What followed was the most radical political experiment in British history. The House of Lords was abolished, the monarchy swept away, and the British Isles were declared a republic. Yet, within just 11 years, the monarchy was restored with exuberant celebration.

In a special panel edition of Not Just The Tudors…Lates – Why the English Revolution Failed, Professor Suzannah Lipscomb sits down with leading historians Dr Jonathan Healey, Dr Miranda Malins, and Professor Ronald Hutton to unpick the decade of the “Interregnum.” Together, they ask: was the English Republic doomed from the start, or was it a missed opportunity that changed the world?

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A republic born of a coup

The panel begins by addressing how unlike modern revolutions driven by popular uprisings, England’s republic was established via a military coup d’état.

“The execution of King Charles I wasn’t what the majority of Parliamentarians wanted,” explains Dr Miranda Malins. “There was no plan to wheel out in January 1649. The regime was a hasty fudge that spent the next decade desperately trying to retrospectively legitimise itself.”

Professor Ronald Hutton adds that the British public never quite forgave the Republic for its origins. To maintain power, the regime required a standing army, which meant heavy taxes. The people were effectively being asked to pay for a military force to prop up a government they didn’t ask for – creating a recipe for instability.

The tyranny of the “free state”

The republic was justified through providence – the idea that God had granted the New Model Army victory – and the sovereignty of the people. However, the leadership never actually trusted the people.

“The tension at the heart of the republic,” says Hutton,“is that its establishment is justified in terms of the will and sovereignty of the people but at no point do those in charge feel able to trust the people to validate their power”. This was not a modern democracy; the franchise was restricted, and the government quickly turned on its most radical supporters, such as the Levellers, who called for genuine legal equality and religious freedom.

By removing the King but leaving the social order (and the wealth of the gentry) intact, the Republic failed to provide the infrastructure for a truly new kind of politics.

Production shots from filming

Image Credit: History Hit

An imperial project: conquering the archipelago

One of the most significant – and brutal – achievements of the Republic was the forced unification of the British Isles.

“In 1649, the English unilaterally decided to kill a British monarch,” says Malins, setting off a chain reaction across Ireland and Scotland. Under Oliver Cromwell, the Republic embarked on a “metropole” project, imposing English republicanism at the point of a sword.

The campaign in Ireland was particularly devastating, resulting in the loss of an estimated 20% of the population according to Jonathan. Professor Hutton argues that the trauma of this period established a Protestant supremacy that would define Irish history until the 20th century. “In many ways, from the Irish point of view, the damage is still there,” he remarks. “The bloodshed in my lifetime can be traced directly to those events.”

The rise and fall of the Protector

By 1653, the experiment shifted. Frustrated by a stagnant Parliament, Cromwell famously cleared the house by force on 20 April, eventually becoming Lord Protector of the Commonwealth of England, Scotland, and Ireland on 16 December 1653. 

Was this a return to monarchy in all but name? Jonathan points out that for a lot of people there was an irony as because the Protectorship was unprecedented, that for them meant that the power of the Protector was potentially unlimited. 

Yet Miranda Malins suggests that while Cromwell acted like a monarch – issuing over 80 ordinances in his first few months – he was trapped. The regime reforms were “not radical enough for the radicals, it’s too monarchical, but equally it’s not legitimately monarchical and royal enough for the royalists, and so he can’t really please anybody”. 

When Cromwell died in September 1658, the lack of a clear succession plan proved fatal. His son, Richard Cromwell, was a “country gentleman” who lacked his father’s military clout. Without Oliver’s ability to balance the competing factions of the army and Parliament, the house of cards collapsed into chaos, with Charles II the beneficiary of this.

Oliver Cromwell by Samuel Cooper

Image Credit: After Samuel Cooper, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

Failure or “unfinished business”?

If the Republic lasted only 11 years, can we call it a success?

Jonathan Healey jokes that it “did alright to last as long as it did,” but the panel agrees the legacy is profound. The Interregnum prevented a “healing” that might have occurred under a more conservative settlement, allowing a diversity of Protestant opinion to flourish that could never again be suppressed.

“We’ve been, in many ways, a two-party system ever since,” Hutton observes, “where Cavalier and Roundhead turned into Whig and Tory” and down through the centuries. The dynamic of ‘stabilised disagreement’ that defines British politics today was born in this short-lived republic, he argues.

So why is this period often ignored in our national story? The panel suggests a ‘state-sponsored amnesia’ began with Charles II, who promised a general amnesty and encouraged people to forget previous conflicts, and made it illegal to threaten the King’s life or to advocate for the return of a republic. We prefer the neat narrative of kings and queens over the “back alley” of a failed commonwealth.

As Ronald Hutton concludes, the republic was not ultimately a failure because “it’s a prelude to the victory of democracy and toleration in the 1680s, and everything that is good about us follows from that …the republic is not so much a failure as unfinished business.”

Hear the full, unedited debate between these world-class historians on Not Just The Tudors…Lates: Why the English Revolution Failed on History Hit.

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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.

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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.

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  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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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?

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Cromwell’s astute leadership within the Parliamentarian forces not only secured victory but also paved the way for his governance during the Commonwealth era, with his image gracing English coins made by The Royal Mint – a testament to his stature and the imprint of his rule on the nation’s identity and currency.

Here we explore how Cromwell’s portrait became a symbol of authority and change on English coinage post-Civil War, and why these coins developed from a puritan to royalist style, reflecting the transformational era he heralded in English history.

The English Civil War

The English Civil War had erupted due to escalating tensions between King Charles I and Parliament over issues of power, taxation, and religion. Parliament’s desire for more authority clashed with the king’s absolute rule. The conflict polarised supporters into Royalists (Cavaliers) backing the king and Parliamentarians (Roundheads) supporting Parliament.

Battles ensued across England, with Oliver Cromwell emerging as a prominent figure in the Parliamentarian army. The war culminated in the king’s defeat, his execution in 1649, the establishment of the Commonwealth under Cromwell’s rule, and a period of political upheaval and experimentation.

Changes to English currency

One of the biggest changes to English currency came when there wasn’t actually have a monarch to depict on its coins.

Up until Charles I’s reign, coins had all been very regal, but following his execution, England entered into a period called the interregnum where it didn’t have a monarch.

In 1649, the coinage of the Commonwealth under the rule of Parliament reflected Parliament’s deeply Puritan beliefs, and were also very heraldic. The wording appeared in English rather than Latin and the monarch’s portraiture was abandoned, resulting in a very heraldic coin, featuring the cross of St George on both sides.

Coins from Cromwell’s reign

Image Credit: The Royal Mint

Cromwell’s depiction as a Roman emperor

After Cromwell took direct control in the 1650s, this Commonwealth and Puritan style was abandoned, and towards the end of his time as Lord Protector there was a complete reversion to the more familiar, royalist style of coinage, including coins featuring a portrait of Oliver Cromwell. The portrait depicted Cromwell almost like a Roman emperor, wearing a wreath, robes, and featured Latin inscriptions once more. This reversion to the familiar iconography of royal rule, without referencing Cromwell as king, was part of making the country feel at ease with Cromwell’s rule.

Roman emperors ruled as kings, however they actively distanced themselves from the term ‘King’ in order to avoid comparisons to the earlier monarchy of Rome. Julius Caesar even rejected the title when offered it. Rome’s republic was founded on anti-monarchical views so the avoidance of the title of ‘King’ allowed an emperor to keep up a false narrative of non- autocratic rule, despite the emperor very much holding the power.

There are many similarities between Britain’s interregnum period and Rome’s transition from a monarchy to republic to empire including the anti-monarchical stance which caused the change. Therefore, it’s incredibly fitting for Cromwell to have depicted himself as a Roman emperor. England had killed Charles I, the last king, and therefore Cromwell had to be very careful not to portray himself as a king. 

Cromwell, depicted in the style of a Roman Emperor

Image Credit: The Royal Mint

Later coins under Cromwell’s rule

Cromwell’s coins were developed further throughout his reign to include royal iconography on the reverse of them, including a crown, which perfectly exemplifies his delicate balance of not being stylised as a king but still showing the authority of a true monarch.

Coinage after the Restoration

After the eventual restoration of the monarchy in 1660 under Charles II, the wearing of a wreath in this Roman emperor style became a general stylistic trend for monarchs over the next few centuries.

The first coins of Queen Victoria also follow this style, showing her bareheaded, but in the 1840s a hugely significant moment came where Victoria was shown on coins wearing a crown. This was the first time The Royal Mint had struck British coins showing a monarch wearing a crown since the start of the reign of Charles II.

For the rest of her reign Victoria tended to be shown as wearing various different crowns. 

However, the kings that followed Victoria’s reign, starting with Edward VII, all went back to being depicted uncrowned on British coins. They wore no royal regalia, not even a wreath like the kings before Victoria had done. Instead, coins depicted just a simple portrait of them.

This practice lasted until Queen Elizabeth II, who’s portrait followed a similar trajectory to Victoria’s – wearing a laurel wreath on coins at the start of her reign, with further coins later on all with her wearing a tiara or crown. 

The majority of Charles III’s new coins do not feature a crown, however some do, making him the first king to be shown crowned on British coins since Charles II. 

However, their nefarious plans were thwarted, thanks in no small part to a mysterious and pivotal piece of correspondence known as the ‘Monteagle Letter’. 

What was written in the Monteagle Letter, and just how crucial was it in thwarting the Gunpowder Plot?

Background to the Gunpowder Plot

The Gunpowder Plot was born out of religious and political turmoil in early 17th-century England. At the time, England was predominantly a Protestant country, yet when King James I ascended to the throne after Elizabeth I’s’ death in 1603, many Catholics hoped their new king would be tolerant of their faith. However, they were left disappointed, and Catholics continued to face significant discrimination and persecution, with James issuing many tough anti-Catholic measures.

Robert Catesby, a soldier, was a well-know rebel, and along with his devout Catholic associates believed that violence was the only means of redressing their grievances and securing greater religious freedom. 

To accomplish their objective, they hatched a plot to blow up the Houses of Parliament during the State Opening, which had been rescheduled for 5 November 1605 following a plague outbreak. They managed to rent a cellar beneath the House of Lords and stockpile 36 barrels of gunpowder, with the intention of causing a massive explosion that would kill the king, his ministers, and the entire English establishment.

The plan was distributed by letter to the plotters.

The Monteagle Letter

In October 1605, a mysterious letter arrived at the home of William Parker, the 4th Baron Monteagle, in Hoxton, London, allegedly delivered to his footman as he passed in the street, directed to his Lord by an unknown party. The letter contained around 160 words, was unsigned, written in a cryptic manner with disguised writing, and without a date. It warned Parker not to attend Parliament on 5 November.

The exact contents of the letter vary in different historical accounts, but they all spoke of a ‘great blow’ Parliament would receive, and all conveyed the same message: that he should avoid the upcoming State Opening. The letter raised suspicions and concerns about the safety of the King and Parliament, and the identity of its author remains a mystery.

Monteagle was a prominent Catholic, and earlier that year had written a letter to chief plotter Robert Catesby expressing his discontent at the standing of Catholics under James I’s new rule. He had also previously been imprisoned for his involvement in the Essex Rebellion. Despite his status now partly recovering, he had remained under suspicion by many in court, so he appreciated the chance to prove his loyalty to King James.

Instead of taking the warning and burning the note as it had asked, his first instinct was to share it with his close relative, Robert Cecil, the King’s Secretary of State. Cecil was a shrewd and astute politician who was not inclined to dismiss such a warning. Together with the other members of the Privy Council (the king’s advisors), they decided to investigate further.

The investigation

The Monteagle Letter sparked an immediate response from the authorities. The Privy Council was divided on how to proceed, but Cecil convinced them to take the warning seriously, arguing that failing to investigate could have dire consequences, and that the potential threat to the King and Parliament was too great to ignore.

Intriguingly, Cecil decided to keep the investigation secret, and sent spies to watch over and search the cellar beneath the House of Lords. James I was shown the letter when he returned from a hunting trip on 1 November, and immediately realised there was a plot involving gunpowder.

Arresting the conspirators

As the plot unravelled, the authorities moved swiftly to apprehend the conspirators. On the night of 4 November 1605, Guy Fawkes, who had been tasked with guarding the gunpowder, was discovered in the cellar vaults beneath the House of Lords next to a large pile of wood. Although initially managing to persuade soldiers that he was looking after these for Lord Percy, when the guards returned around midnight, the 36 stockpiled gunpowder barrels were discovered, and Guy Fawkes was arrested. A search of his person revealed matches and kindling, further implicating him in the plot.

Guy Fawkes was tortured at the Tower of London until he revealed the details of the plot, and over the next few days, the other plotters were captured, with Catesby and 4 of his associates dying in a shootout with law enforcement at Holbeche House in Staffordshire. Four others were arrested and later executed, along with Guy Fawkes, by being hung, disembowelled and quartered, with their heads displayed on pikes.

The Gunpowder Plot was effectively foiled, thanks in large part to the Monteagle Letter’s warning and the subsequent investigation that followed.

‘The execution of Guy Fawkes’ by Claes (Nicolaes) Jansz Visscher. Given to the National Portrait Gallery, London, in 1916.

Image Credit: Public Domain

Who might have written the Monteagle Letter?

The chief suspect is Francis Tresham, the last man recruited in the Gunpowder Plot. Tresham had had reservations about the Plot, doubting whether such a loss of life was justified. His sister was also married to Lord Monteagle – another reason why Tresham may wish to have spared Monteagle.

Indeed Catesby and fellow plotter Thomas Wintour suspected Tresham had been responsible for the leak from the start, and had summoned him to meet them once they learned of the letter. Nevertheless, Tresham had convinced Catesby and Wintour that he wasn’t a traitor. Furthermore, after the plot’s failure, Tresham had spent weeks held in the Tower of London signing statements and corresponding with Robert Cecil. In this, he insisted he’d always been opposed to the plot, and had offered his assistance with the investigation. It therefore seems strange that he wouldn’t have mentioned the letter if he had indeed been its author.

Overall, 13 men were involved in the Gunpowder Plot, so any of these could have been the letter’s author. The letter may also not have been the work of any of them – many other people could have been the culprit.

Furthermore, if Monteagle had suspected something was being plotted, he may have feared he would have been implicated due to his Catholicism, previous role in the Essex Rebellion, and friendship with many of the conspirators, and thus written the letter himself to both prevent the plot and prove his allegiance to the king. This is merely conjecture however, as are theories that Cecil himself may have learned of the plot and got one of his assistants to write the letter to Monteagle as a way to test Monteagle’s loyalty, and for Cecil to ‘discover’ the plot without revealing his sources.

Left: Francis Tresham; Centre: William Parker – Lord Monteagle; Right: Robert Cecil, 1st Earl of Salisbury

Image Credit: Left: Wikimedia Commons / Ukjent / Public Domain; Centre: Wikimedia Commons / John de Critz / Berger Collection, Denver Art Museum / Public Domain; Right: Wikimedia Commons / John de Critz / National Portrait Gallery / Public Domain

The impact of the Monteagle Letter

Whoever was its author, the Monteagle Letter was the biggest tip-off in British history, providing an early warning about the impending plot and setting off a chain of events that ultimately thwarted the conspiracy. 

The ensuing surveillance of the cellar led to the discovery of the barrels of gunpowder, providing concrete evidence of the plot’s existence, and enabling the conspirators to be arrested – preventing the catastrophic explosion that could have forever altered the course of English history by claiming the lives of King James I and members of his family, his chief ministers, and the many Members of Parliament in attendance. The Gunpowder Plot’s failure reinforced the position of the Protestant Stuart monarchy in England and further marginalised Catholics, leading to more religious persecution and division.

Berkeley Castle history

Built by William FitzOsbern in 1067, Berkeley Castle was one of many motte-and-bailey castles constructed by the Normans shortly after the Conquest of 1066. Before long it passed into the hands of the Berkeley family and was rebuilt by them in the 12th century.

Throughout its long history, the castle has witnessed a number of dramatic events. It was the centre of a controversy during a period of civil war in Britain known as The Anarchy, when Roger de Berkeley was dispossessed for failing to ally himself with the House of Plantagenet and their heir Empress Matilda.

It was because of this that the castle passed to Robert Fitzharding in 1152, a wealthy burgess of Bristol and supporter of the Plantagenets who founded a new Berkeley line. His descendants still hold the castle now, making it the oldest castle in Britain to be lived in continually by the same family.

Two centuries later, Berkeley Castle was once again a site of intrigue. Early in 1327, Edward II was deposed by his wife Isabella of France, and sent to the castle for imprisonment. On 21 September, he was reportedly murdered within its walls, and though no details are known, popular stories range from suffocation to the use of a red hot poker.

Like many major strongholds in England, Berkeley Castle was also caught up in the English Civil War – the Parliamentarians laid siege to the castle in 1645 and eventually captured it from the Royalist defenders.

Berkeley Castle today

Today, Berkeley Castle provides visitors the opportunity to walk through its thousand-year history, with each room telling part of its fascinating story. The cell where Edward II’s murder is thought to have occurred may be explored, with the echoes of his cries in the 11m-deep dungeon reportedly heard each year on the anniversary of the event.

Berkeley’s sombre past can also been seen in the grand Great Hall, where the last court jester in England, Dickie Pearce, died after falling from the Minstrels’ gallery. In the adjoining chapel, visitors can see some of the more pleasant aspects of the castle however, including painted wooden vaulted ceilings and an illustrated vellum book of Catholic chants.

A walk around the castle reveals a number of tapestries and paintings by English and Dutch Masters, while outside the castle has yet more to offer. Its beautiful Elizabethan gardens are home to Elizabeth I‘s bowling green and a pine that is thought to have originated from a tree at the Battle of Culloden in 1746. To hear the castle’s full history, visitors can embark on an hour-long tour around the site included in the admission price.

Getting to Berkeley Castle

Berkeley Castle is located in Gloucestershire just west of the A38 off the B4066 road, and there is free parking at the site. The nearest train station is Cam and Dursley, 6 miles away, while bus services stop almost directly outside the castle’s entrance.

Fighting from an early age

Born in Devon in 1554, (or possibly 1552) Raleigh’s adventuring began early when he volunteered to fight with the Protestant Huguenots in a religious civil war in France at the tender age of 15.

He returned a few years later, and after spurning an Oxford degree he went overseas once again, this time to Ireland. Here he fought once again, and started his long and bitter relationship with the Spanish when he was part of a group ordered to massacre a group of their soldiers who were assisting the Irish rebels at the siege of Smerwick.

After the fighting, this young soldier became a rich landowner in Munster, where he met the English poet Edmund Spenser. After Spenser composed the Faerie Queene in honour of Elizabeth I, the two men headed to her court in London, where it was performed. Here Raleigh met his future patron, the Virgin Queen, who found him rather enthralling.

An 18th century print of Sir Walter Raleigh.

From firm favourite to the tower: Raleigh’s complicated relationship with Elizabeth I

At Elizabeth’s court Raleigh must have made much of his abilities and ambitions as an explorer, for he was given the royal mandate to explore the ‘New World’ in 1584, as well as permission to take some of the profits from his ventures for himself. He had previously sailed to America in 1578 with his half-brother Humphrey Gilbert, a famous explorer of the time, and developed an interest in this exciting new continent.

Raleigh is perhaps best remembered for bringing tobacco and the potato back to England, and did much to make smoking fashionable at court after this trip. Under his supervision, the two attempts to plant the first English colonies in America, at Roanoke, were carried out. The settlers, however, would ultimately disappear without a trace after a promising start.

Despite this disaster Raleigh remained a firm favourite of the Queen until 1592, when she found out that he’d been having an illicit affair with one of her maids of honour, Elizabeth Throckmorton, who he had then married in secret.

Thrown into a jealous rage, the famously capricious Elizabeth threw Raleigh and his new wife into the Tower of London. Her old favourite managed to get himself released by promising to lead an piratical expedition to the Spanish coast, and he returned with an incredibly rich prize of a Spanish trade ship returned from South America before being unceremoniously dumped back in the Tower.

There is a popular story that when Raleigh’s servant first saw him smoking he doused him with water, believing that his master was on fire.

Image Credit: Frederick William Fairholt / Public Domain

After a while, Elizabeth relented, and despite still being out of favour Raleigh was released from the Tower and later elected a Member of Parliament. Emboldened by this rise in his fortunes he decided to act upon a captured Spanish manuscript describing a legendary city of gold in the New World; El Dorado.

His expedition to South America in 1594 – predictably enough – failed to find any gold, but when he returned Raleigh published a book of his experiences called The Discovery of Guiana, which did much to enhance his growing celebrity.

Over the next few years Raleigh’s adventures continued as he was wounded capturing the Spanish city of Cadiz, lead an expedition to the Azores and helped defeat the lesser-known third Spanish Armada in 1597. A national hero and restored to Elizabeth’s favour, everything was falling into his lap until 1603, when the queen whose rule had come to define an age, suddenly died.

Raleigh returns to the tower

Her successor, James I, was less inclined to reward handsome explorers and he and Raleigh certainly got it off on the wrong foot. The hero of Cadiz was implicated in a plot that year to overthrow James and replace him with his cousin and imprisoned in the Tower of London for 13 years. There Raleigh mused on past glories and took to writing, composing a well-regarded history of ancient Greece and Rome during his long stay.

Suddenly and unexpectedly in 1617 he was pardoned by the King, and given permission to lead a second expedition to find El Dorado. During this expedition, just as fruitless as the first, a detachment of Raleigh’s men attacked a Spanish outpost without having been given orders to do so, and in the confused fighting Raleigh’s son Walter was killed. And worse was to come.

England was now at peace with Spain, and when James was informed of this incident by the Spanish ambassador he held he now aged explorer responsible. With his friends in high places now long-gone Raleigh was lead to the block on 29 October 1618. A still-popular and beloved son of England, one of the judges at his less than fair trial later said:

“The justice of England has never been so degraded and injured as by the condemnation of the honourable Sir Walter Raleigh.”

Government armies were stationed at Lichfield and Wetherby, but no professional army blocked his way to the capital. The road looked clear.

Yet Charlie’s army advanced no further. He and his commanders convened a war council and the generals overwhelmingly decided they turn around and retreat north, much to Charles’s displeasure.

Prince Charles in the battlefield.

Why did Charles turn around?

There were several reasons. Promised French support had failed to materialise, while the recruitment drive for English Jacobites had also proved disappointing (only Manchester had provided a worthwhile number of recruits).

There was also Dudley Bradstreet, an undercover government spy within the Jacobite camp. Bradstreet subtly spread misinformation that there was in fact a third government force numbering some 9,000 men at Northampton, barring their way to London and ready to fight the smaller Highland army. The ruse worked and greatly influenced the decision to retreat.

Thus Bonnie Prince Charlie’s Jacobite army retreated north between two enemy armies out of a hostile country – a major military achievement we sometimes overlook today.

Victory and retreat

The war continued in Scotland as governmental forces followed in pursuit. Yet things did not start well for the Hanoverians. On 17 January 1746 a 7,000-strong loyalist army was decisively defeated at Falkirk Muir. The Jacobite army remained unbeaten.

But Charles and his men were unable to capitalise on the victory. Within two weeks they had retreated further north, to the area around Inverness.

In pursuit of them was a significant government army led by Prince William, Duke of Cumberland. His army’s nucleus consisted of battle-hardened professional soldiers who had recently seen action on the European continent. Furthermore among his ranks he also had a significant number of loyalist Highland clans – including the Campbells.

The Black Watch at Fontenoy, April 1745; an example of highly effective and conventionally trained Highland troops who served in Cumberland’s army.

Backed by his professional army, Cumberland sought a decisive battle to crush the Jacobite rising.

Highland beserkers

The nucleus of Charles’s Jacobite army centred around his hardened Highland warriors. Trained in traditional arms, some of these men wielded muskets. Yet most primarily equipped themselves with a razor-sharp broadsword and a small round shield called a targe.

A contemporary illustration of a highlander wielding sword and targe.

The targe was a deadly weapon. It was made of three separate slabs of wood, covered in hardened leather dyed blood red and a bronze boss. Defensively, the shield proved highly-effective, able to stop a musket ball fired from either long or medium range.

Yet the shield primarily served as an offensive weapon. In its centre was a spike, designed for slashing.

Equipped with sword and shield, the Highlanders would unleash their special, morale-destroying attack: the feared Highland charge.

Using their spiked shields to block a bayonet strike from their enemy, they would then use it to push aside the redcoat’s weapon, leaving the man defenceless and at the mercy of the Highlander’s broadsword.

By April 1746 this charge had proved devastatingly effective on several occasions, carving through Governmental lines at Prestonpans and Falkirk most notably. Like the Germanic warriors of antiquity, these Highland berserkers had a fearsome reputation.

At Prestonpans, the government infantry was over-run by the Highland charge.

The road to Culloden

On the night of 15 April 1746, Cumberland’s 25th birthday, the Governmental army pitched camp near Nairn, well-supplied and warm. Outnumbered, Charles’s Jacobites thus decided on a risky, but potentially decisive strategy: a night attack.

That night, a section of the Jacobites attempted to surprise the Government army. It was a risk that did not pay off: many highlanders lost their way during the night and very quickly the plan fell apart.

Following this failure, many of Charles’s sub-commanders pleaded with their leader to avoid a pitched battle against the larger, more professional governmental army. Yet Charles refused.

He had never lost a battle and, believing himself the rightful king of Britain, he refused to degrade himself to guerrilla warfare beyond the Tay. He decided on a pitched battle at Culloden Moor, just south of Inverness.

William Augustus, Duke of Cumberland.

The Battle of Culloden: 16 April 1746

On the morning of 16 April 1746 many of Charles’s men were exhausted from the failed operations of the previous night. Furthermore, many more were still scattered around the area and not with the main army. Cumberland’s troops, meanwhile, were fresh – well-supplied, well-disciplined and well-informed.

Battle lines were drawn up on the Moor and Charles ordered his Highland infantry forwards, including clans Fraser of Lovat, Cameron, Stewart and Chattan.

Opposing them were three lines of government infantry, armed with muskets and bayonets.

The battle began with an exchange of artillery fire from both sides – mortar and cannon shot. Then, after what must have seemed like an age, the order was given for the feared Highland charge.

Immediately the charge met with difficulty. On the left of the Jacobite line, boggy ground slowed down the McDonalds. Meanwhile the clansmen in the centre started drifting to the right to reach better ground, causing a great mass of Highlanders becoming concentrated on the right.

The government forces unleashed waves of musket and canister shot into the compact Highland ranks from close range before the lines closed.

A vicious melee ensued. Crashing into Government ranks, the Highlanders started carving their way through the first enemy line. But, unlike at Prestonpans and Falkirk earlier, this time the government line did not immediately buckle.

A tactical depiction of the Highland charge at Culloden. Swampy ground ensured the charge focused on the left of Cumberland’s line.

New bayonet tactics

Learning from past mistakes, Cumberland’s army had been trained in new bayonet tactics, designed specifically to counter the Highland charge. Rather than point their bayonet at the enemy in front of them, this new tactic focused on the soldier sticking his bayonet into the enemy on his right, thus avoiding the targe shield.

Eventually, the Jacobites managed to break through the first government line on the right flank. Yet Cumberland’s forces had resisted long enough for his second and third lines to move into position and surround the Highland infantry on two sides.

Point blank they unleashed a volley of musket shots into their foe – the decisive moment in the battle. Within two minutes, 700 Highlanders lay dead.

The legend goes that Alexander MacGillivray, clan chief of the McGillivrays and a giant of an individual, reached the furthest into the Government lines before he too was cut down.

As this was going on, loyalist highlanders from the Campbell clan took up a flanking position behind the wall of an enclosure to the left of the fight and opened fire. Meanwhile the governmental cavalry arrived to hammer home the victory and put the Highlanders to flight.

Woodcut painting by David Morier of the Battle of Culloden first published just six months after the battle in October 1746.

All across the field the clansmen retreated and the battle was over. Charles and his two most senior commanders, George Murray and John Drummond, fled the field.

The battle had lasted less than an hour. 50 governmental soldiers lay dead and many more were wounded – mainly Barrell’s 4th regiment, which had borne the brunt of the Highland attack on the left wing. As for the Jacobites 1,500 were killed at the battle.

No mercy

Many more Jacobites perished in the battle’s aftermath. For those wounded on the battlefield, there was no mercy for the English and Scottish Jacobites. In Cumberland’s eyes, these men were traitors.

Cumberland did not stop there. Following the battle he raided and pillaged the Gaelic-speaking areas of the Highlands, committing several atrocities to ensure the Jacobites could not rise up again. It was for his acts in the aftermath that he earned his famous nickname ‘the Butcher.’

After Culloden: Rebel Hunting by John Seymour Lucas depicts the rigorous search for Jacobites in the days that followed Culloden.

Those loyal to the Government honoured Cumberland’s victory by naming a flower (Dianthus barbatus) after the general: ‘Sweet William’. The Highlanders meanwhile likewise ‘honoured’ the Hanoverian prince. They named a smelly and poisonous weed ‘stinky willie’ after their most hated foe.

Treason will not be tolerated

The government intended their victory at Culloden to send a strong message to any pondering further dissent. Captured Jacobite broadswords were taken south, to the secretary of Scotland’s residence in London. There they had their tips and butts removed and were used as iron railings, left to rust.

Several Jacobite lords were taken to London in the aftermath where they were tried for treason and beheaded. The last laird to be beheaded was the 80-year-old Simon Fraser, Lord Lovat, ‘the last Highlander.’ He holds the unenviable record as the last person to be beheaded for treason in the UK.

As for Bonnie Prince Charlie, the Young Pretender fled Scotland, never to return. His romanticised story made him the biggest celebrity of the time in mainland Europe, yet his later life proved ridden with poor choices. He died in Rome in 1788, a poor, deserted and broken man.

The Battle of Culloden marks the last pitched battle ever fought on British soil.

‘…though I cannot be Henry the Fifth, or Charles the Second…I endeavour to be Margaret the First’

Poet, philosopher, natural scientist and all-round trailblazer – Margaret Cavendish, Duchess of Newcastle cuts a sharp feminine silhouette across the intellectual landscape of the 17th century.

Her bold personality, persistent fame-seeking and insertion of herself into the male realm of academia caused controversy among her peers, yet in a time where women were expected to be silent and submissive, Margaret’s voice speaks loud and clear.

Childhood

Born in 1623 to a large family of substantial wealth in Essex, Margaret was from the outset of her life surrounded by a strong female influence and opportunities for learning. Following her father’s death, her mother insisted on running their household with virtually no male help, and Margaret revered her as an immensely strong woman.

With a private tutor and vast library at her disposal, the young Margaret began cultivating her knowledge of the world, despite women being widely discouraged from doing so. She shared a very close relationship with all of her siblings and would discuss her reading with them, often asking her scholarly older brother to explain difficult texts and concepts when needed.

Her penchant for writing began at this early age too, in collections of work she called her ‘baby books’.

An exiled court

At the age of 20, she implored her mother to let her join the royal household of Queen Henrietta Maria. This request was granted, and at the reluctance of her siblings, Margaret left the family home.

Henrietta Maria, by Anthony Van Dyck, c.1632-35, (Image Credit: Public Domain)

In 1644 however, Margaret would be taken further from her family. As the Civil War intensified, the queen and her household were forced into exile at Louis XIV’s court in France. Though Margaret was confident and eloquent around her siblings, she struggled immensely whilst on the continent, developing a crippling shyness.

This may have been due to what she termed a ‘soft, melting, solitary, and contemplating melancholy’ – a condition that brought on a ‘chill paleness’, erratic gestures and an inability to speak in public.

The Marquess

‘…where I place a particular affection, I love extraordinarily and constantly’

She soon found a saving grace in courtier William Cavendish, Marquess (and later Duke) of Newcastle, who found her bashfulness endearing. Though she did ‘dread marriage’ and ‘shunned men’s company’, Margaret fell deeply in love with Cavendish and ‘had not the power to refuse him’ due to her affections. 

Grandson of eminent Elizabethan lady Bess of Hardwick, Cavendish would become one of Margaret’s greatest supporters, friends, and mentors, encouraging her love of knowledge and funding her publications.

In her writing she couldn’t help but praise him, gushing over his ‘courage above danger’, ‘justice above bribes’ and ‘friendship above self-interest’. He was ‘manly without formality’, quick-witted and interesting, with a ‘noble nature and sweet disposition’. He was the only man she ever loved.

William Cavendish, 1st Duke of Newcastle by William Larkin, 1610 (Photo Credit: Public Domain)

While their staunch Royalism preventing their return to England following the Civil War, the couple lived in Paris, Rotterdam and Antwerp mixing with intellectuals like René Descartes and Thomas Hobbes. This circle would have a large impact on Margaret’s philosophical ideas, expanding her modes of thought outward.

Poet, scientist, philosopher

In her writing, Margaret tackled an immense number of concepts. Couched through the ‘fanciful’ medium of poetry, she pondered atoms, the motion of the sun and the physics of sound. She staged philosophical conversations between love and hate, the body and mind, an axeman and an oak tree, and even discussed animal rights.

Though she often insisted her works were no more than playful musings, the fact that she was engaged and contemplating such ideas is a feat in itself. Throughout all of her writing, she refused to use a pseudonym as was common with female writers, and ascribed her name to every word and opinion.

Margaret Cavendish, by Unknown (Image Credit: Public Domain)

In 1667, her scientific interest was recognised when she was the first woman to be invited to watch the Royal Society of London’s live experiments. Though she had previously ridiculed the men conducting these experiments, hilariously likening them to ‘boys that play with watery bubbles, or fling dust into each others’ eyes’ she was highly impressed with what she saw.

Though it would appear she had her foot in the door, women would not be invited to join the society for nearly 300 more years.

The Blazing World

In 1666, Margaret published what is perhaps her most well-known work, a utopian novel called ‘The Blazing World’. This work combined her interest in science, with her love of fiction and strong female-centric attitude. It is often hailed as the earliest piece of science fiction, and depicts the existence of an alternate universe reachable via the North Pole.

In the novel, a shipwrecked woman finds herself Empress of this new world, populated largely by anthropomorphic animals, before forming an army and returning to wage war on her home kingdom.

Amazingly, in this novel Margaret predicts many inventions that would not come to pass for hundreds of years, such as flying aircrafts and the steam engine, and does so with a woman in the lead.

‘May your Wit be quick, and your Speech ready’

Through navigating these significantly male channels of work, Margaret often discussed gender roles and her deviation from them, vouching for the capabilities of women. At the outset of her 1653 publication, ‘Poems, and Fancies’, she addressed her fellow women asking that they support her work should she face criticism:

‘Therefore pray strengthen my side, in defending my book; for I know Women’s Tongues are as sharp, as two-edged swords, and wound as much, when they are anger’d. And in this Battle may your Wit be quick, and your Speech ready, and your Arguments so strong, as to beat them out of the Field of Dispute.’

Frontispiece to ‘Plays, Never before Printed’ featuring Margaret in the centre, by Pieter Louis van Schuppen, after Abraham Diepenbeeck, 1655-58, National Portrait Galley (Image Credit: CC)

Not one to hold back, in her ‘Female Orations’ she goes further as to scathingly attack the patriarchy: 

‘Men are so Unconscionable and Cruel against us, as they Endeavour to Bar us of all Sorts or Kinds of Liberty…[they] would fain Bury us in their Houses or Beds, as in a Grave; the truth is, we Live like Bats or Owls, Labour like Beasts, and Die like Worms.’

Such boldness was uncommon in print by a woman. Though she expected to receive vast criticisms for her work, she saw it as vital in expanding the female horizon, stating: ‘if I burn, I desire to die your Martyr’.

Mad Madge?

With her wide-reaching ideas laid out for all to read, Margaret attracted a lot of attention. Many contemporary accounts depicted her as something of a mad woman, ascribing her the nickname ‘Mad Madge’. Her eccentric nature and flamboyant dress-sense furthered this image, to much critique.

Samuel Pepys referred to her as ‘a mad, conceited, ridiculous woman’, while fellow writer Dorothy Osbourne commented that there were ‘soberer people in Bedlam’! 

Samuel Pepys by John Hayls, 1666 (Image Credit: Public Domain)

Fame-seeker

‘For all I desire, is Fame, and Fame is nothing but a great noise’

Despite her bashful nature as young woman, Margaret had a tendency to revel in her fame, writing on many occasions that it was her life ambition to be renown.

At 33, she published her autobiography. Intended both to counter her critics and put her legacy to paper, it gave description of her lineage, personality, and political stance, and is a rich glance into the 17th century female psyche.

When considering the necessity of the work, she maintained that as Caesar and Ovid both wrote autobiographies, ‘I know no reason I may not do it as well’.

As such a lively and forward-thinking character, is it unfortunate that she is so unknown to the modern audience. Like many women in history who dared to speak their mind, or worse yet put it to paper, Margaret’s legacy has long been that of a delusional, bawdy woman, obsessed with vanity and of little consequence. Nevertheless, though she belonged to the ‘other’ of the 17th century, her passions and ideas find a home amongst modern women today.