By June 1775, it had become clear that the colonial militias surrounding Boston could not defeat the British Army without becoming a more organised fighting force. The Continental Congress therefore created the Continental Army and appointed George Washington, a respected veteran of the French and Indian War, as its commander-in-chief. Washington travelled north from Philadelphia to take command, while the British forces in Boston prepared to break out of the city and seize the high ground overlooking the surrounding area.
An illustration of Washington being appointed Commander of the Continental Army
British General Thomas Gage planned to capture the Charlestown peninsula, particularly Bunker Hill, which would give his army an important strategic position overlooking Boston. However, colonial spies discovered the plan. On the night of June 16th, around 1,200 American troops under Colonel William Prescott secretly occupied the peninsula and constructed fortifications on Breed’s Hill, which was actually closer to Boston than Bunker Hill itself.
When the British launched their assault on June 17th, they were faced with a heavily fortified American position. British commanders initially believed that the inexperienced colonial troops would collapse when confronted by disciplined regulars. Their first two assaults were repulsed with devastating casualties. American defenders were famously instructed not to fire until they could “see the whites of their eyes”, conserving their limited ammunition until the British were within close range.
A painting of the continental army setting up their positions on Breed’s Hill
The British eventually launched a third assault after bringing up additional troops and artillery. By this point, however, the Americans had almost completely exhausted their ammunition. The British stormed the fortifications and forced the defenders to retreat across the Charlestown peninsula. The battle was therefore a British victory, but it came at an extraordinary cost. Around 1,000 British soldiers were killed or wounded, compared with roughly 450 American casualties. The British had captured the position, but the battle demonstrated that colonial forces could stand against some of the most experienced soldiers in the world and inflict enormous losses upon them.
The Battle of Bunker Hill also exposed a growing problem for both sides: neither knew exactly what the conflict was going to become. Many colonists still did not want independence from Britain. Their grievances had originally centred on taxation, representation and the increasing authority of Parliament, and some hoped that the dispute could still be settled while maintaining the colonies’ place within the British Empire.
A painting of Parliament from the period
The Continental Congress therefore sent the Olive Branch Petition to King George III in July 1775. It declared the colonists’ loyalty to the Crown while asking the King to help resolve their grievances and restore peace. George III refused to recognise the petition, instead declaring that the colonies were in rebellion. To many Americans, this appeared to confirm that reconciliation with Britain was no longer possible.
The conflict subsequently became increasingly destructive. British forces and loyalist troops attacked colonial settlements, while American forces targeted British and loyalist property. In October 1775, the British burned Falmouth in Massachusetts, and in January 1776 they destroyed much of Norfolk, Virginia. American propagandists used the destruction of these towns to portray Britain as deliberately waging war against its own subjects.
A painting of the Royal Navy with Falmouth (now Portland) burning in the background
The rebellion was also beginning to attract international attention. Britain’s traditional enemies, particularly France and Spain, saw an opportunity to weaken the British Empire. Although neither initially entered the war openly, both provided the American rebels with weapons, ammunition, money and other supplies. France in particular would eventually become one of the most important American allies.
The failure of the Olive Branch Petition marked an important turning point. The conflict was no longer simply a dispute over taxation and political representation. Britain regarded the colonists as rebels, while an increasing number of Americans were beginning to question whether reconciliation was possible at all. Within months, the demand for reform would become a demand for independence.
The first shots of the American War of Independence were fired at Lexington on April 19th, 1775. British General Thomas Gage, the military governor of Massachusetts, had received intelligence that colonial militia were storing weapons and ammunition in the town of Concord. He therefore dispatched around 700 British regulars from Boston under Lieutenant Colonel Francis Smith, with orders to march to Concord, seize the military supplies and arrest the colonial leaders Samuel Adams and John Hancock, who were believed to be nearby.
A portrait of General Thomas Gage
The Americans had been warned that the British were coming. Paul Revere and William Dawes rode through the countryside during the night, alerting local militia companies and warning that British troops were advancing. By the time the British reached Lexington at dawn, around 70 colonial militiamen had gathered on the village green under Captain John Parker. They were vastly outnumbered and Parker ordered his men not to fire unless the British did so first. The two sides faced one another in the darkness and confusion before a shot rang out. Nobody knows for certain who fired it. The British then opened fire, killing eight Americans and wounding several more before continuing towards Concord.
The British reached Concord and began searching for the colonial weapons, but much of the military equipment had already been moved or hidden by the local militia. Meanwhile, hundreds of armed colonists were gathering in the surrounding countryside. At the North Bridge outside Concord, colonial militia confronted a detachment of British soldiers guarding the crossing. This time, the Americans advanced, and fighting broke out. The British were forced to withdraw back towards Concord, having failed to destroy most of the supplies they had been sent to seize.
An illustration of the British retreat to Concord
The British column now faced a much more dangerous journey. What had begun as a disciplined military expedition was turning into a retreat through hostile territory. Thousands of colonial militiamen had mobilised across the countryside, many of them experienced hunters and veterans of earlier conflicts despite having little formal military training. They used the landscape to their advantage, firing from behind walls, trees and buildings before withdrawing and attacking again further along the road. The British regulars, exhausted after hours of marching and fighting, were increasingly surrounded.
The situation became critical when British reinforcements under General Hugh Percy arrived from Boston. The fresh troops prevented the retreat from becoming a complete disaster and used artillery and disciplined formations to drive the militia away from the road. Even so, the British suffered heavy casualties as they fought their way back towards Boston. By the time they reached the city, more than 250 British soldiers had been killed, wounded or captured, compared with roughly 90 American casualties.
A map of the British retreat
Militarily, the British had survived the expedition and returned to Boston, but strategically they had failed almost every objective they had been given. They had not captured Adams or Hancock, had failed to destroy the majority of the colonial weapons and had suffered significant casualties against a force they had expected to disperse easily. Worse still, thousands of colonial militia now surrounded Boston, trapping the British army inside the city.
What had begun as an attempt to enforce British authority in Massachusetts had therefore produced the opposite result. The fighting at Lexington and Concord transformed years of political tension into open warfare. Within weeks, thousands of Americans would gather around Boston, and the conflict that had begun with a single unexplained shot would develop into a full-scale war for American independence.
The origins of the American War of Independence stretched back almost three centuries before the first shots were fired. Following Christopher Columbus’ voyage across the Atlantic in 1492, European powers established colonies throughout the Americas in search of wealth, trade and land. Spain initially built the largest empire, enriched by vast quantities of gold and silver from Central and South America, while Britain and France gradually established colonies along the eastern coast of North America. By the mid-eighteenth century, Britain’s Thirteen Colonies stretched from modern-day Georgia in the south to New Hampshire in the north, home to more than two million people. Although they remained loyal subjects of the British Crown, the colonies had developed their own elected assemblies and had grown accustomed to governing many of their own affairs.
A map of the lands gained during the Seven Years War
Tensions between Britain and France over North America continued to grow as both empires expanded westwards into the Ohio River Valley. The region was claimed by both countries and was strategically important for trade with Native American nations. In 1754, the governor of Virginia dispatched a young militia officer named George Washington to demand that French troops withdraw from the disputed territory. The mission ended in violence when Washington’s force attacked a small French detachment at the Battle of Jumonville Glen. The skirmish escalated into the French and Indian War, the North American theatre of the wider Seven Years’ War, which soon spread across Europe, Africa, India and the Atlantic, becoming one of history’s first truly global conflicts.
Britain emerged victorious in 1763. Under the Treaty of Paris it gained Canada and much of France’s North American territory, effectively ending France’s colonial empire on the continent. Victory, however, came at an enormous financial cost. Britain’s national debt had almost doubled during the war, and ministers in London argued that the American colonies should help pay for the expense of defending them against future attacks.
An image of Parliament from the 18th Century
For decades, Parliament had largely allowed the colonies to manage their own internal affairs, a policy historians often describe as “salutary neglect.” After 1763, that approach changed dramatically. Parliament introduced a series of new taxes and trade regulations, including the Sugar Act, the Stamp Act and later the Townshend Acts, which placed duties on goods such as paper, glass, paint, lead and tea. From London’s perspective, these taxes were relatively modest and simply asked the colonies to contribute towards the costs of the empire. Many colonists, however, viewed the issue very differently.
The controversy was not simply about money. Unlike people living in Britain, the American colonies had no elected representatives sitting in Parliament at Westminster. Colonists argued that only their own elected assemblies had the constitutional right to tax them. The slogan “No taxation without representation” quickly became the rallying cry of colonial resistance. British politicians rejected the argument, insisting that Members of Parliament represented the interests of the entire empire through a principle known as virtual representation, whether people had elected them or not. The disagreement was rapidly becoming a constitutional crisis rather than simply a dispute over taxation.
A political cartoon depicting the announcement of the controversial “Tax on Tea”
Colonial resistance spread quickly. Merchants organised widespread boycotts of British goods, seriously damaging British trade. Faced with mounting pressure from both American protesters and British businesses, Parliament repealed many of the new taxes. One important exception remained: the tax on tea. Parliament deliberately kept this duty in place to reinforce its claim that it possessed the legal authority to tax the colonies whenever it chose.
Relations continued to deteriorate in Boston, where the presence of British troops inflamed tensions. Soldiers had first been stationed in the town in 1768 to help enforce customs laws and maintain order, but many colonists regarded them as an occupying army. On March 5th 1770, a confrontation erupted outside the Customs House after a crowd surrounded a small group of soldiers, shouting insults and throwing snowballs, ice and other objects. Reinforcements arrived, confusion spread through the ranks and, after one soldier fired his musket, the others followed. Five colonists were killed.
An illustration of the Boston Massacre
The incident quickly became known as the Boston Massacre. Although the soldiers were later defended in court by future President John Adams and most were acquitted, colonial leaders such as Samuel Adams used the event as powerful propaganda. Engravings by Paul Revere portrayed the shootings as a deliberate massacre of innocent civilians, fuelling anti-British sentiment throughout the colonies.
For a short time, tensions eased. That changed in 1773 when Parliament passed the Tea Act. Contrary to popular belief, the Act actually lowered the price of tea by allowing the financially struggling East India Company to sell directly to the colonies. However, many colonists believed accepting the cheaper tea would also mean accepting Parliament’s right to tax them. On the night of December 16th 1773, members of the Sons of Liberty disguised themselves as Mohawk warriors and boarded three East India Company ships anchored in Boston Harbour. Working carefully through the night, they threw 342 chests of tea into the harbour, destroying goods worth thousands of pounds. The protest became known as the Boston Tea Party and marked one of the most famous acts of civil disobedience in history.
A drawing of the Boston Tea party
The British government responded forcefully. Parliament passed a series of punitive measures known in Britain as the Coercive Acts and in America as the Intolerable Acts. Boston Harbour was closed until the destroyed tea had been paid for, Massachusetts lost much of its self-government, and additional British troops were sent to restore order. Rather than isolating Massachusetts, these measures convinced many colonists that their own liberties were equally under threat.
In September 1774, representatives from twelve of the thirteen colonies met in Philadelphia at the First Continental Congress. The delegates still hoped for reconciliation with King George III and Parliament, petitioning the Crown while also organising another boycott of British goods. At the same time, however, colonial militias – known as Minutemen – began stockpiling weapons and training for the possibility of armed conflict.
The prayer at the First Continental Congress
British authorities soon learned that military supplies were being gathered at Concord, Massachusetts. During the night of 18 April 1775, around 700 British regulars marched from Boston with orders to seize the weapons and arrest several colonial leaders if possible. Their movements were quickly discovered, prompting riders including Paul Revere, William Dawes and Samuel Prescott to warn the surrounding countryside that British troops were on the move. Contrary to the famous phrase, Revere did not shout “The British are coming!” – most colonists still considered themselves British – but instead warned that “the Regulars are coming.”
At dawn on 19 April, British troops encountered a small company of colonial militia on Lexington Green. Neither side intended to begin a war that morning, yet amid confusion and mounting tension, a single shot rang out. To this day, nobody knows who fired first. That mysterious gunshot – the “shot heard round the world” – marked the beginning of the American Revolutionary War, a conflict that would ultimately transform thirteen British colonies into the United States of America.
On the 2nd of September, 1666, at around 1 in the morning the Farriner Family had all gone to bed. All except the 23 year old daughter of the family, who went downstairs to grab a candle. When Thomas, the patriarch, testified to authorities later on, he claimed that nothing was out of the ordinary and that the fire in the oven of the bakery he owned. However, modern historians doubt this claim, and they suspect that a stray ember had ignited some twigs that were being stored nearby.
Thomas Jr woke up and noticed that the ground floor was on fire and quickly alerted his family but it was too late. The Farriners were trapped on the second floor by the billowing smoke, forcing them to escape via an upstairs window and onto a neighbour’s roof, raising the alarm that a fire had broken out.
A similar looking house to the architecture of Farriner Bakery on fire in the present day
Soon the fire spread upstairs, claiming the Farriner maid as the first victim of the fire, and sparks flew to other houses on the street. Due to the architecture of 17th Century London, Houses were tightly packed, which allowed for more space in homes but also fore the fire to spread more quickly. Not only that but the old Tudor style of building houses out of Wattle and Daub, essentially tightly woven stick panels glued with a mud like mixture, increased the spreadability of the fire. Despite the mud providing a fire proof cover for the wood, the poorer areas of London, where the fire started, were very decrepit, leaving the wood exposed.
One of the main documenters of the fire was Samuel Pepys, a diarist and naval administrator. His account showed that the fire did not bother that many Londoners in the slightest.
Some of our [maids] sitting up late last night to get things ready against our feast to-day, Jane called us up about three in the morning, to tell us of a great fire they saw in the City. So I rose and slipped on my [nightgown], and went to her window, and thought it to be on the backside of Marke-lane at the farthest; but, being unused to such fires as followed, I thought it far enough off; and so went to bed again and to sleep.
Samuel Pepys diary entry, September 2nd, 1666
Pepys’ experience was apparently the experience of many others too, who did not think the fire was that serious. Over the next week, they would soon be proven wrong. Mayor of London, Thomas Bludworth was, according to many historians, incompetent, and his inaction against the fire when it could’ve easily been stopped lead to the destruction of most of the city.
By morning, London descended into chaos, with every man, woman and child focusing more on themselves rather than the extinguishing of the fire. Due to a dry summer and strong winds, the fire spread rapidly, thankfully being stopped to spreading to the whole city by the River Thames. By the time the fire was extinguished, on the 6th of September, 80% of London had been damaged. Whilst, at the time, the Great Fire on London was viewed as a tragedy, it helped build the modern London we know today, and helped to introduce a proper, effective fire service but not just in London but across the country.
By the autumn of 1642, England was at war. After raising his royal standard at Nottingham in August, King Charles I set about building an army capable of defeating Parliament before the rebellion could gather momentum. Travelling through the Midlands to Derby before turning west through Staffordshire and into Shrewsbury, Charles recruited noblemen, local militias and volunteers wherever he could. By October he had assembled an army of roughly 14,000 men. Although inexperienced, it included many members of the English aristocracy who remained fiercely loyal to the Crown.
A painting of Charles’ standard at Nottingham Castle
Among the King’s commanders was his twenty-two-year-old nephew, Prince Rupert of the Rhine. A veteran of the Thirty Years’ War, Rupert possessed far more battlefield experience than most English officers. Bold, aggressive and supremely confident, he quickly became commander of the Royalist cavalry. His reputation was enhanced almost immediately after the war began when, at the Battle of Powick Bridge near Worcester, his cavalry routed a Parliamentarian force under Colonel John Brown. Although only a small engagement, it gave the Royalists confidence that their cavalry could dominate the battlefield.
With his army assembled at Shrewsbury, Charles believed he had a chance to end the war before it truly began. His objective was simple: march on London, defeat Parliament’s main field army, and reclaim control of his capital. If London fell, many believed Parliament’s resistance would collapse with it. Standing in his way was Robert Devereux, 3rd Earl of Essex, the commander of Parliament’s army. Essex anticipated Charles’s advance and marched north-west from London to intercept him before he could reach the capital. The two armies manoeuvred across Warwickshire, each attempting to gain the advantage without exposing themselves to unnecessary risk.
A painting of Devereux
On October 22nd, Royalist scouts under Prince Rupert discovered Parliamentarian forces camped around the village of Kineton. Additional reconnaissance confirmed that Essex’s entire army was nearby. Charles immediately abandoned any thoughts of bypassing his opponent and instead concentrated his forces atop the high ground of Edge Hill. Essex deployed his army on the plain below. Neither commander had intended to fight there, but by the morning of October 23rd, England’s first major pitched battle in nearly three centuries had become unavoidable.
The battle began with an exchange of artillery fire, though the guns proved largely ineffective. The uneven ground made accurate shooting difficult, and neither side suffered significant losses from the bombardment. As the cannon fell silent, Prince Rupert launched the attack. Leading the Royalist right wing, Rupert ordered his cavalry to charge downhill at full speed. The Parliamentarian horse struggled to withstand the impact. Within minutes they broke and fled, pursued relentlessly across the countryside by Rupert’s troopers. On the opposite flank, Royalist cavalry achieved similar success, driving Parliament’s horsemen from the field. It appeared that Charles’s army had gained a decisive advantage.
A painting of the Royalist cavalrymen breaking formation and chasing the Roundhead wagon trail
Yet Rupert’s greatest strength became his greatest mistake. Rather than reforming and returning to support the infantry, many of his cavalry continued chasing fleeing soldiers for several miles. Some attacked Parliament’s baggage train at Kineton, while others scattered in pursuit of plunder. By the time they turned back towards the battlefield, the decisive phase of the battle was already underway. In the centre, thousands of infantry collided in brutal hand-to-hand combat. Musketeers fired disciplined volleys before retreating behind ranks of pikemen, whose eighteen-foot pikes formed dense forests of sharpened steel. Once formations became entangled, the fighting dissolved into desperate close-quarters combat with swords, pikes and the butts of muskets. Casualties mounted rapidly as neither side managed to gain a clear advantage.
The absence of Rupert’s cavalry was keenly felt. Parliament’s infantry, though battered, held together under Essex’s leadership, while fresh Parliamentarian cavalry gradually returned to the battlefield. Had Rupert’s horse been available to strike the Parliamentarian infantry in the flank at the height of the fighting, many historians believe the Royalists might have won a decisive victory. Instead, both armies became exhausted after hours of combat.
An illustration of the Cavalier army at Edgehill
As darkness fell, the fighting petered out. Neither side possessed the strength to launch another assault, and the battlefield was left littered with thousands of dead and wounded. During the night, both armies remained in position, uncertain whether the battle would resume at dawn. Instead, the Royalists withdrew the following morning and continued their march towards London, while Essex claimed possession of the field. The Battle of Edgehill ended without a clear victor. Around 1,500 men had been killed, and both sides claimed success. Yet strategically, Parliament had achieved the more important objective. Charles had failed to destroy Essex’s army, meaning London remained defended. The hope of ending the Civil War with one decisive battle had vanished. Instead, Edgehill marked the beginning of a conflict that would continue for almost seven years, transforming England’s monarchy, government and society forever.
King Charles I became King of England, Scotland and Ireland in 1625 following the death of his father, James VI of Scotland and I of England. James had united the crowns of England and Scotland under the House of Stuart in 1603 after the childless Elizabeth I died, although the two kingdoms remained politically separate and continued to have their own parliaments and laws. Like his father, Charles firmly believed in the Divine Right of Kings: the idea that monarchs were appointed by God and therefore answered only to Him. In Charles’ view, questioning the authority of the King was not merely political opposition but an affront to God’s will itself. Many members of Parliament, however, believed that the King’s authority should be balanced by England’s ancient laws and customs. It was a disagreement that would shape the next two decades.
A painting of King Charles I
Unlike today, Parliament did not govern England directly. Executive power rested almost entirely with the King, who could summon or dissolve Parliament whenever he wished. However, Parliament controlled one thing the King desperately needed: taxation. Without parliamentary approval, raising large sums of money for government or war became extremely difficult. This uneasy balance between royal authority and parliamentary control had existed for centuries, but under Charles it would be tested like never before.
Almost immediately, Charles began to alienate many of his subjects. Shortly after his accession he married Henrietta Maria, the Catholic sister of King Louis XIII of France. Although intended to strengthen relations with France, the marriage caused deep anxiety in a country that had embraced Protestantism during the Reformation and still remembered the persecution of Protestants under Queen Mary I less than a century earlier. At the same time, Europe was being consumed by the Thirty Years’ War, a vast religious and political conflict centred on the Holy Roman Empire. Many English Protestants wanted Charles to intervene decisively in support of their Protestant allies, particularly his brother-in-law Frederick V, the exiled Elector Palatine. Instead, Charles launched two costly military expeditions against Spain and France that ended in humiliation, leaving both Parliament and the public questioning his judgement.
A painting of the aftermath of the plundering of Wommelgem during the Thirty Years War
Religious tensions only continued to grow. Charles increasingly relied upon William Laud, the Archbishop of London who later became Archbishop of Canterbury in 1633. Laud promoted Arminian theology within the Church of England, placing greater emphasis on ceremony, elaborate churches and the authority of bishops. Although Laud remained a Protestant, many Puritans believed these reforms resembled Roman Catholicism far too closely. Combined with the influence of Queen Henrietta Maria and several Catholic advisers at court, fears spread that Charles intended to steer England back towards Catholicism.
Financial disputes soon made matters worse. Parliament repeatedly refused to grant Charles the money he requested, believing he was wasting public funds on unsuccessful foreign wars. Rather than accept Parliament’s decision, Charles resorted to forced loans and imprisoned those who refused to pay. In response, Parliament drafted the Petition of Right in 1628. Championed by MPs such as John Pym and Sir Edward Coke, the document declared that the King could not levy taxes without Parliament’s consent, imprison subjects without lawful cause, quarter soldiers in private homes or impose martial law in peacetime. Charles reluctantly accepted the petition in order to secure funding, but relations between Crown and Parliament had already deteriorated beyond repair.
An image of two pages of the Petition of Right
The following year, after another bitter confrontation, Charles dissolved Parliament altogether. From 1629 until 1640 he governed without it in a period later known by his critics as the Personal Rule, or the Eleven Years’ Tyranny. To supporters of the King, the country appeared peaceful and stable. To his opponents, Charles was ruling as an absolute monarch. Without Parliament to approve taxation, Charles was forced to find alternative sources of income. He revived long-forgotten medieval laws, imposing fines on landowners for ancient offences and selling monopolies that granted individuals exclusive rights to manufacture or trade particular goods. Prices rose while competition declined, angering merchants and ordinary consumers alike. Most controversial of all was Ship Money, a tax that had traditionally been collected from coastal towns during wartime to fund the Royal Navy. Charles expanded the tax to inland counties and collected it even during peacetime. Although technically legal, many believed the measure violated centuries of constitutional tradition. When Buckinghamshire landowner John Hampden refused to pay in 1637, the ensuing court case became a national symbol of resistance to the King’s growing authority.
Religious controversy continued to undermine Charles’ popularity. Laud’s reforms became increasingly strict, and critics were punished harshly. Three prominent Puritan writers – William Prynne, Henry Burton and John Bastwick – published pamphlets condemning the King’s religious policies. They were convicted of seditious libel, fined heavily, imprisoned and publicly mutilated by having their ears cut off. Rather than intimidating Charles’ opponents, the punishments transformed the three men into martyrs for the Protestant cause.
An illustration of Prynne being pilloried
Charles’ greatest mistake, however, came north of the border. Hoping to create greater religious unity across his kingdoms, he attempted to impose a new English-style Book of Common Prayer upon the Presbyterian Church of Scotland in 1637. The reaction was immediate. According to tradition, a market trader named Jenny Geddes hurled a stool at the minister during the first reading of the new prayer book in Edinburgh’s St Giles’ Cathedral, triggering riots throughout the country. Scottish opposition quickly organised itself through the National Covenant, a movement dedicated to defending Scotland’s Presbyterian Church against royal interference. When Charles attempted to crush the Covenanters by force, the resulting Bishops’ Wars ended in disaster. The Scottish army defeated the King’s forces and occupied parts of northern England. Under the Treaty of Ripon in 1640, Charles was forced to pay the occupying Scottish army £850 every day until a permanent settlement could be reached.
The enormous financial burden left Charles with no choice but to recall Parliament after eleven years. The assembly that met in April 1640, later known as the Short Parliament, refused to grant the King money until their grievances had been addressed. Furious, Charles dissolved it after only three weeks. Without parliamentary funding, however, he suffered another humiliating defeat against the Scots and was forced to summon Parliament once again in November. This second assembly became known as the Long Parliament, and it immediately began dismantling much of Charles’ system of government.
An illustration of Parliament in the 17th Century
The Long Parliament passed the Triennial Act, requiring Parliament to be summoned at least once every three years, and abolished the Star Chamber, a powerful royal court widely associated with arbitrary justice. Archbishop Laud was arrested, while Thomas Wentworth, Earl of Strafford and Charles’ most trusted political adviser, was impeached for treason and eventually executed despite the King’s desperate attempts to save him. By late 1641 Parliament issued the Grand Remonstrance, a lengthy catalogue listing over two hundred grievances against Charles’ government. It passed by only a narrow margin, demonstrating just how deeply divided even Parliament itself had become.
Charles believed these actions threatened not only his authority but the monarchy itself. On January 4th 1642 he entered the House of Commons accompanied by several hundred armed men, intending to arrest five leading MPs, including John Pym, on charges of treason. Warned in advance, the five members escaped before the King arrived. When Charles asked the Speaker where they were, Speaker William Lenthall famously knelt before him and replied:
May it please Your Majesty, I have neither eyes to see nor tongue to speak in this place but as this House is pleased to direct me.
William Lenthall, Speaker of the House of Commons, repsonding to Charles’ demand
A painting of Charles (right, in shadow) and Speaker Lenthall kneeling during the attempted arrest of the Parliamentarians
The failed arrest destroyed what little trust remained between King and Parliament. Fearing unrest in London, Charles left the capital and travelled north to gather loyal supporters. Parliament, meanwhile, began raising its own army. Families, towns and entire counties found themselves divided between loyalty to the Crown and loyalty to Parliament. Few people believed they were fighting against England; both sides claimed they were fighting to save it. Yet compromise had become impossible. On August 22nd 1642, Charles raised the royal standard at Nottingham, formally declaring war. England had entered one of the bloodiest and most transformative conflicts in its history: the English Civil War.
King Henry VIII is one of the most controversial Kings in English history. From his gluttony, to his executions, to his infamous six marriages, the man is often regarded as a tyrant by many contemporary historians. One of the most famous parts of his rule was his splitting from the Catholic Church, largely in an effort to divorce his first wife, Catherine of Aragon, and remarry her Lady-in-Waiting, Anne Boleyn. Whilst an important part of his rule, it is often overlooked how contentious this was inside the courts of Whitehall.
A painting of Henry VIII (left) being pleaded to by his wife, Catherine of Aragon, against divorce
Following his accession in 1509, Henry VIII married Catherine of Aragon, the widow of his elder brother, Arthur. Because canon law generally prohibited a man from marrying his brother’s widow, the marriage had only been made possible after Pope Julius II granted a special dispensation. For many years, the marriage appeared successful. Catherine was intelligent, politically experienced and highly respected by the English people. When Henry invaded France in 1513, she even served as regent in his absence, overseeing England’s government while he campaigned abroad. During the invasion, a Scottish army loyal to the French crossed the English border. Catherine helped organise England’s response, and the Scots were decisively defeated at the Battle of Flodden, where James IV of Scotland was killed. It was one of England’s greatest military victories of the century.
Despite these successes, Henry’s greatest concern remained the succession. Catherine had become pregnant at least six times, but repeated miscarriages, stillbirths and the deaths of young children meant that only one child survived into adulthood: Princess Mary. In an age when England had never successfully been ruled by a queen in her own right, Henry feared that leaving only a daughter as his heir could plunge the kingdom into another civil war, much like the Wars of the Roses only a generation earlier. Increasingly, he came to believe that God was punishing him for marrying his brother’s widow.
An illustration of the hand-tohand combat at the height of the Battle of Flodden
Henry found support for this belief in the Book of Leviticus, which declared:
If a man marries his brother’s wife, it is an act of impurity; he has dishonoured his brother. They will be childless.
Leviticus 20:21
Although Henry was not literally childless, he argued that the verse referred to the absence of a legitimate male heir. In his view, the deaths of his sons were divine proof that Pope Julius II had exceeded his authority by permitting the marriage in the first place. Whether Henry genuinely believed this interpretation or simply used it to justify ending a marriage that had failed to produce the successor he wanted remains a matter of historical debate. By the late 1520s, however, another factor had entered the equation: Henry had fallen deeply in love with Anne Boleyn. Unlike Catherine, Anne refused to become merely the King’s mistress, insisting that she would only marry him as his lawful wife.
Henry therefore instructed his chief minister, Thomas Wolsey, to obtain an annulment from Pope Clement VII. On paper, Henry believed he had a strong legal case. In reality, the timing could hardly have been worse. In 1527, the armies of Charles V of Spain had sacked Rome. Charles was not only the most powerful ruler in Europe but also Catherine’s nephew. Although the Pope remained the head of the Catholic Church, he was effectively under Charles’s political influence and could scarcely be expected to invalidate his aunt’s marriage. For years, Clement delayed making a final decision, hoping to avoid offending either England or the Holy Roman Empire. A special papal court was eventually convened in England, presided over jointly by Wolsey and Cardinal Lorenzo Campeggio. However, Campeggio repeatedly postponed proceedings before eventually referring the case back to Rome. After years of uncertainty, the Pope refused to grant the annulment.
A painting of the Sacking of Rome (1527)
The decision transformed what had begun as a personal dispute into a constitutional revolution. Henry blamed Wolsey for his failure to secure the annulment, dismissed him from office and charged him with treason. Wolsey died of illness in 1530 before he could stand trial. Convinced that the papacy would never grant his request while Catherine’s nephew dominated European politics, Henry began searching for another solution. With the support of advisers such as Thomas Cromwell and Thomas Cranmer, he gradually rejected papal authority altogether. Through a series of Acts of Parliament, Henry declared himself Supreme Head of the Church of England. Freed from the Pope’s jurisdiction, Cranmer declared Henry’s marriage to Catherine invalid in 1533, allowing the King to marry Anne Boleyn. What had begun as the King’s search for a male heir had ultimately led to England’s break with Rome and the beginning of the English Reformation.
Whilst Henry’s break with Rome was transforming England, one man found himself increasingly unable to support the King’s new religious settlement: Thomas More. Born in London in 1478, More was one of the most accomplished scholars of the Renaissance. Trained as a lawyer, he quickly earned a reputation for his intelligence, wit and deep religious conviction. His 1516 book, Utopia, described an imaginary island governed by reason and justice, becoming one of the most influential works of political philosophy ever written and establishing More as one of Europe’s leading humanist thinkers. Despite his scholarly reputation, More was also a loyal servant of the Crown. He held a succession of important legal offices, served on the King’s council and became a trusted adviser to Henry VIII.
A portrait of Thomas More
Henry greatly admired More, valuing both his learning and his honesty. When Cardinal Wolsey fell from power, Henry appointed More as Lord Chancellor in 1529, making him the highest-ranking legal official in England and the first layman to hold the office in centuries. At first glance, the appointment seemed ideal. Both men were devout Catholics, both believed in good government and both had worked closely together for many years. Yet beneath the surface lay a profound disagreement that would ultimately destroy their friendship. More was a committed defender of the Roman Catholic Church and believed that its unity under the Pope was essential to Christianity. During the early years of the Protestant Reformation, sparked by Martin Luther in 1517, More became one of its most determined opponents. He wrote extensively against Protestant theology, defending traditional Catholic beliefs and papal authority. As Lord Chancellor, he also enforced England’s laws against heresy, overseeing the prosecution of several Protestants. Although admired for his integrity and learning, More’s willingness to persecute those he considered heretics has made him a far more controversial figure among modern historians than later generations often acknowledged.
As Henry’s dispute with Pope Clement VII deepened, More found himself trapped between two irreconcilable loyalties. He remained devoted to his King and believed that subjects owed obedience to their lawful monarch. Yet he also believed that no earthly ruler, not even the King of England, possessed the authority to replace the Pope as head of the Church. Unlike many of Henry’s ministers, More refused to reshape his beliefs to fit the King’s wishes. He did not publicly campaign against the royal reforms, nor did he encourage rebellion. Instead, he chose silence. In the increasingly tense political atmosphere of the 1530s, however, silence itself would soon become a dangerous form of opposition.
A painting of More (right) speaking with Wolsley (left) in his capacity as Speaker of the House of Commons
Recognising that he could no longer support the direction of royal policy, More resigned as Lord Chancellor in May 1532, officially citing poor health. Few contemporaries doubted the real reason for his departure. By stepping down quietly rather than openly confronting the King, More hoped to avoid becoming involved in the increasingly bitter dispute over England’s relationship with Rome. Henry initially allowed his former Chancellor to retire into private life, but More’s silence soon became a problem in itself. As one of the most respected scholars and statesmen in Europe, his refusal to publicly endorse the King’s reforms encouraged others to question their legitimacy.
Over the next two years, Parliament passed a series of laws that steadily dismantled papal authority in England. The Act in Restraint of Appeals, passed in 1533, declared that England was an independent realm whose legal matters could no longer be appealed to Rome. This allowed Archbishop Thomas Cranmer to declare Henry’s marriage to Catherine invalid and recognise his marriage to Anne Boleyn as lawful. Soon afterwards, Parliament passed the Act of Succession, requiring Henry’s subjects to swear an oath recognising Anne’s children as the legitimate heirs to the throne and accepting the validity of the King’s new marriage.
An illustration of Parliament in 1523
More appeared before commissioners at Lambeth Palace in April 1534 to take the oath. He declared that he was willing to recognise Anne’s children as the lawful heirs to the throne, but he refused to accept the parts of the oath that rejected papal authority and implied that the King’s first marriage had been invalid from the beginning. Rather than openly denouncing the government, More simply declined to swear. Under English law, this refusal was interpreted as an act of disobedience. He was arrested and imprisoned in the Tower of London, where he remained for more than a year. While More was confined, Henry pressed ahead with the final stage of his religious revolution. Later that same year, Parliament passed the Act of Supremacy, declaring Henry VIII to be the “Supreme Head on Earth of the Church of England.” For supporters of the Reformation, the Act confirmed England’s independence from foreign interference. For More, it crossed a line that his conscience would never allow him to cross. To acknowledge the King as head of the Church would be to deny the spiritual authority of the Pope, something he believed no earthly ruler had the power to do.
By the summer of 1535, the government had decided to make an example of its most famous opponent. More was brought before a commission at Westminster Hall and charged with high treason for maliciously denying the King’s supremacy over the Church. The prosecution struggled to prove its case, as More had been careful never to publicly condemn the King’s actions. Its most important witness was Richard Rich, the Solicitor General, who testified that during a private conversation in the Tower, More had explicitly denied that Parliament could make the King head of the Church. More vigorously denied ever making such a statement and accused Rich of committing perjury. Even some contemporaries questioned the reliability of Rich’s testimony, but the jury nevertheless found More guilty.
A painting of More meeting his daughter following his sentencing
On July 6th 1535, Thomas More was led to Tower Hill to be executed. Before his death, he remained calm, joking with the executioner and asking for help up the scaffold, adding that he would “shift for myself coming down.” Moments before the axe fell, he declared his enduring loyalty to both his sovereign and his faith, proclaiming that he died “the King’s good servant, but God’s first.” With More’s execution, Henry VIII had removed one of the most respected opponents of the English Reformation. To Catholics across Europe, More became a martyr who had sacrificed his life rather than betray his conscience. To Henry and his government, his death demonstrated that even the King’s oldest friends were not above the law. The struggle between Crown and Church had claimed one of its most famous victims, and England’s break with Rome was now irreversible.
By 1483, the Wars of the Roses had been raging for almost thirty years. The conflict pitted two rival branches of England’s royal House of Plantagenet against one another: the House of Lancaster, represented by the Red Rose, and the House of York, represented by the White Rose. Both claimed to be the rightful heirs of King Edward III, whose many children had left competing branches of the family with strong claims to the throne. What began as a struggle between ambitious noble families would ultimately become one of the bloodiest succession crises in English history. The first major clash came in 1455 at the First Battle of St Albans. Richard, Duke of York, believed that King Henry VI’s repeated bouts of mental illness had left the kingdom vulnerable to misgovernment by powerful favourites, particularly Edmund Beaufort, Duke of Somerset. Initially, Richard did not seek the crown for himself. Instead, he argued that he should govern England as Lord Protector until the King recovered. However, as relations between the rival factions deteriorated and compromise became increasingly impossible, Richard eventually advanced his own dynastic claim to the throne. The struggle soon escalated into open civil war.
An illustration of soldiers during the atypical street fighting of the battle
Richard was killed at the Battle of Wakefield in 1460, but his claim did not die with him. Instead, it passed to his eldest son, Edward, who proved to be one of England’s greatest military commanders. In 1461, after a string of Yorkist victories culminating in the Battle of Towton, Edward seized the throne as King Edward IV. Although his reign gradually brought stability to much of England, it was not without controversy. In 1464, Edward secretly married Elizabeth Woodville, a widow from a relatively modest gentry family whose relatives had previously supported the Lancastrian cause. Many of the kingdom’s leading nobles, including Edward’s powerful ally Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, were outraged. The Woodville family rapidly accumulated titles, wealth and influential marriages, creating bitter resentment among many of the older aristocracy.
The political turmoil reached its height in 1470 when Warwick and Edward’s own brother, George, Duke of Clarence, rebelled against the King. Edward was forced to flee England, allowing the imprisoned Henry VI to briefly reclaim the throne. The restoration lasted less than a year. Edward returned with an army in 1471, defeated Warwick at the Battle of Barnet and crushed the remaining Lancastrian resistance at the Battle of Tewkesbury, where Henry VI’s only son, Edward of Westminster, was killed. Days later, Henry himself died in the Tower of London, almost certainly murdered on Edward’s orders, although no definitive proof has ever emerged. For the next twelve years, Edward IV ruled England largely in peace. That stability was shattered on April 9th 1483 when Edward IV unexpectedly died at just 40 years old. His eldest son, the 12-year-old Edward V, immediately became King. Knowing that his heir was still a child, Edward IV had appointed his younger brother, Richard, Duke of Gloucester, to serve as Lord Protector until the young king came of age. Although Edward V was legally king from the moment of his father’s death, Richard was entrusted with governing the kingdom during his nephew’s minority.
An illustration of Edward IV (crowned, seated, right) next to his wife, Elizabeth (far-right) and Edward, Prince of Wales (shorter, right) receiving a manuscript from Richard, Duke of Gloucester (kneeling, left, in red)
Almost immediately, however, a struggle for power erupted within the Yorkist court. Elizabeth Woodville feared that Richard would dominate the government and quickly attempted to establish a Regency Council centred around herself and her relatives before Richard could assume control as Protector. The Woodvilles had become deeply unpopular among much of the nobility, who viewed them as ambitious outsiders who had gained their influence through royal favour rather than birth. Richard, meanwhile, was governing northern England from Middleham Castle in Yorkshire when news of his brother’s death reached him. Travelling south to meet the young king, he intercepted Edward V and his entourage at Stony Stratford. There he arrested several leading Woodville supporters, including the King’s maternal uncle, Anthony Woodville, Earl Rivers, and his half-brother, Richard Grey. Although initially imprisoned, both men would later be executed on Richard’s orders. Richard then escorted his nephew to the Tower of London, the traditional royal residence where English monarchs stayed while preparing for their coronation. At this stage, there was little reason for contemporaries to view the move as suspicious.
Elizabeth Woodville, fearing for the safety of her younger children, fled with them to sanctuary in Westminster Abbey. Richard soon persuaded her to allow her youngest son, Richard, Duke of York, to leave sanctuary and join his brother in the Tower, assuring her that both boys would be treated honourably before Edward’s forthcoming coronation. Then, in June 1483, everything changed. A clergyman named Robert Stillington claimed that years earlier Edward IV had secretly entered into a legally binding marriage contract with Lady Eleanor Butler before marrying Elizabeth Woodville. Under medieval canon law, if the allegation were true, Edward’s marriage to Elizabeth would have been invalid, making all of their children illegitimate. Parliament accepted this argument in an act later known as Titulus Regius. If Edward V and his siblings had no legal claim to the throne, then the crown instead passed to Edward IV’s younger brother.
A painting of the Princes in the Tower
On June 26th 1483, Richard accepted the throne as King Richard III. The coronation of Edward V was cancelled. The two young princes remained inside the Tower of London. Dominic Mancini, a minor Italian diplomat, chronicled the time of the princes extensively. He wrote that they were often secluded to their rooms before he saw them less and less before they disappeared all together. At some point during their stay, Mancini wrote, that they were moved inside the White Tower, the location of Royal prisoners rather than the typical Royal living grounds. Mancini later reported that Edward V had become deeply withdrawn. According to the physician who attended him, the young king spent much of his time in prayer and confession, “like a victim prepared for sacrifice, sought remission of his sins by daily confession and penance, because he believed that death was facing him” The Great Chronicle of London later reported that the boys “were seen shooting [arrows] and playing in the garden of the Tower” on June 16th, 1483. This was the last time the boys were ever reported alive. By July 6th, Richard III was crowned as King. One day the boys were there and the next they were not. Some time in the summer of 1483, the boys hastily vanished and were never seen again. But who? And how?
Suspect #1: Richard III
Richard III, the boys’ uncle, has long been regarded as the prime suspect. As king, Richard controlled the Tower of London, its garrison and everyone who had access to the princes. If they were murdered while confined there, it would have been extremely difficult for such an act to occur without either his knowledge or his approval. Throughout his seizure of power in 1483, Richard had already imprisoned and executed several political rivals in order to secure his place on the throne. Although the princes had been eliminated from the succession, Richard’s hold on the monarchy was very insecure due to the way in which he had attained the crown, leading to a backlash against him by the Yorkist establishment. An attempt had already been made to rescue them and restore Edward V to the throne, clear evidence that the existence of the princes would remain a threat as long as they were alive. The boys could have been used by Richard’s enemies as figureheads for rebellion. Rumours of their death were in circulation by late 1483, but Richard never attempted to prove that they were alive by having them seen in public, which strongly suggests that they were dead by then. Richard also failed to open any investigation into his nephews’ disappearance, which would have been in his interest if he was innocent. Whether he killed the boys or not is up to interpretation but he is, by far, the prime suspect in their vanishing.
A painting of Richard III
However, Richard was absent from London for much of the period during which the princes disappeared. However, as king he did not need to be physically present to order their deaths. Some have presented Sir James Tyrrell as the one to get his hands dirty. Shortly before his execution in May 1502, he reportedly confessed, under torture, to murdering the two boys at the behest of Richard III, although the confession itself has never survived. Famed playwright William Shakespeare portrayed Tyrell as the actual culprit acting on Richard’s orders in his historical tragedy, ‘Richard III,’ largely based off this alleged confession. Tyrell’s culpability is supported as historians note that he had a rapid rise to positions of power throughout Richard’s rule. Richard’s guilt in the matter, directly or not, was widely accepted by contemporaries, including Elizabeth, who would go on to support Henry Tudor in his campaign against Richard III. One possible motive for Elizabeth Woodville subsequently making her peace with Richard III, and bringing her daughters out of sanctuary, could be that Richard had to swear a solemn oath, before witnesses, to protect and provide for her surviving children, which made it much less likely they could be quietly murdered as it was believed their brothers had been.
However, much of his image was shaped post-mortem. After his slaying at the Battle of Bosworth in 1485, Henry Tudor claimed the throne and united both houses of Lancaster and York under the now infamous Tudor dynasty as King Henry VII. Henry VII oversaw an act of Parliament that accused Richard of “the unnatural, mischievous and great perjuries, treasons, homicides and murders, in shedding of infant’s blood, with many other wrongs, odious offences and abominations against God and man,” with the “shedding of infant’s blood” possibly being a reference to the disappearance of the princes. Decades later, Sir Thomas More, Lord High Chancellor under the infamous King Henry VIII, wrote a highly influential history of Richard III in which he described Richard as “physically deformed, an outward manifestation of his villainous ways.” Although More had been only a child when the princes disappeared, his account became one of the principal sources for later Tudor historians and, eventually, William Shakespeare. Shakespeare cemented this image in the public imagination, portraying Richard as a murderous, physically deformed tyrant in Richard III. Although Richard’s skeleton, discovered beneath a Leicester car park in 2012, confirmed that he suffered from scoliosis, it showed nothing like the hunchback with the withered hand described by Tudor writers.
Suspect #2: Henry VII
A painting of Richard III
Whilst Richard III is the near universal consensus amongst historians, an alternative suspect has been proposed, that being Henry VII. His claim, based on a maternal Lancastrian bloodline, a minor paternal relation and his victory at the Battle of Bosworth, was almost as contentious as Richard’s, if not more so. His most direct ancestor to Edward III was his mother, Margaret Beaufort, a great-granddaughter of John of Gaunt (Edward III’s third son). However, this line came from an affair and was originally born out of wedlock, though later made legal by Parliament with the condition that they were barred from the throne. His claim was only legitimised once he married Elizabeth of York following his defeat of Richard III on the field of battle. Not wanting the legitimacy of his wife or her claim as heir of Edward IV called into question, prior to the marriage he had repealed the Titulus Regius, which delegitimised not just the princes but also his wife. Supporters of this theory argue that the princes survived Richard III’s reign and were only murdered after Henry seized the throne in 1485, removing rival Yorkist claimants whose superior hereditary rights threatened his own rule. Had either Edward V or his younger brother Richard emerged alive after Bosworth, Henry’s own claim to the throne would have collapsed almost overnight. As the legitimate sons of Edward IV, both possessed a far stronger hereditary right than the new Tudor king. Their continued existence therefore represented a permanent political danger to his dynasty.
Some writers have suggested that Elizabeth Woodville’s sudden fall from royal favour may hint that she knew more about her sons’ fate than history has recorded. In 1487, Henry deprived her of many of her estates and she retired to Bermondsey Abbey, where she lived quietly until her death in 1492. The reasons for her withdrawal remain uncertain. Some historians have argued that Henry deliberately removed her from court because she knew of his alleged involvement in the princes’ deaths, although there is no contemporary evidence to support this claim. Others believe her retirement was voluntary or a sensible political precaution following the uprising of the pretender Lambert Simnel. Interestingly, Simnel was initially presented by some supporters as Richard, Duke of York, Elizabeth’s younger son, before his backers instead claimed he was Edward Plantagenet, Earl of Warwick, whose identity was considered more convincing. The episode demonstrated that, several years after the princes’ disappearance, rumours that at least one of them might still be alive were still circulating throughout England.
An engraving of Simnel (left)
Historians have interpreted Henry’s silence on the matter in different ways. Some argue that it reflected guilty knowledge, while others believe there was simply little political advantage in reopening a mystery that already damaged Richard III’s reputation. In addition, Henry was never accused of the murders by any contemporary, which would have been politically advantageous to his allies. Even the Richard III Society, an organisation dedicated to reassessing Richard’s reputation, acknowledges the weakness of the case against Henry, arguing that “With Henry, as with Richard, there is no real evidence and one must suspect that if he had killed the princes himself he would quickly have produced the corpses and some ingeniously appropriate story implicating Richard.” It is also unlikely that the princes would have been kept alive in secret by Richard for two years after their last sighting while rumours of his responsibility for their murder circulated. For this reason, most historians continue to regard Henry VII as a considerably less likely suspect than Richard III. The theory depends upon both princes surviving Richard’s reign without leaving any convincing trace in the historical record – something for which there is no contemporary evidence.
Suspect #3: Henry Stafford, 2nd Duke of Buckingham
Suspicion has also fallen upon Henry Stafford, 2nd Duke of Buckingham, Richard III’s closest political ally during his seizure of the throne. Unlike Henry VII, Buckingham was present in England during the princes’ disappearance and, as one of Richard’s most trusted supporters, may have had the opportunity to gain access to them. His later rebellion against Richard in October 1483 has led some historians to wonder whether relations between the two men had broken down over the princes’ fate. Buckingham also possessed a distant royal claim of his own. Through both his father and mother he descended from Edward III, giving him at least a theoretical claim to the English throne should the existing Yorkist line disappear. Alternatively, he may have been acting on behalf of a third party. His rebellion remains one of the greatest mysteries of Richard’s short reign. Historians still debate whether Buckingham rose against the king because he had been denied rewards, because he regretted helping Richard seize the throne, or because he was himself implicated in the disappearance of the princes. One of the most intriguing pieces of evidence comes from a contemporary Portuguese memorandum, which claimed that Richard entrusted the princes to Buckingham’s custody, where they were deliberately starved to death. A later English source likewise claimed that the murders were committed “by the vice [advice] of the Duke of Buckingham.”
A portrait of Buckingham
This has led some to believe that Buckingham, and possibly Tyrell, acted independently of the King, slaying the princes without waiting for Richard’s orders. One historian noted that “After the King’s departure Buckingham was in effective command in the capital, and it is known that when the two men met a month later there was an unholy row between them.” However, if he were guilty of acting without Richard’s orders, it is extremely surprising that Richard did not lay the blame for the princes’ murder on Buckingham after Buckingham was disgraced and executed, especially as Richard could potentially have cleared his own name by doing so. However, some have claimed that Richard would have kept silent had Buckingham been guilty because nobody would have believed Richard was not involved in the crime. In addition to that, it is likely he would have required Richard’s help to gain access to the princes, under close guard in the Tower of London. Buckingham is the only alternative suspect, aside from Richard III himself, to be directly implicated in a contemporary source. Even so, the surviving evidence is fragmentary, and historians remain deeply divided over whether the accusations reflect genuine knowledge or little more than court gossip.
In 1674, workmen demolishing part of the Tower discovered the skeletons of two children beneath a staircase in the White Tower. Charles II ordered the remains reburied in Westminster Abbey, where they remain today. The inscription placed upon the urn confidently identifies them as Edward V and Richard, Duke of York, and that they were “suffocated by mattresses thrown upon them, their father’s brother Richard [III], perfidious usurper of the kingdom, ordered to be buried secretly and dishonourably.” However, the inscription reflects seventeenth-century belief rather than historical proof. The remains were never tested with Yorkist descendants to see if they actually were the princes. A second pair of children’s coffins were discovered in 1789 at St George’s Chapel in Windsor in a sealed tomb. The tomb was resealed and has remained that way ever since. We may ultimately never know what happened to the Princes in the Tower, whether they were murdered by their uncle, other scheming relatives or if they possibly lived their life out peaceably in France. Until any further investigations go forth, the case may forever remain unsolved.
Over many many years, the Pope had been used as a puppet by European countries to gain leverage and power in politics. After the collapse of the Roman Empire, Charlemagne requested of the Pope to be nominated Holy Roman Emperor. This formed a circular power struggle, wherein the Pope had power over the Holy Roman Emperor but the Holy Roman Emperor had power over the Pope. This created multiple feuds spanning over centuries in Europe, especially in Northern Italy.
Northern Italian City states began becoming independent, picking an either pro-Emperor (Ghibelline) or pro-Pope (Guelph) side. Many states switched between the two. One famous conflict was between the Ghibelline Mondena and the Guelph Bologna. The two cities had been feuding for years and this conflict between the Pope and the Emperor was the final push.
The first thing that needs to be established is that Bologna had a well. A traditional well with a bucket. By this time, this system of collecting water had become antiquated, but by lord did Bologna love this bucket.
In 1249, a large battle ensued, ending in a Bolognese victory, to which they catapulted a live donkey into Modena
Yes, someone actually drew this image of a live donkey, prepped on the catapult. He looks so shocked and bemused. I don’t think he knew what was about to happen
Ever since the battle, the two cities would take groups into each other’s territory and wreak havoc on the other side. On one such trip in 1325, perpetrated by the Bolognese, the Modenese had enough
In the South West of their territory, the Bolognese had two forts guarding their area, Monteveglio and Zappolino. The Modenese lay seige upon and eventually captured Monteveglio
Around this time, a myth circulated that Bologna’s bucket had been stolen by Modena and this was the real reason for the war, whilst actually the bucket was most likely never stolen and the reason for the war was probably just their fort being taken.
Bologna split their forces. One half was to take back Monteveglio and the other half was stationed at various points along the river dividing the two territories. Modena managed to bait the Bolognese forces into going North before crossing the river at the south. Whilst the Bolognese expected them to break the siege at Monteveglio, they instead took Zappolino. Not being able to afford the loss of both of their forts, Bologna moved all their forces to defend Zappolino.
The forces encountered one another outside Zappolino and after a fight at sunset, the Modenese won, and chased the Bolognese back to Bologna. Upon arrival, they did not lay siege. Instead they set up camp and partied for the next three days, before stealing Bologna’s bucket and leaving.
A peace treaty was agreed upon, wherein Bologna would pay war reparations to Modena if Modena agreed to give back all stolen territory. Modena kept the bucket. It sits on display in Modena City Hall to this day.
On September 25th 1066, King Harold Godwinson had won one of the greatest victories in English history. At Stamford Bridge, he had destroyed the invading Norwegian army and killed both Harald Hardrada and his own brother, Tostig Godwinson. It appeared that England’s succession crisis had been settled. It had not. While Harold fought in the north, the winds over the English Channel finally changed. For weeks, William, Duke of Normandy, had been trapped by unfavourable weather, unable to launch his invasion. Now, with the sea finally calm, his fleet of several hundred ships crossed the Channel almost unopposed. On 28 September 1066, William landed at Pevensey on the Sussex coast with an army of around 7,000 men, made up of Norman, Breton and Flemish soldiers. Rather than marching immediately on London, William established a secure base, constructed a wooden castle at Hastings and began devastating the surrounding countryside. Villages were burned, crops destroyed and livestock seized. It was a deliberate strategy. William hoped to provoke Harold into attacking before the English king had time to rest his exhausted army or gather reinforcements.
An illustration of the Norman landing at Pevensy
The tactic worked. Having marched almost 190 miles north to defeat Hardrada, Harold now turned his army around and marched roughly 250 miles back to southern England in little more than two weeks. Although some advisers urged him to wait for additional troops, Harold knew every day William remained in England strengthened the Norman position. He decided to confront the invaders immediately.
On the morning of October 14th 1066, the two armies met on Senlac Hill, just north of Hastings. Harold deployed his army along the crest of the ridge in a dense shield wall, one of the strongest defensive formations in Anglo-Saxon warfare. Packed shoulder to shoulder, English housecarls and fyrd locked their shields together, presenting an almost impenetrable barrier of wood and steel. The position forced the Normans to attack uphill, giving Harold a considerable defensive advantage. William organised his army into three divisions. Breton troops held the left flank, Normans occupied the centre under William’s own command, while French and Flemish soldiers formed the right. Unlike the English, William possessed a balanced army of infantry, archers and heavily armoured cavalry, giving him greater tactical flexibility. The battle began with a volley of Norman arrows, but the steep slope meant many projectiles either struck the English shields or flew harmlessly overhead. William then ordered his infantry forward. Wave after wave climbed the hill only to be met by the disciplined English shield wall. Axes, spears and swords cut down attackers as they struggled up the incline, and the Norman assault stalled.
A map of the battle
William next committed his cavalry. Charging horses into a solid wall of overlapping shields proved no easier than the infantry attack. Again and again the Norman knights were thrown back down the hillside. By midday, it seemed Harold’s defensive position might hold. Then the battle took an unexpected turn. At some point during the fighting, part of the Norman army broke and fled. Medieval chroniclers disagree over exactly why. Some claimed a rumour spread that William himself had been killed. Others suggested sections of the Breton line simply lost their nerve after suffering heavy casualties. Whatever the cause, part of the Norman army retreated down the hill.
Believing victory was within reach, sections of the English line abandoned the safety of the shield wall and pursued the fleeing enemy. It was a costly mistake. William, who was very much alive, reportedly removed his helmet so his soldiers could recognise him before rallying his men. Turning his cavalry back towards the pursuing English, he launched a devastating counterattack. The English soldiers who had broken formation suddenly found themselves isolated from the main shield wall. Surrounded by mounted knights, many were cut down where they stood.
The Bayeux Tapestry depicting William (central) removing his helmet as to be recognised by his men
Whether this retreat had been planned from the beginning or was simply exploited by William remains one of the great debates of medieval history. Whatever the truth, the tactic worked. Throughout the afternoon, further Norman assaults gradually weakened the English line, each attack creating fresh gaps in Harold’s once-formidable defence. As daylight began to fade, the battle reached its climax.
King Harold himself was killed during the fighting. How exactly he died remains uncertain. The famous image from the Bayeux Tapestry appears to show a man, traditionally identified as Harold, struck in the eye by an arrow before being cut down by Norman knights. However, many modern historians question whether this interpretation is correct. Contemporary accounts simply agree that Harold died in the final stages of the battle while fighting amongst his household troops.
The Bayeux Tapestry depicting the death of Harold Godwinson (central)
Around him, the last of the English housecarls continued fighting long after the battle had already been lost. Many died where they stood, refusing to abandon their fallen king. By nightfall, the English army had collapsed. Harold’s death left England leaderless. Although several English nobles proclaimed Edgar Ætheling king, there was little hope of organising effective resistance. William advanced steadily towards London, accepting the surrender of towns along the way while devastating those that resisted. Eventually, England’s leading nobles recognised that further resistance was futile. On Christmas Day 1066, William was crowned King of England in Westminster Abbey.
Even his coronation reflected the uncertainty surrounding his rule. As those inside the abbey shouted their acclamations for the new king, Norman soldiers stationed outside misunderstood the noise, believing a rebellion had broken out. Panicking, they set fire to nearby buildings while searching for attackers. Smoke drifted into the abbey as the coronation continued, a fitting symbol of the uneasy beginning of Norman rule. Yet William’s victory at Hastings did not immediately secure England.
An illustration of William’s coronation
Over the following years, rebellions erupted across the country. The most serious came in the north, where English nobles, joined at times by Danish fleets, repeatedly rose against Norman authority. William responded with overwhelming force. During the winter of 1069–1070, he launched what became known as the Harrying of the North. Villages, crops and livestock were systematically destroyed across large parts of Yorkshire and surrounding counties. Medieval chroniclers described entire communities left starving as farmland was burned and food supplies deliberately eliminated. Modern historians continue to debate the scale of the devastation, but there is little doubt that it was one of the harshest campaigns ever carried out in medieval England. The suppression of these rebellions finally secured William’s hold over the kingdom. Over the next two decades he transformed England’s government, replacing much of the Anglo-Saxon nobility with Norman lords, constructing hundreds of castles to enforce royal authority and commissioning the Domesday Book, one of the most comprehensive land surveys of the medieval world.
For many Englishmen, the death of Edward the Confessor had initially raised hopes that a new king would simply restore stability after a disputed succession. Instead, the crisis of 1066 ushered in one of the most turbulent periods in the nation’s history. Three major battles were fought in the space of a single month, thousands died, England’s ruling elite was almost completely replaced, and Norman French became the language of the royal court for centuries to come. The Battle of Hastings was not merely the end of Harold Godwinson’s reign. It marked the beginning of a new England – one whose language, laws, aristocracy and culture would be permanently reshaped by the Norman Conquest.
