Edward the Confessor

The opening of the British Museum’s The Bayeux Tapestry exhibition is not far off now. In early July, a bright yellow truck transported the tapestry from France via Eurostar, arriving in London under cover of darkness. With George Osborne, chair of the museum, posing as the symbol of a new entente cordiale, the display is being hailed both as a diplomatic triumph and as the blockbuster exhibition of a lifetime. Soon many thousands will have the opportunity to experience what Max Adams in his new book describes as this ‘dazzling, cinematic, embroidered strip cartoon’. Speculation that the tapestry (actually an embroidery on linen) is missing a final scene is probably correct.

Oh Harold. So near and yet so far. So close and yet no cigar. In January 1066 the world (well, England) was at his feet. Two hundred and eighty-two days later he was battle meat. On day one he became the richest ruler Anglo-Saxon England had ever known. In late September he defeated the hardest bastard in Europe (Harald Hardrada). In mid-October England was changed forever, but not by him. He had, of course, no right whatsoever to be king. Sure, he was Edward the Confessor’s brother-in-law; but under the sacred rules of hereditary power that gets you zip. He claimed that Edward had promised him the throne (he hadn’t); but, again, that ain’t how the royal circus rolls.