But beyond recounting the rise of Norman supremacy, what was the Bayeux Tapestry really for? Was it only an extraordinary work of propaganda, designed as a display of righteous power? Or was it intended to have a more specific and purposeful role?

The answer to that latter question is: yes, according to historian Professor Benjamin Pohl of the University of Bristol. He argues that the Bayeux Tapestry was created to be a moral aid viewed by medieval monks while they silently ate their meals in a communal refectory.

What was the Bayeux Tapestry for?

Professor Pohl explains his argument in a new article 'Chewing over the Norman Conquest: the Bayeux Tapestry as monastic mealtime reading', in which he makes the case that the embroidery was designed specifically to be hung in the monastic dining hall of St Augustine’s Abbey, Canterbury, where it would have accompanied spoken readings and prompted moral reflection.

Following the rule of St Benedict, which governed monastic life across much of medieval Europe, medieval monks were expected to maintain complete silence while eating, aside from the voice of the reader delivering the day’s text. These readings delivered moral instruction to the diners, in a setting where any visual imagery would have reinforced spoken words and offered a focus for contemplation.

A tapestry made for monks

The Bayeux Tapestry famously depicts the events leading up to the Norman Conquest of England in 1066 through a series of cartoon-style embroidered scenes, accompanied by short Latin captions. Most scholars agree that the embroidery was probably made in, or near, Canterbury in the 11th century. That conclusion rests on similarities in its style and content with illuminated manuscripts that are known to have been held in Canterbury’s monastic libraries at the time.

• Read more | What one Oxford professor found when he studied the rudest bits of the Bayeux Tapestry

But Pohl contends that the Tapestry was not only made in Canterbury, but for Canterbury. He argues that it could have been designed to be hung around the walls of the monastic refectory of St Augustine’s Abbey on particular feast days, where it would have illustrated the moral themes of the day’s reading for the monks. He theorises that the embroidery would have been exhibited at head-height around their dining room, and that therefore it would have been “perfectly discernible from the seated position assumed by the monks and their guests during mealtimes in the refectory”.

This followed “the long, pan-European tradition of using illustrated narratives in the form of wall paintings and – of particular interest here – textile hangings in monastic refectories”.

Triumph and propaganda, or a moral warning?

At first glance, the Bayeux Tapestry does not appear to be an ideal vehicle for moral instruction.

On a basic level, it is a historical narrative that shows the events leading up to the Norman Conquest. In that, it appears to follow a broadly pro-Norman view of events, where the English King Harold makes, and then breaks, an oath to support Duke William of Normandy’s claim to the crown of England. This seeming act of perjury provides the context for William to muster his invasion fleet and then defeat Harold on the field of Hastings. Read in this way, the embroidery can appear to be a triumphalist account of conquest, leading some scholars to suggest that it was created for display in the great hall of a Norman castle, where warriors might reflect on their success.

1066: The battle for England

Member exclusive | The year 1066 is the most famous in English history, but there's a lot more to the story than one bloody battle at Hastings. In this four-part series, medievalist Marc Morris talks David Musgrove through the full story of the Norman Conquest.

Watch all episodes now

However, other historians have suggested that the embroidery is more complex than this. Rather than being a celebration of conquest, it might alternatively offer a commentary on the worldly sins – namely the overambition and moral failure – of the people involved in the story. The borders of the embroidery contain scenes that draw on Aesop’s Fables, a body of stories widely used in medieval education to convey ethical lessons. Such imagery lends weight to the idea that the embroidery carried an underlying moralising message, one that would have been particularly suited to a monastic setting, where the rejection of worldly concerns was central to religious life.

Professor Pohl contends that the ideal place for such moral messages to be delivered would have been in silent contemplation over dinner. Though the fabric of the refectory of St Augustine’s does not survive, documentary and archaeological evidence suggests that it was a substantial building, large enough to accommodate the full length of the Tapestry around its walls.

• Read more | How Tostig Godwinson’s brotherly betrayal hastened the fall of the Anglo-Saxons

With the tapestry as an illustrative background, the mealtime reader would have talked about a moral theme while the monks ate and looked at the image in question. They would have been aided in this by the very basic Latin captions in the Tapestry, which would have been suitable for an audience of monks who did not all have deep Latin knowledge. Pohl points out that the way that the embroidery is split up into individual narrative scenes would also have allowed for a series of discrete, but interconnected, moral lessons to be taught to the munching monks.

“Each episode is a tale of both good and evil, victory and defeat, damnation and redemption”, he says.

Was the Bayeux Tapestry forgotten?

He agrees with the view that Abbot Scolland, who led St Augustine’s Abbey in the years following the Conquest, was a driving force in the creation of the Tapestry (perhaps working with, or for, Bishop Odo of Bayeux, the half-brother of William the Conqueror). He notes that Scolland also instigated the post-conquest building programme that included the construction of a new refectory building for the monks.

• Read more | Has history’s most famous comet been misnamed for centuries? “The answer is clear,” say historians

Pohl suggests that Scolland commissioned the embroidery specifically for display in the new refectory that he designed. However, Scolland died in 1087, long before it was eventually constructed. Pohl further argues that the Tapestry may never have actually been shown as planned because by the time the dining hall was finally built, Scolland had been dead for half a century and the Tapestry may never have been displayed as intended.

If the Bayeux Tapestry was made, and then stored and never displayed, this could help to explain its remarkably good state of preservation.

It also raises the question of how the Tapestry eventually came to be in Bayeux. By the end of the 15th century, it appears in the inventory of Bayeux Cathedral. Pohl suggests that it may have remained in storage in Canterbury, and stayed broadly forgotten, until the 1420s, when it could have been offered as collateral to settle a monastic debt. From there, it may have passed into the hands of the Duke of Burgundy before ultimately making its way to Bayeux, where it survives today.

It’s widely taken for granted that the Stuart astronomer Edmond Halley was the first to recognise its roughly 76-year cycle, an insight he formalised in 1705 and which ultimately gave the comet his name. However, new research by professors Michael Lewis of the British Museum and Simon Portegies Zwart of Leiden University says that attribution might be wrong.

Their work suggests that credit may instead belong to an English medieval monk named Elmer.

Elmer the flying monk

Elmer, also known as Aethelmaer, lived in Malmesbury, Wiltshire, and is best remembered for leaping off Malmesbury Abbey attached to some homemade wings, attempting human flight, at some point between 1000-1010.

In the words of chronicler William of Malmesbury, Elmer “had by some contrivance fastened to his hands and feet in order that he might fly as Daedalus, and collecting the air, on the summit of a tower, had flown for a distance of a furlong”.

As well as recording Elmer’s early exploits in aviation, William also noted that – perhaps unsurprisingly – the flight did not end well. The monk ended up crashing to the ground, breaking his legs and becoming lame as a consequence.

Despite this disability, he lived a long life and was still around (albeit elderly) during the Norman Conquest in 1066. Notwithstanding his very rough landing in 1005, Elmer’s legacy as the flying monk was secured, and even now, Malmesbury boasts a Flying Monk Brewery.

Arguably, however, Elmer’s achievements in astronomy were more worthy of celebration than his achievements in aviation.

Halley’s Comet, or Elmer’s?

According to William of Malmesbury, a young Elmer observed Halley’s Comet in the year 989 and considered it a bad omen. Then, 77 years later, Elmer again saw the 1066 comet. William reported that Elmer once more saw it as a portent of doom, crouching “in terror at the sight of the gleaming star”.

Given that Elmer seems to have identified the celestial body twice and attributed the same doom-laden values to it, is there an argument to be made that it was the medieval monk, rather than Edmond Halley, who should be celebrated for recognising its cycle?

• Read more | Isaac Newton: life, discoveries, rivalries and the truth about the apple

According to Lewis, an expert on the Bayeux Tapestry, and the astrophysicist Portegies Zwart, “the answer is clear: Elmer beat Halley to identifying Halley’s Comet twice, also recognising (in some way) it had a regular cycle”. In their view, he effectively identified the comet’s recurrence centuries before Halley’s calculation.

Elmer, 1066, and the Bayeux Tapestry

Indeed, many medieval history enthusiasts will be aware that the comet is famously shown in the Bayeux Tapestry, which documents the course of the Norman Conquest.

The article by Lewis and Portegies Zwart (titled The Significance of Halley’s Comet in the Bayeux Tapestry, published in the edited collection Dorestad and Everything After: Ports, Townscapes & Travellers in Europe, 800–1100) argues that Halley’s Comet would not have been visible from England in 1066 before 24 April, and possibly not until 30 April. But in the Bayeux Tapestry, the comet appears above a scene showing crowds reacting to the coronation of King Harold, which occurred in January.

The mismatch between astronomical reality and artistic depiction raises questions about why the comet was placed in that scene. So what explains the discrepancy?

Comet propaganda?

Harold’s rise to the throne followed the death of Edward the Confessor and came at a moment of political uncertainty. In Normandy, Duke William regarded Harold’s accession as a usurpation, as William claimed Harold had sworn to support his own claim to the throne. The Bayeux Tapestry includes a prominent depiction of Harold swearing an oath on holy relics in William’s presence, but it offers no explanation of its purpose, leaving the episode open to interpretation.

Lewis and Portegies Zwart suggest that linking the comet with Harold’s coronation was an intentional choice, designed to draw the two events together “for political reasons with the benefit of hindsight”. Their view reflects a broader trend in 11th and 12th-century sources, which retrospectively cast the comet as a portent of disaster for Harold and as a sign woven into the unfolding succession crisis.

The most contemporary accounts (the various versions of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle) do not link the comet to the succession crisis. Instead, they associate it with the more immediate threat posed by Harold’s disaffected brother Tostig, who arrived shortly after the comet’s appearance with a fleet that raided England’s south coast. This occurred in the spring of 1066, several months before the Norman invasion.

But, over time, the Norman interpretation prevailed. The comet became part of a retrospective narrative supporting William’s conquest and portraying Harold’s reign as doomed from the outset.

Lewis and Portegies Zwart note that, had the outcome at Hastings been different, the same comet might instead have been remembered as an omen of the failure of William’s ambitions.

Alas, for the Anglo-Saxons it was not to be…

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But how exactly did these influences weave their way into The Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit? In this video, we explore the sources that helped Tolkien forge his fantasy masterpiece, uncovering the warriors, monsters, and lost kingdoms that made Middle-Earth feel so real.

Despite the wealth of artefacts found inside the ship, the identity of the buried individual remains unknown. What are the leading theories? Discover more in this video as we look closer at the contenders, including an Anglo-Saxon king and a Byzantine soldier. Plus explore the various buried items that suggest a tantalising mix of both Christian and pre-Christian influences.

Of course, we also get closer to the famous Sutton Hoo helmet, and its possible connection to the Norse god Odin.

But despite his fame, the historical record leaves much about his life ambiguous. How can we separate fact from myth, while considering his significance within the context of the fading Viking Age? And, of course, just how much did Thorkell tower over his fellow men that he earned his name 'Thorkell the Tall'?

How tall was Thorkell the Tall?

There is no direct historical evidence that offers a precise height for Thorkell the Tall. His lofty height is only inferred by his epithet, which can also be translated as Thorkell the High.

His name could, in fact, be a metaphorical allusion to high-ranking status, or his dominant presence.

But, assuming that his name is a direct reference to an above-average height, it’s safe to estimate that Thorkell wouldn’t necessarily have had to be incredibly tall by modern standards to earn his title. This is because analysis of Viking skeletons suggests that an average Norseman stood at between 5’7” and 5’8” tall.

Thorkell could have been under 6 feet, and still have been considered tall enough to be given his moniker.

Thorkell’s early life and his links with the Jomsvikings

The son of Strut-Harald, a Danish chieftain, Thorkell was descended from a noble lineage; something that allowed him early access to prominence.

While he has no recorded date of birth, he first enters the historical record in the late tenth century – first recorded as fighting alongside the semi-legendary Jomsvikings (a fierce mercenary force of Vikings, deeply devoted to the Old Norse gods – though willing to eschew their beliefs for the right pay) in AD 986 during the battle of Hjörungavágr – an intra-Norse naval conflict.

Over a decade later, Thorkell is then noted again at the turn of the millennium, AD 1000, in a second such conflict, again with the mercenary Jomsvikings, at the battle of Svolder.

• Read more | The truth about Viking berserkers

Thorkell’s role in these two battles – if he was indeed present in them at all – is indicated by his inclusion in the Sagas. It was during this period that Thorkell the Tall theoretically displayed his mettle, proving his talents as a warrior and strategic leader.

It’s not long after the turn of the millennium, and these battles, that Thorkell’s story converges with the Anglo-Saxons and the events that would form part of the buildup to 1066 and the end of the Viking Age.

1066: The battle for England

Member exclusive | The year 1066 is the most famous in English history, but there's a lot more to the story than one bloody battle at Hastings. In this four-part series, medievalist Marc Morris talks David Musgrove through the full story of the Norman Conquest.

Watch all episodes now

Thorkell the Tall and Anglo-Saxon England

Thorkell the Tall appears in the annals of English history during the turbulent reign of King Æthelred the Unready, when Viking opportunism still dominated the affairs of the Anglo-Saxons, and the descendants of Alfred the Great scrambled to consolidate the king’s unification of England.

In 1002, Æthelred ordered the St Brice’s Day Massacre, a coordinated attack on Danish settlers in England following what had been a particularly intense decade of Viking aggression.

This act of brutality was unwise, in the end, as it reignited Viking fury, enraging the Danish king Sweyn Forkbeard, spurring on a new series of Viking invasions aimed at punishing the English king. Thorkell played a leading role in these invasions.

In 1009, at Forkbeard’s behest, Thorkell commanded a massive Viking fleet that landed in southern England. His army rampaged across the countryside, burning towns and extracting tribute.

Thorkell targeted key locations, including Canterbury, whose archbishop, Ælfheah, was later taken hostage.

However, allegedly against Thorkell’s wishes, the archbishop was executed by Viking warriors instead of being held hostage, instigating the possible beginnings of a rift between the Thorkell and his compatriots.

Thorkell the Tall: a real-life Uhtred?

In 1012, in the aftermath of his revenge on England, Thorkell’s allegiances shifted – and radically so. Leaving his Viking comrades behind, Thorkell switched sides and entered the service of King Æthelred.

The reasons for this defection are unclear, but they may have been driven by political calculations or dissatisfaction with his Viking counterparts.

This might not be as shocking as it seems; as a Jomsviking warlord in his past, Thorkell’s loyalty had historically been pragmatic and available to the highest bidder, and his decision to ally with Æthelred fits within the context of this murky Anglo-Saxon and Viking period where allegiances were fluid.

And Thorkell’s role as an ally of England wasn’t simply tokenistic.

He was appointed to lead a group of elite warriors known as the ‘Thingmen,’ who served as a personal guard for the king. His knowledge of the Vikings and his reputation as a warlord would have made him an invaluable asset (in the same vein as Uhtred of Bebbanburg from the fictional The Last Kingdom, who joins the side of Alfred the Great despite a deeply rooted Viking background).

It was during this time that Thorkell forged even stronger links to the Anglo-Saxon cause by marrying one of the daughters of the king, with whom he possibly had his own children, including Edith Swanneck, the later wife of Harold Godwinson.

Nevertheless, Æthelred’s reign remained unstable, and Thorkell’s allegiance to England would soon be tested by new developments.

Thorkell turns cloak

By 1013, Sweyn Forkbeard had launched a renewed assault on England, and Thorkell found himself caught between his Danish roots and his new English allegiance.

When Sweyn’s son, Cnut, continued the campaign after his father’s death, Thorkell ultimately decided to revoke his new Anglo-Saxon fealties to align himself with the young Danish prince.

• Read more | Your guide to King Cnut: the fierce Danish warrior who ruled England

Cnut’s conquest of England in 1016 (a crucial year in the building escalation toward 1066) marked the beginning of a new era. Thorkell was rewarded for his support with lands and titles, becoming one of Cnut’s most trusted advisors.

He was appointed Earl of East Anglia, a position that granted him significant power and responsibility.

And by shifting his loyalty once again, Thorkell proved himself as a canny and competent operator, with a keen ability to navigate the complex political landscape as circumstances demanded.

Without ever becoming a king himself, Thorkell the Tall had defined himself as – arguably – one of the period’s most successful figures.

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How did Thorkell the Tall die?

Thorkell’s life after this remains obscure. He likely returned to Denmark at some point, perhaps to serve King Cnut in his broader Scandinavian empire, and by the mid-1020s, Thorkell disappears from the historical record entirely.

Modern historians rely on a combination of primary sources, including the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle and Norse sagas, to piece together Thorkell’s story. However, these accounts were often written decades or even centuries after the events they describe, and are coloured by the biases of their authors.

And, crucially, as Thorkell passes out of their purview, knowledge of him and his actions fade too.

So whether he died in battle, or from some disease, or ‘retired’ peacefully back in Scandinavia, away from the turmoil in Anglo-Saxon England, his story, effectively, ends with the success of Cnut.

So that’s potentially a pretty big problem. If we don’t need to learn, will we bother to learn, and if we don’t bother to learn, are our minds going to atrophy? Academics talk about ‘digital dementia’, and researchers are looking at whether AI is going to cause a general downturn in our cognitive abilities.

Unless something changes, and with AI’s rapid development, chances are that we won’t actually need to learn in the future, or at least not in the same way that we do today. So maybe we need to learn to love learning, if we’re going to avoid falling victim to brain rot. And that, perhaps surprisingly, is where Æthelstan, first king of England, comes into the mix.

Creator of the kingdom

Æthelstan, to remind you, was the grandson of King Alfred the Great, son of King Edward the Elder. Crowned in 925 in Kingston-upon-Thames (an event marked to this day by a tooth-shaped stone ringed by Victorian railings on the side of the road), Æthelstan went on to create the kingdom of England as we recognise it today. Famously he won a substantial victory over an alliance of his adversaries at the battle of Brunanburh in the year 937.

• Read more | King Æthelstan: England's colossus

Professor David Woodman, from Cambridge University, is Æthelstan’s most recent biographer, and he is a keen observer of the apparently contradictory sides of the character of the man: “One of the great paradoxes of early medieval history is that Æthelstan absolutely was a great military figure. He was somebody who secured his position by military victories. He had to put down various coalitions that rose against him. But simultaneously he was somebody who had a very keen sense of the importance of learning and sponsoring reading.”

Æthelstan encouraged scholars to come to his court, and he also facilitated the exchange of texts and learning between these visitors. He probably took inspiration from his grandfather in this, because Alfred sponsored a rejuvenation of learning, in the 880s when he was less occupied by Viking raids.

Following Alfred’s lead, Æthelstan ran with this love of learning. He drove for even mundane documents to be dressed up in learned language, as an ostentatious demonstration of the scholarly nature of his court. The diplomas that were issued in his name were works of literary scholarship, which demanded the attention of the reader.

“In order to understand the brilliance of these diplomas, you have to do a very close reading of them today, where you uncover the literary allusions. We have allusions to seventh-century works by Aldhelm of Malmesbury, for example, embedded in these works,” says David. “Now, you can imagine that for your average nobleman sitting at a meeting of the royal assembly of Æthelstan, these allusions probably would have been lost on that person. They wouldn’t have been able to understand them. And in fact, maybe they thought, oh no, not another long turgid Latin diploma of the royal scribe being trotted out. And in a way that’s the point. I think they were designed to impress. They were designed to show the advances that were taking place.”

So, according to David, we need to see Æthelstan as a real lover of learning, and an advocate of a learned culture among his courtiers. That’s a powerful statement by a powerful figure. He even seems to have had an allegorical board game, the Gospel Dice, which might have allowed players to study the Gospels in an innovative way. In modern terms, we might call that a gamified learning experience.

Making the effort

What can we take from this? Well, there was a lot going on in Æthelstan’s reign, not least the project to create a new polity and fend off the Viking threat. So if he could maintain an interest in learning under that sort of pressure, maybe there’s a lesson for us as we wrestle with how to deal with the threat, or opportunity, of AI.

“In this age that we’re living in, we are witnessing a revolution in terms of the way that people access information. Large language models, things like ChatGPT, are enabling instant access to lots and lots of details: very useful tools are at our fingertips. But I do think we lose something in that shorthand access to detail. It’s only by engagement, close reading of a scholarly article or a primary text that you really get a sense of that text, you really understand the nuance of it,” notes David.

If we rely on summaries created by artificial intelligence, if we forego the close reading, then we lose the ability to do that work for ourselves. That, says David, is where we can take a leaf out of Æthelstan’s book: “For me, a big lesson from the reign of Æthelstan is that emphasis on engagement of learning, on close reading.”

• Read more | Be wary of technology’s big promises, but roll with the changes

The beauty of the printed page

We’re talking about the concentrated hard yards of Æthelstan Intelligence over the easy option of Artificial Intelligence. But I suppose the question is whether we can be convinced to get our heads down and really engage with the written word, when we know that AI will be able to make things quicker and less onerous for us. Maybe, that’s where the beauty of the printed page comes into play, and that takes us back to Æthelstan and the Anglo-Saxons once more. If you’ve ever looked at a 10th-century illuminated manuscript, you’ll know what fantastic works of art they can be, and how much labour must have been invested in them. It’s hard not to want to study them up close – they demand detailed attention, precisely because so much attention was lavished upon them.

Though most of these manuscripts are digitised and available for virtual study, David’s first choice is to head to the library, turn the vellum pages, and get to grips with the physical object. Given the chance, I’d absolutely do that too. We’re not all academics with the opportunity to research these amazing Anglo-Saxon illuminated manuscripts in the original, but perhaps we should be encouraged by the continuing enduring power of print in wider culture. People are still making and buying handsomely produced books and magazines (like BBC History Magazine, for example), when we could just as easily be looking at the digital versions.

Obviously there’s a balance, and we would be foolish not to make use of the benefits that AI is bringing, both to scholarly research and to life generally. But we should be mindful of letting too much learning potential slip away, for the sake of a quick answer or easy solution.

“We need to maintain that close reading, that close understanding. But we also need to use tools like ChatGPT to advance our knowledge in various ways. You can get so much more done with these large language models, the way in which they can access data and trawl through it much faster than us. That’s a huge advantage. So I think if they’re used in complementary terms, that’s very important. But we need not to forget the core skills that we have in the first place.”

According to David Woodman, Æthelstan would have approved of this message – he reckons the Anglo-Saxon lover of learning would have been a pragmatist when it came to the potential of AI. And that’s the Life Lesson from History we should take from this formative English monarch – let’s embrace learning for the sake of learning, and not let AI disempower our mental faculties.

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.

She broke the mould of queen consorts, wielding considerable power on behalf of – and sometimes in direct opposition to – her husband, and establishing an Anglo-Norman dynasty that would endure for centuries.

But until the BBC 1066 drama King and Conqueror few people had heard of her, thanks to the male-dominated sources for the period.

The Bayeux Tapestry, which depicts the Norman Conquest of England, includes over 600 different men and just three women – Edith of Wessex (who is Edward the Confessor’s wife, and also Harold Godwinson’s sister); an unnamed woman fleeing a building burned by William’s troops (who may or may not be Edith the Fair, Harold’s wife); and a woman the embroidery identifies as Aelfgyva, of whom we know less.

What’s certain is that none of them are Matilda.

Who was the real Matilda of Flanders?

Piecing together the fragments of Matilda’s life before 1066 reveals a woman who was destined to rule – and given her pedigree, she was viewed as a great prize in the international marriage market.

Although the records are scarce for Matilda’s years, she was probably born in around 1031. She was the daughter of the future Count Baldwin V of Flanders (then one of the most important principalities in Europe) and Adela, the daughter of King Robert II ‘the Pious’ of France.

Matilda had two brothers, Baldwin and Robert. Described by a contemporary chronicler as ‘highly born’, she could trace her descent from the kings of France, the emperors of Germany and even the Anglo-Saxon dynasty. The latter connection would be of great value to her future husband, William of Normandy.

• Read more | Did Edward the Confessor really murder his mother?

There is no surviving likeness of Matilda, but a later chronicler described her as “one of the most beautiful women that could be seen”. Her skeleton was examined in 1961 and recorded as being four feet two inches tall. This was likely a miscalculation, but she was known to be of small stature, as was her eldest son Robert ‘Curthose’ (meaning ‘short trousers’).

Matilda was better educated than most noble women at the time. She was clever, politically astute, strong-willed and fiercely ambitious – qualities that would spark criticism and unease among her contemporaries, and that would shape the negative portrayals of her in the chronicles of the time.

Among Matilda’s first suitors was a Saxon lord named Brihtric Mau (or Meaw), who had been sent to Flanders as an ambassador by King Edward the Confessor.

Brihtric was one of the richest and most powerful nobles in England, and his vast lands spanned six western counties from Cornwall to Worcestershire. As well as being a man of wealth and influence, Brihtric was a tall and “stalwart”, with light blonde hair; one chronicler claims that Matilda fell in love with him at first sight. Without pausing to seek her father’s approval, she sent a messenger to England to offer herself in marriage.

In an age when daughters were expected to meekly accept the fate that was decided for them by their parents, this was an astonishingly audacious act and gives an early glimpse of her forthright nature. But to her dismay and outrage, Brihtric rejected her proposal.

Matilda never forgot the slight. Years later, when Queen of England, she had his lands confiscated and threw him into prison, where he died in mysterious circumstances. It was widely rumoured that Matilda had ordered his murder.

Matilda of Flanders and William of Normandy

In the late 1040s, Matilda received a proposal of marriage from William, Duke of Normandy. He had been the duke since the age of about seven or eight, and was widely known as ‘William the Bastard’, thanks to his illegitimacy. Although he grew into a fierce warrior who saw off Normandy’s enemies and extended its territories, he never shook off the stain of bastardy. He therefore set his sights on a wife with more than enough royal blood for the both of them.

Matilda’s father greeted Duke William’s proposal with enthusiasm – given his duchy bordered Flanders, it would be a strategically advantageous alliance. But when his daughter heard of it, she declared that she would not lower herself to marry a ‘base-born duke’.

Furious, William rode over to Flanders and confronted his would-be bride, dragging her to the ground, rolling her in the mud and almost beating her to death “with his fists, heels, and spurs”.

• Read more | How historically accurate is King and Conqueror?

According to contemporary chronicles, just a few days later Matilda announced that she would marry none but William, since “he must be a man of great courage and high daring” to have ventured to “come and beat me in my own father’s palace”.

Whatever the truth of this outlandish tale, the couple were betrothed shortly afterwards.

But there was another obstacle: Pope Leo IX prohibited the marriage on the grounds that William and Matilda were distantly related. Yet William and Matilda were not to be dissuaded; they defied the ban and married in secret in around 1050.

Matilda as Duchess of Normandy

Despite the inauspicious beginning, the marriage proved a resounding success. As the first Duchess of Normandy for thirty years, Matilda was immensely popular, both with the people of the duchy and her husband.

One chronicler noted that her “fruitfulness in children excited in his [William’s] mind the tenderest regard for her”. She gave birth to at least ten children during their marriage, including four sons to continue the Norman dynasty – among them future Norman Duke Robert Curthose, and the future English kings William Rufus and Henry I. She played an active role in her children’s lives, superintending their education and ensuring that her daughters were imbued with as much learning as her sons.

The growing status of this power couple on the European stage was acknowledged when, in 1059, Pope Benedict overturned the ban on their marriage. Matilda and her husband each commissioned a spectacular new abbey in Caen as a mark of their gratitude. The magnificent ‘Abbaye-aux-Dames’ and ‘Abbaye-aux-Hommes’ still tower over the city today.

What part did Matilda of Flanders play in the Norman Conquest?

Matilda not only enhanced William’s standing in Normandy, but also bolstered his claim to the crown of England.

The Bayeux Tapestry shows the moment when the childless Edward the Confessor is said to have nominated William as his heir. In either 1064 or 1065, fate played into William’s hands when Harold Godwinson was shipwrecked off the coast of France. He was soon escorted to the ducal court as an honoured guest, but it was clear that William had no intention of letting his rival return to England until he had recognised his own claim to King Edward’s throne. Matilda went on a charm offensive with their Saxon guest, who (again, according to the Bayeux Tapestry) swore an oath to uphold William’s claim.

However, when Edward the Confessor died in January 1066, Harold forgot any promise he might have made and seized the throne. William at once began planning to invade and Matilda was behind him every step of the way. More alive to the importance of public image than her husband, she sought the Pope’s sanction for the invasion and gave her daughter Cecilia to the Abbaye-aux-Dames as a token of thanks. Matilda also commissioned a magnificent flagship, The Mora, for her husband to sail across the Channel in September that year.

• Read more | How Tostig Godwinson’s brotherly betrayal hastened the fall of the Anglo-Saxons

It was Matilda who managed affairs in Normandy once her husband set sail. She was in the Benedictine priory of Nôtre Dame du Pré, a small chapel that she had founded in 1060 on the banks of the river Seine near Rouen, praying for William’s success, when a messenger arrived with the news that he had vanquished Harold at the battle of Hastings.

She joyfully proclaimed that the priory should henceforth be known as ‘Nôtre Dame de Bonnes Nouvelles’ (‘Our Lady of Good News’). Matilda had good reason to rejoice for she was now Queen of England.

Matilda and her father, Baldwin of Flanders

Matilda’s father Baldwin V, Count of Flanders, was just as wily as he is in King and Conqueror.

1066: The battle for England

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It was only after William offered him a substantial bribe that he agreed to provide troops for the invasion of England. Admittedly, Baldwin was in an awkward position, for although William was his son-in-law, his half-sister Judith was married to Harold Godwinson’s brother, the exiled Tostig, who had allied himself with the Norwegian king, Harald Hardrada.

Baldwin was also anxious not to antagonise his overlord, the French King. In the end, he chose to hedge his bets. As well as providing limited support to William, Baldwin also supplied his brother-in-law Tostig with ships and men to attack England.

What happened to Matilda after 1066?

Decisive though it was, 1066 was just the beginning of a long and bitterly-contested battle for Norman supremacy in England. It was a battle that Matilda fought with diplomacy and PR, rather than the sword wielded by her husband.

She eventually won the respect of the resentful Saxons, who had first called her ‘the strange woman’ but by the time of her death in 1083 praised her as ‘Matilda, wealthy and powerful.’

Tracy Borman is the author of Matilda: Wife of the Conqueror, First Queen of England (Vintage, 2012). Listen to her speaking about Matilda on the Historic Royal Palaces podcast.

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The early medieval leader was the first of, perhaps, seven rulers to be crowned in Kingston over the next five decades. Yet none would leave a legacy quite like his. Æthelstan’s investiture on 4 September 925 acted as the springboard for a reign that would redefine the parameters of early medieval kingship. The new king triggered a cultural and governmental revolution. He became the most feared and respected leader across the British Isles. He made waves across north-west Europe. Above all, he presided over the establishment of ‘England’. To tell his story is also to tell the story of the emergence of a nation.

Whirlpools of cataclysms

Although Æthelstan was formally invested in the autumn of 925, he had actually become king in the previous year, following the death of his father, Edward the Elder. That delay tells its own story. Æthelstan may now be remembered as one of the great early medieval kings. But his rise to power was anything but straightforward – and far from uncontested.

There is evidence that one of his half-brothers, a man called Ælfweard, had also been recognised as king in 924. Power may, therefore, have initially been divided between the two men, with Æthelstan ruling over the kingdom of Mercia (roughly corresponding to the area we now know as the Midlands) and Ælfweard taking control of Wessex (in the south and west).

• Read more | If King Alfred was great, was Æthelstan even greater?

Ælfweard’s death soon after brought this division of power to an end, and Æthelstan now found himself sole king across both Wessex and Mercia, a polity known as the ‘Kingdom of the Anglo-Saxons’. But even then his position was far from secure: there were those in Æthelstan’s capital, Winchester – chief among them its bishop, Frithestan – who opposed his position as king.

Twelfth-century sources also tell us that there was a plot to end Æthelstan’s ambitions by having him blinded – only for the person involved (a certain “Alfred”) to be dispatched to Rome to be judged by the pope for his treachery. Æthelstan may have been safe for the time being, but that didn’t stop one contemporary royal document referring to the “whirlpools of cataclysms” that swirled around him.

The list of potential cataclysms extended far beyond Frithestan and Alfred. For decades, successive early medieval rulers had lived in the shadow of Viking aggression – and Æthelstan was no different. In the ninth century, there had been significant Viking settlement in the eastern parts of Mercia – not to mention the kingdoms of East Anglia and Northumbria, particularly the city of York. Many of the Viking kings based in York were the descendants of Ívarr, who had risen to power in Dublin and landed in English territory in the mid-860s, causing ruin and destruction. By the early 10th century, these same Viking rulers in York maintained their links to Dublin, which meant that Æthelstan found himself confronted by potential enemies on multiple fronts.

The largest threat was, perhaps, presented by Sihtric Cáech (the ‘one-eyed’), Viking king in York at the beginning of Æthelstan’s reign. Sihtric had coins minted in his name in Lincoln – a sure sign that he was attempting to increase the bounds of his authority beyond the traditional confines of Northumbria and into the east Midlands. Many of these coins give him the title of ‘rex’ (king) below an image of a sword on one side, while the reverse carries a hammer. Such objects convey obvious messages about the martial and pagan character of his rule.

Fire in the skies

Æthelstan and Sihtric’s relationship could, so it seems, have easily been defined by rancour and warfare. But diplomacy and then the fickle hand of fate intervened.

On 30 January 926, the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle records how the two kings “met together at Tamworth… and Æthelstan gave him his sister in marriage”. Although the Chronicle’s account is brief, the event referred to was clearly of great significance. No details of what was agreed in Tamworth have survived, but we can assume that Æthelstan and Sihtric would have recognised each other’s authority and the need to keep the peace between both parties.

Yet Sihtric’s pledge would soon be rendered redundant for, by 927, he was dead. As the Chronicle reports it, there “appeared fiery lights in the northern quarter of the sky, and Sihtric died, and King Æthelstan succeeded to the kingdom of the Northumbrians”.

With this short account, the Chronicle captures what is arguably one of the most important episodes in English history. Æthelstan’s absorption of Northumbria represents the moment when an ‘England’ of a recognisable geographical and political shape was formed for the very first time.

The Chronicle provides no more detail about the way in which Æthelstan had acceded to Northumbria, the challenges that he faced in extending his authority, or the importance of what had happened. Some light is perhaps shed on this episode by a 12th-century source that describes Æthelstan razing a Viking fortress at York in order to gain the city’s full submission.

Whatever truly happened in the first half of 927, Æthelstan was clearly aware of the significance of this moment. After gaining Northumbria, the king held a ceremony on 12 July 927 at Eamont Bridge, a small town just to the south of Penrith, where he received the submission of various British kings, and a further Northumbrian ruler. As the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle puts it, here “they established peace with pledge and oaths… and renounced all idolatry and afterwards departed in peace”.

• Read more | 1066: who was the rightful king?

It’s a shame that the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle does not give more detail about this momentous year. Fortunately, we do not have to rely on the Chronicle alone for our understanding of what the occasion meant to contemporaries. The retinue of people that accompanied Æthelstan north in 927 included a poet who drafted verses celebrating the fact that “Saxonia”, by which the poet means ‘England’, was now “made whole”. “King Æthelstan lives,” he declares, “Glorious through his deeds!”

That there was a poet present with Æthelstan at this crucial juncture in 927 sent a strong message about the type of king he aspired to be: not just militarily dominant, but intellectually superior, too. This idea of a king who cherished learning is supported by the earliest surviving manuscript portrait of any English monarch (shown left), preserved today at the front of a manuscript in Corpus Christi College, Cambridge. Here Æthelstan is shown wearing a distinctive crown, book in hand, head bowed in front of St Cuthbert.

Obsessed with theft

Æthelstan now commanded more territory than any early medieval king before him.But, with his realm stretching from the English Channel in the south to the northern limits of Northumbria – and the Viking threat far from extinguished – how did he go about maintaining control? And what policies did Æthelstan enact?

Thanks to surviving coins, diplomas (grants of land to favoured subjects) and a large corpus of laws that survives in the king’s name, these are questions that we can answer in some detail. Careful scrutiny of Æthelstan’s laws, for example, reveals a king who was deeply concerned by the issue of theft, a crime that he and his advisers return to again and again.

We also know that Æthelstan’s legal system depended to a striking degree on the written word: on laws being sent to different parts of the kingdom to be implemented by royal officials. The king clearly sought to set up a single administrative system that worked across the entire kingdom. One of his law-codes hints at this aspiration when it calls for there to be only one coinage in use. Those coins that survive from Æthelstan’s reign are never entirely homogeneous in design, but they do all carry the king’s name.

Where Æthelstan’s laws and coinage travelled, the king himself would sometimes follow. Royal diplomas – issued in the period 928–35 by an anonymous royal scribe known as ‘Æthelstan A’ – reveal that Æthelstan moved regularly around the kingdom himself, making grants of land. Most of these assemblies were convened in the heartlands of Wessex, but the diplomas tell us that they also travelled further north – convening, for example, in Nottingham in early June 934.

The royal diplomas conventionally contain lists of the important ecclesiastical and lay officials who attended the assemblies – and these make for interesting reading. Not only do they contain English names of people from Wessex and Mercia, but also Old Norse names (presumably from the north and east of Æthelstan’s realm), and those of British kings hailing from the Welsh and Scottish kingdoms. It seems, then, that these assemblies (known by the contemporary Old English word witan, literally ‘wise men’) drew powerful figures from across the British Isles, reflecting just how widely Æthelstan had managed to extend his authority.

• Read more | The battle of Brunanburh: the forgotten fight that changed British history

Æthelstan’s status is even reflected in the sheer complexity of the language used on his royal diplomas (all written in Latin, with a deft use of rhythm and alliteration, and with a clause in Old English, too) and repeated proclamations of the king’s undoubted power. In one diploma, ‘Æthelstan A’ tells his audience that the king has been “elevated by the right hand of the Almighty to the throne of the whole kingdom of Britain”.

Amazingly, two 10th-century ‘Æthelstan A’ originals survive today in the British Library in London. Large, highly professional in their script and layout – with long columns of witnesses at their conclusion – they were evidently designed to make it clear that this was a king who wielded new levels of power. Those coming from the far limits of Æthelstan’s kingdom could not fail to have been impressed by what they saw and heard.

Power couples

But what about those beyond the far limits of Æthelstan’s kingdom, in continental Europe? Here, too, it seems that Æthelstan was able to exert a degree of influence – courtesy of a series of strategic marriage alliances involving his half-sisters. Eadgifu married Charles the Simple, king of the West Franks; Eadhild wed Hugh the Great, Duke of the Franks; Eadgyth was matched with Otto the Great, king of the East Franks and later emperor; Ælfgifu (or Eadgifu) married into the Burgundian royal line.

While his half-sisters were dispatched to Europe, scholars increasingly moved in the opposite direction to exchange the latest prose and verse texts at an English court that was becoming a hub of bookish activity. We think it is in Æthelstan’s court that some of the earliest English interactions with the Indian game of chess can be evidenced – yet more proof of 10th-century England’s growing cultural pulling power.

A hostile coalition

The tentacles of Æthelstan’s power now stretched far and wide. But such power could provoke intense resentment. And so it proved in 937 when a coalition of hostile forces – led by Óláf Guthfrithson, Viking king of Dublin; Constantine II, ruler of the Scottish kingdom of ‘Alba’; and Owain, king of ‘Strathclyde/Cumbria’ – clashed with English armies at a place called Brunanburh.

Modern discussion of Brunanburh has focused on the enduring mystery of its location. But it’s important not to lose sight of the significance of the battle itself: nothing less than Æthelstan’s newly forged ‘England’ was at stake that day.

It was certainly a large and bloody clash. A famous poem, written in the immediate aftermath to commemorate Æthelstan’s deeds, tells us that: “Never yet in this island before this by what books tell us and our ancient sages, was a greater slaughter of a host made by the edge of the sword.”

Like its location, precise details of how the battle unfolded have been lost to history. But what is certain is that the English prevailed. As the Brunanburh poet tells us: “Edward’s sons [Æthelstan and his brother Edmund] clove the shield-wall, hewed the linden-wood shields with hammered swords, for it was natural to men of their lineage to defend their land, their treasure and their homes, in frequent battle against every foe. Their enemies perished; the people of the Scots and the pirates fell doomed.”

So important was the outcome of Brunanburh that, unusually, sources from outside the English kingdom – from Wales, Scotland and Ireland – all register its result. Æthelstan had confronted the greatest threat to the authority of his reign and he’d faced it down.

Yet his triumph was to be short-lived. Two years later, the king lay dead. And within a few short months of his burial in Malmesbury Abbey, the kingdom he had forged over the past decade began to fall apart. Vikings came to power once more. Óláf Guthfrithson, who had failed to unseat Æthelstan at Brunanburh, finally realised his ambition of seizing control in York.

The political fragmentation that followed Æthelstan’s death has left some modern historians to question just how successful he had been in creating ‘England’ in the first place. We should certainly not think of his kingdom as any kind of homogeneous whole. What ‘England’ meant to the people of Winchester would have been very different to someone living in St Germans (Cornwall), or to a resident of Durham (Northumbria). But, at a time when English territories had for generations been riven by divisions, the very fact that Æthelstan was able to bring all of these areas together for the first time, and to be formally recognised as their king, shows how precociously successful he had been.

It’s for these achievements that 927, the date of England’s formation, should be as well known as those other landmarks of the medieval era: 1066 (the Norman Conquest), 1215 (the issuing of Magna Carta), 1348 (the arrival of the Black Death) and 1455 (the outbreak of the Wars of the Roses).

Æthelstan had presided over a transformative moment in English history. In his 15 or so extraordinary years on the throne, a new nation had been born. 

David Woodman is professor of history at Robinson College, Cambridge. His new biography of Æthelstan, The First King of England: Æthelstan and the Birth of a Kingdom, is published by Princeton University Press

This article was first published in the September 2025 issue of BBC History Magazine

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 11^th-century embroidery, which provides the earliest visual representation of the 1066 story, quite clearly shows a moustachioed Harold and a clean-shaven William.

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.

• 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 The Story of the Bayeux Tapestry, by myself and Professor Michael Lewis.

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