In this special episode of What if the Gunpowder Plot Succeeded? Not Just The Tudors… Lates, Professor Suzannah Lipscomb invites fellow Early Modern historians – Jessie Childs, Gareth Russell, and Professor Anna Whitelock – to ponder an alternate history. Together, they unravel one of Britain’s most dramatic “what ifs,” asking how the successful execution of the Gunpowder Plot would have irrevocably transformed the nation’s future.

Sign up to watch

The immediate aftermath

The conspirators’ immediate goal was pure destruction: to kill King James I, his heir, and the entire Protestant ruling class during the state opening of parliament. But in the programme, the panel argues the plotters were incredibly naive about the chaos that would follow.

• Power vacuum: As Jessie Childs points out, the blast would have killed not only the King, Queen, and Prince Henry, but every bishop, judge, lawyer, and high-ranking civil servant – effectively decapitating the entire Protestant establishment. With the records of government also destroyed at Westminster, even the basics of governance would have been impossible. Who would have been left to organise a legitimate resistance?
• The kidnapping plot: The conspirators planned to kidnap the King’s nine-year-old daughter, Princess Elizabeth, and install her as a puppet queen, marrying her off to a suitable Catholic to “restore the ancient faith.” But would foreign powers have supported this new, violently unstable regime?
• Widespread condemnation: Far from uniting Catholics, Professor Whitelock argues that while the plotters sought to establish a Catholic state, their methods and the scale of the terror would have provoked widespread condemnation, possibly leading to an immediate, massive anti-Catholic backlash and even murder of Catholics in the streets.

Gareth Russell suggests the impact would have been absolute anarchy and chaos for months, as no legitimate Protestant or secular leader would have remained to organise a resistance.

Some of the members of the Gunpowder Plot, featured in a 17th century engraving by Crispijn van de Passe

Image Credit: Wikimedia Commons / Public Domain

War and division

A successful plot would have instantly fractured the United Kingdom and plunged James’s former three kingdoms into war.

• A divided Britain: All panelists agree the Union of Crowns, which James I had skillfully forged, would have been instantly lost. Scotland would have been incandescent with fury over the regicide of its king and royal family, and would likely declared its own separate, Protestant monarch, leading to an inevitable war with an English Catholic regime.
• Ireland’s fate: The repercussions would have been different in Ireland, where the Catholic elite might have remained intact. If so, would this have potentially led to a completely different, independent Irish history?
• No easy alliances: The new regime in England would have faced immense problems securing a foreign alliance. Gareth Russell notes that while Catholic powers like Spain would have wanted peace, they would have been wary of marrying their heirs into such a risky, unstable regime that had just wiped out its own royal family.

• 

  Prof Suzannah Lipscomb (left), with the panel (from left to right), historians Professor Anna Whitelock, Gareth Russell, and Jessie Childs.

  Image Credit: History Hit

The unintended consequences

As Suzannah notes to the panel, “I was going to ask you what were the unintended consequences of this, but it feels like every consequence was unintended!” The discussion highlights how the assassination would have rippled across every facet of British culture and society, often with destructive, unintended effects:

• Cultural collapse: The plot would have effectively caused the pre-emptive euthanising of the Jacobean cultural flowering. The great writers of the era, including Shakespeare (who was the King’s man), would have lost their patronage and context. The production of the influential King James Bible would have ended.
• The martyr king: Jessie Childs notes that rather than being viewed as a tyrant, King James would have been immediately seen as a Protestant martyr, further hardening religious lines and potentially making any future reconciliation impossible.
• The seeds of revolution: Professor Whitelock suggests that the Gunpowder Plot, had it succeeded, would have been the first major instance where a story about a political “Popish plot” was confirmed, accelerating the process by which anti-Catholic anxiety became politically explosive, shifting the entire trajectory of the Stuart period. As the panel ponders, this chaos might have brought about a revolution, perhaps more aligned with the French Revolution of the 18th century, potentially eliminating the monarchy altogether.

Grievance is not a policy

The ultimate takeaway from this chilling historical conjecture is the sheer naivety of the plotters. As Gareth Russell succinctly puts it: “A grievance is not a policy.” The conspirators had no clear plan for what came after the destruction. Their act of devastating terror would have been followed by a “great silence” of governance and a massive, bloody struggle to fill the power vacuum.

Join Professor Suzannah Lipscomb and her expert panel as they explore the chilling alternative future where Guy Fawkes succeeded and the map of Britain was irrevocably redrawn in What if the Gunpowder Plot Succeeded? Not Just The Tudors… Lates.

Sign up to watch

In a new documentary, Witchmen: Witch Trials in the Land of Fire & Ice, historian Dr Kate Lister is on a mission to find out why. Her investigation takes her across the breathtaking landscape of the Westfjords in northwest Iceland, through dramatic jagged coastlines, high mountains, and roaring waterfalls, delving into a culture where a belief in magic still prevails today.

Kate uncovers the truth around some of the most unique and remote witch trials of the 17th century, revealing a story that is less about magic and more about human nature, conspiracy, and local power games.

Sign up to watch

Iceland’s male witches

The gender of those persecuted for witchcraft varied across Europe: while women were the typical targets in Mediterranean and Germanic countries, based on the ancient idea that women possessed innate magical abilities, the role of the witch or magician was stereotypically male in several northern and eastern regions, including Iceland, Normandy, Finland, Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania, the Austrian countries, and Russia.

As Kate explores, the supernatural has been part of Icelandic culture ever since the first Viking settlers arrived in the late 9th century. They brought with them the old Norse gods and folklore – Loki, Odin, and Thor – and a strong tradition of Rune and Stave magic. This ancient heritage was closely linked to men. Because Icelanders believed that men were much more capable of magic than women, the focus of the witch hunts shifted almost entirely to them.

For centuries, magic was an important everyday tool used to feel they had some control over a hostile landscape; many people would cast runes, spells and good luck charms. These ancient beliefs were practiced widely on the island for centuries alongside Christianity and never seemed to cause a problem. But when the witch craze spread from Europe, these ancient magical traditions suddenly looked like sorcery. 

Example of a rune

Image Credit: History Hit

The conspiracy and the confessions

In 17th century Iceland, a witch came to be defined as ‘somebody who used supernatural powers to cause others harm’. The trials began in earnest with the burning of the first alleged witch in 1625, accused of summoning a zombie to attack his neighbour’s horse. But it was the arrival of European zeal that truly amplified the terror.

Kate speaks with world-renowned witch expert Professor Ronald Hutton, who explains that the witch craze escalated across Europe during the turbulent years of the Reformation (1560–1640), becoming “the ultimate conspiracy theory.” In Iceland, this fervour was imported directly by local sheriffs and well-educated priests who had studied the witch hunts in countries like Denmark and Germany.

The local geography played a role: the most severe cases occurred in the remote Westfjords, where a few powerful, educated individuals had the influence to press accusations. Kate details the story of an early major case where a strange sickness affecting two young women was attributed to three men thought to be witches. Despite the likely cause being simple illness (or even bad corn), the three men were burned alive in 1654.

The documentary provides a fascinating look into the sources of this unique form of magic. Kate visits the Museum of Icelandic Sorcery and Witchcraft in Hólmavík, where she speaks to curator, Anna Pórarinsdóttir and is shown a replica of the infamous ‘necropants’ – trousers made from human skin and used in a grotesque ritual to magically acquire money. She also sees examples of Staves, ritual symbols often used in conjunction with Runes – the magical writing that was considered essential to kickstart any spell.

Kate Lister filming at the Museum of Icelandic Sorcery and Witchcraft in Hólmavík, where she speaks to curator, Anna Pórarinsdóttir and is shown a replica of the infamous ‘necropants’.

Image Credit: History Hit

Anna also shows Kate a replica of a 17th century turf house in the remote area of Klúka – an area famed for its mountain ranges, beautiful hiking trails and epic waterfalls. Such houses would have been adorned with Staves even for simple tasks, such as to help keep knives sharp while cutting grass, highlighting the commonality of such symbols in Icelandic history. 

Iceland is often seen as a magical place even today due to its association with the aurora borealis – the northern lights. The northern lights appear throughout Icelandic folklore and were often mythologised, as souls, waiting to pass to the other side, or even hidden people like the elves. In Norse mythology, the lights were a bridge that took fallen warriors to the world of the gods.

Replica of a 17th century Icelandic turf house

Image Credit: History Hit

The witch-hunter’s agenda

The rise of the witch hunts in Iceland was often driven by religious zealots with a clear agenda.

Kate examines the story of Paul Biörnson, a wealthy, well-connected priest in the village of Selárdalur. When his wife, Helga, fell ill, Biörnson embarked on a quest to “expel the devil” from the area, recognising that a reputation as a witch hunter would certainly grow his loyal congregation. Helga’s repeated accusations led to the death of seven people – one-third of all confirmed burnings in Iceland.

Crucially, Kate and curator Anna Pórarinsdóttir explore the one fact that protected Icelandic women: they could not own property or land. As Anna suggests, because the motive for many accusations across Europe was to seize the possessions of the accused, the women’s subordinate financial status ironically shielded them from prosecution.

The consequences for those accused were horrific. Alleged Icelandic witches were burned to death – a rare punishment in Europe, where the condemned were usually strangled or beheaded first. Professor Hutton explains that burning was reserved for those deemed “utterly evil,” as it was believed to remove the body, which was “impregnated with bad magic,” preventing the evil from poisoning the soil.

Dr Kate Lister at the Burning Ravine, Þingvellir National Park, Iceland

Image Credit: History Hit

The legacy of magic

Kate travels to Þingvellir National Park, the site of Iceland’s first parliament and a location where several accused witches were burned in the “Burning Ravine.” She explores the process of prosecution and even writes down a defensive Stave, demonstrating how these beliefs persist today.

The programme reveals one of the worst curses imaginable: the Fart Rune, a magical affliction with symptoms similar to dysentery, a real killer in the 17th century. The fact that people confessed to using this – even knowing they faced death by fire – underscores how real magic was to them.

Kate’s investigation suggests the witch trials were less about the supernatural and more about human nature and the terrifying ease with which hate and suspicion allowed neighbour to turn on neighbour. In a world still consumed by conspiracy theories and mass condemnation, how far have we truly progressed from the anxieties of the 17th century?

Join Dr Kate Lister as she uncovers the ultimate true crime conspiracy in Witchmen: Witch Trials in the Land of Fire & Ice.

Sign up to watch

This confrontation with the inevitable was captured in a unique artistic tradition: Memento Mori, Latin for “Keep death in your thoughts.” These were not objects of grief, but stark, often beautiful, reminders of life’s impermanence.

In The Ashmolean Up Close: Memento Mori – the fourth film in History Hit’s partnership with the University of Oxford’s Ashmolean Museum – Professor Suzannah Lipscomb goes behind the scenes to investigate this morbid side to life in early modern Europe. Guided by Matthew Winterbottom, Assistant Keeper of Decorative Arts and Sculpture, Suzannah explores the surprising significance of these items, uncovering what they reveal about faith, wealth, and the honest acceptance of death.

Sign up to watch

The morbid motif: luxury and humility

Given that death was ubiquitous in early modern life, why did people need constant reminders of it? Matthew Winterbottom explains that Memento Mori were a continuous call to spiritual readiness, but they were also objects of conspicuous display.

These were not modest artefacts. Made of expensive silver, gold, diamonds, and ivory by the finest craftsmen, they were designed to be worn as jewellery. As Suzannah notes, this creates a strange contradiction: people were proclaiming their humility and commitment to a good Christian life by literally showing off their immense wealth. The skull or the decaying body became a highly fashionable motif, used ubiquitously across the arts.

The documentary examines one of the Ashmolean’s earliest objects: a large carved ivory bead from the early 16th century, thought to have hung at the end of a rosary used in a monastery or cathedral. Carved into a double-sided head, one side depicts a skull, and the other shows a horrifying process of decay, covered in writhing worms, toads, and snakes. This brutal imagery, Matthew explains, was a direct link to the medieval world’s understanding of “dust to dust,” an age before refrigeration and when people frequently saw dead bodies and charnel houses where bones were stacked.

For the believer, this was an honest reminder of their fate before the eventual resurrection on Judgment Day – a shared belief among Protestants and Catholics in 16th and 17th century Europe that death was not final, and one day the dead would rise to face God’s judgement.

Double-sided ivory skull bead, one side showing a recently deceased head, the other showing a head in the process of putrefying.

Image Credit: History Hit / Ashmolean Museum

Time ticking away

The concept of Memento Mori was inextricably linked to the idea of fleeting time. Suzannah and Matthew explore three small silver skull watches from the mid-17th century. Opening the jaw of the skull reveals the ticking clock beneath. This remarkable object is a perfect metaphor: life is constantly ticking away, and death is not far behind.

The watches, possibly made in England or France, were a highly conspicuous way of carrying this philosophy. They often bore powerful Latin inscriptions, urging the wearer to live life to the fullest while simultaneously preparing for a “good death” to ensure passage to heaven.

From self-reflection to commemoration

Some Memento Mori objects were crafted not only for self-reflection but also to send a clear message to others. In the documentary, Suzannah and Matthew explore some rings, including one highly ornate piece of enamelled gold and diamonds featuring a skull and crossbones. This extravagant display of wealth – an object a modern mind might consider “spooky” – was, in the 17th century, a serious statement. The wearer wasn’t just reminding himself of mortality; he was showcasing his commitment to Christian duty, demonstrating that his wealth also translated into support for charities and the less fortunate.

Ring featuring enamelled gold and diamond skull and crossbones

Image Credit: History Hit / Ashmolean Museum

The meaning of these objects began to shift in the early 18th century. Suzannah and Matthew examine a mourning ring commemorating Queen Anne, the last of the Stuart monarchs. The ring features a tiny, coffin-shaped vessel with a skull and crossbones. Inside the coffin is Queen Anne’s cypher and, chillingly, woven strands of her hair. This practice, where quantities of hair were cut from the deceased and turned into mementos for distribution across the court, was the beginning of the mourning jewellery trend that would become widespread in the Georgian and Victorian eras. 

These eras also saw mourning practices became standardised and spread across social classes, notably shifting the traditional colour for mourning from the cheaper white to black, which had previously been reserved for the wealthy elite.

The unsanitised truth

The Ashmolean’s collection also holds unique, ephemeral objects designed for public ritual, such as a rare early 18th century funerary shield, shown to Suzannah by Anne van Camp, assistant keeper of northern European art. Anne explains that for her, “it’s the ultimate Memento Mori’.

This wooden print, adorned with a skull, cross, and crossbones, was never meant to survive. Bearing traces of candle wax, it was likely carried in a funeral procession, and would have looked spectacular and eerie ritual in a darkened church – giving us a glimpse into the world of ornamentation and ritual around funerals we otherwise would have lost.

Early 18th century funerary shield

Image Credit: History Hit / Ashmolean Museum

Perhaps the most curious object is an ivory figure carved inside a tortoiseshell lantern. When the object is turned, the figure of a beautiful naked woman instantly transforms into a shrouded skeleton. This was a tactile, immediate message: life is fleeting, and beauty is transient. Matthew further explains how life would have been quite brutal, especially for poorer people, back then, and so for some, death might have been seen as a form of sweet release, on to a better afterlife.

The most profound takeaway from the documentary, however, is the contrast between the past and the present. When Suzannah asks Matthew if the early modern approach to mortality was healthier than our modern taboo around death, he offers a powerful answer. He suggests the honesty of the Memento Mori tradition – the willingness to confront the ugly, messy process of rotting – was a far healthier way of living. Death was ubiquitous; they couldn’t avoid it, so they embraced it.

This collection of Memento Mori – symbols of mourning, faith, hope, and contemplation – invites us to reflect on our own transience and recognise that the minds of those who lived centuries ago, though profoundly different, were grappling with the same ultimate reality as our own.

Join Professor Suzannah Lipscomb and Matthew Winterbottom as they delve into the beautiful, morbid art of the past in The Ashmolean Up Close: Memento Mori.

Sign up to watch

In a new episode of Not Just The Tudors… Lates: Henry VIII on Film, Professor Suzannah Lipscomb hosts a discussion that dissects how Henry VIII has been reimagined on screen, exploring what these portrayals get right, what they get wrong, and why he remains such a compelling, complicated character. Suzannah is joined by an expert panel featuring Tudor specialist Jessie Childs, historian Dr Joanne Paul, and historian and screenwriter Alex Von Tunzelmann. Together, they trace the evolution of Henry’s cinematic image – from jolly rogue to calculated monster.

Sign up to watch

The King’s shifting image

The panel examines how different eras have moulded the King to suit their own fascinations:

The lovable rogue: The discussion begins with Charles Laughton’s Oscar-winning performance in ‘The Private Life of Henry VIII’ (1933). This landmark film broke box office records, and set the initial mould for how the 20th century would view the King, creating the persistent caricature of the gluttonous King gorging on feasts.  The film’s satirical element is also powerful; as Dr Joanne Paul states, “there is something inherently ridiculous about Henry VIII and there is something powerful about laughing at him.”

However, the film also reveals a surprisingly vulnerable Henry – a man desperately searching for love – a narrative that reframes the entire Tudor story focusing on the King’s own disappointments rather than solely on Anne Boleyn which tended to become popular later in the 20th century. 

Promotional still from the 1933 film ‘The Private Life of Henry VIII’ featuring Charles Laughton as King Henry VIII, and Elsa Lanchester as Anne of Cleves, on their wedding night.

Image Credit: Public Domain

The sinister seducer: Cinematic portrayals took a darker turn by the 1960’s with Richard Burton’s far more sinister Henry VIII in ‘Anne of the Thousand Days’ (1969). Made when film codes were loosening, this film is shocking in its sexual politics, presenting a menacing Henry who slaps Anne Boleyn. The panel argues over whether this dark portrayal is historically accurate or simply reflects the harsher edge of 1960s filmmaking. Whilst Alex dislikes the film, Joanne, however, appreciates that the film shifts the narrative, portraying Anne as resisting Henry’s advances, giving her a power beyond simple sexual manipulation.

The Renaissance heartthrob: The modern era offered a complete reboot with Jonathan Rhys Meyers in ‘The Tudors’ (2007-2010). Once dubbed “soft porn disguised as history” by film critic Mark Lawson, this depiction of a youthful, impossibly handsome Henry captured a crucial, often-missed element: the King’s early charisma and fire. The panel discusses how Rhys Meyers successfully embodied the beguiling and magnetic young Henry described in historical sources.

Portrait of Henry VIII (1491-1547) by
Hans Holbein the Younger in 1540

Image Credit: Galleria Nazionale d'Arte Antica / Public Domain

Behind the persona: vicious or vulnerable?

The discussion moves beyond looks to dissect the political calculations of the King’s rule.

The calculated monster: The panel contrasts modern portrayals that focus on Henry’s immense power. In ‘Wolf Hall’ (2015), Jessie describes Henry as the “master… the monster” who subtly whispers his murderous desires to Thomas Cromwell. However, Joanne finds the performance “lacklustre,” arguing that it fails to capture the “fire in his eyes” and the physically terrifying presence Henry was known for in his time. This contrasts with Jude Law’s terrifying and grotesque late-life King in Firebrand (2023), where you can palpably feel the menace of a powerful man consumed by his own physical decay.

The enduring enigma

The experts agree that every portrayal – from Laughton’s funny rogue to Law’s terrifying tyrant – is a work of fiction that must choose one angle to convey. Joanne notes the fascinating paradox that two different films, Anne of the Thousand Days and Firebrand, essentially portray the same grotesque, controlling Henry, yet the viewer’s modern interpretation of that control shifts dramatically – is it repulsive, or is it interpreted as power?

The enduring power of Henry VIII lies in these contradictions: he was a brilliant scholar, a charismatic athlete, and an unforgiving tyrant.

So, which version of Henry VIII is the most historically convincing, and which one is the panel’s favourite? Join Professor Suzannah Lipscomb and her expert panel as they dissect the King’s cinematic afterlife and reveal the historical truth behind the actors in Not Just The Tudors… Lates: Henry VIII on Film.

Sign up to watch

In the third film in History Hit’s partnership with the University of Oxford’s Ashmolean Museum, Professor Suzannah Lipscomb investigates the shifting and often terrifying image of the witch in art in The Ashmolean Up Close: Witches in Picture. Guided by curator An Van Camp, she traces how these figures were depicted in prints and drawings from the 15th to the 17th centuries – a potent reflection of an era gripped by anxiety. The programme reveals a world where superstition, religion, and art collided in a desperate attempt to explain the unexplainable.

Sign up to watch

From mystery to menace

The programme begins with a deep dive into the ambiguous world of 15th-century art. An Van Camp, the museum’s Curator of Northern European Art, shows Suzannah a print by the German master Albrecht Dürer from 1497, now known as ‘The Four Witches’ . While some might interpret it as a scene of temptation or a brothel, a closer look reveals unsettling details – skulls, bones, and bizarre creatures – hinting at something far more sinister.

Pondering whether the picture is in part a comment on women’s sexuality, the artwork is a fascinating puzzle, reflecting an age when the line between human vice and dark magic was dangerously blurred.

Next, Suzannah examines a more overtly “witchy” drawing: ‘A Witches’ Kitchen’ by Jacques de Gheyn the Younger, a popular artist of the time. This unsettling image, created in the early 1600s, is a stark contrast to Dürer’s work. It depicts a grotesque scene of figures that fit the stereotype of witches, a cauldron, and a disemboweled man, yet it’s also filled with scientific details that echo the era’s emerging study of anatomy.

The drawing reveals a world where art, medicine, and the supernatural were intertwined, capturing the widespread fear of witchcraft in an age of accusations and witch trials, as well as religious persecution.

‘A Witches’ Kitchen’ by Jacques de Gheyn the Younger

Image Credit: Ashmolean Museum, Oxford University

The witch as a symbol

By the 18th century, the witch trials were beginning to fade into history, and a new, more satirical tone began to emerge in art. Suzannah and An study ‘Witches’ Sabbath’ by Claude Gillot. Created more than a century after the Dürer print, this etching is fantastical and almost comical. It depicts a chaotic scene of a witches’ sabbath, but it does so in a way that suggests it’s a social and political critique. The artwork reveals that by this time, the witch had moved from being a terrifying threat to a symbol for artists to satirise their contemporary world.

As Suzannah notes, every time we talk about witches in this period, we’re also talking about something else: female sexuality, the study of science, political satire, and religious persecution. The art shows that the witch was a figure onto which people projected their deepest societal anxieties. This is a powerful reminder that these images were not just reflections of people’s fear of magic, but also their unease with changes in society, religion, and politics.

The witch bottle

The Ashmolean Museum’s collection offers more than just artistic portrayals of witches. Suzannah is given a chance to examine one of the most curious objects in the museum: a witch’s bottle. These stoneware jugs were sealed with a cork and often buried beneath the thresholds or in the walls of houses as a form of protection against harmful magic.

Professor Suzannah Lipscomb (left) is shown a witch’s bottle by Ashmolean Museum curator An Van Camp (right).

Image Credit: History Hit / Ashmolean Museum

Inside the bottles, people would place items believed to repel or absorb the witch’s power, such as sharp iron nails, bent pins, and sometimes even the urine or hair of a person believed to be bewitched. This tangible artefact reveals a world where fears of witchcraft weren’t abstract – they were a constant and terrifying reality that people actively sought to fight against.

The Ashmolean’s collection provides a unique and compelling insight into early modern fears. It demonstrates how deeply ideas of witchcraft ran through the daily lives of people, from the highest artist to the most common person seeking to protect their home. Through these enduring objects, we can begin to understand the complex anxieties and beliefs of a culture grappling with the unseen forces of the world.

Join Professor Suzannah Lipscomb and An Van Camp as they uncover the hidden fears and fantasies of the early modern world in The Ashmolean Up Close: Witches in Picture.

Sign up to watch

They were the Guise, and in an era of intrigue and bloodshed, they were Europe’s most murderous dynasty.

In the final episode of the Not Just the Tudors mini-series on Tudor True Crime, Professor Suzannah Lipscomb talks to historian Professor Stuart Carroll, author of Martyrs and Murderers: The Guise Family and the Making of Europe. Together, they investigate this cultivated, yet utterly ruthless family. They reveal how the Guise, in their pursuit of power, orchestrated assassinations, incited massacres and civil war, and nearly brought down a monarchy.

Subscribe to Not Just The Tudors

The intersection of religion and power

While our modern view of the 16th century in France often focuses on the Wars of Religion, Professor Carroll argues that the bloodshed was driven as much by politics as by piety. For the Guise, their rise to power was rooted in a long-standing feud against a rival noble house, the House of Habsburg. They were a fiercely French family, and their success in fighting Spanish hegemony was rewarded with a powerful marriage alliance: their niece, Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots, married the young French king, Francis II.

The Guise now had unprecedented influence, but it came with a price. Their power alienated other noble houses, particularly the Protestant-leaning Bourbons. This opposition boiled over in the Amboise Conspiracy – a plot to overthrow and murder the Guise family. The Guise’s brutal response cemented their reputation for ruthlessness. However, it also forced them to a difficult conclusion: a policy of outright suppression of Protestantism was untenable.

At the same time, this powerful dynasty had their sights on a greater prize. Through Mary Stuart, they laid claim to the English throne, a threat that made Elizabeth I a firm supporter of Protestant insurgency in France, aiming to keep the Guise “firmly out of her neck of the woods.”

Francis II, King of France, and his wife, Mary Stuart, Queen of France and Scotland. Miniature taken by Catherine de’ Medici’s Book of Hours, c1574.

A cycle of vengeance

As the Guise’s enemies grew bolder, a cycle of violence began. As Professor Carroll explains, French Protestants, drawing on classical ideas about tyranny, began to use political assassination as a tool. Their violence caused a violent response from the majority Catholic population, with the Guise often at the centre of the bloodshed.

This volatile situation came to a head on 1 March 1562, in the Massacre of Vassy. Francis, the 2nd Duke de Guise, discovered a group of Huguenot (French Protestant) worshippers meeting inside a city wall, in violation of a recent law. What happened next lit the fuse of the French Wars of Religion. The duke’s men massacred the worshippers, a brutal act of violence that ignited a civil war that would last for over 30 years.

Massacre de Vassy in 1562, print by Hogenberg end of 16th century.

Image Credit: Hogenberg / Public Domain

The violence of this period became increasingly personal and brutal. When François, Duke of Guise, was himself assassinated a year later, the Guise family vowed vengeance. Their personal vendetta became the engine of the conflict, as they actively opposed any peace treaties that might have ended the fighting – revealing a society where violence was not just a last resort, but a weapon of political power.

The St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre: a modern atrocity

The Guise family’s name is most often associated with one of the most infamous acts of violence in European history: the Saint Bartholomew’s Day Massacre in August 1572. While some historical accounts place the full blame on the Guise, the podcast reveals a more complex story. The massacre began as an aristocratic plot by the king’s mother, Catherine de’ Medici, to eliminate the top Protestant leadership. However, when the city militia joined in, the violence spiralled out of control, leading to the murder of an estimated 4,000 Protestants in Paris alone.

Professor Carroll describes the popular violence as something that “looks forward to the violence of the 20th century,” with brutal acts of mutilation and depravity committed by ideologically driven killers. For the Guise, this was a moment of retribution, a settling of scores that fed their insatiable quest for power.

A lust for power and a fatal end

The Guise family’s radical actions peaked in 1588 with the Catholic League, a political wing that sought to reconstitute the monarchy and prevent a Protestant succession. Their actions amounted to a revolution, forcing the King of France to flee Paris. But the king, seeing the threat to his power, took a page from the Guise’s own playbook.

Fearing their immense power, King Henry (Henri) III lured the Guise brothers into the royal chambers in December 1588, where they were murdered by his guards.

Yet the Guise’s story is more than a tale of bloodshed, In a world where mistrust and fear reigned, and the state was often unable to dispense justice, violence was seen as a legitimate – and sometimes necessary – tool. As Professor Carroll notes, the Guise were a product of their time, a family that hardened its position as the civil wars dragged on, becoming ever more willing to resort to violence in the pursuit of power.

Join Professor Suzannah Lipscomb and Professor Stuart Carroll as they delve into the dark heart of Europe’s most murderous dynasty in Not Just the Tudors.

Subscribe to Not Just The Tudors

In this special episode of the Tudor True Crime mini-series on History Hit’s podcast, Not Just the Tudors, Professor Suzannah Lipscomb steps into the shadows to uncover the truth. Joined by Professor Alastair Bellany, an expert on the Jacobean court, she investigates not just who killed Overbury, but why this singular act of murder exposed a web of intrigue and corruption that compromised the Stuart throne.

Subscribe to Not Just The Tudors

A fatal friendship

Thomas Overbury was an ambitious lawyer, poet, and man on the make. His rise to power wasn’t a result of high birth, but from his friendship with a young Scottish courtier named Robert Carr, who he met in the early 1600s. By 1607, Carr had become the most favoured man in King James I’s court, and through Carr, Overbury suddenly had access to unimaginable power and influence, becoming the silent hand behind the throne.

But in 1611, this powerful friendship soured when Carr began a passionate affair with the married Frances Howard, the Countess of Essex. Overbury, fearing this new alliance would jeopardise his own political standing, voiced his opposition. By doing so, he insulted the Countess, alienated his best friend, and, in a series of unwise moves, earned the displeasure of the king.

King James I, weary of Overbury’s influence and arrogance, offered him an ambassadorship – a seemingly generous offer that was, in reality, a gilded cage designed to remove him from court. When Overbury refused, the king was outraged, and in April 1613, he ordered his former favourite’s imprisonment in the Tower of London. Overbury assumed his stay would be brief, that his friend Carr would secure his release. But Carr and Frances had other plans – they were plotting to remove the “Overbury problem” permanently.

Left: Portrait of Robert Carr, Earl of Somerset. Right: Frances Howard, Countess of Somerset

Death, conspiracy, and a cover-up

On 14 September 1613, Thomas Overbury died in the Tower of London, just months after his imprisonment. Initially, his death was seen as unremarkable, a tragic but unlamented end for a man with many enemies. Rumours spread that he had died of disease, and his body was buried and forgotten. A year later, Robert Carr, now elevated to the Earl of Somerset, married the newly divorced Frances Howard in a lavish ceremony. The couple, with their powerful Howard family allies, seemed to have won.

But their victory was short-lived. A new favourite had caught the king’s eye – George Villiers. As the political tides began to turn against Carr, a stunning revelation emerged: the Lieutenant of the Tower confessed he’d been told of a plot to murder Overbury. Suddenly, a forgotten death became the centrepiece of a sensational murder investigation.

As Professor Alastair Bellany explains, the king’s judges soon uncovered a plot of stunning proportions, finding that Frances Howard had arranged for an array of poisoned sweets and other goods to be smuggled into the Tower. The less powerful conspirators were tried and executed, but the main protagonists – Frances Howard and Robert Carr – were mysteriously pardoned by the king after they were convicted. (Frances Howard had admitted a part in Overbury’s murder, but her husband had not.) This verdict infuriated many, raising suspicions of a deeper cover-up.

The Stuart monarchy on trial

In the podcast, Alastair describes how the scandal surrounding the Overbury affair became a media sensation, with an underground system of handwritten letters and libellous poems circulating gossip and raising damning questions about the king himself. 

The scandal became a battle of competing narratives. As Alastair explains, the official line from the king was one of royal justice, portraying James I as a righteous monarch who bravely unearthed a heinous plot and punished the guilty. However, the underground media painted a different picture, portraying the aristocrats involved in the scandal as depraved and corrupt.

The scandal’s deepest secret was the implicit question it asked: how could such a corrupt individual as Carr rise to immense power? The answer, many whispered, was a scandalous relationship with the king himself.

Left: King James I. Right: George Villiers – one of the king’s ‘favourites’ along with Robert Carr.

Image Credit: Left: Portrait by John de Critz (1551–1642); Right: Portrait by Peter Paul Rubens (1577–1640). Both: Public Domain

The Overbury affair eroded the image of James as a wise, moral monarch. The decision to spare the aristocratic murderers compromised the king’s carefully constructed narrative, leaving the public to wonder if he was a righteous arbiter of justice or a compromised accomplice.

The Overbury Affair also exposed deep political contradictions within the court and was the first major case in which a “Popish plot” to undermine the Stuart dynasty was centred inside the royal court. A widespread conspiracy theory, dubbed ‘The Powder Poison’, circulated, claiming Overbury’s death was part of a larger Catholic plot to poison the entire royal family. 

This rumour, however over-the-top, was believed by many because of the Catholic connections of Frances Howard’s family. The ease with which such a plot could be imagined inside the king’s own court was politically explosive, and set a dangerous precedent for the decades to come, as anxiety about Catholic infiltration of the court continued to grow, a political dynamic that would later contribute to the English Civil War.

Join Professor Suzannah Lipscomb and Professor Alastair Bellany as they unravel one of Tudor history’s most sensational true crime cases. Listen to the latest episode of Not Just the Tudors.

Subscribe to Not Just The Tudors

Was it a tragic accident? A desperate suicide? Or something far more sinister?

In this special episode of the Tudor True Crime mini-series on History Hit’s podcast, Not Just the Tudors, Professor Suzannah Lipscomb steps into the shadows to investigate one of the most enduring mysteries of the Elizabethan age. She is joined by historian Dr Joanne Paul to sift through the evidence and the gossip, exploring why Amy’s death was a scandal that could have brought down a queen.

Subscribe to Not Just The Tudors

A marriage under scrutiny

Amy Dudley (née Robsart) had the unfortunate distinction of being the main obstacle to the most scandalous potential romance in Tudor England. Married to Robert Dudley since they were teenagers, the couple’s relationship had been a complex one. While some sources suggest it was a genuine love match, the marriage came with significant political and economic advantages.

However, as Joanne explains, with the arrival of Elizabeth I on the throne in 1558, everything changed. Robert Dudley became Elizabeth’s Master of the Horse, a position of unparalleled closeness, and the two were inseparable. Rumours began to fly across Europe that the queen was courting him, and that he might even become her king. But there was one problem: his wife.

Amy and Robert had spent a significant amount of time apart since the beginning of Elizabeth’s reign. After more than a decade of marriage, they also remained childless, a significant pressure in an era where producing a family heir was paramount. There was also one fragment of a rumour that she may have had breast cancer. Amy had even been seen by her servants as deeply unhappy, praying nightly to be “delivered from her troubles.” This adds a haunting layer of tragedy to the events that would follow.

The day of her death

The circumstances of Amy’s death are as strange as they are suspicious. On that fateful day, Amy rose early and insisted that all of her servants leave the house to attend a nearby fair. Despite their protests, she became angry and demanded that they all go, leaving her completely alone. When the servants returned, they found her dead.

A coroner’s inquest was immediately called, and while it concluded her death was an accident, the details of the report raise more questions than they answer. Joanne reveals how the report, only rediscovered in 2008, notes not just the broken neck, but also two head wounds, one of which was an astonishing two inches deep.

Why were these head injuries downplayed by the coroner, John Pudsey, as the potential cause of death? Could these injuries have been sustained from a fall? Or did something else happen before she went down the stairs? 

Adding to the mystery is the account of Robert Dudley’s servant, Thomas Blunt, who was sent to investigate the death. His letters to Dudley reveal a town alive with gossip, and a nervous maid, Mrs Picto, who, in a slip of the tongue, denied the possibility of murder or suicide, then immediately tried to take back her words, saying “If you so should gather I’m sorry I said so much”.

The Death of Amy Robsart, as imagined by Victorian artist William Frederick Yeames, 1877

Tragic accident, suicide or murder?

The podcast delves into the possibilities of a tragic accident, suicide or murder, and the powerful motives behind a potential cover-up.

Suicide in the 16th century was considered a mortal sin, a betrayal of God’s gift of life that would lead to the posthumous conviction and excommunication of the deceased. It was a shame so profound that it would disgrace an entire family. This gives a great incentive for the coroner’s jury to rule Amy’s death an accident, even if they suspected otherwise.

But what about murder? Joanne explains that while Amy’s death didn’t immediately lead to a marriage with the Queen, it did end up benefiting one of the most powerful men in England: William Cecil. Before news of Amy’s death had even reached London, Cecil was already spreading rumours that she would be killed. The Spanish ambassador himself seemed convinced of a conspiracy.

Cecil, a man with a political, calculating mind, feared the prospect of Elizabeth marrying Dudley – a man whose family had been executed for treason. Cecil stood to gain a great deal from Dudley’s downfall, and he famously swooped in after Amy’s death to “comfort” him, a move that would lead to a much closer relationship between the two.

As Joanne explains to Suzannah, when studying the Tudors, it helps to “follow the power”, later pointing out how “it all seems to work out for Cecil in a way that if he didn’t plan it, it looks like he did”.

Left: Robert Dudley, c. 1560; Right: Portrait of William Cecil, c. after 1570

Image Credit: Left: Attributed to Steven van der Meulen; Right: National Trust / Croft Castle. Both: Wikimedia Commons / Public Domain

So was it a strategic move by Cecil to disgrace Robert, preventing a potential marriage to the Queen, or something more? The evidence seems to point to a murder conspiracy, a possibility that was widely discussed in the courts of Europe at the time.

But how far can we go with the evidence towards a conclusion – and extrapolating from that evidence, where does Joanne herself, as a historian, end up if she had to make a judgement?

The death of Amy Dudley cuts to the very heart of power in the Tudor court. It reflects on Elizabeth’s choices, her relationship with those closest to her, and the dangers of a world where one person’s life could stand in the way of a powerful monarch’s desires. The mystery of what happened that day at Cumnor Place has never been solved, but the clues, the rumours, and the political machinations all paint a compelling and haunting picture.

Join Professor Suzannah Lipscomb and Dr Joanne Paul as they unravel one of the Tudor period’s greatest mysteries in Not Just the Tudors’ Tudor True Crime: Murder of Amy Dudley.

Subscribe to Not Just The Tudors

This is the official account, based on a coroner’s inquest and passed down for centuries – but what if it’s not the whole story? What if the “tavern brawl” was no accident but a planned assassination? Who truly stabbed the titan of the Elizabethan stage, and who, in the dark, conspiratorial world of Tudor England, might have carefully orchestrated his death?

In History Hit’s podcast, Not Just the Tudors, Professor Suzannah Lipscomb steps out of the sunlight and into the shadows to investigate the most notorious true crimes of the period in a Tudor True Crime mini-series. In this episode, she is joined by literary historian and author, Charles Nicholl, whose groundbreaking book, The Reckoning: The Murder of Christopher Marlowe, challenged the long-held assumptions about that fatal day. Together, they re-examine the original coroner’s inquest, a document that, for centuries, kept the true nature of Marlowe’s death a secret, and dig deeper into a mystery that, more than 400 years later, remains a subject of intense speculation and historical detective work.

Subscribe to Not Just The Tudors

Christopher Marlowe, a writer whose genius rivalled that of Shakespeare, was just 29 years old when his life was cut short. His death, often dismissed as the tragic consequence of a drunken squabble, has long been a source of fascination. It was a scandal whispered about in the streets and immortalised in the work of his contemporary, Shakespeare, who six years later would write in As You Like It of a “great reckoning in a little room.” This phrase, an unmistakable nod to Marlowe’s demise, highlights the widespread suspicion that the official story was a cover-up for something more sinister.

The coroner’s inquest

To uncover the truth, Suzannah and Charles revisit the crucial document that provided the official narrative: the coroner’s inquest. From this account, we learn that four men met at a house belonging to a woman named Eleanor Bull on Deptford Strand. The men were Marlowe and three of his associates: Ingram Frizer, Nicholas Skeres, and Robert Poley. They spent a long day together, talking, eating, and walking in the garden before returning to the private room.

According to the inquest, a dispute over the “reckoning” – the bill for food and drink – escalated violently. Marlowe, lying on a bed while the other three sat with their backs to him, allegedly snatched Frizer’s dagger and struck him twice on the head with the hilt. In the struggle that followed, Frizer supposedly twisted the weapon back and delivered the fatal thrust.

But as Charles Nicholl points out to Suzannah, a closer look at this account immediately raises red flags. “We can dispense straight away from the inquest…that it wasn’t really a tavern brawl,” he explains. The location wasn’t a public house, but a private residence. And with only four men in the room, it’s hardly what one would call a brawl. More damning still, the inquest’s narrative is based on the testimony of the three men who walked out alive.

Christopher Marlowe’s memorial in the Churchyard at St Nicholas, Deptford. The epithaph is from the epilogue to Marlowe’s play ‘Doctor Faustus’.

Image Credit: Flickr: Maggie Jones / Public Domain

The suspects

So, who were these three men? As Charles bluntly puts it, they were “a trio of absolute scoundrels.” And their connections to one another and to Marlowe reveal a web of intrigue far more complex than a simple dispute over a bill.

First, there was Ingram Frizer, the man who struck the fatal blow. He was a crooked businessman, but more importantly, he was a servant of Thomas Walsingham, one of Marlowe’s powerful patrons. Marlowe had been staying at Walsingham’s house just 10 days before his death.

Then there was Nicholas Skeres, a low-level operator involved in the world of intelligence and “dirty tricks.” He was also connected to the powerful Earl of Essex, a favourite of Queen Elizabeth I.

Finally, there was Robert Poley, a spy of significant stature. By 1593, Poley was a senior agent working for Sir Robert Cecil, the son of the spymaster Lord Burghley. A man of “dangerous charm,” Poley was a central figure in the Elizabethan espionage machine.

These were not random drinking companions. They were a carefully chosen group of men with deep ties to the very heart of the Tudor secret service, assembled to meet with a man who, for all his literary brilliance, was also a low-level government spy.

Sir Robert Cecil, 1st Earl of Salisbury, the son of the spymaster Lord Burghley. Robert Poley was working for Sir Cecil at the time of Marlowe’s death.

Image Credit: National Portrait Gallery / Public Domain

Political links and espionage

For centuries, the coroner’s inquest remained the sole surviving official document, its details a closely guarded secret. It wasn’t until 1925 that archivist Leslie Hotson discovered uncatalogued legal proceedings connecting Marlowe’s murder to the shadowy world of politics and espionage. Before this revelation, the truth was shrouded in rumour and misinterpretation, with historical mix-ups even leading to the wrong killer’s name being recorded in church registers for decades.

The real questions, as Suzannah and Charles explore, lie in the motive. Why would three men of such influence, who had spent a full day in Marlowe’s company, suddenly fall into a violent argument?

Charles Nicholl argues that the entire meeting was a ruse – a long, eight-hour “reckoning” that had nothing to do with a bill. The men were there to talk to Marlowe about his “blasphemies” and political leanings. Marlowe was a man of contradictions: a religious subversive, a brilliant dramatist, and a spy for the Crown. Charles suggests that the authorities were worried.

Marlowe’s radical views, often reflected in his plays, were a liability, and his intelligence work gave him dangerous knowledge. The long day in Deptford was likely an attempt to get Marlowe to turn on one of his patrons, Sir Walter Raleigh, in exchange for his own freedom.

Settling scores

Ultimately, the fatal “dispute” was not a spontaneous outburst but a culmination of a life lived on the dangerous borders of acceptable behaviour. Marlowe, the creator of fictions on the stage, was also a creator of fictions in his espionage operations. This double life, as Charles explains, made him both a valuable asset and a ticking time bomb. The “reckoning” in that little room in Deptford was less about a bill for food and drink and more about settling a score for good.

The question of who murdered Christopher Marlowe and why remains, but by re-examining the evidence, uncovering the identities of the men in that room, and peeling back the layers of Tudor espionage, Professor Suzannah Lipscomb and Charles Nicholl offer a compelling and suspenseful account that will challenge everything you thought you knew about one of England’s greatest writers.

Join them as they pull back the curtain on this extraordinary true crime.

Listen to the latest episode of Not Just the Tudors and discover the truth behind the murder of Christopher Marlowe.

Subscribe to Not Just The Tudors

A groundbreaking discovery is helping to shed light on that infamous event: shifting sands have revealed the broken remains of HMS Northumberland, once the pride of the fleet. This lost 17th century warship is a near-pristine time capsule, but is now exposed to the elements and rapidly deteriorating. Archaeologists are racing against time to salvage its secrets before they vanish forever.

Join Dan Snow in Shipwreck: HMS Northumberland as he investigates the ship’s construction, its pivotal role in the Royal Navy’s pursuit of the “perfect warship”, and the dramatic circumstances surrounding its ultimate loss. This is the compelling story of a natural disaster that shocked a nation and devastated the burgeoning Royal Navy.

Sign up to watch

The rise of a naval power

The 17th century was a pivotal period for England’s naval ambitions. Once a marginal player, the nation was determined to challenge the maritime dominance of the Dutch and Spanish. This ambition fuelled a massive shipbuilding spree, investing heavily in a navy designed for power and global reach. Among these new vessels was HMS Northumberland, originally launched in 1679. A state-of-the-art, 70-gun warship, she represented a technological marvel – the pride of the Royal Navy.

However, the sea can be unpredictable and unforgiving, and even the strongest ships faced severe weather, navigational hazards, enemy action, and human error. HMS Northumberland’s story encapsulates the immense risks inherent in naval power projection during this era.

A night of catastrophe

On the fateful night of 26 November 1703, HMS Northumberland and other victorious Royal Navy warships were returning to British waters after the Battle of Vigo Bay, the first engagement in the Spanish Wars of Succession. Laden with the spoils of war, HMS Northumberland sailed up the English Channel, intending to pick up a specialist pilot to navigate the treacherous Thames Estuary.

With the weather rapidly deteriorating, the squadron anchored off the East Coast of Kent. As night fell, a building gale escalated into a fearsome storm. Despite desperate efforts, ships were battered, torn from their moorings, smashed against the treacherous Goodwin Sands, and swallowed by the waves. In just one terrible night, 14 ships were lost, a significant portion of the Royal Navy’s losses over an entire decade of war. For centuries, these wrecks lay hidden, until recent shifting currents began to reveal their secrets.

Forged in Chatham

Dan traces the story of HMS Northumberland back to its origins: Chatham Dockyard in Kent, the birthplace of the modern Royal Navy. Here, he meets maritime historian Nick Ball, who explains the monumental undertaking of building these warships – the most complex single objects constructed globally at that time. 

Nick also highlights the fierce arms race between England and the Dutch for trade dominance. England’s government recognised that national prosperity hinged on naval strength, prompting massive investment. This drive was further fuelled by a desire to redeem itself from one of the most humiliating defeats in its history: the Dutch Raid up the River Medway.

Dan Snow and Curator Simon Stephens from the National Maritime Museum inspect a 300 year old model of a similar class of ship to HMS Northumberland

Image Credit: National Maritime Museum / History Hit

A glimpse into the Stuart navy

Originally built in 1679, HMS Northumberland underwent a major refit, relaunching in 1702. The attack in the Battle of Vigo Bay was her first action since the refit. 

With no contemporary plans of HMS Northumberland surviving, Dan gains unique access to a 300-year-old model at the National Maritime Museum. He speaks with Curator Simon Stephens, who reveals how this remarkably detailed model provides an unprecedented representation of this class of ship.

Today, Britain boasts two iconic historic naval vessels – Henry VIII’s ‘Mary Rose‘ (1510) and Nelson’s ‘Victory‘ (1765) – but a crucial 250-year gap exists between them. HMS Northumberland, built halfway between these giants, acts as the missing link, offering a rare chance to complete our understanding of the Royal Navy’s evolution and the formidable Stuart navy.

Diving the wreck

What traces of the real HMS Northumberland remain after three centuries on the seabed? Dan receives a special invitation to join maritime archaeologist Dan Pascoe and his team as they dive the wreck on the Goodwin Sands. An oxygen-free environment has preserved the vessel and its contents for centuries, but shifting currents now pose an urgent threat. Exposed areas are rapidly degrading, prompting a race against time. 

Ropes visible when diving the wreck of HMS Northumberland

Image Credit: History Hit

Pascoe explains the team’s critical mission: to “excavate this site so they can expose parts of the site that haven’t been uncovered that will have pristine surfaces, and those surfaces will provide the details that will tell us so much more about the ship and the people that lived and worked on board”.

HMS Northumberland was a ship forged in an age of expanding empires, shaped by war and innovation, only to be brought down not by battle, but by the relentless power of the sea. Its discovery offers an unparalleled opportunity to unlock the secrets of the Stuart navy and the lives of those who sailed her.

Don’t miss Shipwreck: HMS Northumberland and witness the start of this extraordinary archaeological race against time to uncover the lost history of a ship that is the missing link in the story of the Royal Navy. What will its timbers reveal?

Sign up to watch