There’s a lot of buzz over in Old Blighty at the moment over the news that the French have agreed to “loan” the Bayeux Tapestry (which most scholars believe was embroidered somewhere near Cambridge, England) to the British Museum for display during the 960th anniversary of the Battle of Hastings. The conclusion as to its provenance is based on the particular style of embroidery and an analysis of the dyes and materials used to construct it, all of which point to the area around Cambridge, and “somewhere in the last half of the eleventh century” as its likely origin.
Of course–fiber maven pedant alert–the Bayeux Tapestry isn’t really a tapestry at all. A tapestry is a piece of cloth in which the “picture” is woven into the whole by the weft (horizontal) threads, in what can be an incredibly complex exercise. This is a portion of one of the world’s most famous tapestries (The Hunt of the Unicorn, c 1500):
Very different from an “embroidery,” which–no matter how beautiful or significant it is–is rather less complex and consists of surface embellishments on a piece of already-completed, usually plain-weave, background cloth (in the case of the Bayeux Tapestry, that background would be rough-weave linen):
The Bayeux Tapestry itself (I’ll continue to use what’s the technically inappropriate word, in the interest of concision) was probably commissioned by William the Bastard’s Conqueror’s half brother, Odo, Bishop of Bayeux, shortly after the Battle of Hastings. It is 20 inches (a bit less than five rolls of US toilet paper**) tall/high, and is about 230 feet long/wide. (In terms of Charmin Ultra-Soft, Mega Rolls–264 sheets per–this is the equivalent of a little over two-and-a-half rolls.) So, as you can see, it’s not very tall, but it’s very, very long. And an achievement for the ages, no matter whose side you’re on.
The tapestry tells the story of the events leading up to the Battle of Hastings, and of the Battle itself, beginning with the death of King Edward the Confessor and the coronation of Harold Godwinson as King of England. (It is possible to trace the lineage of Harold Godwinson forward all the way to King Charles III, but I wouldn’t recommend it, unless you’re bereft of any sort of life, or are otherwise determined to lose your marbles.)
It covers (but only from one side) Harold’s oath promising to uphold William’s claim to the English throne, as if it were a purely voluntary exercise, although many historians and scholars contend that the oath was extracted from Harold under duress.
And it covers William’s preparations for the invasion, the invasion itself, the crossing of the Channel, and gathering to fight, culminating in the Battle of Hastings, and William’s victory when–legend suggests–Harold was shot in the eye by an arrow which fell behind the shield-line.
That narrative, one which attempts to legitimize William’s claim to the English throne and his right to rule England, is told in the main scenes of the tapestry, of which there are–I think–58 separate ones, each one detailing an aspect of the story. It’s quite gripping, actually: Politics, heraldry, war, love, loss, shenanigans…you might need to brush up on your Latin, though, if you’re to achieve the full benefit.
Below the main panels, in the bottom few inches of the tapestry, extending across its length, is a different story, one which many scholars believe is a subversive commentary by the Anglo-Saxon artisans creating the work, those who must have been–if one thinks about it for a moment–forced to record their contemporaneous defeat and humiliation at the hands of the Normans at the same time as they were made to celebrate William’s imminent ascension to the throne of England. In a sometimes bawdy and contrapuntal (to what’s above) rendering, a different story emerges. One of the very first to notice the juxtaposition and the dissonances was one of the late Mr. She’s students, whose 1970’s article, The Saxon Statement: Code in the Bayeux Tapestry, broke new ground and ignited a firestorm. (Remember, these are Anglo-Saxon scholars: Adjust your expectations as necessary, when it comes to incendiary events.)
For some reason, the British political classes and intelligentsia are delirious with joy at Emanuel Macron’s gracious offer, which involves the tapestry’s return home for display at the British Museum between September 2026 and June 2027. (The 960th anniversary of the Battle of Hastings will take place on October 14, 2026.)
I am at a loss, when it comes to finding an analogue in today’s times, wherein a conquered people should be expected to celebrate their conqueror’s offer to rehome (even if only briefly) the contemporary evidence of their defeat, and to gratefully line up and spend what I am sure will be a hefty sum to be reminded of, and relive, their country’s humiliation.
I’ve had several friends text and email me about whether I’m so excited at the prospect of seeing the Tapestry that I might be headed back to the UK late next year. (Hello? If viewing the Bayeux Tapestry was on my bucket list, I could have been on a plane to Paris and off to the “Grand Seminary of Bayeux”–which will conveniently be closed for repair between September 2025 and October 2027--decades ago.)
So, no. No. I’m not. Neither “interested.” Nor “going.”
Of course, the Telegraph has been abuzz for days. Here’s what I had to say about it there:
The situation gets more ridiculous and topical only when you consider that the story told in the Bayeux Tapestry is largely one of invaders in “small boats” crossing what is now the English Channel to take over and obliterate the existing culture of a neighboring small island. I can’t even.
**I specify the toilet paper’s country of origin as a tip of the hat to my late mother-in-law who, when when asked after our 1984 visit to the UK to enumerate the differences between the two countries she’d noticed, started out with the observation that–in the UK–the toilet paper sheets were larger, but the paper towel sheets were smaller, than what she was used to.
