her new social position, she wore traditional Welsh dress, taught herself medieval Welsh and received the Bardic name ‘Olwen’ – a famous protagonist from Welsh folklore. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/02/AY4G19cmykwebready-8a87b35-e1771492225305.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A black and white photograph of two women dressed in long dresses with aprons over the top, tall black hats and shawls around their shoulders. One is standing in front of a spinning wheel, and the other is to the left behind it, standing in a doorway" title="This photograph shows women in traditional Welsh dress, which Charlotte adopted on marriage to Welshman John Guest (Image by Alamy)" /> While still in her twenties, Charlotte began the colossal task of writing an English translation of the Llyfr Coch Hugest (Red Book of Hergest), a compilation of medieval Welsh ballads and oral traditions including the tales known as the Mabinogion. It was not a straightforward undertaking. Contemporaries were concerned that the work would not be taken seriously if translated by a woman, never mind an English one, and she suspected that her Welsh teachers were passing her translations on to others. Read more | She held wealth, power and prestige: so why did this Georgian aristocrat fake her daughter’s death? Her fears were realised when the French writer Théodore Hersart de La Villemarqué tried to publish her translation of the Mabinogion story Peredur, passing it off as his own work. Determined to thwart his plans, Charlotte poured all her energy into completing her version. At one point she worked on it for 12 hours straight, taking a break only to give birth to her fifth child. Thanks to these monumental efforts, she published her Mabinogion in seven parts between 1838 and 1845 to great acclaim. In the 1840s Charlotte began to assemble an art collection, seeking out works from the great European schools of the Renaissance. Her purchases included a piece by a follower of the great 16th-century portraitist Hans Holbein the Younger, which she acquired in 1842 at the ‘Great Sale’ of the celebrated 18th-century gossip and socialite Horace Walpole’s estate of Strawberry Hill, near London. Her husband, John Guest, died in 1852, and the following year Charlotte hired Charles Schreiber (1826–1884), a young Cambridge academic, to tutor her eldest son. They initially attempted to hide their affair, but it wasn’t long before Charlotte appeared with her hair dyed brown – likely to diminish the couple’s 14-year age gap – and announced their engagement. Court cases ensued, and only three of her 10 children attended the wedding. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/02/Credit-Common-Crow-Bookss000104757cmykwebready-e198adb-e1771492058978.jpeg" width="1500" height="1001" alt="An open book showing a colour illustration of ornate Persian glassware on the left page and a title page on the right. The illustration depicts a tall decorative bottle with a stopper and two matching cups, all with intricate floral and bird designs. The title page lists bibliographic details for “Lady Charlotte Schreiber’s Journals,” including publication information and handwritten catalog markings." title="The opening page from a copy of Lady Charlotte Schreiber’s Journals, which was originally published in 1911, detailing all 12,000 objects that Charlotte had collected (Image by Common Crow Books)" /> Making a mark With newfound joie de vivre, Charlotte spent the next few decades travelling the world with Charles, dedicating herself to forming the greatest collection of ‘ceramic art’ ever seen. She acquired more than 12,000 objects, all of which she numbered and recorded in her journal. Armed with a red velvet bag, she often spent upwards of seven hours per day in search of objects, particularly European and Asian ceramics. Back at home in London she meticulously researched everything she’d bought, transcribed archives and documentary sources, and even got her hands dirty assisting with excavations at archaeological sites. Read more | "Museums are magical places": Kavita Puri on a new initiative encouraging close encounters with history Charlotte approached collecting just as she did everything else in her life – with an unyielding commitment to the pursuit of knowledge, and an ever-growing desire to succeed and make her mark on the world. As a committed cultural philanthropist, she believed in the educational power of museums and, after Charles’ death, declared her collection “the property of the nation”. From 1885 until her death 10 years later, she gave thousands of pieces to the South Kensington Museum (now the V&A) and the British Museum – unprecedented bequests for a woman collector. At a social gathering one evening in the 1840s, Charlotte was perusing the ‘finest London ladies’ featured in Heath’s Book of Beauty for 1839 – an annual of contemporary fashion and style. A fellow guest, seeing that Charlotte was not listed among the women, commented that “not all the fairies are present; the Welsh fairy Olwen is missing”. “She was not a fairy,” Charlotte replied, “she was a Goddess.” Here’s to that. This article was first published in the February 2026 issue of HistoryExtra magazine
Surrealism and the legacy of caricature | Alice Loxton on the world of the Georgians
In the final episode of the World of the Georgians, Alice Loxton examines the life, work and lasting legacy of satirist James Gillray – and his influence on modern visual culture
To conclude the series, Alice Loxton turns the spotlight on the artist who shaped Georgian satire more than any other: James Gillray. This episode explores Gillray’s life, his fearless approach to power, and the increasingly surreal and grotesque style that made his work so influential. From terrifying politicians to distorted bodies and absurd scenes, Gillray pushed caricature beyond realism, laying the groundwork for later artistic movements. View Green Video on the source website Want more from Alice? Find more episodes of the World of the Georgians here Alice Loxton is a historian, presenter and Sunday Times bestselling author with over three million followers on social media.
Fashion and folly | Alice Loxton on the world of the Georgians
In episode five of the World of the Georgians, Alice Loxton explores Georgian fashion, celebrity and excess – and how caricature delighted in cutting vanity down to size
In Georgian Britain, clothing was never just about style – it was a public performance of wealth, status and ambition. In this episode, Alice Loxton examines the extravagant fashions of the 18th century, from towering wigs and vast hoop skirts to the scandalously sheer dresses of the Regency era. She also explores early celebrity culture through figures such as opera singer Elizabeth Billington, whose fame made her a magnet for gossip and, of course, satire. View Green Video on the source website Want more from Alice? Find more episodes of the World of the Georgians. Alice Loxton is a historian, presenter and Sunday Times bestselling author with over three million followers on social media.
Health and medicine | Alice Loxton on the world of the Georgians
In episode four of the World of the Georgians, Alice Loxton investigates Georgian healthcare, where cutting-edge science sat uneasily alongside quack cures and medical scams
Medicine in Georgian Britain was as ripe for ridicule as it was for reform. In this episode, Alice Loxton explores how satirical artists such as James Gillray mocked the confusion of 18th-century healthcare, where miracle cures, medical quacks and genuine scientific breakthroughs existed side by side. From dubious treatments to the controversy surrounding early vaccination, this episode reveals how caricature captured public anxieties about illness, science and the body. View Green Video on the source website Want more from Alice? Find more episodes of the World of the Georgians. Alice Loxton is a historian, presenter and Sunday Times bestselling author with over three million followers on social media.
Napoleon: hero or “Little Boney”? | Alice Loxton on the world of the Georgians
In episode three of the World of the Georgians, Alice Loxton explores how British caricature turned Napoleon Bonaparte from feared enemy into a figure of ridicule
For Georgians in Britain, Napoleon Bonaparte loomed large as both a military threat and a propaganda obsession. In this episode, Alice Loxton examines how satirical artists helped shape public perceptions of Britain’s greatest enemy during the Napoleonic Wars. From heroic self-fashioning in France to the British invention of “Little Boney”, caricature became a powerful weapon of war, shrinking Napoleon’s image and undermining his authority through humour. View Green Video on the source website Want more from Alice? Find more episodes of the World of the Georgians. Alice Loxton is a historian, presenter and Sunday Times bestselling author with over three million followers on social media.
High society | Alice Loxton on the world of the Georgians
In episode two of the World of the Georgians, Alice Loxton turns her attention from the monarchy to high society, revealing how etiquette, marriage and reputation became prime targets for Georgian satire.
After skewering the royal family, Georgian satirists eagerly turned their pens on the elite. In this episode, Alice Loxton explores the rigid social codes that governed Georgian high society, where a misplaced laugh, an awkward gesture or a poorly judged marriage could spell social disaster. Using caricatures by satirist James Gillray, she examines courtship, matchmaking and the intense pressure to marry well, revealing a world where appearances mattered deeply – and where artists delighted in exposing the absurdities behind polite manners. View Green Video on the source website Want more from Alice? Find more episodes of the World of the Georgians. Alice Loxton is a historian, presenter and Sunday Times bestselling author with over three million followers on social media.